The Widow's Demise (17 page)

“Yes, sir. It was still bleedin’.”

“What did you assume had happened?”

Marc rose. “The question calls for a
subjective opinion, Milord.”

“This is a policeman on the stand, Mr.
Edwards. I’ll allow it.”

“Constable?”

“I saw the scorched face on the lady, the
vial in the man’s hand, and I figured he’d tossed acid or lye or
somethin’ on her face and then stabbed her.”

“But you didn’t see a knife?”

“No, sir. But the fellow pointed to a bloody
spike on the fence and said somethin’ to me in a gibberish I didn’t
understand but I took to mean the lady’d fallen on the fence.”

“Did you arrest the man on the spot?”

“I didn’t right away. I blew my whistle fer
help, and when Mr. Cardiff and his servants came out of the house,
I sent one of them to fetch the Chief and the coroner. I told the
fellow to sit on the porch and wait.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“I said, ‘I think you killed this woman.’ She
was certainly dead, with her eyes open and seein’ nothin’. And he
kept on talkin’ gibberish, like a crazy man. ‘Speak English,’ I
told him. And he seemed to calm down then and by golly he
could
speak English. He started to tell me some cock and
bull story about – ”

“We don’t need to hear his cock and bull
story, sir. But there is no doubt in your mind that this fellow was
guilty of throwing acid in Mrs. Cardiff-Jones’s face and
consequently causing her death?”

Wilkie blinked at the excessive length of the
question and said, “None whatsoever. He had the vial in his hand.
She’d scratched his face tryin’ to protect herself, and he was
still hunched over the body.”

“Making sure she was dead?”

“Milord!” Marc cried, jumping to his
feet.

“That was uncalled for, Mr. McBride,” said
the judge.

McBride apologized, smirked over at Marc, and
sat down. “I have no more questions, Milord.”

“Mr. Edwards?”

Marc looked across at Constable Wilkie, a man
he had known for five years as a plodding but honest patrolman. He
realized that he had a formidable challenge ahead of him. His
client had been found by a policeman bending over a recently killed
woman with one of the instruments of her demise in his right
hand.

“Constable Wilkie, I am interested in my
client’s demeanour when you accosted him that evening. You said he
looked scared.”

“Yes. I figured he was quite startled to see
a policeman come up to him just a few moments after he’d killed the
lady.”

“We don’t know that the defendant killed the
lady, Constable. That is for the jury to decide,” Marc said evenly.
“After his startled look, did the defendant try to flee? Did he
even get up?”

Wilkie looked puzzled. “Well, no. He just
pointed at the lady and the bloody spike and spouted some
gibberish.”

“Could this gibberish have been French? Mr.
Gagnon, the defendant, is French-Canadian.”

“Could’ve been. Beats me.”

“Didn’t you find it strange that the
defendant did not try to run away, but rather appeared to be trying
to explain something to you in his mother tongue?”

“But I had him by rights, didn’t I?” Wilkie
said proudly.

“You asked him to sit on the porch and
wait?”

“I did, and he did as he was told.”

“Could he not have run away while you were
dealing with Mr. Cardiff and his servants, who had come out to see
what the fuss was about?”

“Well, I suppose he could’ve.”

“I suggest to you that the defendant’s
behaviour was not that of a guilty man.”

“But he had the vial in his hand.”

“Could he not have picked it up out of
curiosity to see what had caused the wound to the victim’s
face?”

“I suppose so.”

“Did you find a glove near the body by any
chance?”

Marc’s abrupt shift caught Wilkie by
surprise. He blinked and glanced over at McBride.

“I did find a glove, yes,” Wilkie said.

“You didn’t mention this in answer to Mr.
McBride’s questions.”

“He didn’t ask me about it?”

McBride was on his feet, his jowls wobbling.
“Milord, Mr. Edwards is getting at facts not in evidence.”

“Mr. Edwards?” said the judge.

“Milord, Mr. McBride asked the constable to
describe what he saw exactly as he came upon the scene. The glove
should have been mentioned in response to that question.”

“I agree,” said the judge. “Proceed, Mr.
Edwards.”

“Did you assume the glove had been dropped by
the assailant?” Marc asked.

“Milord,” McBride said, “the question calls
for speculation.”

“The constable may answer truthfully what he
thought at the time,” said the judge.

“Mr. Wilkie?” said Marc.

“I thought that, yes. The glove had blood on
it.”

“Blood from the victim?”

“It was fresh blood.”

“Did you subsequently try the glove on the
defendant to see if it fit?”

Wilkie gulped, looked helplessly at McBride,
and said, “I did. At the police quarters.”

“Did it fit?”

“No, sir. It was too small.”

“So it didn’t belong to the defendant?”

“No, sir.”

“So there may have been a third party at the
scene, perhaps there
before
the defendant, perhaps the real
killer?”

“Milord!”

“Go easy, Mr. Edwards. You can sum up later,”
said the judge.

“Now, Constable Wilkie, I want to get to this
story you said the defendant told you – ”

McBride was on his feet so quickly his jowls
waddled. “That story was not explored on direct, Milord.”

“But it
was
introduced,” the judge
said. “Continue, Mr. Edwards.”

“You said it was a cock and bull story. How
so?”

“Well, Mr. Gagnon begun speakin’ English, and
he said he’d seen the murder happen. He’d been walkin’ towards
Rosewood, expectin’ to talk with Mr. Cardiff about the election,
when he saw a man throw somethin’ liquid in a woman’s face just
outside the fence at Rosewood.”

“And what did he do then?”

“He said he shouted and run towards them. The
man dropped the vial in his hand and run off around the east side
of Rosewood. He said he heard the lady moan and bent over her to
see what was the matter with her. She scratched him and collapsed.
He said he just picked up the vial to see what had caused the
terrible wound on her face when I come along. He said he didn’t
cause the lady’s death.”

“But you didn’t believe this story?”

“No sir. It sounded far-fetched to me. It was
him with the vial and scratch on his face.”

And, thought Marc, if he couldn’t come up
with a viable third party those two facts alone could convict his
client. But at least he had got Gagnon’s own defense out in open
court. McBride’s witness had accidentally allowed the defendant, as
it were, to testify on his own behalf, a practice strictly
forbidden in English law.

“You didn’t try to pursue this other man?”
said Marc.

“No, sir. I didn’t believe there was
one.”

“Did the accused describe this other man?
This third party?”

“He said he was short and slight. He wore an
overcoat and a hat. That’s all.”

“And most likely left one of his bloody
gloves at the scene?”

Wilkie blinked, but said nothing.

“I have no more questions,” Marc said.

“Mr. McBride, redirect?”

“Yes, Milord,” said McBride. “Constable,
about this glove. At first you assumed it had been dropped there by
the accused?”

“That’s right.”

“But when it didn’t fit, what did you
conclude?”

“We decided it was just a stray glove layin’
there on the walk, and some of the lady’s blood got spilled on
it.”

“And the accused had no gloves on at the time
of his arrest?”

“No, sir. That’s why we thought it must’ve
been layin’ there all along.”

“Now, about this cock and bull story. Why
didn’t you believe it?”

“Well, sir, I know from my experience that
criminals always have some story they dream up to try and escape
our clutches. And I thought since I was patollin’ from the east, I
would’ve seen this so-called slight man runnin’ away.”

“As you know, it is because a defendant is
assumed to be tempted to lie on his behalf that he is not allowed
to testify in his defense. So you conclude that this was just such
testimony?”

“I did. And I gotta believe my own eyes and
ears, don’t I?”

“You do indeed. No more questions,
Milord.”

Constable Wilkie was excused. Marc had done
all he could. The presence of a small glove that might have
belonged to the slight man whom Gagnon had seen running away from
the scene did point to the third party that Marc was at pains to
establish, as did Gagnon’s story, though it had been materially
weakened by McBride’s redirect. Still, there was plenty to come.
But not until the morning. Court was adjourned for the day.

***

Constable Cobb made his way to The Crooked Anchor.
An urgent message had been sent to him at the police quarters that
Itchy Quick wanted to see him right away. Cobb found him at his
favourite table, looking famished.

“Hello, Itchy. Why the big hurry?” Cobb said,
sitting down opposite him.

“I got some news.”

“Then spit it out. I’m a busy man.”

“I talk better on a full stomach,” Itchy said
coyly.

“You want me to stand you a meal before you
tell me somethin’ that may or may not be worth a dinner?”

“Oh, it’s worth a dinner. And you know you
can trust me, Mr. Cobb.”

“About as far as I could throw you – and that
ain’t far.” Cobb said. “But if that’s what it takes, what the hell,
I can always have you arrested fer loiterin’.”

Itchy blanched before he realized Cobb was
kidding. “I’ll have liver and onions and a slab of apple pie,” he
said, “washed down with an ale.”

The meal was ordered, and while they were
waiting, Cobb said, “This has to do with the Gagnon murder charge,
I take it?”

“It does, in a way.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

“It’ll help Mr. Gagnon, I’m sure.”

“It better.”

Cobb sat silently and watched Itchy devour
his meal, like a starving boar. Itchy wiped the grease off his lips
with the back of his hand, took a last swig of ale, and looked
across at Cobb.

“What I’m gonna tell ya – you gotta promise
me not to go chargin’ my informant with anythin’.”

“That depends on what he’s done,” Cobb said,
wondering where this was going, if anywhere. “And who’s this
informant anyways?”

“Pussy Cramden. A friend of mine.”

“Pussy! He just got out of prison fer break
and enter. He’s a second storey man.”

“So he is, and it was while he was
reconoitrin’ Rosewood that he come up with the information you need
to know about.”

“Rosewood? Did he see the crime committed?
See anybody runnin’ away from the scene?”

“Oh, no, he wasn’t around near the front of
the house.”

“What did he see, then, while he was casin’
the place fer a possible robbery?”

“He’s hidin’ out behind the house, fer two or
three days runnin’, to see who comes in and who goes out, like, at
what times and so on. And when they lock the doors or leave a
window open – ”

“I don’t want to hear about Pussy’s criminal
techniques. Get to the point.”

“Yes, sir. Well, the night before Mrs.
Cardiff-Jones is killed, Pussy is hidin’ in the bushes when he
sees, about eleven o’clock, a man go up to the back door. The
fellow has a cape and hood, so Pussy can’t see who it is.”

“So what?” said Cobb, losing his patience.
This certainly had little to do with the crime itself. He felt
disappointed, and annoyed at having stood Itchy his dinner.

“So when the door opens, in the moonlight, he
sees Mrs. Cardiff-Jones in the doorway, dressed in a kimono.”

“I see,” said Cobb, growing interested. “In
her nightclothes?”

“Right. And what do you think? They kissed.
Right there in the doorway.”

“But Pussy didn’t see who it was?”

“Not then. But he hung about, figurin’ he
might be seein’ somethin’ he could turn to his advantage – ”

“Like blackmail?”

“A nasty word, Mr. Cobb. A nasty word.”

“But?”

“But when the fella comes out an hour or so
later, he’s got the hood off and the moon is full, and Pussy sees
who the guy is. He recognizes him.”

“Who was it? Spit it out!”

“Another ale?” Itchy said.

“Don’t push yer luck,” Cobb said.

“It was Cecil Denfield.”

Cobb whistled. “That’s worth two more ales,”
he said. “And I’ll have one myself.”

***

It was about seven o’clock that evening when Cobb
went around to Briar Cottage with the news. He and Marc sat in the
parlour smoking. Marc told Cobb about the afternoon in court.

“You did a good thing with the glove,” was
Cobb’s comment.

“Yes. It suggests a third party,” Marc said.
“And my whole defense will be based on potential persons who had
good reason to be that third party.”

“I got some news that may help.”

“You have?”

“From my snitch, Itchy Quick. He saw Cecil
Denfield go into Rosewood the night before the murder, where he was
embraced by the lady of the house.”

“My word, that is interesting. We know that
Lionel Trueman and Horace Macy were courting Mrs. Cardiff-Jones,
but Denfield was actually her lover. She was quite a woman.”

“And him a married man,” Cobb said
distastefully.

“What if Macy or Trueman found out? They
could have been enraged. We know their passions ran high because
they fought a duel. That kind of passion turns easily to rage. My
God, but there’s a strong motive for throwing acid at the faithless
woman who strung them along like slack puppets.”

“How can you use it?”

“I don’t know yet. But I’ll think of a way.
The Crown is still presenting its case. I’ve got lots of time to
think about it.”