Governing Passion Page 7

  “I just need to ask you a few questions about Sarie Hickson,” Cobb said.

  “I thought you might. I heard about her death an hour ago. It came as a terrible shock, as you can imagine. Especially coming so soon after poor Sally.”

  “She was killed the same way and by the same person who killed Sally Butts.”

  “Then you’ve got to catch him, don’t you, before he kills again.”

  “You can help us with that, sir.”

  Clough looked up, his sharp features shadowed with anxiety. “How?”

  “Sarie was here last night.”

  Clough nodded.

  “She was a regular visitor?”

  “Yes. Every week or so. Whenever my wife was away.”

  “We found her in a strange costume.”

  A brief smile passed over Clough’s face. “Ah, yes. She was playing Madame de Pompadour for me. She came and went in costume.”

  “What time did she leave?”

  “Just before midnight, as usual.”

  “Right. That confirms the time of death at about twelve-fifteen. Thank you for that.” Cobb paused and then said, “You and Sarie had – ah, cordial relations?”

  Clough was startled by the abruptness of the question. “Of course. She was a sweet girl. I’ll – I’ll miss her very much.”

  “Did she know who you were?”

  “Of course not. She knew me only as Lancelot.”

  “But she knew this house, where you live, didn’t she?”

  “How else could she get here?”

  “She could easily figure out who lived here.”

  “But she didn’t, did she?”

  Cobb wasn’t convinced by the vehemence of this response. He sensed a touch of panic in it.

  “What are you driving at anyway?” Clough said.

  “I was just thinkin’ that you might be willin’ to pay a lot fer keepin’ yer secrets safe from yer wife.”

  “You think Sarie was blackmailing me? That’s preposterous!”

  “If she was, that is a good motive fer murder, isn’t it?”

  “But she wasn’t! And I may be a fool, but I’m no killer.”

  Cobb realized he had, in his zeal, gone too far. “I’m sorry fer bringin’ it up, sir.”

  “I should think you would be!”

  “You been very helpful.”

  “Carswell will show you out.”

  Via the roundabout route, Cobb thought.

  ***

  Now that he had established the likely time of death – twelve-fifteen – Cobb went back to the police quarters to seek permission to use two or three constables to do a house-to-house inquiry in the block around the alley where Sarie Hickson had been murdered.

  “Good work, Cobb,” Bagshaw said when Cobb told him he had discovered the time of the murder from Clough.. “And I trust you treated the gentleman properly?”

  “With kid gloves, sir.”

  “I’ll let you organize the house-to-house. Now fill me in on what else you’ve found out about this second murder.”

  “Well, sir, I’m convinced we’re lookin’ at one killer and two crimes.”

  “What do you base this bizarre conclusion on?”

  “Bartholomew Pugh was a witness to the first crime, and he’s given us a clear description of Sally Butts’s killer: a tall gentleman with a fur hat, dark overcoat and big boots.”

  “That should prove helpful for finding the killer of the first girl.”

  “Well, we may get lucky and find a witness for the second crime, too. At least we’ll be able to compare descriptions if we do.”

  “But what’s the evidence for one killer?”

  “The boots are the clearest link. I found boot-tracks again – large boots with a star-shaped pattern on the sole. And Pugh says he saw a man with big boots.”

  “Leading away from the scene?”

  “Leading to Jarvis Street this time. Where they vanish.”

  “But I told you before you cannot know whether these prints were made at the time of the murder. They could be just some gentleman on his way home.”

  “But both girls were blond, sir. Sally had her own hair and Sarie was wearin’ a blond wig. I’m sure that Sally was taken fer a whore and Sarie was a known whore in Devil’s Acre. Those boots belong to a gentleman. So we’ve got a gentleman killer who’s got it in fer blond whores, or just whores. He’ll kill again, I’m sure of it.”

  Bagshaw leaned forward, taut as a spring. His tiny eyes shook in their sockets. “Now see here, Mr. Detective, you’re jumping to several conclusions at once. What do you want to do, spread panic through the city by saying we’ve got a maniac with a knife on the loose? No woman will feel safe on the streets!”

  “But the crimes are in Devil’s Acre, sir.”

  “And Devil’s Acre is full of respectable people every night of the week! No, Cobb, you’ve got two murders on your hands. I want you to pursue John Kray for Sally Butts’s murder. He’s just the type of person to go off the deep end when jilted. Get a warrant and search that house for a knife and a glove.”

  “I’ve also got a gentleman’s scarf I found near the second scene with a ‘P’ on it,” Cobb said stubbornly.

  Bagshaw’s gaze narrowed. “I know what you’re thinking, Cobb. I don’t want you near Pugh again. You’ve bothered him enough, and you disobeyed me by seeing him without making an appointment.”

  “I was thinkin’ of interviewin’ Simon Whitemarsh, sir. He was at the brothel last night and left about midnight. He might’ve seen somethin’.”

  “There you go again! You’re obsessed with gentlemen! That place is crawling with low-life and you’ve got to pursue proper people.”

  “Are you sayin’ I can’t talk to Whitemarsh?”

  “Oh, go ahead. But I want Kray pursued, do you hear? And I expect the house-to-house to turn up something useful, considering the extra help I’m giving you. Now get out of here!”

  Cobb was more than happy to leave.

  ***

  While Rossiter and Wilkie took the description of the killer and went house to house in the area of each of the crimes, Cobb got a search warrant from Magistrate Thorpe and went to Kray’s cottage. Mrs. Kray answered the door, and was not pleased to see the warrant Cobb brandished.

  “You won’t find anything here, Cobb,” Kray said, trying to calm his mother. Cobb spent the next hour fruitlessly searching the Kray cottage. He felt foolish and very annoyed with Bagshaw. It was so clear that the crimes were connected and that Kray had no motive whatsoever for killing Sarie Hickson.

  “My son was home here all last night,” Mrs. Kray said in response to Cobb’s question. “From suppertime till breakfast.”

  Cobb wasn’t surprised. He hoped, however, to be surprised by the house-to-house inquiry. When he got back to the station, however, he learned that no-one in Devil’s Acre had seen or heard anything. It was as if they had all been struck deaf and dumb. Fortunately the Chief was not there to hear the bad news: he had been summoned to the Mayor’s office upstairs. Cobb decided to go and beard Whitemarsh – without an appointment.

  Simon Whitemarsh answered his own door.

  “I’m Constable Cobb.”

  “I remember you, sir. What do you want? You’ve come at a very bad time.”

  Cobb took a good look at Whitemarsh, whom he remembered from Madame LaFrance’s place as being a pasty-faced, soft-fleshed character with sleepy eyes. But the man before him was quite flushed, as if he had been drinking, with bright red spots on each of his cheeks. And his eyes were stark and staring, as if highlighted by kohl, with an unnatural brightness to them. Perhaps he had been taking opium.

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions,” Cobb said.

  “About Sarie Hickson’s death, I presume?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right, then, come in. I can spare you five minutes.”

  “You live here alone?” Cobb said as he entered the vestibule.

  “My mother shares t
he house. The servants are all out, as it happens.”

  Whitemarsh did not move any farther into the house, so Cobb removed his helmet and said, “You were at Madame LaFrance’s last night?”

  “You know I was.”

  “I been told, yes, but I needed to hear it from you.”

  “I was there until about midnight.”

  “When you left fer home?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did you go straight home?”

  “I did. I go south to St. James and King Street.”

  “Did you hear or see anythin’ unusual in the vicinity of the brothel?”

  “Nothing. It was very quiet.”

  “Except fer the murder of Miss Hickson, which must have happened only yards away from where you were shortly after midnight.”

  “I’m sorry to hear of her death, but I’m afraid I cannot help you.”

  “You ain’t lost a scarf?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “May I see yer foot, sir?”

  “Good God, man, what are you up to?”

  Cobb ignored him and glanced down at the fellow’s feet. They were exceptionally large. “May I see the boots you were wearin’ last evenin’?”

  “You may certainly not. Do you think I had anything to do with the murder? You must be crazier than you look!”

  “The killer wore boots with a special pattern on the sole. I can stroke you off my list of suspects by checkin’ yer boots.”

  “It so happens that the boots I wore last night are at the repair shop today.”

  “Then I’ll come back when they’re returned.”

  “Now, if that is all, I have business to attend to,” Whitemarsh said, turning away.

  Cobb put his helmet back on. “Thank you fer yer co-opt-eration,” he said.

  As he was going down the front steps, it occurred to Cobb that the man’s lips had been excessively red. Could he have been wearing make-up? Was he into playing games, like Clough? What a nest of vipers he’d stuck his nose into!

  ***

  Bagshaw was waiting for him in the anteroom. “I’ve just come from the Mayor,” he said, his taut body quivering like a tuning fork.

  “Had a nice visit, did you?”

  “Don’t be funny, Cobb. The Mayor wanted to know all the details so far. I told him the little bit you’ve managed to gather. And by Christ, he agrees with you!”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you! He’s convinced there’s a mad killer on the loose in his town. And so are a number of citizens who’ve heard of the second murder. He’s afraid of panic in the streets. He thinks men will keep their wives indoors. He wants this killer caught.”

  “I’ve got to start over,” Cobb said. “I’m sure the killer is a gentleman, one of the gentlemen at the brothel. I’ve been lookin’ at the three Cavaliers, but there are a dozen regulars or more in that whorehouse. I’ve got to go up there and rout them out, one by one.”

  “You’ll do nothing of the kind, Cobb. You’ve already upset enough gentlemen. Gussie told me while I was out that Gardiner Clough came here and complained that you’d accused him of murder. I told you to go easy there, but you’re incapable of listening.”

  “But we can’t just sit on our hands.”

  “We’re not going to. We’re going to go back to basic police work, the kind we did when I was with the Met.”

  “Whaddya mean?”

  “I mean patrolling, that’s what. We’re going to put three men on patrol all night in Devil’s Acre. If this is a mad killer, then he’ll strike again. And we’ll catch him before he can wield the knife. We’ll patrol for as many nights as it takes. And I want you to quit playing detective and join Wilkie and Rossiter on the patrols. I want experienced men out there. And I hear you’re pretty good at wielding a truncheon.”

  “But, Chief – ”

  “No buts. You’ve failed as a detective. Let’s see if you can remember how to be a policeman.”

  Cobb went out – seething. His career as a detective had been short, and not very sweet.

  SIX

  “A body?” Marc said to Robert in the dining-room of the Clarendon Hotel.

  “One of the workmen apparently. Found on the site this morning by the other workmen when they arrived.”

  “On the site? You mean the Parliament building?”

  “Yes. Bert Campion just passed the news along to me.”

  “An accident?”

  “Afraid not. It’s definitely murder. The fellow was pole-axed with a hammer. Died instantly.”

  “But what was the man doing out there after dark?”

  “I don’t know, but he was definitely killed overnight.”

  “Do you think I should offer to help out?”

  Robert thought about the matter. Marc had handled more than half a dozen murder investigations in the past five years, and had been very successful in aiding the Toronto police. But they were not in Toronto, and there were no municipal police as such here in Kingston, only the magistrate and two constables under his watch. “We need you here with us very much,” Robert said at last.

  Just then Bert Campion came into the room.

  “I’ve just been over at the magistrate’s,” he said breathlessly. “And there’s news.”

  “About the murder?”

  “They’ve just sent a constable to arrest one of the workmen, a Quebecer named Jacques LeMieux.”

  “On what grounds?” Marc asked.

  “It seems that the victim was killed with his hammer.”

  “Is that all the evidence?”

  “No. He was heard in a dive last evening making drunken death threats against the victim. One of the other workmen was there and told the magistrate.”

  “Who was the victim?”

  “Earl Dunham, the foreman.”

  “Oh, dear,” Robert said. “An English-speaking worker murdered by a French-speaking one. That’s very bad news indeed.”

  “What do you mean?” said the architect.

  “We’re involved in delicate negotiations here with our French colleagues. This sort of thing could raise tensions. And I suspect it would poison the workplace out at the Parliament site.”

  “That’s true,” Campion said with a sigh. “The carpenters are due in to lay the floor of the Legislative Council chamber next week, and half of them are French.”

  “The magistrate is sure he’s got the right man?” Robert said.

  “It certainly looks bad for LeMieux,” Campion said.

  Robert looked at Marc. “Would you mind going over to the magistrate’s, Marc? If LeMieux is guilty, we want the proof to be incontrovertible.”

  “And I could take you out to the site later,” Campion said.

  “I’ll look into it,” Marc said.

  ***

  By the time Marc reached Magistrate Wilson’s house, Jacques LeMieux had been taken to jail, protesting his innocence. “They all say they’re innocent,” was the magistrate’s summary remark. The murder weapon and an eye-witness statement as to the nature of the threat made by LeMieux was all the proof he needed. Marc was given permission to speak to the accused in jail.

  LeMieux was a wiry man of middle height with black hair and dark, protruding brows. The eyes were brooding and, despite the surroundings, fiery and rebellious. Marc addressed him in French.

  “I’m here to help you Mr. LeMieux. I am a barrister and I have carried out murder investigations before. You say you are innocent.”

  “I am. And the only reason I’m in here is that I am French.” The eyes smouldered.

  “The claim is made that it was your hammer that killed Mr. Dunham.”

  “It could have been. We leave our tools on the site. Anyone could have come along, picked it up and hit Dunham on the head with it.”

  “Someone who might want to throw suspicion on you?”

  “Of course.”

  “You were heard making death threats against Dunham.”

  “I was in Bernie’s dive
last night after work. It’s a dump out near the hospital. I had too much to drink. I may have said something I shouldn’t have, but I don’t remember. I was too pissed. I don’t even remember walking home.”

  “Well, I should be able to get more information about that at this Bernie’s place.”

  “Bunch of low-life thieves is all you’ll find there. English bastards.”

  “If you didn’t do it, who do you think might have? Did Dunham have enemies?”

  LeMieux snorted. “Everybody hated his guts. He was the worse kind of Englishman, cruel and arrogant. My friend Michel Jardin saw Dunham fire his brother for sticking up for himself. Michel was very angry. But he’s no killer. And Greg Manson was angry because he was passed over for the foreman’s job. But Dunham treated us all badly.”

  “You had no particular reason yourself for wanting to kill him?”

  LeMieux looked down. “I do, and somebody has already told the magistrate. I expect it was Manson.”

  “Why did you dislike Dunham?”

  “Not dislike. Hate. Dunham was a corporal in the militia in ‘thirty-seven.”

  “And did something to you?”

  “He and his troops razed my barn and terrified my family. They burnt us out.”

  “Did Dunham know this?”

  “Yes. But he never let on he recognized me. And me, drunk one night, spilled out the whole story to the other men.”

  “So you do have a powerful motive for wanting to kill Dunham?”

  “You think I’m guilty, don’t you? Just because I’m French.”

  “I don’t see how you can be convicted if no-one can place you at the murder scene last night. The evidence is all circumstantial.”

  “But I’ll be put on trial?”

  “Yes, if I don’t find the real killer.”

  “Go after Manson. He’s a bitter man with a wicked temper.”

  “It could be someone else. We don’t know what Dunham was doing out there at night. He could have been meeting somebody.”

  “He’d been out there for three nights keeping a watch on our stock of laths. Someone, a kid likely, was stealing them. A few every night.”