Governing Passion

  Governing Passion

  A Marc Edwards Mystery

  by

  Don Gutteridge

  ISBN: 978-1-927789-50-6

  Published by Bev Editions at Smashwords

  Copyright 2015 Don Gutteridge

  Smashwords License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Other Books in the Marc Edwards Mystery Series

  Excerpt From The Widow’s Demise

  ONE

  The three Cavaliers, as they dubbed themselves, were having a somewhat quiet evening at Madame LaFrance’s bordello. One of the better things about Madame’s establishment was that you had a wide choice of gentlemanly pleasures to while away a snowy evening in early March of 1841. There was always, of course, several young women happy to follow you up the carpeted stairs to one of the cramped but well-swept cubicles where a fellow’s lusts and fancies could be stoked or assuaged. There was a roaring fire in the fieldstone fireplace, around which three or four easy chairs could be comfortably arranged, with snifters of brandy appearing as if by magic on one’s outstretched fingertips. A tray of Cuban cigars was ever displayed on a tiny trundle-table discreetly pushed about by the luscious Nell, if she weren’t otherwise occupied. At the far end of the spacious room sat a pianoforte of some quality, upon which, at appropriate moments during the course of an evening, Sally Butts would perch, revealing the better parts of her legs and a tempting curvature of breast. Sally sang like the proverbial nightingale, or as Sir Lancelot himself said more often than necessary, like a woods warbler. She was accompanied by Old Henry, who some said had once been Madame LaFrance’s lover. Sally’s lilting voice was perfectly suited to the carpeted and heavily draped space of the “gentleman’s room,” with its Persian rugs, its velvet curtains pulled shyly across the big bay window, its mohair furniture imported from England, and its tender-lit candelabra.

  This particular evening, Sally Butts had sung only once, a beautiful but frail French ballad. Then, apologizing for the cold in her head and chest, she slipped away. The Cavaliers applauded enthusiastically, then settled back in their chairs about the fire, sipping on their third brandy. No-one said it aloud, but, in the absence of Sally Butts’s song-making, there was tacit agreement that these knights of the house of easy virtue would forgo the pleasures of the flesh in favour of an hour’s conversation over drinks and cigars, distracted only by Nell or Sarie or Blanche sliding across one’s lap every fifteen minutes or so and bussing one on the cheek. And the conversation this night was on the usual topic: politics.

  “I suppose you’ve heard the rumour that LaFontaine has taken up temporary residence in Kingston,” said Bartholomew Pugh with a disapproving jiggle of his jowls.

  “My dear Gawain,” replied Gardiner Clough, referring to the name Pugh had taken when the three had first plotted sojourns to Madame LaFrance’s place here in the heart of Devil’s Acre, “I have had that news confirmed in a letter I received just this morning.”

  “What do you think that means’” asked Simon Whitemarsh, waving off young Nell, who was determined, it seemed, to break up their colloquy.

  “Some Galahad you are!” she teased and swung her rump saucily away.

  “Shall you tell him, Lancelot, or shall I?” Pugh said. “Either way it’s bad news.”

  “Bad news?” said Whitemarsh. “If it’s about frogs, it’s always bad news.”

  Clough set down his brandy. “Whenever LaFontaine is in the same town as Robert Baldwin, there’s bound to be trouble.”

  “The French leader and the so-called head of the Reform party are trying once again to forge some kind of alliance,” Pugh said. He was a short, fat, red-faced fellow with pale blue eyes that watered constantly. He was bald except for two tufts of unbrushable hair that stood up on his scalp like exclamation points. “Neither group on its own will elect enough members in the April election to make any kind of splash in the new Parliament.”

  “But together they could spell trouble for royalists like ourselves,” Clough pointed out with the candour he had displayed years ago when he had been a practising barrister. The only thing he practised of late was how to get the most out of his wife’s money.

  “They couldn’t possibly constitute a majority in the House, could they?” Whitemarsh said. He was a grey-haired haberdasher in his mid-fifties, with pasty-white skin and drooping eyes that looked perpetually on the verge of sleep. Those who didn’t care for him attributed the latter quality to his frequenting the opium room just behind the curtains in back of the piano.

  “Only if LaFontaine can keep his own troops in line and Baldwin can unite the fractious group of Reformers and Clear Grits,” Pugh said. “And what chance is there of that, eh, Lancelot?”

  Clough nodded his agreement. “There are extreme nationalists in the Quebec camp who will not sit with anyone who speaks English, regardless of the policies they espouse.” Clough was a tall man with cadaverous features and the posture of a crane. His black hair and dark eyes had once terrorized courtrooms. But that was long ago. Now he looked merely brittle.

  “But you think LaFontaine is in Kingston to try the impossible?” Whitemarsh said.

  “There can be no other reason,” Pugh said, smiling at young Sarie as she brushed by him with a gust of perfume. “Baldwin is there with his entire retinue, preparing for the upcoming election and plotting strategy thereafter. He’s got Francis Hincks with him and that upstart barrister, Marc Edwards. They’re not in drafty Kingston in the middle of winter for their health.”

  “I hear they’re progressing well with reconstructing the hospital into a suitable legislature,” Whitemarsh said, happy to be contributing something to the conversation.

  “I still think the capital of the united Canada should have been here in Toronto,” Clough said. “We already have a splendid building.”

  “It was all politics,” Pugh said with a banker’s disdain for the messy world outside the clarity of high finance. “They had to appease the Frenchies by moving it out of Toronto and closer to the Quebec border. So Kingston, ready or not, was it.”

  “I hear they’re reconstructing the better half of the town to make it agreeable for gentlemen,” Clough said with some envy.

  “Not disagreeable to the banking profession, eh?” Pugh smiled.

  These topics were ruminated upon for another twenty minutes, with no resolution but much satisfaction. The female inmates of the hostel had gracefully given up, happy to accommodate other well-turned-out gentlemen who drifted in from time to time. Fresh logs were placed on the fire by one of the lads who did the heavy lifting in the brothel; cigar and pipe smoke thickened the air; and the brandy gradually but surely induced a not-unpleasant drowsiness.

  “Well, my fine-fettled knights,” said Bartholomew Pugh, “let’s brave the snow and the dark and return to our homes. I, like Lancelot here, have a faithful wife waiting for me.”

  “And I have a fa
ithful wolfhound,” Whitemarsh said.

  “You’re not going to take some comfort from the room next door?” Clough said, surprised.

  “Not tonight, no. I’ve got a special sale on tomorrow at the shop, and I want to be clear-headed.”

  “You’re not going home this early?” said Madame LaFrance, who had been sitting tactfully in her chair next to the piano, rising only to answer the door from time to time. The girls arranged their own encounters and kept track of the fare. They were veterans all, and knew their business. “Nell in particular will be disappointed,” she continued. At this latter remark she gave out a sardonic laugh and took Whitemarsh by the elbow. “And you’re giving up my sweet Sarie for an Irish wolfhound?”

  “We could be persuaded to stay tonight only if Sally Butts were to sing us another love song,” Pugh said. “Who knows? She might get us in the mood.”

  “We’re leaving a little something for her anyway,” Clough said, reaching for his coat from the halltree by the door.

  “The poor darling’s sick,” Madame LaFrance said, unable to keep the skepticism out of her voice. She was a generously fleshed, blowsy woman of indeterminate age, with a soft, round face and fluffed-out curls. But the impression of softness was belied by her small, beady eyes that darted about in their large sockets like loose coins. “Claims to have the croup,” she said.

  “We’ll be back tomorrow night,” Pugh said, squeezing into his greatcoat. “And we’re likely to subscribe to your full service, Madame.”

  “No sense in going too long without it,” Madame replied, “when it’s readily available here every night of the week.”

  Just as the three Cavaliers were slipping their gloves on, Sally Butts came out of a back room, fully dressed for the outdoors, and walked past them and out the front door, leaving a little shudder of pleasure in her wake. The gentlemen were especially taken with her blond curls, whose tips could still be seen at the edges of her kerchief.

  “I’ve sent her home for the evening,” Madame said. “But she’ll be here tomorrow night for sure. And in fine voice, I promise you.”

  “So shall we, Madame.”

  Moments later, as the three gentlemen stepped out into the snow, Madame LaFrance turned to Nell and Sarie and said with a rasping laugh, “If those fellows are cavaliers, then my arse is the ace of spades!”

  “Their money is good, though,” Nell suggested.

  “And Lancelot they don’t,” Sarie chipped in.

  Madame LaFrance slammed the door shut against the snow.

  ***

  On the stoop, the Cavaliers said their goodnights and parted company. Pugh went west towards Church Street, Clough east towards Jarvis, and Whitemarsh south towards King. But none had a straightforward walk, for Devil’s Acre was a rabbit warren of crooked streets and mismatched alleys. It sat like a seething boil just north of St. James Cathedral, a shanty town that had sprung up haphazardly in the respectable heart of the city. It was rumoured to be populated by thieves and desperate men, but since every second structure was either a makeshift tavern selling bootleg booze or a house of pleasure where gambling and prostitution were de rigueur, there were not that many shanties housing either criminals or deadbeats. In fact, most of the traffic – principally at night – was from the precincts of town to the pleasure nodes of Devil’s Acre, and then out again when dawn or exhaustion arrived. So lucrative were the dives, opium dens and brothels that there seemed no need for theft or violence. Gentlemen were pleased to part with their money peacefully.

  And so Gawain, Lancelot and Galahad felt perfectly safe in leaving one another to walk unescorted through the maze of alleys to the respectable streets that would see them home. Likewise, Sally Butts, who walked home alone every midnight when her stint at Madame LaFrance’s was completed. The brothel itself was in the dead-centre of Devil’s Acre and was the only brick building in the complex, a substantial two-storey structure that had originally been the manor house of an estate once occupying the “acre,” but abandoned years before. Madame LaFrance had seen her chance and actually had title to the place. Her experience as a madam in England had held her in good stead as she refurbished it and turned it into a palace of pleasure.

  Certainly it was grander, warmer and cosier than Sally’s own house, her parents’ log cabin on Newgate Street. She felt safe in the brothel and here on the streets of Devil’s Acre. In the warm haven of Madam LaFrance’s, she was known and admired; so unlike the poverty and rancour of her own home. Her father was a drunk who took her board money happily while railing against the ungodliness of her occupation. It was no good Sally trying to explain that she was not a whore, that all she did was smile at the gentlemen and sing her heart out. For she truly loved singing. Even her fiancé had had trouble with her occupation, but it was she who had broken off the engagement.

  She walked west towards Church Street, familiar with every bend and ell of the warren. It was snowing, giving the dark a false brightness, but she knew the shape of every gable and roof-pitch in the area, and moved steadily along, humming to herself despite her sore throat. She didn’t know exactly when she first heard footfalls somewhere in the snowy darkness behind her, but soon they were quite distinct – and frightening. She clutched her kerchief about her blond curls and shouted back, “Is anybody there?”

  No answer. And no footsteps.

  Sally turned and began striding steadily west. She was only two turns from Church Street and safety. She stopped abruptly. The footsteps were now loud and very near. With a thrill of fear running all through her, she began to turn to face the menacing sounds of the footfalls.

  Something powerful grabbed her by the shoulder. She tried to twist away, but an arm quickly wrapped itself around her chest. She raised her head to scream, and felt something slash across her exposed throat. For some reason the scream that had begun boiling up in her chest did not reach her tongue. She heard a wheezing gasp, the arm released her, and she slumped slowly into a nearby drift. The footsteps, heavy and masculine, thumped on in the direction she had been going.

  Sally lay where she had dropped. Slowly but surely the life-blood flowed out of her and stained the steadily falling snow.

  ***

  Horatio Cobb was having a lovely dream – he and Dora were naked in a sea of feathers that tickled and tantalized – when the knock came at the door. He felt Dora roll off the bed and heard her padding away towards the front room. The sudden cold draft left by her absence brought him fully awake and silently cursing his wife’s addiction to midwifery. He squeezed his eyes tight and tried to re-enter the dream.

  “It’s for you this time,” Dora shouted into his ear. “It’s a lad sent here by your chief to fetch you to the police quarters.” She sounded a bit too gleeful for Cobb’s liking.

  “But I’ve done my shift fer today,” he pleaded.

  “So you have, Mister Cobb, but I ain’t yer boss. Cyril Bagshaw is, if I recall rightly.”

  “No need to get scar-castic, Missus Cobb. Tell the lad I’ll be a moment gettin’ inta my uniform.”

  “Must be a riot in the town or somethin’ like it to have you dragged outta yer bed,” Dora said more sympathetically.

  “Or it could be Bagshaw’s in need of a detective,” Cobb said, getting up and reaching for his trousers.

  Cyril Bagshaw had been the new chief of police since January, having arrived then from London, England, where he had been hired away from the Metropolitan Constabulary. He had, he informed all who would listen and those who had to, served that ground-breaking force since its inception in 1829. He had been a patrolman and then a desk sergeant, serving also as an exemplary constable who inducted trainees into the service. So he had been a good catch for the Toronto city council when Wilfrid Sturges had retired as chief. Cobb had become great friends with Sturges, and missed him terribly. But before leaving the post, Sturges had recommended to the council that the Toronto force be doubled, from five to ten, with round-the-clock patrols. In addition he suggested that a
new position, that of plainclothes detective (modelled on the experiment just begun in London, England) be instituted, and that Cobb be given the job. Bagshaw had accepted the reorganized force happily, though the status of the detective was left up to him to implement as he saw fit. Until then, Cobb was ordered back on the street – in his uniform. If a serious crime required investigation, Cobb was to switch roles, but so far no crime had apparently fit this category, in the chief’s view. But perhaps that would change this evening (Cobb noted it was only a little past eleven-thirty), as short of a full-scale uprising, Cobb could not think of any other reason as to why he would be called out at this hour.

  Cobb finished dressing, went to the front stoop, where he tipped the messenger boy, then started off westward for the police quarters. The snow that had come down for much of the early evening had stopped. There was no traffic on King Street and the slushy, rutted roadway was now a pristine, white ribbon between rows of houses and shops. Fifteen minutes later found him at the City Hall on Front Street, the rear portion of which now housed the expanded police force. A candle flickered in the reception room as he opened the door and walked in.

  “Well, Cobb, it took you long enough to get here,” Bagshaw snapped. The room was icy cold, the fire in the stove long since gone out. “The body will be frozen stiff by now.”

  “Body?”

  “That’s what I said, sir. Body. A young woman was found an hour ago with her throat slashed from ear to ear.”

  Bagshaw stamped his feet in a vain effort to warm them.

  “Where?” Cobb said.

  “Where else? In that cesspool known as Devil’s Acre. A couple of blocks from here, if you can imagine.”

  “A prostitute?”

  “I don’t know that, do I? That’s for you to find out.”

  At last, thought Cobb. He needs a detective. Cobb smiled and took a long look at the new chief in the light of a single candle. He was tall without an ounce of flesh to give his bones comfort. And his uniform – the one he’d worn as constable on the Metropolitan Force – looked as if it had been painted on him with a palette knife. It was a trim blue outfit with brass buttons and a thick, brown belt around what little waist there was. The stiff collar seemed to be holding the man’s head erect and pointed to the front. The head itself was too generous for the body it sat upon with evident pride. The features were angular, with a jutting chin and a beaked nose some hawk might have boasted of. Under overarching eyebrows, as bristled as any hair brush, there stood two, round pop-eyes that seemed ready to hop out at any moment to say what couldn’t be spoken by the lips and tongue. The dark brown hair was slicked back like an otter’s and aided materially in the upright posture that appeared to be a permanent aspect of his bearing. In fact, if he were to bend at the waist too suddenly, the whole apparatus might collapse in upon itself.