The Widow's Demise (9 page)

“In Briar Cottage,” Nosy said, snuffling in
the manner that had given him his nickname.

“That’s right. Tell him he’s wanted here
right away.”

“You’ll pay me now?”

“I will, but you better not bugger off. It’d
be worth yer life.”

Nosy stuck out his hand and Cobb put a
half-penny into it. Nosy then scampered away as if the money might
dissolve were he not to dash off..

Cobb went back inside and stepped into his
office. He opened his notebook and began to write up the details of
the crime and his interrogation of Gilles Gagnon. He was his usual
thorough self. Although he found writing painful and mainly relied
on his prodigious memory to recall details, Cobb nevertheless
realized that note-making and report-writing were important aspects
of his work. His thoroughness made it easy to get the necessary
warrants for search and seizure and for arrests from Magistrate
Thorpe. And, of course, Cyril Bagshaw was a stickler for details.
Bagshaw had never really approved of having a plainclothes
detective on the force (unless it were he himself and that was not
possible), and Cobb had to be painstaking in order to convince the
Chief of his theories and conclusions. When he had finished the
report, he took it in and placed it on Bagshaw’s desk. Bagshaw
acknowledged the gesture with a grunt.

Ten minutes later Bagshaw shouted out Cobb’s
name – once. Cobb immediately went next door, braced for the
worst.

Bagshaw’s pop-eyes pounced on the open report
and then pounced on Cobb.

“What is the meaning of this drivel?” he
snapped.

“It’s what I heard and seen, sir.”

“I’m talking about your conclusions, and you
know it!”

“What’s the matter with them?”

“You say here that there’s a good possibility
that Gagnon’s preposterous story may be true and that he may not be
the killer!”

“But surely that is an obvious conclusion,
sir.”

“The fellow was caught in the act! What else
is he going to do but make up a cock-and-bull story to save his own
skin?”

“But he has no motive. And Marc Edwards
always taught me to start with the motive.”

“We don’t need a motive. Gagnon had the vial
of acid in his hand, spotted by a
policeman
!”

“In court, we’ll need a motive. Mr. Gagnon is
an important fellow. A gentleman, even if he is French. Gentlemen
don’t go around tossin’ acid at women they hardly know.”

“We’ve only got his word for that. I expect
you to talk to people at that Ball and find out just what went on
there. And talk to friends of Mrs. Cardiff-Jones to find out how
well she might have known him.”

“I was plannin’ on doin’ that, sir. I didn’t
say in my report that he wasn’t guilty. I just said there was
questions that needed answerin’ before we charged him.”

“You raise the business of the glove.”

“Right. Gagnon wasn’t wearin’ any, so where
did a single glove come from? A glove that didn’t fit Gagnon.”

“Surely the answer is obvious. It was dropped
there sometime before the crime. It must’ve been.”

“Unless there was a third person about, sir.
The one Gagnon says he seen.”

“Nonsense. You take this detective business
too seriously. You see things that aren’t really there and ask sill
questions about silly details.”

“I’m just tryin’ to do my job.”

“Well, I’m ordering you to go back and
rewrite that report. Leave off all your conclusions. I’ll fill in
that part and take it to James Thorpe.”

“So you’re gonna charge Gagnon?”

“I am. With cold-blooded murder.”

Cobb heaved a big sigh but knew better than
to argue with Bagshaw once he had made up his mind. He picked up
the report and left.

***

Marc arrived at the police quarters about an hour
later. Bagshaw had got his warrant, and Gilles Gagnon was
officially charged with the murder of Delores Cardiff-Jones. Marc
and Gagnon stood toe to toe in the cramped cell and talked. (Gagnon
was to be transferred to the main jail within the hour.)

“You were just on your way to see Humphrey
Cardiff, weren’t you?” Marc began in French.

“Yes, and as I approached Rosewood, I saw the
crime being committed, and merely went to see if I could help the
victim. The attacker had already run away.”

Gagnon then proceeded to tell Marc exactly
what had transpired in those fatal moments on the walk of
Rosewood.

“You actually saw the killer?” Marc said.

“I did, but the police don’t believe me.”

“I admit it looks bad at first glance,” Marc
said, “but there is the small matter of motive. You haven’t
any.”

“That’s right. And I only danced once with
the lady at the Charity Ball. We exchanged half a dozen words. No
more.”

“That will play out powerfully in court.

“And the killer left a glove. One that
doesn’t fit me.”

“Too small?”

“Yes. The killer was a short, slim man. He’d
have small hands.”

“Again, that’s a fact that will point to a
third party and be very convincing to a jury.”

“But this scratch looks bad, doesn’t it?”

“Yes. And since I can’t put you on the stand,
it’ll be hard to get your plausible explanation before the jury.
But you did relate your account to Cobb and Wilkie, didn’t
you?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll get them to quote from their
notes.”

“What if they don’t get put on the
stand?”

“They’ll have to put Wilkie there. He’s the
crux of their case.”

“Can’t you get the charge dropped? We’re in
the middle of an election.”

“And this won’t help any, will it?” Marc
said. “A French-Canadian charged with killing the daughter of the
Attorney-General of Canada West. The anti-French sentiment will be
stirred up madly, I’m afraid.”

“With violence,” Gagnon said. “Like
Terrebonne.”

“Let’s hope not.”

“Could we actually lose the election?”

“I doubt it very much. But our priority is
getting you free. It doesn’t look as if Chief Bagshaw is in a mood
to drop the charges, but I’ve got a strong case to take to court.
Maybe the powers-that-be will expedite the trial in order to gain a
political advantage.”

“Well, thanks for coming.”

“I’ve sent word to Louis and Robert. They’ll
be along to see you when they take you over to the county jail.
We’ll make you as comfortable as possible.”

Marc signalled to Cobb and was let out of the
cell.

***

“Come into my office, Major,” Cobb said, using his
nickname for Marc.

“You want to discuss the case?”

“I do.”

Marc followed Cobb inside. Cobb closed the
door, even though Chief Bagshaw was back over at the Court
House.

“You don’t agree with Gagnon’s being
charged?” Marc said, sitting down opposite his old friend. They had
collaborated more or less on eight previous murder investigations –
before Cobb had been made detective and even after Marc had become
a barrister.

“I don’t,” Cobb said.

“I’m glad, because the case is full of holes,
despite your eye-witness account.”

“I know. You taught me good.”

“There’s no motive.”

“That’s the first thing I told Bagshaw. But
with an eye-witness, he says a motive don’t matter.”

“And the glove suggests a third party.”

“That’s what I wrote in my first report.”

“And if the woman was dying in front of him,
it’s only natural for Gagnon to be bending over her to check her
wound and general state.”

“And Wilkie didn’t see the crime itself,”
Cobb said. “He only saw what happened afterwards.”

“I’ll have a field day in court.”

“But the investigation’s not closed,” Cobb
said, smiling slightly.

“Oh? In what way?”

“Bagshaw wants me to go fer the motive. I’m
to interview the lady’s
a-quaint-ances
to see if she knew
Mr. Gagnon at all.”

“What are you saying, old friend?”

“Well, Bagshaw won’t know it but I can still
poke about and see if I can find any other suspects. Someone with a
reason to throw acid in the lady’s face.”

“Yes. Acid is a very personal crime. The
intention here was not murder, even if that was the unhappy result.
You’re looking for a short, slight man, although you must remember
that Gagnon only caught a fleeting glance as the fellow rounded the
corner of the house. Don’t limit yourself to small men, although
the killer likely has small hands.”

“I’ll keep you informed of anythin’ useful I
find,” Cobb said.

“Isn’t that dangerous? I know you’re not
Cyril Bagshaw’s favourite policeman.”

“I’ll be careful. And, of course, I may turn
up some evidence that points to yer client.”

“It’s the truth that we’re after here.”

“Yeah,” Cobb said. “The truth.”

James Crawford kissed his wife goodbye, climbed onto
his two-seater democrat, clucked the team of horses into motion,
and headed down his lane towards the sideroad. It was a bright
September morning and augured well for what might turn out to be an
adventurous day. He was picking up three neighbours, and they were
going to drive to Danby’s Crossing and register their votes for
Louis LaFontaine.

Alvin Gayle was waiting for him at the end of
his lane. He carried a lunch and a canteen of cold water. It would
be a two-hour drive to the poll, if all went well.

“Good morning, Alvin,” Crawford said from his
seat on the box. “Make yourself at home.”

“Mornin’, James. I see you brought the fast
team.”

“Well, you never know when you might need a
little speed.”

Gayle climbed up beside the driver. “I hear
some of the fellas have run into a spot of trouble on the way.”

“That’s right. Stu Barnes was waylaid by a
bunch of toughs out near Yonge Street, but managed to outrun
them.”

“He made it to the poll?”

“He did. There he had to run the gauntlet of
jeers and taunts, but he did get his vote in.”

“For LaFontaine?”

“Of course,” Crawford said, snapping the
reins over the horses’ ears.

“And you don’t have any qualms about votin’
for a Frenchman?”

“As long as Robert Baldwin is backin’ him,
that’s good enough for me.”

“They say he will lead the party when he’s
elected.”

“That’s what I hear, too. Baldwin seems to be
happy playin’ second fiddle.”

“They work well together, that’s the main
thing,” Gayle said, taking a drink from his canteen and offering it
to Crawford.

“There’s Billy, waitin’ fer us by his
gate.”

They hailed Billy Thomas, and drove up to
him.

“Mornin’, fellas,” he said, and hopped up
behind the other two men. “Good day fer votin’, eh?”

They agreed, and the democrat proceeded west
along the sideroad to the next farm, where they picked up the
fourth and final member of their group, Toby Baron. He too had
packed a lunch, or rather his wife had. As they made their way
towards Yonge Street, the forest rose up on either side of them, a
few scattered farms here and there along the way.

“What’s that up ahead?” Gayle said.

Crawford peered into the near distance. They
were in dense bush now, and shadow covered the road. “Looks like a
tree’s fallen across the road,” Crawford said.

They drove on towards the object blocking
their path. It was a large tree, completely covering the road and
the narrow clearing on either side of it.

“We can’t get past it,” Crawford said,
drawing the horses to a halt.

“We’ll have to go around it,” Gayle said.

“I don’t see how we can do that,” said
Thomas, who had stood up behind the driver to get a better view of
the problem.

“There hasn’t been any lightning in the last
couple of days,” Baron said, standing beside Thomas.

“Let’s have a closer look,” Crawford
said.

He got down from the vehicle and walked
across to the right side of the road, where the trunk of the tree
was thickest. “It’s been deliberately cut,” he called back. “The
Tory toughs have been out by the look of it.”

“How did they know we were going to come this
way?” Gayle said.

“They probably didn’t,” Thomas said. “This
entire line is Reform, and they know how many of us were still left
to vote.”

“The bush is too dense here for us to go
around the obstruction,” Baron said. “They’ve planned the matter
well.”

“What’ll we do?” Gayle said.

“We should’ve brought a rope, then we could
have had the horses drag the tree aside,” Crawford said.

“We can always go back fer one,” Thomas
said.

“Looks like we’ll have to,” Crawford
said.

Just then they heard hoofbeats coming towards
them from the west.

“Oh, oh,” Gayle said, “here comes
trouble.”

The four men waited impatiently as the
hoofbeats grew louder. Soon a lone horseman rode into view on the
other side of the tree. He paused and then urged his horse into the
bush. Moments later he emerged in front of them. They didn’t
recognize him, but he was a tall, striking figure.

“Hello, I’m Marc Edwards,” the fellow said.
“I’ve come to help.”

“You’re the lawyer fella in with Baldwin,”
Crawford said, climbing down to greet Marc.

“I am, and I’m patrolling these back roads to
help with emergencies like this one. They’ve cut the tree
deliberately, haven’t they?”

“That’s right,” Crawford said. “But we need a
rope to haul it aside.”

Marc grinned. “I just happen to have some
rope with me,” he said. He dismounted and pulled a coil of rope
from a hook on his saddle. “This should do the trick. If you’ll
unhitch your team, I’ll try and get this rope around the tree
trunk. I may need some help.”

Marc climbed over a thick section of the tree
trunk and slipped the rope under it. Billy Thomas caught it and
flipped it back over the top of the trunk. They wound it about
three times and knotted it. By this time, Crawford and Gayle had
unhitched the horses and brought them over to the tree. Crawford
tied the loose end of the rope to the whiffletree and then took the
reins. The horses weren’t draught size, but they were strong enough
to slowly pull the trunk aside far enough for the democrat to get
through.