Bloody Relations

TEN

Over lunch and a flagon of ale at the Cock and Bull, Marc and Cobb exchanged detailed accounts of their morning’s work. Marc was obviously pleased and impressed with Cobb’s efforts at the two brothels.

“What d’ya make of this business of Sarah bein’ at Madame Charlotte’s?” Cobb said, between bites.

“I agree with your initial assessment, Cobb. But I think I’ll refrain from further speculation on the matter until I’ve had a chance to talk with the girl’s parents. Then I believe we’ll have the full story of Sarah’s sad odyssey.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Now, what do you make of the whist players?”

Cobb, at a loss to see any import in the self-interested complaints of the whist players up at Government House, said so.

“I didn’t expect to learn anything directly incriminating,” Marc said, brushing pie crumbs off his lower lip. “But both Lord Durham and I wanted to get acquainted with them personally-His Lordship is a keen judge of character-and develop a sense of whether their opposition to his mission here is serious enough, and similar enough in kind, to allow them to be considered co-conspirators.”

Cobb washed down a helping of oysters with a satisfying swig of ale. “And what do you figure after all that palaver?”

“In terms of their disagreement with Durham’s known position on key issues, yes, they might, despite being radically different characters, decide to band together to sidetrack the mission. It’s hard to see such diverse personalities getting together merely to play whist.”

“Might, you say?”

“Well, that’s something we’ll need proof for. When we find Badger and unmask the person who led Ellice to the brothel, we’ll have all the proof we need.”

“When.”

“My, you’re laconic this afternoon.”

“I’m feelin’ quite fine, thank you, but I’d feel a whole lot better if we could dig up a few more facts.”

“Spoken like a true investigator.” Marc drained his ale. “And this afternoon may well see that happen.”

Cobb looked regretfully at his empty flagon. “What’re you plannin’ to do?”

“While His Lordship keeps the whist players occupied, we’re going to visit their homes. I will question their wives and you will go to the stables and question any men or boys who might have been on carriage duty Monday night.”

Cobb’s skepticism was visible. “We’re just gonna sashay up to these pillars of the community and ask them if their hubbies took young Ellice to a cathouse to get his ashes hauled?”

Marc smiled. “I see now why you were such a success up in Irishtown this morning. But I have worked out a ruse for us to use when we approach these people. We will tell them that some valuable jewellery was stolen from Lord Durham’s chamber on Monday during the gala. An investigation yesterday revealed that one of the guests was apparently an interloper-”

“A gate-crasher, ya mean?”

“Exactly. Moreover, this person, whom nobody seemed to know, was seen lurking near the doors to the north wing where the Durhams are domiciled, and then again later he was seen being invited into one of the fancier barouches-hitching a ride to the city, presumably with the stolen goods. We, of course, are trying to trace this felon and need to know which of the respectable guests was kind enough to give him a lift, et cetera. Naturally, the description we have of him is that he was young, slim, not tall, and apparently shy-as he would be if he were hiding his identity. If you’ll give me a description of the clothes Ellice tossed beside Sarah’s bed, we’ll add them to our portrait of this mysterious jewel thief.”

“I c’n do that,” Cobb said, “but I can’t go usin’ all of them Shakespeare words with stable hands!”

“True, but the essential question to put, after feeding them our little story, is whether anyone like that rode back in their master’s carriage. I’ll do the same with the wives, and try to prompt them to admit to any sort of unexpected rearrangements in their travel plans that night after the ball.”

“Sounds like a good plan,” Cobb said, “if it really was one of them whist players, of course.”

They were about to leave when Nestor Peck, Cobb’s most obsequious snitch, angled up to their table. He was sporting a bump as big as a crane’s egg on the right side of his head.

“You been fallin’ down steps again, Nestor?” Cobb asked.

“Some yegg clunked me up at the Tinker’s Dam,” Nestor whined. “I need a whiskey real bad, Mr. Cobb.”

“You got anythin’ to trade fer it?”

“Yup.” He waited until Cobb’s chin bob signalled a deal, then whispered, “Badger was seen headin’ east along the Kingston Road.”

“We know that.” Though it was nice to have his son’s sighting confirmed.

“Way past Scaddings Bridge.”

Cobb dropped a coin on the table.

“Keep yer head down, Nestor,” he said.

Beth Edwards enjoyed the half-hour walk along fashionable King Street to Government House at the corner of King and Simcoe. The day was glorious. The sun shone resolutely as it had for the past week, leaving the rutted and indifferently gravelled street dry and passable. The good weather had enticed more than the usual number of shoppers to the chic array of stores between Church and Bay that catered to those who had cash to spend or credit to demand.

What attracted her more than the gaudy bow windows of the jewellers, booteries, and haberdasheries, however, were the quaint and the idiosyncratic among the merchant class, a reminder that commerce and individuality could remain wary bedfellows. Diagonally across from the Court House, for example, stood the Checkered Store, a wooden edifice painted in red-and-white squares, tempting customers to come in and play checkers. Next to it sat Rogers’s fur and hat store, announcing its proprietor’s Indian heritage via a life-size sign depicting an aboriginal voyageur limned by local artist Paul Kane. Just visible down West Market Lane was the whimsical invitation of McIlmurray’s clock-repair shop: a golden lion whose forefeet sprouted watches instead of paws.

Approaching the corner of Yonge and King, Beth could never quite suppress the chill that seized her as she walked through the shadow cast by the imposing, three-storey grandeur of the Commercial Bank. The chill eased nicely, though, as soon as she neared the twin shops that once were the dry-goods emporium of her father-in-law, Joshua Smallman. Now hers, they invited her to pause and ponder what might have been. Mr. Ormsby, who rented one of the shops but would soon be gone, came out and chatted amiably with Beth for several minutes.

With just the tiniest shiver of regret, Beth continued on towards Government House. Unlike most of the ladies today, she carried no parasol to keep the sun off her face, only a straw bonnet that she wore in the garden every morning. Beyond Bay Street, the boardwalk ended: the town council, as deadlocked and divisive as the other political bodies in the province, refused monies either to extend the walk or to keep the existing one in repair. She was forced to compete with horses, mules, and aggressive teamsters for walking space. Eddies of dust whorled about her feet, and she was glad she had decided to wear a short frock that settled comfortably at her ankle-tops.

After crossing Simcoe she came to the gates that presaged the long driveway up to Government House, nestled in its six acres of parkland. It was a pleasant, shady stroll along the tree-lined way and, although anxious about what was facing her up at the house, she was in no particular hurry. A sociable being, she had out of necessity lived much of her adult life alone and had learned to enjoy her own company. In a few minutes she rounded a bend and caught a glimpse of the great building, its chimney pots tickling the fluffy cloud above them and its myriad glass windows shimmering in the early-afternoon heat. To her immediate right she spotted a small, shrub-enclosed garden with stone benches around a reflecting pool. She decided to pause for a moment to catch her breath and decide how best to approach Lord and Lady Durham about the mission she had in mind regarding their nephew.

She was just about to sit down when she noticed a tall, formally attired gentleman standing with his back turned to her, hands clasped behind him, staring into the trees. The rustle of her dress or scrape of her boot must have alerted him, for he turned quickly around, looked puzzled for a second only, then smiled broadly. She recognized him right away.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Edwards,” Durham greeted her with a bow.

“You remember me, then?” Beth said, taken aback. “Your Lordship.”

“A change of dress and a little daylight have not been sufficient to render you unmemorable.”

“I was coming to see you, sir, or Lady Durham, if she’s here.”

“I know. We’ve been expecting you. I am, alas, about to be closeted with four gentlemen who collectively have not half the charm or charity you have brought with you to Government House.”

“I’d like to talk to Mr. Ellice. I thought I might be able to help.”

Durham held out his arm. “Here, I’ll take you straight in to my lady.”

Mrs. Finney drew the first lot. As Cobb sauntered down towards the barn and two rustic fellows lounging next to it, Marc knocked at the door of the fine, clapboard residence of the dissenting minister. A slovenly, overweight housemaid with unkempt hair gave Marc a gap-toothed smile, blushed, and led him into a pleasant sitting room, where Mrs. Finney was biding her time between knitting and stroking a black tabby.

“Mister Edwards?” she said with some surprise when Marc introduced himself. “But I understood-”

“I’ve retired from active service, ma’am.”

“But you did do some brave thing or other at some French village or other last-”

“I did.”

“Then good for you. I hate the French.”

It took all of Marc’s tact and most of his aplomb to keep his temper and spin his cover story for this exceedingly plain and aggressively prejudiced woman. But he did so.

“A common thief, you say, pretending to be one of us? How shocking! First the horrid revolt and now this. What is the world coming to?”

Marc was amused by the wife of a Methodist pastor herself pretending to be part of the aristocracy, but then, as he himself knew, such distinctions were relative, not absolute.

“You can imagine, ma’am, how important it is for the reputation of our city that we recover Lady Durham’s jewels. Moreover, our inquiries have to be utterly discreet.”

Mrs. Finney bobbed her chin, much in the manner she was accustomed to doing whenever the Reverend Finney paused pregnantly in a sermon. “But how can we help?” she said. “I don’t recall seeing anybody I didn’t know or recognize.”

“Well, as I mentioned, the thief seems to have hitched a ride back to the city with one of the unsuspecting parties respectable enough to be travelling in a barouche.” That many of these extravagances, like the Finneys’, had been rented needed not be emphasized here: flattery would suffice. “I trust that you and Mr. Finney returned with the same members of your party who rode out with you?”

There was no hesitation. “Yes, the three Carters and Temperance and I went out and came back together. You may wish to check with them, of course. They live at number twenty-six George Street.”

“There’ll be no need for that, ma’am. The word of a minister’s wife is good enough for me,” Marc said, though he had every intention of double-checking every claim made. He rose and bowed.

“I could give you a cup of tea, if you’d like?” she offered belatedly.

“Thank you, but I must continue these inquiries.”

Mrs. Finney understood perfectly: she would have to be content with the gossipy tidbits supplied thus far.

At the door, Marc said without preamble, “Did you employ a young woman here last fall by the name of Sarah McConkey?”

Mrs. Finney froze in her tracks. A deep scowl suddenly gave some character to her bland, undistinguished features. “Why do you utter the name of that Jezebel in my home?” she hissed.

Marc winced, recovered, and said, working out the lie as he went along, “I apologize, ma’am, but the chief constable has asked me to look into the disappearance of a girl by that name. It seems that her parents, good Christian people, have not been able to locate her here in the city. And until now, the police have been of little help. But just this morning one of our informants revealed that she had been seen working here last fall. I thought that, while I was here on the more important matter, I should try to verify the informant’s story. Last fall is a long time back, but it might help if you had any idea where she might have gone after leaving your employ.”

“She didn’t leave our employ, sir!” The scowl had intensified. “We tossed her out onto the street, which is where women like her belong!”

“She offended you in some way?”

“In every way, sir. She was a lewd and grasping hussy!”

“Those are strong words about a young woman from a decent family who’d only been in the city for a few weeks and entirely in your employ.”

“They aren’t strong enough! She flaunted her flesh before my fourteen-year-old son, tempting him beyond endurance. She was caught kissing the hired man! We’d had enough by then, so out she went. I feel sorry for her parents, but I can’t spare one ounce of pity for such a creature.”

Marc thanked her for her frankness, bowed, and left. On the gravel driveway, he met Cobb coming up from the barn. Marc summarized his conversation with Mrs. Finney, to the constable’s considerable amusement. Cobb then told him that one of the stablemen, a fellow he knew personally, corroborated Mrs. Finney’s account of their trip back from Spadina on Monday. But when Marc suggested that they return to the barn to question both men about Sarah’s troubled tenure there last September, Cobb stayed him.

“Them fellas just started workin’ here at Christmastime,” Cobb said. “Before they come on steady, they told me-when we got to chin-waggin’-that the Finneys were so hard to get along with that half a dozen men had come and gone before them. If work wasn’t so scarce since the uprisin’, they said they’d be packin’ it in, too.”

“That’s too bad,” Marc said. “However, we’re gradually filling in the brief life story of Sarah McConkey, post-Streetsville.”

“Sounds like she took a fancy to men right off.”

“Perhaps,” Marc said, but did not elaborate. Instead, he pointed Cobb in the direction of the Carters’ residence, the family Mrs. Finney claimed rode with her and Finney on Monday. It never hurt to triple-check.

Lady Durham showed Beth into the sickroom. Word had been put out that Handford Ellice had fallen ill with a fever after the ball, an affliction general and vague enough to cover the symptoms of his condition. He had been moved to Government House to be near Sir George’s personal physician, Angus Withers. But Lord Durham’s executive powers could extend only so far and for so long. If the real killer could not be found by Friday morning or if Ellice did not recover his wits quickly enough to help himself, he would have to be formally charged and led in chains to the Toronto jail-with dire and irreversible consequences for Durham and possibly for the province.

Beth was aware of all this as she slipped quietly to the side of the bed where Ellice was dozing, propped up against several capacious pillows. His skin was not merely albino-white, it was almost translucent: in the sunlight it would have glowed pink. Lady Durham stationed herself near the door, out of her nephew’s line of sight, and waited.

Beth reached across and took Ellice’s right hand in hers. She squeezed it several times. Some minutes later, he groaned and opened his eyes. They were glassy from the belladonna or laudanum, and, seeing Beth, they grew round with terror. He gasped for some word to stay whatever nightmare vision he was experiencing but succeeded only in prompting a sequence of stunted coughs.

Beth squeezed his hand tightly. “It’s Mrs. Edwards, Handford. I’m alive and unharmed and here beside you.”

The young man’s entire body was trembling uncontrollably, but he could not will himself to close his eyes. Lady Durham started forward but stopped when Beth held up her free hand. Gradually the tremoring slowed and the rictus of terror that had gripped and distorted his features began to subside. Finally Ellice was able to give the hand that held his a single squeeze.

“Yes, it is me,” Beth whispered. “The woman you danced with at the ball.”

Ellice nodded his head warily.

“You’ve been sick for two days, but Dr. Withers says you’re going to be fine soon.”

“I’m so glad you’ve come,” he said, shaping one word at a time and forcing his breath to give weight to each.

Lady Durham gave a sharp cry from her station by the door-of joy and relief.

It did not take long for Marc to learn that the O’Driscolls and Harrises had ridden home with the same friends who accompanied them out to Spadina and the Governor’s Ball. The respective wives were quick to express their willingness to help, the Whiggery of the lord and lady being overlooked in the interests of common decency and respect for high office. But alas they were even quicker to deny any knowledge of the dastardly interloper and purloiner of pearls. Each had ridden with one other couple, and Marc, growing frustrated, had lengthened this futile line of inquiry considerably by traipsing eight or nine blocks to cross-check their claims and those of Mrs. Finney. Nor had Cobb any better luck. In the end, Marc had to conclude that Handford Ellice had not, on the face of it, been ferried to the city by Finneys, O’Driscolls, or Harrises. Foot-weary and not overly optimistic, Cobb and Marc trudged back up towards the substantial estate of Alasdair Hepburn on Hospital Street, not a block and a half south of the entrance to Irishtown.

“I can’t see why any of those women would have reason to lie,” Marc said glumly. “And if they did, the friends accompanying them would have to be in on it.”

“I don’t see any of them whist fellers lettin’ their wives in on any conspiracy,” Cobb added unhelpfully.

“You’re right. That’s why His Lordship and I decided to approach them with our phony story about a jewel robbery: we felt sure the women would tell us what was what on Monday evening.”

They turned off Yonge onto Hospital.

“You’re thinkin’ it may’ve been the Reverend Temper-rants who pestered Sarah McConkey, ain’t ya?”

“The thought has crossed my mind,” Marc said. “Mrs. Finney was so adamant about blaming the girl, who, after all, had not had much time to be corrupted by the iniquities of the city. I began to wonder if she were not protesting too much.”

“And if Finney was taken with Sarah and his old lady tossed her out, then he still might have a hankerin’ fer her.”

“Possibly. I don’t see him pursuing her into Irishtown, but his knowing her would give him some potential connection to Madame Renée’s and, not impossibly, to Michael Badger.”

“It may be all we got, Major. I don’t expect we’ll have any more luck here at Hepburn’s. And unless I know the stableman myself, I wouldn’t trust a word any of ’em utter. Most wouldn’t trade the truth fer a sofa chair in heaven!”

“I didn’t tell you, Cobb, but of the four whist players, both Lord Durham and I decided Hepburn was the most likely candidate to orchestrate any conspiracy.”

“And I’d agree with ya: nobody beats bankers at that sort of thing.”

The Hepburns occupied a fine brick and stone house located on the north side of Hospital Street. Built in the Georgian style, it boasted extensive barns and stables out behind; inside an enclosed paddock, several well-bred horses gleamed and pranced. Cobb headed directly for it.

A tall, middle-aged woman with masculine features and auburn hair pulled tightly into a bun showed Marc into a richly furnished sitting room complete with Turkish sofas, Persian rugs an inch deep, and high, spacious Italianate windows. Mrs. Matilda Hepburn was seated on one of the sofas, and from the cut of her dress and the flowered bonnet beside her, she had either just come in or was preparing to go out. She had a small face whose lineaments might have been admired when she was fourteen but had not bloomed as promised, leaving her with a pinched and impoverished face. She appeared to be compensating for its lack of physical character by keeping her chin higher than nature required and her sloe eyes dart sharp.

“That’ll be all, Una,” she said to the tall woman. “Though you might see if cook has any fresh tea and biscuits for our guest.” She waved Una off and then turned the gesture into an invitation for Marc to sit opposite her on an embroidered Queen Anne chair.

After introducing himself, Marc spun his yarn just as he had done three times previously that afternoon. He was beginning to believe it himself. Matilda Hepburn showed no emotion or response of any kind at the mention of the fictitious imposter or his clandestine thievery.

Before Marc could ask the routine and obvious question about the ride home to the city, she interrupted him to say, “I do not see, young man, why the police would come bothering us about such a thing. Mr. Hepburn and I are not accustomed to giving rides to total strangers, and certainly not one cloaked and wrapped in secrecy as the man you have described. I am sorry for Lady Durham’s loss, though I daresay neither she nor her affluent husband are pinched for pennies.”

“You’re telling me, then, that you and Mr. Hepburn rode home together, as you rode out to Spadina?”

The black eyes darted and pricked. “I hope you’re being deliberately naive, Mr. Edwards. The point I made was quite clear and in need of no elaboration.”

“You did not travel to the gala with friends or neighbours?”

“That should be of no concern to you, sir, but in order to show my respect for the law, I will tell you no: we travelled alone.”

“Please forgive me, ma’am, but I have been asked by the highest authority to make these intrusive and less than tactful inquiries.”

At that moment Una re-entered the room carrying a tea tray. She stumbled on the edge of the thick carpet and, in righting herself, let go of the tray. Teacups, teapot, biscuits, and steaming tea struck the arabesques on the rug.

“You stupid oaf!” Mrs. Hepburn cried, rising to her feet.

“I’m terribly sorry, ma’am, I-”

“Just get out! Fetch cook and get this mess cleaned up!”

Flushed and confused, Una staggered back and fled.

Her ruffled feathers quickly back in place, Mrs. Hepburn said to Marc, “She’s been like that for two days. Family problems, I believe. Come, I’ll show you the way out.”

In the lane, Marc met up with Cobb and gave him the disappointing news. “Did you find the driver of the barouche?” he said hopefully.

“I did, Major. He says it was a quiet night. Just mister and missus-out and back.”

“Did you believe him?”

“No reason not to, though I don’t know him from Adam.”

“Damn.”

“I guess we wasted an afternoon and lost half an inch of shoe leather inta the bargain,” Cobb said. “So what do we do now? You think we’re likely to get anythin’ more outta our four gentlemen if we was to ask them the same questions?”

“Not likely. I’ve been instructed to treat them with kid gloves. But there’s still the McConkeys. I’m certain that when we know the whole story of Sarah’s ten months in the city, we’ll have more clues to work with than we need.”

“You ain’t thinkin’ about ridin’ all the way out to Streetsville now, are you?”

“It’s only eighteen miles, and I have my choice of swift horses from Government House. I’ll be back before dark.”

“Well, then, I’ll keep pokin’ around town to see if I can help turn up Badger.”

“Good. If anything develops, leave a message at Government House. I’ve got to have something positive to report to Lord Durham later tonight.”

Beth had no intention of doing anything for Handford Ellice beyond bringing him back from his hallucinatory state to the real world. Whatever he had done, he would need to face it, the sooner the better, and perhaps begin to talk about it. But such decisions must be made by Ellice himself, not his doctors with their soporifics or the police with their interrogations.

Lady Durham, as discreet as she was intelligent, had a bowl of broth brought in but let Beth spoon it onto his lips. After a few mouthfuls and a smile at Beth that seemed more painful than purging, he sighed deeply and rolled back on his pillows. Beth was just about to get up and tiptoe away when he suddenly spoke again, keeping his eyes closed all the while and pausing frequently.

“I really thought I had killed you, Mrs. Edwards. You who befriended me and did not find my dancing laughable.”

“You’ve been ill and had a bad dream, that’s all.”

“A horrible dream. It kept coming back, over and over.” He opened his eyes briefly. They were full of tears. “But it’s gone now. I can close my eyes-like this-and still see you sitting there. With no knife in your neck.” He shuddered, then smiled wanly.

Beth leaned forward and took his hand. She used it to stroke her neck. “See, my neck is as good as it ever was.”

“As pretty, you mean.”

“What you need to do now, to keep the dream away, is take some soup, rest, and get yourself strong.”

“You’ll come again, though?”

“If you wish.”

“Good. I think I might go mad if I had to endure that nightmare one more time. You are lying beside me in a strange bed, and I wake up and see a knife in your neck, and I think ‘That’s odd’ and I reach over and gently pull it out. But no blood comes out with it. Isn’t that strange?”

“Dreams are like that. But, see, you’re starting to be able to talk about it.”

“Yes, I am, aren’t I? And I haven’t st-stuttered once.” He laughed, and Beth joined him.

She put the spoon in his right hand, dipped it into the soup, and guided it to his mouth. “You spoke yesterday with my husband.”

“Mr. Edwards, yes.” His face darkened and Beth was afraid she had gone too far. But he continued without further prompting. “After the dance I played cards with some kind gentlemen. I got very drunk. I don’t re-remember anything else except c-coming to that place. This girl, I thought she was you. I felt sick and ashamed. D-d-don’t remember. . ”

“Please don’t think about it anymore, Mr. Ellice. It wasn’t me and you’re safe in the governor’s bed.”

“Very. . tired.” He closed his eyes and drifted towards sleep.

Beth waited. His breathing was regular. The dream had not returned. Yet.

Lady Durham left her post, came across the room, and whispered a thank-you to Beth. “I think he’s on his way back,” she said. “He did not stammer until he got to the part about what happened in the brothel. That’s a positive sign.”

“Please send for me, day or night, if you think I can be of help.”

“Yes, I will.”

Outside the room in the hallway, Lady Durham looked suddenly distracted, as if she were indecisive about her next step.

“Are you all right, Your Ladyship?”

“Yes, yes. It’s my husband who suffers from migraine and neuralgia. He often has to disappear into a dark room for days on end. I’m terribly afraid the stress of Handford’s situation will trigger another of those dreadful bouts.”

“Mr. Edwards will find the killer.”

“I’m sure he will,” Lady Durham said vaguely. Then, unexpectedly, she gripped Beth’s arm tightly. Her gaze held, for the merest fraction of a second, a glint of pure terror.

“Come into my sitting room, Mrs. Edwards. There is something I think you need to know about Handford.”