Desperate Acts (19 page)

Cobb was impressed. “What about Budge?”

“Well, he was the only person who could have
seen and heard everything. In his cellar, I’ll bet he could hear
the club members exiting down the stairs right over his head. He’d
know when the coast was clear. Moreover, as we surmised from
Duggan’s list, Budge was likely a recent target and may have
already guessed who his blackmailer was.”

“An’ he had a handy exit to boot.”

“But, as you say, I can’t propose these
possibilities without a demonstrable motive. And if we were to be
wrong, even about one of those men whose initials appear on
Duggan’s list, the consequences of a false accusation would be
cruel and unjust.”

“But Budge’s got his own separate motive,
ain’t he – besides the blackmail? Duggan insulted one of his
barmaids.”

“Right. And Budge may be all I’ve got to
defend Brodie with in the morning.”

At the door, Cobb said, “You wouldn’t believe
what that
barren-ette
fella did.”

“Lampooned your Roman nose?”

“Tried to make an ass outta me.”

Cobb told Marc about Sir Peregrine’s request
that he join the acting troupe and read for the part of Bottom the
weaver.

Marc chuckled, despite his weariness. “And
what did you tell him?”

“Whadda
you
think?” Cobb grinned.

***

It was a sober group who met in James Thorpe’s
chamber at ten o’clock Friday morning. Cobb’s “notes” had been
transferred to paper by Gussie French and delivered to the
magistrate by nine. Thorpe and Alf McGonigle, a crown attorney
involved in the current assizes, perused them carefully and,
because the Attorney-General himself was in the building, had been
able to confer with him just before ten. When they got back from
his office, they found Sturges, Cobb, Marc and Brodie already
seated – awaiting the verdict. Except for McGonigle, everyone in
the room knew everyone else.

With nothing more than a nod of greeting to
those sitting opposite him, Thorpe began: “Alf and I have gone over
these witness-statements recorded by Constable Cobb, and matched
them scrupulously with Mr. Langford’s own sworn account of events
in the alley behind The Sailor’s Arms. We have also conferred with
the Attorney-General. And unless there is material evidence
forthcoming that would contradict these testaments, the Crown will
lay a charge of murder – cold-blooded, brutal murder – upon
Broderick Langford.”

Brodie flinched but made no other response.
Marc had had fifteen minutes to prepare the lad for this
eventuality.

“We haven’t found anything further,” Sturges
said.

“But there is one other possibility in this
case,” Marc said, and he was sure he saw relief in Thorpe’s face.
McGonigle remained impassive.

Marc then broached the plausible theory that
Tobias Budge, known to have a temper and known to have had a public
contretemps with Duggan, took advantage of a situation he was in a
perfect position to observe and assess: by killing Duggan and
letting Brodie take the blame.

“But according to the constable’s report,
Budge denies ever entering the alley,” Thorpe said reasonably.

“That is true, sir,” Marc said. “All I’m
suggesting is that such a possibility deserves further
investigation and that, pending such an investigation, Mr. Langford
should be released under
habeas corpus.
He can always be
re-detained later.”

“You’re suggesting that a mere dust-up in a
pub, a near-daily occurrence in a place like The Sailor’s Arms, is
a more powerful motive than attempted blackmail?” McGonigle said.
“A motive freely admitted by Mr. Langford?”

“Given Budge’s temperament and – ”

“I’m sorry, Marc,” Thorpe said. “It’s not
enough. I’m ruling that Mr. Langford be bound over for trial.”

Into the silence that ensued, Marc said, “But
the fall docket is full. Are you ruling that Brodie be kept
incarcerated until the spring assizes?”

Thorpe cleared his throat. “Not quite. I just
learned upstairs that the defendant in a manslaughter trial slated
for November the eighth has died of his injuries. We are willing to
take the Langford case to court at that time.”

“But that’s only two weeks away,” Marc said.
“Hardly enough time for me to prepare a defense.”

“It’s either then or the spring.”

“With the prisoner released on bail-bond
until that time?”

“The Attorney-General has suggested a
five-thousand-dollar bond – and confinement to Mr. Langford’s house
and grounds.”

Marc sighed, trying desperately to keep the
poker face of a good barrister.

“These are more than reasonable terms,”
McGonigle pointed out. “What does the accused think?”

Marc knew perfectly well what Brodie was
thinking. Five months under virtual house-arrest would mean an
irreparable interruption in his career at the Commercial Bank under
Horace Fullarton. Moreover, Brodie would feel obligated to break
off his relationship with Diana Ramsay, whatever she herself might
feel. Finally, those five months would give the rumour-mill time to
rework the scandals that had plagued Brodie’s guardian here and
back in New York. The Langford name would be indelibly stained: he
and Celia would have to pull up stakes yet again – assuming of
course that he was, even then, acquitted. Over against all this was
the possibility that with five months at their disposal they could
conceivably track down Nestor and discover the real murderer. But
Marc did not get to put this countervailing argument to his
client.

“I’ll take my chances in November,” Brodie
said to McGonigle, but he was looking at Marc.

***

Outside, in the cool sunshine, Sturges and Cobb
walked slowly away from the Court House.

“You know what this means?” Sturges said.

“Brodie’s screwed,” Cobb said.

“It means that McGonigle feels he has all the
evidence he needs to convict the lad.”

“Thanks to me.”

“An’ that means any more investigatin’ is out
of the question.”

“I figured as much. But at least Brodie can
post bond an’ live at home – avoidin’
new-ammonia
in that
dungeon.”

“I want you to start back on yer patrol first
thing in the mornin’.”

Cobb nodded. It looked as if Marc were on his
own this time. The major would have to play lawyer and investigator
– with two weeks to go before the trial was to begin. Well, Cobb
thought, maybe he himself would get lucky on his night-patrol next
week and bump into the burglars. He could use the ten-dollar
reward. Meanwhile, he would keep after his snitches to sniff out
the hiding-hole of Mr. Nestor Peck. It was the least he could
do.

***

“Why’d you tell the lord ‘no’, Dad?”

“I can’t believe you did that!” Delia was
more incredulous than her brother, but not by much.

Cobb had mentioned to Dora in passing that he
had been offered the role of Bottom by Sir Peregrine Shuttleworth,
and had refused – tactfully, he claimed. That both his children
were within earshot he had not known until they accosted him in the
parlour a little later, just as he was preparing his pipe and
settling down for an after-supper rest.

“I might’ve gotten to be a fairy, like
Peaseblossom,” Delia said, half-teasing, half-serious. At thirteen,
and a junior pupil at Miss Tyson’s Academy, she was no longer
Cobb’s little girl. Lanky, coltish in her movements, and inching
towards womanhood, she had become, at times, strangely shy or
seized by sudden tantrums. Just now, though, she seemed more like
her former, carefree, cheeky self – the one Cobb adored, and
indulged.

“And
I
could’ve got to see the inside
of Oakwood Manor,” Fabian said, ever the more practical of the
pair. “I heard the ballroom’s as big as a cricket pitch.”

“There’s no way either of you hooligans’d get
past Sir Mucky Muck’s gate,” Cobb said.

“But he asked
you
, didn’t he?” Delia
said. “We heard you telling Mom.”

“An’ you two shouldna been
ears-droppin’
.”

“He really asked you to play
Bottom
?”
Fabian said, squatting on the arm of Cobb’s padded chair.

“That he did, son. I can’t deny it.”

“I remember you read me some of his speeches
– when I was eight and sick with the mumps. Remember, you made me
laugh when I didn’t want to.”

Cobb remembered, and was touched.

“You could’ve done it, couldn’t you?” Delia
said.

“That wasn’t the point, luv. People like Lord
Shuttlecock really don’t want to have anythin’ to do with ordinary
folk like us. I expect they were stuck an’ couldn’t find anybody
else.”

“But Lizzie Wade and I get along just fine,”
Delia said. “There’s lots of snobs at Miss Tyson’s, but some of
them’re all right once you get to know them”

“It’s the gettin’ to know ‘em that’s the hard
part.”

“But we could’ve at least come and watched
you, Dad,” Fabian said.

Cobb sighed. “You don’t understand. Even the
audience is gonna be made up of swells an’ Family Compacters. You
gotta be
invited.
”

This remark appeared to deflate the
youngsters, but before they could express their disappointment
further, Dora appeared in the kitchen doorway, filling it with her
motherly bulk.

“You should’ve said ‘yes,’ Cobb,” she
grinned. “It ain’t like you’d haveta do any
actin’
!”

***

Cobb was just about to toss the last of the withered
cucumber vines on the bonfire when he turned to see Marc Edwards
stepping around the corner of the house. It was almost dark, and
Marc had to pick his way through the remains of Cobb’s garden.

“I didn’t realize you were such a diligent
gardener,” Marc said as he came up and stood beside Cobb and the
smoky blaze.

“Missus Cobb an’ the kids do most of it.”

“I can’t keep Beth out of ours. She’s still a
farmer at heart.”

Cobb gave the fire a poke. “I’m real sorry
about Brodie.”

Marc put a hand on Cobb’s shoulder. “That’s
what I’ve come to talk about.”

“You figured out a way to help the lad?” Cobb
said hopefully.

“I may have. But it’ll require your active
assistance.”

Cobb’s wart twitched. “The Sarge’s warned me
off the case, major. I go trampin’ the streets again first thing in
the mornin’.”

“I know. And you also know that I wouldn’t
ask you to do anything improper or anything that would compromise
you in any way.”

“But if I can’t do any real investigatin’ fer
you, how c’n I help?”

“Well, I came up with an idea this afternoon,
after going over all the statements, including Brodie’s.”

“Which is?”

Marc hesitated. “I’ll lay out the entire
strategy, I promise, as soon as it becomes viable. Right now,
unless I can obtain some or all of the information I need to make
it work, it’s just wishful thinking.”

“I lost ya after ‘viable’.”

Marc smiled. “You recall our earlier
discussion of the case. We had identified five possible suspects,
men who had means and opportunity to kill Duggan and blame someone
else. And there’s a good chance each of them had a motive – the
same motive.”

“Which we got no chance of provin’.”

“That’s what I thought at first. With the
police investigation shut down, I myself could try to obtain that
proof, but without official backing and as Brodie’s counsel, I
would have no way of compelling our suspects to open up to me.”

“They’re more interested in their
play-actin’.”

“I hope so,” Marc said cryptically.

“Whaddya mean?” Cobb said, suddenly
leery.

“I decided that what we needed was someone
who
might
be in a perfect position to have casual and
unguarded conversations with at least four of the suspects, during
which that person might pick up information about what aspects of
their past lives they wished to keep secret, wished so badly that
they were willing to pay off a blackmailer.”

“You gonna send somebody up to Oakwood
Manners to spy on ‘em? A servant maybe?”

“Better than that: a
bona fide
member
of their little acting troupe.”

Cobb paled.

“I’m asking you to go up to Shuttleworth’s
place tomorrow and accept the baronet’s offer to play Bottom.”

Cobb dropped his poker-stick. “But I gotta go
back to work. Next week I’ll be on night-patrol. I ain’t got the
time to do somethin’ like that.”

“You and Wilkie share the south-east patrol,
don’t you?”

“Yup. Turnabout.”

“And Wilf Sturges doesn’t care which of you
takes which shift?”

“I guess not.”

“And Wilkie owes you a favour or two?”

“About half a dozen,” Cobb said with a
resigned sigh.

“So you could arrange to take the day-patrol
for a couple of weeks – between now and the trial?”

“But what chance have I got, even if I was
crazy enough to go up there an
hog-nog
with the swells? Only
the one that killed Duggan’ll know the blackmailer’s dead. The
others could still be leavin’ their parcels in ashcans all over
town. They’ll be spooked an’ leery of me, won’t they? Not casual
an’ friendly-like, that’s fer sure.”

“Now that’s thinking like an investigator,
isn’t it? I thought of that, too. So I asked Francis Hincks to put
the full story of the murder on the front page of his newspaper,
the
Examiner
, tomorrow afternoon. It will mention that Mr.
Broderick Langford was apparently being blackmailed by one Albert
Duggan and allegedly retaliated by clubbing said blackmailer to
death. References to the alley, the brown-paper parcel and the
ashcan should leave no doubt as to the
modus operandi
of
this particular blackmailer.”

“I see. So everybody in the actin’ troop will
think he’s home an’ dry? Duggan’s dead, an’ they’re off the
hook?”