Bloody Relations

FOURTEEN

When Marc reached the station, he found only Gussie French scribbling frantically at his table, heedless of spattering ink and ravenous flies. “Has Cobb come back?”

“Gone off home,” Gussie muttered without dropping a stitch. “Lucky bugger.”

“And Sarge?”

Gussie appended an extra period for emphasis to the sentence he had just finished, and looked up. “Chief Sturges went off to find Sir George and tell him to call off the fox hunt.” He nudged a sheet of paper with the feathered end of his quill. “Cobb left you that,” he said, and resumed scribbling.

Gussie had taken down from Cobb a summary of Angus Withers’s comments after he’d examined the body of Michael Badger in the ditch where it lay. The bullet appeared to have entered the chest in a slightly upward trajectory. The shooter must have been shorter than Badger. The lead ball had struck bone-a rib or vertebra-and thus had barely exited the body: Withers found its misshapen remnant in Badger’s shirt. He concluded from its size and the probable force of the entry that it came from a small-bore pistol, the kind easily concealed and deadly only at close range. The debris found on the victim’s shirt front included gunpowder, bits of grass, and wisps of dry straw. Thirty dollars had been wadded in one of his pockets. Estimated time of death: between one and four in the morning.

That was it. Not a lot, but Marc found himself unable to care very much. The interview with Alasdair Hepburn had left him angry, confused, and ultimately drained of emotion. He knew he ought to feel at least some sense of triumph in that Michael Badger-on the strength of the key he was carrying and the motive supplied by Mrs. Burgess (with intent to rob possibly thrown in)-would be fingered for the murder. There would be no trial, nor any need for anyone to know or care who the aristocratic stranger was. Handford Ellice could be released to accompany Lord and Lady Durham back to Quebec tomorrow. Sure, rumours would circulate and fester, though Marc doubted whether Hepburn himself would be the source: that spiteful sword could prove to be double-edged. But a public scandal would definitely be averted. Still, Marc did not feel in the least triumphant.

He decided to leave a note for Chief Sturges explaining why he had taken the letter from Badger’s body and admitting reluctantly that it had turned out to be innocent and unrelated to either murder. He took a step towards the door of the chief’s office.

“I wouldn’t go in there if I was you,” Gussie cautioned.

“I thought you said Sturges was out.”

“He is. But there’s a female in there, waitin’.”

Marc had no choice but to conduct one more interview. He opened the door carefully and sat with Una for a moment before asking her to tell him about her brother.

“Michael was ten years younger than me,” Una Badger explained. She dabbed at her eyes with Marc’s handkerchief. “Our mother died when he was six, so it was me who raised him and looked out for him. I knew him, Mr. Edwards, as a mother knows her own child. I knew his good points and his bad ones-and he had plenty of both.”

Una confirmed the essential details of Hepburn’s story. Badger did have some sort of arrangement with his employer to help him hold on to his earnings. While she did not know for sure, she assumed the note she had taken from Michael and delivered to Hepburn on Tuesday was connected with that arrangement. And, yes, Mr. Hepburn had been very kind to Michael, despite his gruff manner and quick temper. He had tried to dissuade him from his gambling and binge drinking, but had always taken him back regardless and given him work. In fact, a makeshift bunkhouse had been set up in one of the unused barns at the back of the property so that he would always have a place to sleep, day or night. But he had not used it to hide out on Tuesday or yesterday. She had checked it many times.

“So your brother would have confided in you?” Marc said.

“About some things, yes.”

“Mr. Hepburn told me that he noticed some change in Michael after the new year.”

“That’s so. Michael came and told me that he was twenty-five and it was time for him to do something decent with his life. He talked about going away to the States, far from his cronies and the habits he couldn’t seem to break.”

“For which he would need to earn money and not gamble it away.”

“Yes. And he tried, Mr. Edwards. Only God and I know how hard he tried. And now he’s dead, shot by those terrible men-”

She sobbed into Marc’s hanky.

“I’m sorry, but it all seems so unfair. He stopped drinking, he really did. Mr. Hepburn gave him work making shelves and cupboards for his new library. I tried to talk him out of being a bruiser in Irishtown, but he said the money was too good and, besides, he liked being there. When he come here on Tuesday, I knew something horrible had happened to him, but I thought, He’s going to get away now because he has to: not to our cousins in Port Sarnia but all the way across the border where he’ll be safe from his demons and be happy.”

Marc reached across the chief’s desk and laid a hand gently on hers. “But we were told that Michael had run up more gambling debts in recent weeks. He may have been saving his money at home, but he was issuing paper promises up at the Tinker’s Dam.”

Una merely nodded. Then through a screen of tears, she said, “I knew he couldn’t stay away from that place as long as he lived in the city and as long as he had ready cash from that madam woman. But I swear, Mr. Edwards, it was only two or three binges: most of the time since January he was sober and working-for Mr. Hepburn or in Irishtown.”

“Unfortunately, he had a serious falling out with Mrs. Burgess on Monday. He owed her a lot of money. We found on him a key to a secret door in the brothel, and you and Mr. Hepburn have confirmed that he came for money ostensibly to leave town. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but the police are going to name him as the murderer of Sarah McConkey.”

The shock of this revelation registered on Una Badger’s face and was slowly absorbed. Then she straightened her back and stared directly into Marc’s eyes.

“Mr. Edwards, Michael Badger was a gentle man. He never swatted a fly if he could avoid it. I know. I watched him grow up. As a boy, he was big and awkward with a stook of orange hair that stuck up every which way. He was teased something terrible. But he never struck back, even though he was twice as strong as his tormentors. Do you know what he did?”

“Please tell me.”

“He would pick up the closest one, give him a bear hug until he said uncle, then tip him upside down and quietly shake him until the other boys laughed. Then he dropped him and laughed with them. They soon got to like Michael. He had his faults, but people liked him. And he was fun to be with. He could talk the ear off a donkey!” Her face lit up momentarily at the memory of what was past and would not return.

“Still,” Marc said hesitantly, “he became a bruiser in a brothel.”

“But don’t you see, sir, if he couldn’t sweet-talk a drunken sailor out of being belligerent, why, he’d just give him a bear hug and flip him topsy-turvy.”

“And Madame Renée didn’t entertain too many sailors?”

Una smiled. “Michael called her customers ‘pillow-puffs.’ His only worry was that he would meet one of them on the street and get in Dutch for recognizing him.”

Had Badger possibly encountered Hepburn at Madame Renée’s? Was that the reason for Hepburn’s “friendliness” towards him? Or was it a simple and deadly case of blackmail? What did it matter now anyway? Badger was gone and Hepburn was too clever to be implicated in either crime.

Una Badger suddenly grasped both of Marc’s hands. “Michael couldn’t have hurt any of those girls, not a hair on their heads. He liked them. He treated them like younger sisters. He took them little presents. He wouldn’t let any of the men be insulting to them. And he never touched them in that. . that other way.”

“But-”

“Mr. Edwards, you’ve got to tell the police and the magistrate that my brother couldn’t kill anyone!”

Una Badger had left to go up to Dr. Withers’s surgery to claim her brother’s body. Marc’s head was spinning too much for him to be able to compose a note for Wilfrid Sturges, but he did not need to, for the chief himself soon arrived. Marc rattled off a highly edited and barely coherent explanation of why he had bearded Alasdair Hepburn in his home, but his embarrassment was scarcely noticed. The chief was a happy and relieved man and cared not that a prominent citizen may have been needlessly bullied.

“Stop worryin’, Marc. We’ve all done our duty and then some. We’ll have this whole business wrapped up by noon tomorrow. We’ll make a sweep of the rot around the Tinker’s Dam, but it’s not likely we’ll ever find out who done us a favour by poppin’ off Mr. Badger. Still, we can safely go up and tell His Lordy-ship that his nephew’s off the hook.”

Marc nodded numbly.

“Do you want me to tell ’im?” Sturges offered affably.

“No. Thanks anyway. I’m to make a full report to him at eight o’clock. I’ll just go on home to have some supper and compose my notes.”

“Be sure and put in a good word fer us peelers.”

“That will be a pleasure, Wilfrid.”

Out on the stone walk, Marc found himself fighting for breath. Confused and frustrated he might be, but one thought rang in his mind clear and unequivocal: Michael Badger did not murder Sarah McConkey.

“Marc, stop this pacing up and down,” Beth said, “you’re gonna wear a path in the new rug.”

Marc halted, said nothing, then began to pace again.

“You’re scaring Charlene.”

“She’s in the kitchen burning the dumplings.”

Beth laughed, and Marc sat down, his head in his hands.

“I’ve never seen you like this before.”

“I’ve never felt like this before. Don’t you see how impossible the situation is? In two hours I’ve got to walk up to Government House and inform Lord and Lady Durham that the police have attributed the murder to Michael Badger for reasons that have nothing to do with Handford Ellice. And everybody is supposed to be happy about it.”

“But you and Una Badger are the only ones who think he didn’t do it.”

“I’m certain of it. Just as I’m positive that Alasdair Hepburn lured Ellice to that scarlet door and bribed Badger to cause some sort of commotion in there-an elaborate prank perhaps, intended principally to embarrass Lord Durham and give him something besides Upper Canada to be concerned about.”

“But you said Badger wasn’t involved. You’ve lost me.”

“He was supposed to sneak in there, but if he did-and we’ll never know for certain-he must have got quite a grisly surprise.”

“You figure he may’ve found Sarah dead?”

“It’s possible. He arrived at Hepburn’s later that morning in terrible shape, according to Una. But one way or another, he did not kill Sarah. Everything I’ve heard about him so far suggests that he would not have murdered in a sudden rage, and certainly not one of those girls.”

“So an innocent man’s reputation will be sacrificed to keep the bigwig safe?”

“I don’t see how I can stop it.”

“You’re certain the key you found on Badger fits the little door?” Beth suddenly said.

Marc smiled. “Not yet. I suppose Cobb or Sarge will check that tomorrow. They’re in no hurry now that they’re sure they’ve got their man. Anyway, I wouldn’t bet one of Charlene’s dumplings on it.”

Beth nodded, then said evenly, “And there’s Lady Durham, too.”

“What do you mean?”

“She has her own doubts about Handford. If you tell her husband what you’ve just told me about Badger, then she’ll leave here never knowing for sure whether her sister’s boy is truly blameless.”

Marc groaned. It was getting worse. “But I can’t lie to Lord Durham. He wants the truth.”

“If he doesn’t ask, you could just leave out some of the details.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

There was a clatter of errant pots from the next room.

Beth said, “If Badger didn’t do it, then who did?”

“One of the women of the house or someone from Madame Charlotte’s, I suppose.”

“You don’t seem all that interested.”

“I would be if I could find a motive. But I’ll be damned if I can think of one. I’ve observed the women closely. While the two madams are rivals and routinely disparage each other, I saw them embrace at the funeral. Similarly, I could detect no serious tensions among the girls of either house. Sarah was stabbed to death with one brutal, savage blow. Petty jealousy and simple revenge do not seem appropriate to such a crime.”

Beth looked thoughtful for a moment. “Have you considered betrayal?”

“Betrayal?”

“Sometimes love can turn to hate real quick.”

Marc was about to question Beth further when the first whiff of burnt food struck his nostrils.

From the kitchen came a mortified cry: “Help!”

Cobb sat on a stool in the summer kitchen and watched Dora prepare supper. Beads of sweat dropped from her nose and chin onto the bevel of her half-exposed bosom. Normally he found this sight both appetizing and erotic. Today, though, had been a long way from normal. The shock of seeing, close up, his second bloodied corpse in three days had unnerved him. He thought he now knew why the Major had tossed his uniform aside. It was one thing to face the sanguinary results of fistfights in dives or alleys, but the stilted, blank gaze of dead eyes was something utterly different: it was like encountering the moment after your own death.

Dora was humming, a deep and satisfied sound from the vast drum of her diaphragm. He found this, too, irritating, for what he needed most was for her to give him leave to talk about the events of the week and lay some of the angst upon her unwarranted contentment. But the pact they had made was solemn and inviolable: no talk about the travails of one’s profession without explicit, advance permission. Cobb realized, though never admitted it, that he was the principal beneficiary of this agreement, as it allowed him to escape yet another gory epic of childbirth and its messy aftermath. He shifted his bottom on the stool and coughed.

“Well, Mister Cobb, let’s have it. I ain’t gonna get a peaceful minute till you tell me what’s eatin’ ya.” She continued stirring the stew.

Cobb proceeded immediately to pour out his complaint, providing Dora with enough detail to assuage his pent-up frustrations but not enough to give away any state secrets.

“But the worst of it was that bed with all the girl’s blood soaked into it and some so-called gentleman lyin’ stark naked on them bloody sheets. I been havin’ nightmares ever since.”

“Don’t I know it. You been pokin’ yer elbows inta me and mutterin’ more gibberish than you usually do.”

Cobb shook his head. “I don’t know how ya do it, luv-pullin’ babies inta this world covered with slime and muck-”

“And you say this happened in one of them shady houses up in Irishtown?”

Cobb closed his eyes. “Christ, I can’t get her outta my head! Poor Sarah.”

Dora stopped her stirring. “A girl named Sarah, you say?”

“Sarah McConkey,” Cobb said before he could catch himself. “Jesus! Nobody’s supposed to-”

“I heard there was a funeral fer her up on John Street, but I didn’t know how she died.”

“You know her?”

“I oughta. I helped deliver her baby a couple of months ago.”

Cobb listened with increasing interest as Dora narrated the story of her involvement with Sarah McConkey. One day in late March or early April, a message arrived around midnight that a young woman needed the midwife. Dora picked up her bag, which was always packed and ready for use, and headed out into the chilly dark as she had hundreds of times in her long career as a midwife. The anonymous lad led her up to some place around Hospital Street. She couldn’t be certain of the exact location because it was an abandoned barn and they approached it through a field. To her surprise the barn was fitted out with a proper bed, two chairs, and a few domestic utensils. In the late stages of labour was a young, pretty, brown-haired girl who managed a gritty smile and said only that her name was Sarah. “McConkey,” the boy had added before the woman’s male companion shoved him away.

When Dora had requested hot water, the man, who was very nervous and obviously concerned, replied that he and his woman were impoverished squatters and had no access to hot water or anything else not already in the barn. Accustomed to such situations, Dora never pressed for more information than she needed to know. Her task was to deliver babies while doing her best to keep their mothers alive. While Dora tended to these duties, Sarah’s man paced up and down near the door of the barn. About two hours later Dora pulled the infant into the dank air of that profane stable. It was dead. Sarah moaned and mercifully passed out. The delivery had seemed normal, but the child had choked on the cord and died moments before entering the world. Dora set its still body beside her and knelt down to look to the afterbirth. She heard the man come up behind her. In the lantern’s light the dead gaze of the babe stared upward.

“He let out a cry of anguish the likes I’ve never heard before in all my years in this business.”

Dora assured him that Sarah had come through the ordeal in good shape. She gave him a vial of laudanum and instructions how to administer it. She offered to take the corpse and see to its burial, but he said he would do so himself.

“It was such a beautiful child,” Dora said, giving the stew a motherly stir. “A boy it was, with the brightest orange hair you ever did see.”

It was Cobb’s turn to go unnaturally still. “What did this so-called husband look like?”

“Big fella. With a bushel and a half of hair, just like the babe’s.”

Cobb had no notion what Dora’s unexpected revelation might mean. But he knew the Major would want to hear it, and with less than two hours before he was scheduled to appear before His Lordship, Marc would want to know now. So it was that Cobb left one supper suspended without explanation and fatally disrupted another. He rushed into the Edwardses’ cottage without knocking and burst straight into the dining room.

“I got somethin’ to tell ya!” he cried, and his look alone prompted Marc to get up, push aside a charred dumpling, and lead Cobb onto the front porch.

“Let’s have it, then, old friend,” Marc said, alarmed at Cobb’s beet-red face and anguished breathing. “Take your time. The world isn’t about to end.”

As coherently as he could under the circumstances, Cobb relayed to Marc the gist of Dora’s tale.

Marc said nothing for half a minute, then, “Are you sure it was Sarah McConkey?”

“There ain’t a doubt. And who else could the father be besides Badger?”

Marc nodded. “All right, then. Let’s go.”

“Where to?”

“To beard a lioness in her den!”

Trotting dutifully in his partner’s wake, Cobb was heard to mutter, “Not again!”