Bloody Relations

THIRTEEN

Marc hurried to the corner of Lot and Jarvis, where the twisting lane to the Tinker’s Dam and satellite shanties met civilization, and where Wilkie, now two blocks behind, had said the body of Michael Badger lay. Marc tried not to think about how hopeless their situation now was. Without Badger’s testimony, no legally warrantable link could be made to the conniving whist players. And unless he could force a confession out of one of them or anyone else who might be involved, even Badger might posthumously be exonerated. It was after all only Marc’s theory that connected Badger to the invasion of the brothel and the stabbing of Sarah McConkey. He realized, though, that the temptation for the police to pin the murder on a known scoundrel would be strong and, as Magistrate Thorpe had hinted, Ellice might be kept out of it entirely. But Lord Durham professed to be interested in the truth, and Lady Durham needed to have her own disturbing doubts about her nephew’s sanity and sexual conduct unambiguously clarified. If only Beth had not relayed the tale of Ellice’s sordid affair in his father’s stable, then perhaps Marc too would be willing to go along with the events that seemed to be unfolding in their own way, despite his best efforts to deflect them closer to a true trajectory.

Cobb waved to him from a spot on the lane to the Tinker’s Dam about twenty yards from the end of Jarvis Street. Marc slowed and walked disconsolately to his partner.

“Ya took yer time, Major.” Cobb was sweating in a brown suit coat that had replaced his soiled constable’s jacket, and his boots had been newly blacked and buffed. His hat had been tipped aside so that his spiked hair rose up like a terrified porcupine from its lair.

“Where is the body?”

“Good day to you, too.” Cobb pointed down the slope of a dry stream bed that wandered parallel to the path. “He’s been there a while. The stiffenin’ ain’t quite outta him yet.”

“Yet no one found him till now?”

“You can’t see him from the path unless you was lookin’ fer him.”

In fact Marc had to take two steps down the slope before he could clearly discern the corpse of the orange-maned giant they had been hunting since Tuesday. Badger lay on his back in the long grass where he had tumbled after someone had blown a hole in his chest where his heart had once been. The blow of the bullet must have knocked him straight backwards. He had likely been dead before he hit the ground. His arms were at his side, and although still stiff with rigor, they appeared to have been in a relaxed mode before death ended further gesturing. The eyes were open, gray and glassy, and the mouth as well, as if in surprise. The corona of golden-red hair sizzled with flies. Marc went down to the body, being careful not to disturb anything that might be evidence. Cobb was beside him. Wilkie clambered up to the path above but was content to look out for Dr. Withers, whom Nestor Peck had been sent to fetch.

“He could’ve stayed here till somebody smelt him,” Cobb said. “But I figure he was shot sometime in the night: rigid mortar and all that.”

Marc was bent over the corpse. “I agree. But look at all that powder on his shirt. The shooter couldn’t have been more than two or three feet away.”

“I forgot you seen a few bodies with bullet holes down there in Quebec.”

“And I’d guess that a pistol was used, but Angus Withers may be able to give us more to go on.”

“You plannin’ to solve this murder, too?” Cobb said with genuine surprise.

“It has to be connected with Sarah’s death somehow.”

“How do ya figure?”

“It’s just too convenient that a few hours before I began closing in on that traitorous crew of whist-playing Tories, my star witness is himself murdered.”

“But we ain’t a stone’s throw from the Tinker’s Dam and half the villains in the entire county.”

“You think one of those he owed money to did this?”

“That’s the most likely prop-up-hillity, ain’t it?”

Marc thought that over. “But if he was killed here in the dark, up on that path, and the killer was standing three feet from him, it doesn’t make sense.”

“Why not?”

“There’s no sign of struggle. The arms were not even raised in self-defence. If one of the gambling thugs did this, would he take a chance on walking right up to Badger in the dark before shooting him? Would you come within a yard of those grappling arms? The fellow was a bruiser, remember. And he had been on the run for almost two days, wary and desperate. Would he let a stranger accost him in the middle of the night?”

“You’re sayin’ he was shot by somebody he knew and wasn’t ascaired of?”

“I am. No other explanation fits the facts.”

“Okay, I’ll give ya that, Major. But let’s say Burly Bettman or some other henchman decides to bribe one of Badger’s cronies to do him in?”

“Now that’s a real possibility, though it’s hard to fathom how anyone would know where he could find Badger. However, if it comes down to that, I guess you and your fellow constables are the best people to handle the investigation.”

“Well now, I ain’t lookin’ fer work,” Cobb said with a grin. Then he pursed his lips. “What’d’ya think that bulge is in his shirt pocket?”

“Don’t disturb anything until the doctor’s had his turn,” Marc said, as Cobb knelt down beside the body.

“I’ll be real careful.” Cobb slid two fingers into the vest pocket of Badger’s shirt and drew out a familiar object.

Marc whistled. “A key.”

“And I’ll bet my wife’s bloomers what lock it’ll fit inta.”

Marc tried to keep his hopes from rising inordinately. It had been a day of disappointment. “So Mrs. Burgess was right: Badger did steal the key to the hatch.”

“Which don’t mean he used it.”

“I realize that. But this definitely makes Badger our prime suspect once again.”

“Maybe somebody in Irishtown suspected the same thing and decided to save us the price of a rope.”

Cobb stared at the fallen giant, awed by his vulnerability despite his size. “Looks like he’s been sleepin’ rough,” he said. “Them burrs and bits of hay on his shirt front didn’t get there from the tumble he took inta the ditch.”

“And what’s this?” Marc said, noticing for the first time something white and crisp sticking out of the side pocket of Badger’s overalls.

“Better not touch the body, Major.”

Marc ignored the dig and pulled out into the mid-afternoon light a single sheet of notepaper, its elaborate watermark clearly visible.

“What is it?” Cobb asked, coming around to Marc.

“What I’ve been looking for since Tuesday morning,” he said. He passed the handwritten note to Cobb.

Tuesday, 2 p.m.

Badger:

Here is the 30 dollars you requested. My advice is to leave the city and all its temptations.

Sincerely,

Alasdair Hepburn

Cobb’s eyes widened. “By golly, Major, I think you’ve got him.”

Marc was patting the other pockets in the overalls, ignoring his own advice about contaminating the crime scene. There was too much at stake to fuss over protocol. “There’s a wad of something in this rear pocket. I’ll wager it’s thirty dollars’ worth of blood money.”

“This sure wasn’t no robbery, then,” Cobb opined, “and I can’t see any of the thugs up here shootin’ him and not goin’ through his pockets.”

“This looks more and more like the work of a quick-strike, paid assassin, somebody who knew exactly where to find his target. And I know who put him up to it.”

“Where ya goin?” Cobb called, as Marc sprinted up to the path and startled Wilkie, who was dozing on his feet like a sun-drugged horse.

“To bring a blackguard to heel,” Marc said, and disappeared down Jarvis.

When Una Badger answered his knock, Marc drew her quietly onto the stoop and, as he had promised, gave her the news that her brother had been found shot to death. Having braced herself for just such an eventuality, she accepted the news with stoic resignation. After a moment to collect herself, she thanked Marc, and then followed his advice that she go directly to the police station to wait for more details. She naturally assumed that one of Badger’s cronies had done the deed, and Marc did not disabuse her, even though he now knew the matter to be less straightforward and more sinister. But the sight of that brave, grieving woman gave him added incentive to do what had to be done. He entered the home of Alasdair Hepburn with all the tact of an outraged bailiff, striding the short distance to the door of the “whist club’s” lair and flinging it open.

Hepburn was sitting alone at the card-table. He looked startled for an instant, but as soon as he saw who it was, he gave Marc a grimacing little smile and rose halfway in his chair. “Miss Badger usually does that,” he said with a glance at the open door.

“Miss Badger had to go to the Court House on an urgent family matter,” Marc said, annoyed that he suddenly found himself short of breath. “I took the liberty of showing myself in.”

Hepburn raised his brow slightly and said amiably enough, “So I see.” Evidently he had no inkling of what was to come, which suited Marc just fine. “Well, now that you’re fully in, please take a seat. Miss Badger said you had called earlier.”

“I prefer to stand for what I have come to say.”

“As you wish. As one of His Lordship’s amanuenses, I presume you’re here on some errand relating to the commissioner’s agenda here in Toronto?”

Marc bristled at the barb but decided to maintain his post on the moral high ground. “I am here representing both His Lordship and the Toronto constabulary.”

The banker’s brow again lifted a single notch. “Indeed. Then you have my undivided attention, for I hold both offices in high regard.”

“Do you?”

“Is that a question, sir, or an accusation?”

Marc ignored the riposte. “I have come here to ask you some questions in regard to the events of Monday evening and early Tuesday morning, and I demand-in the name of His Lordship, the governor of the Canadas-that you give me straightforward and truthful answers.” With a sinking feeling, Marc realized that he should have brought Cobb with him, for even if he compelled incriminating testimony from Hepburn, he would have no witness to it, and it could all be retracted and contradicted after the fact.

“I have never been known to do otherwise, young man, though I would appreciate your putting your queries with a more courteous tongue.”

“I’m not seeking a mortgage!” Marc snapped.

“You may thank your lucky stars for that.” Hepburn calmly opened a humidor beside him. “Would you care for a cigar?”

“No, thank you.” Marc began to feel a tad ridiculous standing in front of the card-strewn whist table while the accused sat peacefully in his favourite armchair. “Now, about the events of Monday evening.”

“I assume you are referring to the unfortunate death of a whore somewhere in Irishtown.”

“How do you know about that?”

“My wife told me. It’s the talk of the town, apparently. You see, we don’t often have murders of any kind here in Toronto-unlike London.” He gave Marc the practised, pecuniary smile of a self-satisfied banker. “But I fail to see how I may have anything to contribute to your investigation, if that is what you are about.”

“I intend, sir, to show you exactly how you did contribute to the death of Sarah McConkey.”

“Then please, proceed. You have me intrigued.” Hepburn reached for his tinderbox. “Do you mind if I smoke while you talk?”

“Let me start with the fact that, according to Mrs. Hepburn, you and she were driven, alone, out to Spadina.”

“That is true and is our usual custom on such occasions.”

“But I put it to you that her claim that you two rode home together in the same manner is not true!”

“Is that so? Are you now about to tell me that it was the anonymous ‘jewel thief’ you described to Mrs. Hepburn with such fanciful mendacity who joined us on the way back?”

Marc winced but was able to play his trump card: “Not at all. It was Handford Ellice you brought here to the city, Lady Durham’s nephew.”

The brow lifted again. “You are referring to the shy young man whom we invited to join us at whist in Baldwin’s card room?”

“Don’t play the naif with me, sir. You are perfectly aware whose ego you flattered and whom you plied with drink for two hours before midnight.”

“To be truthful, and I presume that’s what you wish of me, the lad was too shy to introduce himself, but yes, one of the attendants indicated who he was sometime after he’d sat down at our table.”

“Are you denying that you and your accomplices took young Ellice off to the drinks table at regular intervals, until he was thoroughly drunk?”

“This lad, though diffident, was old enough to insist on his right to drink whiskey. We accompanied him in order to limit his consumption, not increase it.”

“The result was the same, either way. By midnight he was inebriated and ostensibly slipped away to his chamber to sleep it off.”

“Ostensibly?” Hepburn lit a tinder stick and applied it to the end of his cigar.

“Someone in your group suggested to Ellice that a ride to town and its potential pleasures awaited him at the stables, should he so wish to take advantage of it.”

“You know this for a fact?”

“We have testimony from several servants and grooms that place Ellice in a fancy barouche some minutes past midnight, when many of the older guests were departing.”

“There were many such vehicles there when Mrs. Hepburn and I left about that time.” The cigar end reddened and Hepburn took a soothing puff.

“But I am certain that it was your carriage that contained Ellice.”

“Which implies that both my wife and I are lying.”

“Yes.”

Hepburn appeared not to take offence at this unseemly imputation, but his eyes did narrow perceptibly. “And what are we supposed to have done with the lad? Dumped him onto Front Street in the middle of the night in a strange city?”

“Nothing of the kind. You dropped Mrs. Hepburn off here, then you and Ellice walked up to Lot Street, one block north, and entered Irishtown.”

Hepburn guffawed, choking on his cigar. “You’re jesting! Go into that den of thieves and cutthroats after midnight on my own?”

“You were well known in there, sir, and I have learned in the past two days that your status as one of Madame Renée’s regulars would have given you immunity and right of passage. I suspect there may have been a system of passwords in addition to coded knocks on a scarlet door.”

“You have a vivid imagination, I’ll say that for you.”

“You knocked on that door, pushed Ellice in, and left before you were recognized-knowing that the lad’s ready money and harmless demeanour would get him serviced by one or another of the girls.”

“I trust that you’re not suggesting that the purchase of the favours of a female is a crime? If so, then few gentlemen in this town or any other would escape hanging.”

Hepburn’s feigned amusement was almost credible.

“The crime, if you like, was to have Lord Durham’s nephew found in a sleazy brothel, in the certain knowledge that any sort of scandal among the earl’s entourage would surely scupper his mission and lead to his immediate recall.”

“But who would know of this indiscretion besides the man who directed him there?” Hepburn seemed to be toying with his accuser, as if Marc were an impecunious client begging for a loan he knew would be refused.

“What would Ellice do when he woke up in Irishtown?” Marc replied. “He wouldn’t even know what city he was in! By morning, Lady Durham would be in a panic and forced to raise the hue and cry for her missing nephew-who might have been kidnapped or murdered, for all she knew. In these times any such calamity is possible. The chances of keeping the sordid business quiet were slim indeed.”

“So the perpetrator of this so-called crime must have had a political motive?”

“Exactly. For instance, a Tory banker and charter member of the Family Compact, whose fortunes are threatened by the continuing instability and the failure of the royal authority to calm the uppity natives.”

“And if young Ellice had managed to crawl back to the city, hire himself a gig, and drive to Spadina undetected, then what?”

Was the man actually enjoying this game?

“That possibility was anticipated and forestalled.”

“Indeed. Sure you won’t have a cigar? Or a chair?”

“Because of that necessity the whole scheme went awry.” Marc found himself pacing back and forth across the room like a Crown counsel, feeling just a bit foolish as he fired his barbs both obliquely and directly at the witness in his baize box.

“It did?”

“I suggest, sir, that you paid Michael Badger, a former employee who subsequently worked as a bruiser in Madame Renée’s brothel, to sneak into the house in the middle of the night and create some kind of disturbance, something that would be certain to expose young Ellice publicly by involving the police.”

“How very clever.”

“Too clever by half, however. For what you didn’t know was that Badger bore a grudge against the madam and her business, and in a sudden rage stabbed the prostitute to death and fled.”

That remark got the banker’s full attention. He removed the cigar from his lips and watched it slowly descend in his fingers to the table. “Ellice was found beside the murdered girl?”

“You know damn well he was!” Marc stopped and leaned on the baize cover with both hands. “You’ve already admitted knowing about the stabbing of Sarah McConkey, and since it was you who led Ellice to her, how could you not connect the two events?”

Hepburn looked genuinely shocked. Marc was pleased that he had finally pricked that maddening façade. “But Matilda only told me that some harlot had been stabbed in Irishtown. Even the rumour mill has been starved for details.”

“Well, sir, now you know. Your conniving plot to embarrass Lord Durham resulted in the vicious murder of an innocent girl, however fallen we may think she was. You paid the assassin to enter the premises. You seduced the young man and led him to that door. In my book that makes you an accessory to murder. You are as guilty as Badger. What is more, I think you’ve known since Tuesday morning exactly what must have happened.”

“You’re certain it was Ellice there?”

Marc suddenly realized that Ellice’s secret was now out. But then if the killers were not exposed by eight o’clock, all would be lost anyway. He plunged ahead. “There is more.”

“How could there be?”

“We found Michael Badger’s body an hour ago in a ditch at the end of Jarvis Street-where you left it after shooting him point-blank in the heart.” While Marc didn’t believe this, he felt justified in using it for its shock value.

Hepburn’s jaw dropped. “Now, young man, this has gone far enough. I’ve humoured you because I’ve nothing better to do with the remainder of the afternoon. But Michael Badger was an employee of mine, and my housekeeper’s only brother. In fact, he was like a son to me-Matilda and I have no children of our own-and I am shocked and grieved to hear of his death. I thought he had got safely out of town and away from his creditors.” He started to get up. “I must tell Mrs. Hepburn immediately. Does Una know?”

“Yes. She’s at the Court House now. But I must, as a deputized constable, ask you to sit down until my interrogation is completed.”

“But your accusations are preposterous! You’ve spun a fantastical tale that would be more pertinent to The Mysteries of Udolpho than to Toronto. You haven’t offered a shred of proof-”

“Ah, but I have the proof, sir. Hard-and-fast evidence that you did lead Ellice to the murder scene and did hire Badger to invade the premises. That should be enough to get an indictment from the magistrate.”

“I don’t believe you.” Hepburn glared at his accuser but stayed in his seat.

“First of all, we have testimony from your stable hand and barouche driver that you did have a third party in your carriage, one fitting the description of Ellice.”

“But I know for a fact that Willy Falmer did not give Constable Cobb that version of events.”

“True, at least not yesterday. I’m sure that out of loyalty or other more tangible considerations he backed up Mrs. Hepburn’s version, but he has since changed his mind.”

Marc hoped this lie would be sufficient to unnerve the suspect. Instead, Hepburn smiled tightly and stared hard at Marc. “That is not possible, sir. Willy Falmer left town at dawn this morning. He is on his way to join his brothers somewhere beyond the Mississippi River.”

Good God, the man was more cunning than Marc had anticipated. It was time to play his second trump card. He drew out the note he had plucked from Badger’s pocket. “I have here, sir, all the proof I shall need to link you to the paid assassin. This note, foolishly signed by you, was found on Badger’s body, along with a stolen key to facilitate his entry into the brothel.” Marc dropped the letter on the table and Hepburn glanced at it, looking puzzled.

“This is my letter to Michael,” he said. “And?”

“And it accompanied thirty dollars, also found on Badger, the money he earned by entering the brothel and stabbing a girl to death. Mr. Hepburn, you have a clear motive for leading Ellice there, and here is incontrovertible proof that you hired a bruiser to cause some kind of mayhem that night.”

Hepburn paused to gather his emotions and his thoughts. He stubbed out the cigar. He flushed and then paled. Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead. “This is all too much. I am overwhelmed.”

“Do you wish to confess, then?’

Hepburn smiled wanly. “I’m afraid not.”

“But you’ve just admitted that the incriminating letter is your own!”

“It is. But the money was Michael’s, not mine.”

“Surely you can come up with a more plausible explanation than that.”

“It’s true. You see, sir, Michael was in many ways a good man, a sort of gentle giant. He was not in the least violent, though he knew how to intimidate if he had to. He was more of a conniver and would-be confidence man, a charmer of gullible ladies. I don’t believe for a second that he was capable of murdering anyone in cold blood. His principal weakness was gambling, and it looks as if it led to his death. He was a hard worker whenever he needed to earn money to feed his vice. I paid him well, and both his sister and I tried to get him to save money and straighten his ways. We were both upset when he went to work for Madame Renée.”

“I am not a fool, sir. I suspect you were quite happy with that particular employment when you began hatching your little plot.”

“Then in January he came to me and asked me to deposit his wages in my bank, wages from Madame Renée and from the odd jobs he was doing for me. The account was set up so that only I could withdraw the money or both of us in person. It was the only way he knew to stop himself from squandering his earnings in the dicing dens. If you wish proof of this arrangement, you’ll find all the relevant and notarized documents at the Commercial Bank.”

“But what else would he need savings for? He merely wrote worthless promissory notes and got himself into serious trouble at the Tinker’s Dam.”

“Incredible as it may seem, he was planning to go off to the Iowa Territory and try his luck at farming.”

“So you’re telling me that this note was in response to Badger’s written request for his own money.”

“I am. Una Badger brought me that request Tuesday at luncheon. I recognized Michael’s handwriting, as I’m sure Una did when she surreptitiously read it.”

The man was ingenious and abominable. His alternative explanation provided a foolproof cover story for the dastardly transaction that had resulted in Sarah’s death. “But you did not go back to the bank to get his money, did you?” Marc said, trying to hide his desperation.

“No, I didn’t. Una described how scared and distraught he had been that morning and begged me to help him immediately. According to our long-standing arrangement, I was to send him his money-in a dire emergency-by messenger to the post office on George Street, where he would pick it up. I assume he feared his pursuers would be watching this house. So I got the cash from my own safe here and had it delivered. I can give you the name of the lad who took it there.”

Marc sat down at last. It was all coming unravelled. He could see no way to challenge Hepburn’s devious account, especially if the notarized documents existed and Una Badger became his unwitting corroborator.

“I know you and your wife gave Mr. Ellice a ride to town, and I know you led him down to the brothel. And I’m equally certain that your whist-playing chums are co-conspirators. I am deeply grieved that, for the moment, I cannot prove these things. But I am warning you that I will not stop trying.”

“You cannot prove what did not happen.”

Marc sighed. “What still baffles me, though, is why your wife would lie for you. Perhaps when the grisly facts of what happened at Madame Renée’s come out, as they must, she will change her mind.”

Hepburn’s withering look said, Don’t count on it.

Suddenly Marc had another inspiration. “I think I can guess why she lied for you. I’ll wager she knows all about your addiction to the girls at Madame Renée’s, a squalid obsession that could potentially ruin your standing in the community. You’re a banker and a pillar of your church and, alas, an habitué of Irishtown stews.” For a split second Hepburn looked abashed. Marc pressed his advantage. “She is probably ashamed and afraid. I pity her,” he said, without pity.

“Are you quite finished? If so, I have grieving of my own to do.”

Marc showed himself out.