Governing Passion Page 12

  Christine

  “You see, sir, how my absence torments her. I don’t see how I can do anything but get the first coach back to Toronto.”

  “She does sound desperate, but if she’s been having these headaches since she was little, they are obviously not life-threatening. They sound like migraines to me.”

  “That may be so, but they are exceedingly distressful.”

  “Has she servants to take care of her?”

  “Mrs. Baldridge, a long-time widow, has been with the family ever since Christine and I were tots. She was really a nanny to us, and she dotes on Christine. And Gulliver is our butler, who keeps the house running smoothly. He’s also very protective of my sister.”

  “Well, there you are,” Marc said. “She’s got people who care around her.”

  “But they’re not me, are they?”

  “My honest opinion, Christopher, is that your poor sister does not want you to marry. These letters are really about Miss Dodd, whom she sees as bewitching you.”

  “But I’ve been honest with her all along. As I mentioned to you, I even told her that Martha looks like her.”

  “And she was not amused, right?”

  “She flew into a rage. I thought, foolishly, that she’d be flattered.”

  “But you are determined to get married?”

  “I am.”

  “So going back to Toronto, even for a few days, is not going to change that fact. It’s more likely she’ll see your return as a sign of weakness, and press you harder not to marry.”

  “You may be right. And Martha and I intend to go to Toronto right after the wedding – Christine has refused to take part – and then we’ll all be together.”

  “So you need to stick it out here, don’t you?” Even though he was making an argument he believed to be right, Marc still felt guilty about pressuring the lad.

  “And I am needed here, aren’t I?”

  “You’re essential to the success of our plans.”

  Pettigrew smiled. “And my sister is loved and safe in Toronto, isn’t she?”

  NINE

  They were all in the anteroom of the police quarters at the rear of the City Hall: Cobb, Wilkie, Christine Pettigrew and Chief Bagshaw. The latter had just arrived, having been wakened just after falling asleep. He was drowsy and shivering as he came into the room, and was shocked to find a young blond woman seated between Cobb and Wilkie. Wilkie had got a roaring fire going in the stove, and Cobb had found in the constables’ room an extra cloak to throw over the trembling shoulders of the girl. A tea kettle whistled on the stove.

  “What on earth’s happened?” Bagshaw said, though it was plain that he saw readily enough what had occurred.

  “Another attack, sir,” Wilkie said.

  “And unsuccessful this time,” Cobb said, pointing out the obvious.

  “Our police whistles may have saved the lass,” Wilkie said.

  Bagshaw glowered. “But four of you up there couldn’t prevent the attack!”

  “No, sir,” Wilkie said.

  “The culprit got clean away?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Was he seen?”

  “We were waiting to question the young lady till you came,” Cobb said. “She’s had a terrible fright.”

  “I’m much better now, Constable,” Christine said. “You’ve all been very kind.”

  “I’ll make the tea,” Wilkie said.

  “Can you tell us your name?” Bagshaw said.

  “Christine Pettigrew.”

  Bagshaw blanched. “You live up in Birch Grove with your brother, Christopher Pettigrew?”

  “That’s right.”

  Bagshaw now realized the enormity of what had just happened. A young woman of social standing had been attacked. The stakes were raised yet again.

  “What were you doing in a place like Devil’s Acre?” Bagshaw said gently.

  “Well, sir, I decided to pay my cousin a visit. She lives on King Street past York.”

  “At ten o’clock in the evening?”

  “I sent her a note saying I was coming, and I got delayed at home.” Christine was still trembling now and then, but otherwise seemed quite composed. Wilkie handed her a mug of tea.

  “But you have a carriage and a driver.”

  “I do, of course. But I felt like a walk. It’s only fifteen minutes or so.”

  “But we’ve had three murders in the last ten days.”

  “I’ve always felt safe on our streets, especially with our constables on duty.”

  Wilkie smiled at the compliment.

  “But Devil’s Acre is not on your route, is it?”

  “Birch Grove is about a quarter of a mile away, off Jarvis Street north. I came down Jarvis and decided – foolishly, I now see – to cut through the corner of Devil’s Acre to save a little time.”

  “And you got lost in that maze of alleys?”

  “Yes. I couldn’t believe how fast I got turned around.”

  “This may be painful, ma’am, but tell us what happened in there.”

  Christine took a swallow of tea and held the mug in both hands. “Well, I was walking along, peering right and left, when I heard a thumping of footsteps coming up behind me. I turned to look back and – ”

  She paused and took another sip at her tea.

  “Go on when you’re ready,” Cobb said quietly.

  “I looked back and this large dark shape was coming at me. Its right hand was raised. There was a knife in it.” She shuddered at the memory. “He lunged at me and I fell backwards. I heard myself screaming.”

  “And that – ”

  “That seemed to scare the man, for it was a man, a tall man with a big black greatcoat, a fur hat and big black boots. He paused and raised the knife again. I screamed. I heard a police whistle somewhere. He did, too. And he took off.”

  “Did he speak?”

  “No. Not a word.”

  “Did you see his face?” Cobb asked, and got a glare from his superior.

  “No. It was too dark. I saw only that it was a man.”

  “Did he run off the way he had come?” Cobb asked.

  “I’m not sure. I was terrified. I couldn’t scream again.”

  “We didn’t find any bootprints,” Cobb said to Bagshaw. “But that’s because the whole area was covered with our own tracks.”

  “And if those tracks had been where they should have been, Miss Pettigrew would not have been shamefully attacked!” Bagshaw retorted.

  Wilkie looked at the floor.

  “Well, we did foil him, sir,” Cobb said.

  “Wilkie, I want you to take Miss Pettigrew back to Birch Grove. And don’t try any short cuts!”

  Wilkie escorted Christine out of the room.

  “Well, Mr. Detective, are we any further ahead?” Bagshaw said, standing closer to the stove.

  “We’ve got the description of the fellow repeated,” Cobb said. “It jibes with Pugh’s.”

  “That’s not a lot, is it?”

  “We know now he’s right-handed.”

  Bagshaw snorted. “So we’re looking for a six-foot, big-booted gentleman or would-be gentleman who’s right-handed?”

  Cobb grimaced. “It’s not much, is it?”

  ***

  Cyril Bagshaw was right about the stakes being raised. On the afternoon following the latest attack, Bagshaw was summoned to the mayor’s office, where he was given a good dressing-down by Mayor Kennedy and two aldermen.

  “We’ve doubled the size of your force to allow you to patrol our streets day and night,” the mayor ranted. “And suddenly we’ve had three murders and a near-murder, all within an area no bigger than a city block. Get your troops out there and catch this maniac!”

  Bagshaw took the criticisms quietly, but he was boiling inside. The mayor was right, though. His troops had failed him. And especially that fellow who called himself detective. “I’d like permission, sir, to end this detective experiment. I’d like to put every man on the
street.”

  The Mayor’s gaze narrowed. “It seems to me, Bagshaw, as if what we need on this case is more detecting, not less. Move Cobb around as you see fit, but he remains our detective – for now.”

  “Yes, sir.” He’d move Cobb around all right! “We’ll catch this fellow soon. I guarantee it.”

  “I don’t want guarantees, sir, I want results.”

  And with that Bagshaw was summarily dismissed.

  ***

  Cobb found himself on night-patrol with Brown, Rossiter and Wilkie. For two fruitless nights they pounded up and down the alleys and lanes of Devil’s Acre. So effective were they that hardly a soul ventured into the gambling dens and brothels. Madame LaFrance came out on her stoop and shook her fist at them. The snow was hard-packed where the constables walked, so that the big-booted maniac could have come and gone without his spoor being noticed. But, of course the murders had occurred on every third night, so it was with much more expectation that the four patrolmen met at eight o’clock that evening at the police quarters. Chief Bagshaw was waiting for them. He came out of his office with a laundry bag in his hand.

  “What’s up?” Rossiter said.

  “I’ve come up with a plan,” the Chief said, smiling tightly. “I’m sick and tired of having the madman make fools of us. I’m going to set a trap for him.”

  “A trap? How?” Wilkie said.

  “I’m going to provide the killer with a blond woman to kill.”

  “But sir,” Brown said, “you can’t expose a woman to the possibility of havin’ her throat slit!”

  Bagshaw grinned. “Ah, but I don’t intend to.”

  Cobb looked at the laundry bag. “You’re gonna go there in costume?” he said.

  “Close, Cobb, close. I am not going in costume. Wilkie is.”

  Wilkie blanched. “As a woman?” he gasped.

  “As a seductive blond woman. Our killer – this is likely his night – won’t be able to resist, but he’ll find himself face to face with a policeman’s truncheon.”

  “But I ain’t no woman!” Wilkie wailed.

  “You’re the slimmest of these fellows,” Bagshaw said, glancing at the others, “so you’re elected.”

  “What do I gotta wear?” Wilkie said.

  “I’ve brought all you’ll need from home,” Bagshaw said. He began slowly removing the contents of the laundry bag. First to come out was a large, fluffy, blond wig. Then a ladies’ evening gown. Then a pair of ladies’ button boots. Then a ladies’ feathered hat. And finally, a ladies’ cape.

  “I’ve got my wife’s face-paint in the office,” Bagshaw said.

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that,” Wilkie moaned.

  “It’s time you earned your keep,” Bagshaw snapped. He had, of course, thought to humiliate Cobb by choosing him, but Cobb’s bottle shape precluded any dress fitting him, and the wild shock of unkempt hair would make any wig impossible to fit. Wilkie was fleshy but slimly built with small feet – alas.

  “We’ll help you get ready,” Rossiter grinned.

  “Use the constables’ room,” Bagshaw said.

  Rossiter and Wilkie went into the constables’ room with the garments.

  Bagshaw turned to Brown and Cobb. “Now, gentlemen, you’re going to bear witness to how proper police work pays off. I want you, Cobb, to keep a short way behind Wilkie at all times, but discreetly. We want this killer to make his move. If he does, you can yell to alert Wilkie and trap the fellow between the two of you. Blow your whistle for help. I figure that two truncheons should be able to take care of that knife. Still, you must remember here that we’re dealing with a madman.”

  “Careful! You’re gonna rip the damn thing!” It was Wilkie’s voice from the other room.

  Cobb and Brown grinned.

  “There’s nothing funny about any of this,” Bagshaw said. “Wilkie will be risking his life.”

  A few minutes later the door of the constables’ room opened, and a sturdy blond woman stepped gingerly out into the anteroom. Wilkie had successfully squeezed his bulk into the flowery gown. The wig was bold and curly upon his head, under the hat. He couldn’t get the cape fastened, so it hung on him like two flaps. The boots, unbuttoned, pinched his toes inward and made him walk oddly – more like a woman than a man.

  “Splendid! Splendid!” Bagshaw enthused.

  Wilkie staggered and was caught by Cobb.

  “Now a little rouge on each cheek and we’ll be all set,” Bagshaw proclaimed.

  Wilkie groaned.

  ***

  As Wilkie meandered through the maze of Devil’s Acre, Cobb stayed close behind, flattening himself against walls to keep as far out of sight as he dared. Brown and Rossiter were patrolling other sections of the place – in hopes they might run into the killer – so Cobb and Wilkie were on their own. And while Wilkie was certainly comic-looking, Cobb realized there was real danger involved. This was the third night. The killer could be on the prowl, and Wilkie certainly resembled a woman from even a short distance away.

  Once, Cobb lost sight of Wilkie, and it was only by chance that they met face to face coming around a corner. Wilkie almost jumped out of his dress, then saw it was Cobb.

  “I thought you was supposed to be behind me,” Wilkie complained.

  “You’re movin’ too fast,” Cobb said.

  “You’d move fast, too, if there was a maniac on yer ass.”

  Cobb resumed his rear position and they continued.

  About two hours into their patrol, near eleven o’clock, Cobb saw Wilkie make a limping right turn about fifteen yards ahead of him. He sped up to make sure he didn’t lose track of his man, when out of the opposite alley the blur of a figure vanished somewhere in behind Wilkie.

  This was it! Cobb raced to the corner of the alley, fumbling for his whistle. It stuck to his lips. Ahead he could now see two figures, Wilkie and his attacker. They appeared to be locked in a deadly embrace. Cobb’s whistle sang through the moon-lit darkness. The figures broke apart, and Wilkie tumbled backwards into a drift. Cobb dashed towards his stricken colleague. The attacker was heading for the far end of the alley. Wilkie waved Cobb after him.

  Cobb’s speed was always underestimated by those he pursued. His tube-like belly was attached to two slim, pistoning legs, and seemed even to assist his forward locomotion, once he got up a head of steam. The attacker aided Cobb by slipping as he tried to turn a corner and sliding into the snow. Cobb was quickly upon him.

  “Gotcha, ya devil!” he cried as he fell upon the man, truncheon raised.

  No serrated knife gleamed in the moonlight. The killer lay panting and passive beneath him. Cobb got up and hauled the fellow up by the scruff.

  “Where’d ya hide the knife?” he yelled.

  “W-what knife?” the killer said in a choking voice.

  “Don’t mess with me, fella. Where is it?”

  “I haven’t got a knife. And I didn’t do nothing to have a policeman jump on me!” Some vigour was returning to the villain’s voice.

  Cobb took a good look at his captive. He was a short, paunchy man dressed in gentleman’s attire. His beaver top hat lay on the ground. He wore a cape, not a great coat. Something was amiss here.

  “You assaulted a police constable,” Cobb said sternly. “We’ll go back and see what he has to say.”

  Cobb dragged the man back to where Wilkie was just getting to his feet. He had a pained expression on his face.

  “Are you all right, Wilkie? You’re not injured?” Cobb said.

  “’Course I ain’t all right. This bastard tried to kiss me!”

  ***

  Neither Wilkie nor Bagshaw found the kissing episode as amusing as the rest of the constables. Bagshaw was in a black mood the next day, and not amenable to any suggestion by Cobb that he pursue the big-booted gentleman by going back to Madame LaFrance’s brothel and seeking out any client of above average height. There could not be that many tall gentlemen visiting Devil’s Acre on a given night. There were also three or
four other brothels in there, although their clientele was decidedly down the social ladder. But it looked now as if – the Wilkie trap having failed spectacularly – Bagshaw would rely on patrols alone to catch the killer. There would be no more traps and no more detecting for Cobb, in or out of uniform.

  ***

  It was Dora who came up with the suggestion:

  “Mister Cobb, why don’t you sit down and write a long letter to Marc Edwards in Kingston?”

  “What for?” Cobb asked.

  “To tell him all about the killin’s here, that’s what. You two always made such a great team doin’ yer investigatin’.”

  Cobb thought about the suggestion for a bit, then said, “You think he might be able to see somethin’ I missed?” There was no defensiveness in the remark; it was just a simple question.

  “You could give him yer reports, couldn’t you?”

  “Well now, I couldn’t do that, but I could get Gussie to copy them out and I could send the Major the copies.”

  “It’s worth a try. It sure don’t look like this loony worries about policeman gettin’ in his way.”

  “All right, Missus Cobb, I’ll do it.”

  It took Gussie a day to copy out Cobb’s reports, which contained detailed accounts of all his interviews with his own analysis and opinions appended. Gussie did not object because he loved nothing better than to sit at his desk and copy out important documents. Cobb gathered all the materials together, packed them in a bundle, penned a brief covering letter, and mailed the package off to Kingston. It was on his arrival back from this task that he was met by Bagshaw.

  “You just missed Miss Pettigrew,” he said to Cobb.

  “Is she all right?”

  “Not entirely. She came here to report that a stranger looked into her bedroom window last night. She screamed and he disappeared. But she had the wherewithal to run to the window in time to see a tall, dark-clothed man striding away across her back garden.”

  “Our killer, come to finish the job?”

  “It appears that way, doesn’t it?”

  “Devil’s Acre is only a quarter of a mile away. It’s possible,” Cobb said. “But how would he know who she was? Our victims seem to have been unknown to the killer.”