Desperate Acts (34 page)

“That makes sense,” Marc said. “The question
now is: were you in fact your cousin’s associate?”

“No!” Nestor cried, now truly frightened. “I
ain’t never been one to break the law! You know that, don’t ya,
Cobb?”

“We all give way to temptation sooner or
later,” Cobb said sententiously.

“What
were
you, then?” Marc said. “Did
you know, for example, that Albert was a multiple blackmailer?”

Nestor stared down at the inflamed wounds on
the back of his hands, in a plea for sympathy perhaps, and without
looking up, said, “I didn’t know at first. Honest, Cobb. You gotta
believe me.”

Cobb said nothing.

“Albert give me money when he first come here
to help us rent the stone-cottage, an’ told me it was an instalment
on his legacy from some dead uncle in Montreal. Every once in a
while he’d come up with some cash, an’ I figured it was from the
dead uncle. But most of the time he said he was broke, an’ cadged
money offa
me
.”

“Poor you,” Cobb said. “You never figured
this skunk was
bang-boozlin’
you?”

“When did you become suspicious of what he
was really up to?” Marc said.

“Well, he kept on pumpin’ me fer information
on certain people in town he was interested in. He said he had big
plans fer us to start a business with his legacy, an’ we needed to
cultivate the right sorta folks. Albert, he could talk the ears
offa mule.”

“Which folks, for example?”

“Well, one night when we was well inta our
cups, we got to gabbin’ about the rich bitches an’ how they was
always pretendin’ to be so good an’ proper, an’ before I know it,
I’m talkin’ about the English lord who just moved here an’ how I’d
heard a story from Itchy Quick about the shenanigans his wife got
up to. Itchy did some work fer the lord last summer, an’ spied the
lady-lord in the petunia-patch doin’ what she shouldn’t, if ya know
what I mean.”

“We know what ya mean,” Cobb said.

“I didn’t plan on tellin’ him who the
gentleman with her was, I ain’t inta that kind of gossip – ”

“Unless you can sell it to the police,” Cobb
said.

“But he got it out of you anyway?” Marc
said.

Nestor looked at Marc beseechingly. “God, but
that man had a way of wormin’ secrets outta me.”

“And this gentleman was Horace Fullarton, the
banker?” Marc said.

Nestor was startled, then wary. “You already
know,” he said slowly.

“From our own sources,” Marc said
reassuringly. “Was there anyone else whose indiscretions you may
have revealed to your cousin?”

“Well, Albert kept goin’ on about this
lord-fella, an’ he got me good an’ drunk one night an’ I told him –
though I don’t remember doin’ so – that I’d been in the new
whore-house in Irishtown deliverin’ some supplies fer the madam,
an’ who should I spy there but his lordship.”

“Dressed as a woman,” Marc said.

“You got a crystal ball or somethin’?” Nestor
said.

“Get on with it,” Cobb said, “or I’ll have
Dora cut off yer ham an’ eggs.”

“Well, that
is
what I seen there. I
couldn’t believe my eyes. It was him alright. I’d seen him drivin’
down King Street in his fancy buggy lots of times. But he had on a
lady’s dress and a wig an’ face-paint an’ slippers, an’ he was
doin’ a jig an’ singin’ in a real high voice, like he’d been
gelded.”

“But if
you
seen him an’ recognized
him,” Cobb said, “lots of other people in that place would’ve,
too?”

Nestor looked smug for a second – at the
naïveté of the question. “Nobody in a whore-house that caters to
gentlemen ever breathes a word of what goes on in there or who does
what to who.”

“So, your cousin had the goods on Sir
Peregrine and Horace Fullarton,” Marc said. “Did you never think to
ask what, if anything, he planned to do with this information?
After all, it doesn’t sound like the sort of thing one would use to
ingratiate oneself with the rich and powerful. Moreover, you’ve
insisted that he
wormed
it out of you.”

“I did begin to wonder. Especially when he
got to braggin’ one night that he’d dug up dirt on some other
people all by himself.”

“Did he say who?”

“Uh huh. He told me when he lived in Montreal
he had a lot of girl friends. One of ‘em was a maid to a Mrs.
Ramsay.”

Marc and Cobb looked at each other, and
braced themselves.

“Albert said she told him in bed one
afternoon that Mrs. Ramsay had a baby girl that she was tellin’
everybody was adopted from the country. But she knew fer a fact it
was a bastard child of Miss Ramsay, the sister-in-law, got with a
French rebel who was killed in the war.”

Marc sighed. So, Duggan’s threat had been
real after all. Servants always knew more than their masters
thought they did. But had Brodie known? If so, his motive for doing
Duggan serious harm intensified. He hated the idea of having to ask
the lad. But if Nestor did end up on the witness-stand, Marc had to
know every sordid bit of the truth.

“He said this maid also told him she’d seen a
letter from Miss Ramsay, who was livin’ here in the city. In it she
said she’d met a wonderful man, who was a banker an’ had a fine
house.”

“In other words, he was rich.”

“That’s what Albert said. He admitted he’d
come to Toronto hopin’ he might be able to use this secret to help
him start a new life.”

“He did, did he?” Cobb scoffed.

“But he didn’t tell me he was gonna shake him
down fer money! Honest!”

“Who else had he managed to set up for
possible extortion?” Marc said.

“Well, he spent a lot of time chattin’ people
up in the pubs around town. An’ one day in September, he told me
later, he’d met an old fella in The Crooked Anchor who’d been in
the militia an’ fought a long time ago in the war with the States.
Albert got him good an’ drunk, an’ the fella got to reminiscin’
about his glory days, an’ one of the tales he had to tell – ”

“Involved a certain Corporal Crenshaw who was
shot for cowardice,” Marc said, to Nestor’s amazement.

“Why are you askin’
me
the questions?”
he said.

“Just shut up an’ answer them,” Cobb said.
“You ain’t outta the woods yet.”

“Well, it
was
about Cyrus Crenshaw’s
papa, and I stupidly blabbed about who he was – runnin’ the
candle-factory an’ livin’ in a fancy brick house.”

“You got a healthy supply of stupidity,” Cobb
said.

“We have reason to believe that your cousin
was also blackmailing Andrew Dutton, the retired lawyer. Did Albert
have anything on him?”

“Oh, that. Well, one day Albert come home all
excited, sayin’ he’d just found out that that fella was livin’ here
in town. I asked him why that made him so happy, an’ he said his
job in Montreal was workin’ in the asylum there – the place where
they keep the worst of the loonies. One day, he said, a lady who
was as mad as a hatter got sick an’ died. An’ Albert bein’ Albert
had got himself a key to the files, which he said he liked to read
fer his amusement – ”

“Jesus, Nestor, ain’t you got one brain to
rattle around in that empty skull of yers?” Cobb said with much
disgust.

Nestor ignored the insult. “Anyways, he knew
this old lady’s name was Mrs. Felicity Dutton an’ the file said
she’d been put in the asylum by her husband, Andrew Dutton, a while
back, but nobody knew where he’d got to.”

“Until Duggan found him here and checked him
out,” Marc said. “I’ll bet he was more than excited when he learned
Andrew Dutton was alive and well in Toronto – and had married a
second time. Making him a bigamist.”

“Jesus,” Cobb said, “is there no end to all
this?”

“There’s Tobias Budge,” Marc said.

“I don’t know anythin’ about Mr. Budge!”
Nestor cried, blinking fiercely at the obvious lie. “He’s been real
good to me, givin’ me a job when nobody else would. And if I ever
did know anythin’ bad about him, which I don’t, I’d never tell –
”

“It’s all right, Nestor,” Marc soothed. “It
doesn’t matter. From what we already know about Albert and the
Budges, your cousin most likely found out what he needed to know
without your help.”

Nestor choked back a sob. “But I ain’t got
that job no more, have I?”

Cobb wanted to say something sharp about
cowards running away to the bush, but he couldn’t bring himself to
do so. What he did say was, “So yer so-called cousin had the goods
on half a dozen honest citizens an’ you never guessed he was in the
blackmailin’ business?”

“Not until the night before he got himself
killed,” Nestor said.

“He told you then what he was up to?’ Marc
said.

Nestor nodded, sniffled and said, “We was
sittin’ in the cottage drinkin’, an’ Albert starts braggin’ about
how we’re soon gonna be rich as Creases. When I laugh, thinkin’
it’s a joke, he gets real mad. He stomps inta his room an’ comes
out with a piece of paper in his paw, wavin’ it in front of my
face. ‘It’s easy as pokin’ a hooer,’ he says. ‘I just send ‘em a
note like this, tell ‘em where to leave the money, then I sneak up
an’ grab it. The poor slobs’ve got no idea who’s fleecin’
‘em!’”

“You saw one of his extortion-notes?’ Marc
said.

“Not right then. When I figured out what he
was tellin’ me, I got so scared I started to shake. I told him he’d
get caught, an’ go to jail – an’ I might haveta go with him. When
he wouldn’t listen about that, I told him it was a dangerous
business. I said one of them bigwigs or his henchman could hang
around till he grabbed the money an’ do him some real harm, maybe
even kill him.”

“But he ignored your warning?” Marc said.

“He laughed again. He said one of them
donkeys’d already threatened to kill him if he didn’t stop, an’ he
showed me the paper to prove it.”

Marc went very still, and heard the intake of
Cobb’s breath. “Go on, Nestor,” he said quietly.

“I read it. It was a death-threat alright,
and it sounded serious.”

“Was it signed?”

“Oh, no. But the writin’ was pretty
fancy.”

“Had this person discovered who the
blackmailer was?”

“Oh, no, nothin’ like that. The promise to
kill him was written out on the back of one of Albert’s own notes,
the ones he used to make sure they’d keep on payin’. It come
wrapped up with the money.”

“In that case,” Marc said, glancing at Cobb,
who also understood the significance of this startling revelation,
“the name of the person making the threat would likely appear on
that side of the note as the addressee, wouldn’t it?”

Nestor looked abashed. “I did have a peek at
that part ‘cause I recollect bein’ curious about how Albert managed
to scare these people into shellin’ out their money.”

“And?”

“And I can’t remember which of the bigwigs it
was addressed to.”

“Jesus, Nestor. What’s the matter with you?”
Cobb yelled, causing Nestor to jump and nearly tumble off the cot.
“This fella’s gotta be the bastard who did yer cousin in! An’ you
sit there an’ tell us you can’t remember his name!”

Nestor sobbed, and put his head in his hands.
“I already tried to, Cobb. I thunk about it fer two awful weeks out
there in the bush. But I was drunk that night, an’ Albert snatched
the paper back before I could do much but give it a quick peek. I
tell ya, I just can’t remember.”

“If you thought Albert was in mortal danger,”
Marc said, hiding his disappointment, “what did you do the next
morning? Did you threaten to go to the police?”

“When we sobered up, I begged him to give the
money back an’ maybe everything’d be okay. He laughed in my face. I
asked him where he’d hid the money, an’ he laughed again. He said
he’d just got a couple of new fish on the line, an’ things were
lookin’ up. An’ he left. And I never saw him again till he got his
skull crushed there in the alley.”

“But you didn’t come to
me
, did ya?”
Cobb said.

“I was goin’ to, honest, Cobb. I searched
everywhere in the house fer the loot, but couldn’t find it: I
figured if I got the money an’ hid it myself, I could talk some
sense inta him. Then I went to The Sailor’s Arms. Mrs. Budge wanted
some furniture moved. I couldn’t let her down, could I? Then I
stayed to help out in the bar. An’ then it was all too late.”
Nestor couldn’t continue. His sobs were piteous and loud – bringing
Dora into the room with a frown on her face.

“You been abusin’ my patient, Mister
Cobb?”

Cobb sighed. “He’s beyond abusin’.”

“You get some rest now, Nestor,” Marc said.
“You’ve been a big help.”

“He has?”

“Yes,” Marc said. “He’s given me enough
information to ensure that Brodie Langford is acquitted on
Monday.”

***

Marc explained it all to Beth over a late supper.
They were alone. Charlene had tucked Maggie into her crib and then
gone off with Jasper Hogg to a card party at McNair’s house.

“What Nestor gave us, luv, is proof positive
that Duggan was a persistent blackmailer, and that the initials and
notations on his secret list – still in my possession – can be
related unequivocally to our five ‘possibles.’ What’s more, Nestor
knows how Duggan obtained the information he used to extort money
and how he set up his scheme. Since it jibes in every respect with
the
modus operandi
used on Brodie, there is no question but
that Duggan is the sole blackmailer in each instance.”

“Slow down an’ eat a little,” Beth said.
“You’re so excited you’ll be burnt down to the wick by Monday
mornin’.”

“Of course I’m excited. My tactics will
strike that courtroom like a thunderclap! I now have the proofs I
need to justify unleashing my alternative-theory defense. I’ll be
able to ask Sir Peregrine and the others point blank whether they
were being blackmailed. If they lie or evade, I’ll threaten them
with proofs and a witness to substantiate them. Then I’ll lay out
exactly how each of them had the means and opportunity to rid
himself of a ruthless extortionist. Thornton will howl, but when
the judge sees Nestor’s affidavit and Duggan’s target-list, he’ll
have no choice but to allow me to proceed.”