Governing Passion Read online

  “He wasn’t around here last night by any chance?”

  “That’s just it. He was. When I was lettin’ a gentleman in – oh, about nine-thirty – I saw him at the corner of the house, just lurkin’ in the snow.”

  So, Cobb thought, another lie. Kray had not been gambling all night. And Pugh had indeed lost a glove. Cobb thanked Nell again, and left – much satisfied with his evening of detection.

  ***

  Cobb was at Kray’s house at nine the next morning. Kray himself answered the door.

  “I’ve got a bone to pick with you, Mr. Kray,” Cobb said as he entered the front room of the small cottage.

  “I answered your questions yesterday,” Kray said. He looked dreadful, a combination of hangover and grief, or regret.

  “But you didn’t answer them with the truth, sir.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You were seen skulkin’ about Madame LaFrance’s about nine-thirty on the night of the murder.”

  Kray heaved a huge sigh. “So I was. But that was all I did. I could hear her sing, even see her, standing near the window by the piano. Sometimes she would wander close enough for me to see her beautiful hair. Like a halo, it was. She was an angel.”

  “Why did you lie to me?”

  “I didn’t want you to suspect me. You knew I’d been turned down and that I continued to follow her. I didn’t want to be involved. I wanted to grieve quietly. I been up to see her parents. They’ve been kind to me, despite everything.”

  “You didn’t wait fer her to come out?”

  Kray looked at his feet. “She surprised me by coming out at ten o’clock. I was just getting ready to go back to Dowd’s.”

  “And you spoke with her?”

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  “That’s the gospel truth, sir. We argued. She told me to stop following her. I told her it was dangerous in Devil’s Acre. If only she’d listened – ”

  “So she left – on her own?”

  Kray choked back a sob. “Yes, she did. I went back to my gambling. And she was killed by some brute.”

  Who might well have been you, Cobb thought. And these tears are after the fact and fraught with remorse. Cobb then did a strange thing. He stared down at Kray’s feet. They were very large despite the fellow’s medium build.

  “You have very large feet, Mr. Kray.”

  Kray looked startled by the comment. “I do. So what of it?”

  “May I see the boots you were wearing two nights ago?”

  “If you must. But I don’t see what you’d want to do that for.”

  “Just show them to me.”

  Kray went over to a mat near the door and picked up a large pair of walking boots. Cobb took one and examined the sole. There was a manufacturer’s logo cut into the sole, but the design was not similar to the one he was looking for. Nevertheless, there could be other boots – perhaps jettisoned or burned.

  “So you’re denyin’ you followed Sally Butts and slashed her throat?”

  Kray dropped the other boot. “Of course I didn’t,” he said. “I loved her.”

  Cobb backed out the door, thinking hard.

  ***

  Cobb had planned to write up another report for Chief Cyril Bagshaw – to prove that he was using his time productively – but never got the chance. Bagshaw was waiting for him.

  “In my office, Constable,” he said, alerting Gussie French, fussing with his pens, to the fact that trouble was in the wind.

  Cobb followed the Chief inside.

  Bagshaw stood behind his desk and glared at Cobb, still standing. “I’ve just had Bartholomew Pugh in here, sir, and he was not a happy gentleman.”

  “About the man, sir, I – ”

  “I don’t want excuses, Cobb, because there aren’t any. You had the brazen gall to disturb three respectable gentlemen of the town in their evening of relaxation and pleasure. And you practically accused them of murdering Sally Butts!”

  “But, sir, I treated them as potential witnesses. They were out there – ”

  “You don’t get the point, do you, Cobb. These are gentlemen. They must be treated as gentlemen. If we wish to interview them, we make an appointment, we do not spring upon them unannounced in a brothel! You embarrassed them, Cobb. For no good reason.”

  “I didn’t know their names to make an appointment,” Cobb pleaded. “I figured they’d be there and I’d at least find out who they were.”

  “Then why did you, having gotten their names, not make an appointment then and there? And apologize for interrupting them so rudely?”

  Cobb paused, lowered his voice and said, “Pugh was lyin’ to me, sir.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “He denied losin’ a glove. I found one, remember, near the crime. And Nell, one of the girls, told me he had earlier been askin’ after it. If it is his glove, and I’m sure it is, then he was within a block of the crime at about the time it was bein’ committed.”

  Bagshaw paused before saying, “I see. But you don’t know whether his lost glove, if he did lose one, matches the one you found?”

  “I’d like to find that out, sir, by goin’ to him and askin’ him about it. I’d like him to show me the left-hand glove he didn’t lose.”

  “Well, then, we’ll do it my way, Cobb – the proper way. I’ll send a message to his home that we would like to interview him, at his convenience.”

  “We?”

  “Yes, Cobb. I’m going to do the interviewing, to show you how to interrogate a gentleman. You’ll come along and observe closely everything I do. I’m assuming you’re capable of learning.”

  “Just as long as we get at the truth, sir,” Cobb said, not a little upset at the rough treatment his detecting had received. He took the opportunity, though, to tell Bagshaw about his visit with John Kray.

  “Now that’s a more likely candidate for murderer,” was Bagshaw’s only comment.

  ***

  Bartholomew Pugh sent back word that he would be pleased to meet with the chief of police at four o’clock the following day. Cobb, with no discernible detecting to do, was sent back on his day-patrol until a half-hour before the appointment. He joined Bagshaw at the police quarters just after three-thirty, and they walked together down to Front Street and over towards Brock, where the Pugh residence, a substantial brick structure, stood staring out at the snow-covered bay.

  They were greeted by a butler who knew a gentleman when he spotted one, and was not fooled by Bagshaw’s gentlemanly clothes. With a series of curt nods he showed them into a study where Pugh, portly and flushed, sat smoking a pipe and sipping at a snifter of brandy. He stood partway up and motioned the policemen to take a chair. He did not offer them drinks.

  “That will be all, Smithers,” he said to the butler, who looked as if he did not wish to leave his master in the room with the visitors. “Now, sir, what can I do for you,” he said to Bagshaw.

  “As you know, I’m Cyril Bagshaw, chief constable, and this man you’ve already met,” Bagshaw said.

  Pugh glanced narrowly at Cobb. “We have, under regrettable circumstances.”

  “I do apologize again, sir, for the unforgivable behaviour of Mr. Cobb. But he’s new at this game, that’s all I can say on his behalf. And I take it you have arranged for us to arrive at a – a private moment.”

  Pugh smiled conspiratorially. “My good wife is out shopping,” he said, man to man. “There’s no need for her to know anything about Madame LaFrance’s, is there? She’s of a delicate nature.”

  “Not at all, sir. We’re most happy to oblige you.”

  “And I’ll oblige you, if I can. What is it you need to know that Mr. Cobb didn’t discover two nights ago?”

  “Well, sir, one of the inmates of the house of pleasure told Cobb that you inquired about a lost glove.”

  Pugh sat back and adjusted his belly. “I see. So you are wondering why I denied losing a glove.”

  “Something like that
,” Bagshaw said.

  “Well, there’s an obvious explanation, isn’t there?”

  “And what might that be?”

  “The girl is lying, isn’t she?”

  “That had occurred to me,” Bagshaw said quickly.

  “After all, sir, the woman is a whore. And would you accept the word of a whore over that of a respectable citizen?”

  “Of course not. So this glove we found near the crime scene is not yours?” Bagshaw said, holding out the glove he had taken from Cobb.

  “I’ve never seen it before in my life,” Pugh said.

  “Then you have cleared up the point nicely, sir. Thank you for your generous cooperation.”

  The policemen got up, Cobb seething but silent. Smithers directed them to the door. Outside, Bagshaw said, “Now that is how to conduct an interview with a gentleman, Cobb. And how we get at the truth. Now you know you’ll have to look elsewhere for the owner of said glove.”

  “What about Pugh’s obsession with Sally Butts?” Cobb said.

  “She was practically a whore,” Bagshaw said sharply. “Why would a gentleman treat her as anything other?”

  Cobb seethed all the way to the police quarters, but no more was said about Bagshaw’s lesson in interrogation.

  In the office, Bagshaw had some further advice for his apprentice. “Now, Cobb, if I were you, I’d be busy getting more evidence against John Kray, a real suspect in this case. Get a warrant and search that house of his for a pair of boots and a missing glove. And a skinning knife.”

  At this point they were interrupted by the arrival of Ewan Wilkie, looking pale around the gills.

  “What is it, Wilkie?” Cobb said. “What’s happened?”

  “We’ve got another body. In an alley near the brothel.”

  “When was it found?” Bagsahw said.

  “Just now, sir. It’s a girl. But she was murdered sometime last night. The body was stiff and cold.”

  So much for Mr. Kray, Cobb thought.

  FOUR

  Marc Edwards finished his breakfast and headed for the meeting-room, in actuality a private dining-room of the Clarendon Hotel, where he was staying here in Kingston with his associates, Robert Baldwin and Francis Hincks. Louis LaFontaine was scheduled to join them this morning, walking down from the inn on Brock Street, where the French delegation from Quebec was residing. Marc had been in Kingston for the last three days, having been summoned here by Robert to assist him and Hincks with their correspondence and policy discussions. The principal topic was, of course, the alliance being forged between the moderate Reformers of Upper Canada (now Canada West) and the moderate French rouge party of Lower Canada (now Canada East). The union of the two provinces was now a proclaimed reality. Governor Poulett Thomson, Lord Sydenham, had made it official in February of this year, 1841. Elections across both sections of the new Province of Canada were scheduled for April, the resulting Parliament to meet in the newly designated capital of Kingston.

  Most of the discussions thus far had focussed on a riding by riding analysis of the prospects of various candidates who would be sympathetic to the alliance cause and who stood a chance of being elected. A number of nominations were still up for grabs, and both Robert Baldwin and Louis LaFontaine were happy to use their influence to ensure favourable selections. This in turn generated a lot of letter-writing, and so Marc had been called in to assist Hincks and, occasionally, the French team (as Marc’s French was exceptional). Marc was also available as a translator or interpreter, although Louis himself spoke passable English and understood even more.

  Robert and Hincks were waiting for Marc, having risen earlier and taken breakfast in their rooms. Marc knew he should be thinking about the upcoming discussion, but his mind was upon his wife Beth and their two children, Maggie and Marcus Junior. He hated leaving them behind in Toronto, and he realized now that he would be needed here for weeks, not days. Little Marcus was almost one and was starting to crawl all over Briar Cottage. And his babble-talk was approaching speech of some kind. But duty called, and Marc had rarely been able to resist its demands. Perhaps it was his years as an army officer. More probably it was due to his profound belief that the future of the new Canada lay in the achievement of a responsible form of government in which the executive was fully accountable to the elected Legislative Assembly.

  “Good morning, Marc,” Robert said, waving Marc to a seat at the table in the middle of the room. “We just got here ourselves. We’re expecting Louis shortly.”

  “Louis is bringing us the latest news on the status of our alliance,” Hincks said with his usual enthusiastic grin.

  In contrast to Hincks, Robert Baldwin was an ordinary looking man, one who did not command the attention of a room until he spoke. And even then his voice was soft and rarely raised in anger or enthusiasm. He was now in his mid-thirties and of medium height and build. His most arresting feature was his bold, intelligent eyes under their dark, almost brooding brows. Hincks was a fair-haired Irishman with regular features and a ready smile to accompany his forceful manner of speech and his ready wit.

  “I think we can expect in excess of forty-five from among our group and Louis’ supporters,” Robert said. “And we’ve already got you on the Executive Council,” Hincks said to Robert.

  Robert looked over at Marc. “And I’ve got to give you a proper explanation of why I agreed to enter a cabinet with Tories like William Draper, and you’ve been tactful enough not to ask.”

  Marc smiled, and waited.

  “Well, I feel I can best promote the notion that the cabinet as a whole is responsible to the majority opinion of the Assembly from within. It’s obvious that sooner than later the harmony of the cabinet – representative of every faction, it seems – will not last. The Governor will propose legislation that will be rejected by our alliance in the Assembly and bring matters to a crisis point. When a stalemate ensues, I will suggest strongly that Mr. Poulett Thomson, or Lord Sydenham as he’s now known, dissolve the Executive and form a new ministry reflective of the Reform group that controls the Assembly.”

  “He’ll be compelled to support responsible government in fact, if not in principle,” Hincks added. “And that will make it almost impossible to retreat to the old way of doing things.”

  “The Tories are counting on our alliance to collapse, once the French get here and find themselves in a thoroughly English milieu,” Robert said.

  “But we’ve got Louis LaFontaine in our camp, eh?” Marc said.

  And as if on cue, LaFontaine entered the room. And commanded instant attention. He was unusually tall – almost Marc’s height – a sort of tallish Napoleon, for he wore his hair brushed forward like Bonaparte’s, and his left hand often found its way into his jacket, much as the Emperor’s had whenever he was posing. Whether this was a nervous tic or a deliberate gesture was a matter of debate amongst those who knew Louis. But it was the stillness at the centre of him that commanded respect, a quiet fortitude, an unflinching quiescence that bespoke authority and fierce conviction. At his side was a short, middle-aged, dark complexioned fellow with a large nose and bushy eyebrows.

  Louis was greeted by those around the table, and he in turn introduced his companion. “This is Gilles Gagnon, my secretary and my right-hand man,” he said in slightly accented English. “You’ve heard me speak of him before.”

  “Welcome, Monsieur Gagnon,” Robert said, rising to shake his hand.

  “Gilles, please,” Gagnon said, smiling.

  “Well, please take a seat, gentlemen. We’ve got plenty of business to discuss,” Robert said, and proceeded to introduce Marc and Hincks to the newcomer.

  The meeting got underway with no further small talk. Robert reviewed the situation in the ridings of Canada West, where the Reform party expected to garner twenty of the forty-two seats. The rest would be split among the Conservatives, or moderate Tories, the diehard Tories, including the Loyal Orange Lodge, the extreme Reformers or Clear Grits, and various independents. Robert th
en turned to Louis.

  “The rouge should take twenty-five or more seats,” Louis said, “with the rest split evenly among the English and French Conservatives.”

  “Is there any chance the French will align with our Conservatives or Tories?” Hincks asked.

  “Not a chance,” Louis said. “They are determined to act as a rump group only, as defenders of all things French. They have no interest in the new economy or the British monarchy.”

  “So it’s certain that our moderate Reformers and your rouge Nationalists will form the single largest group in the new Assembly?” Robert said.

  Louis hesitated. “That is true, but I’m afraid that is only if I can hold our own people together and bring them with me to your side, Robert.”

  “There’s trouble in the ranks?”

  “I’m afraid so. John Neilson is leading a rump group of Ultra-Nationalists who want no truck with the English or with the union. They are planning to come here after the election in April not to protect French rights and culture but to see that the new Parliament does not work.”

  “And he’s recruiting among your people?” Hincks said.

  “He’s already wooed two or three to his camp with the prospect of many more. He’s using my own words against me.”

  LaFontaine had consistently railed in public against the unfair terms of the union, whereby Quebec got the same number of seats with a third greater population and was saddled with Upper Canada’s debt. Moreover, French, while technically allowed to be spoken in the Assembly, would not be made part of the permanent record. However, Louis, earlier on, had been won over to the potential of Baldwin’s idea of responsible government as providing the only plausible avenue for Quebec gaining its demands. He was in favour of the union but not the terms. Neilson had exploited that nicety and was stumping Canada East calling for a circling of the wagons. And was being listened to.

  “If your group splits, we are finished,” Hincks said.

  Robert looked grim. “I’ve been able to keep my supporters on side by promising them a majority in the Assembly. If word leaks out that that is in jeopardy, the results could be calamitous.”