Governing Passion (13 page)

“We believe the killer mistook him for a
woman. It was dark and the mistake is quite understandable.”

“But I saw the man in woman’s clothing in the
brothel. I
knew
, didn’t I?”

Pugh was making a valid point.

“But you left Madame’s right after I
did.”

“And walked directly west, as I always do,
not south – like Simon.”

“And Mr. Clough?”

“He turned east, as usual.”

“So you saw or heard nothing?”

“How many times must I repeat myself?”

“Thanks fer yer help, sir.”

Cobb found his own way out, avoiding
Smithers.

At Gardiner Clough’s Cobb got the same frosty
reception, and the same response. Nobody saw or heard anything.

***

“So,” Cyril Bagshaw said to Cobb, “you’ve finally
eliminated two of the town’s finest gentlemen?”

“Not really, sir. They had means and
opportunity for all three killin’s. A knife is an easily concealed
weapon.”

“But you have no motive, man. Where is your
brain, in your truncheon?”

“Our killer is crazy in the head, sir. Look
at what we’ve got so far. Three victims, all blond young women or
mistaken fer such. The killer has it in fer blondes. Perhaps a
blond lover jilted him or he hated his blond mother. Something
triggers his madness for the murders are two or three nights apart.
When the sickness comes on, I figure it comes real sudden and can’t
be helped. He goes huntin’ fer blond women, and as soon as he sees
one, he cuts her throat and skedaddles. He’s dressed like a
gentleman, with a greatcoat, a fur hat, and proper boots, so nobody
will take a second look at him in Devil’s Acre, where gentlemen are
forever comin’ and goin’. So far he’s lucky not to have been seen.
He heads straight out of the place as soon as the murder’s done,
back to his home – with nobody the wiser. You see, Pugh or Clough
could look normal to you and me, and suddenly the urge to kill
takes over and they go stark mad. Afterwards they go back to bein’
themselves. And don’t forget, they did drop a glove and a
scarf.”

“But you haven’t been able to trace those to
Mr. Pugh or Mr. Clough.”

“Not yet.”

“You’ve got a fanciful theory, Cobb, but no
real evidence and two unlikely suspects. I’d say you’ve come to a
dead end.”

“He’ll kill again. I know he will.”

Bagshaw gave Cobb a sardonic grin. “And we’ll
catch him, won’t we. On patrol!”

***

The following night Cobb had been on patrol for only
an hour or so, but he was already cold. With a fourth constable,
Brown, on duty each man’s patrol was even more confined and more
boring. If they did come across another murder, there would be no
bootprints to follow because every alley was trampled flat by
policeman’s boots, and there was no fresh snow this evening. Still,
what were the odds, with four constables in the area? Although this
was, Cobb recalled, the third night following the murder of Simon
Whitemarsh.

Then, when he was almost completely numbed
and thinking about Madame LaFrance’s fire, a shadow flitted past
the end of the alley he was in. A dark figure, moving quickly.
Cobb’s heart skipped a beat as he strode forward. Just as he
reached the corner, he heard someone cry out, a female cry. He
raced around the corner and there in the next alley lay a crumpled
figure. Cobb looked ahead of it, but could see nothing. Torn
between stopping to check on the victim (who he felt was dead or
dying) and pursuit, he chose the latter, hurrying to the end of the
alley and looking both ways at the T-junction. Nothing. He looked
for tracks but found only the maze of his previous bootprints, the
snow scuffed and hopelessly trampled. He blew on his whistle, and
sped back towards the victim, filled with dread.

The girl was beginning to rise from the
ground. She was clutching her neck. She was pretty and very
blond.

“He tried to – kill me,” she gasped. “He had
a knife.”

Cobb breathed a sigh of relief. He had come
running just in time, not to catch the killer but to scare him off.
Perhaps the fellow would run into one of the other constables. Cobb
blew his whistle again.

“What were you doing in Devil’s Acre?” he
said to the girl

Weeping, she said, “I was taking a shortcut
to my cousin’s. I – I got lost.”

“Well, you’re all right now, miss. I’ll take
you to your cousin’s.”

“I’d like to go home.”

“Where is that?”

“Birch Grove.”

“What’s yer name, miss?”

“Christine. Christine Pettigrew.”

EIGHT

Marc hired a one-horse cutter and drove out the
Hospital Road looking for Bernie’s dive. He went by it the first
time, as it was a mere half-log hut tucked into a cedar grove some
thirty yards off the main road. It was four o’clock in the
afternoon, and Marc hoped to catch the proprietor alone to question
him about the events of the night of the murder. It was not to be,
however. When Marc stepped into the smoky interior, he found it
crowded with customers. Several men – farmers obviously – were
slouched over a makeshift plank bar, sipping cups of whiskey that
had been dipped out of a large barrel nearby. In one corner four
men huddled over a stump table on which they tossed a pair of dice.
In another three men were sitting on stools, cup in hand, and
staring through the smoke-haze with malevolent eyes. Behind the
bar, in a filthy apron, stood the tall, angular man who must have
been Bernie, the proprietor.

All talk ceased the moment Marc’s presence
was noted, and all eyes followed him as he went over to the bar and
said to the barkeeper, “Are you Bernie?”

“Who wants to know?”

“My name is Marc Edwards. I have been asked
by the magistrate to look into the death of Earl Dunham, who was
bludgeoned to death last night out at the hospital.”

Marc was not exaggerating about his official
status: over the lunch hour Robert had gotten permission from
Magistrate Wilson for Marc to investigate the crime.

“We heard about the murder,” the barkeeper
said.

“And you
are
Bernie?”

“I am. And this is my establishment.”

“I need to ask you about what took place here
last night.” Marc felt the rest of the room listening, even though
the other customers had resumed their activities.

“Just the usual night in here.”

“Two workmen, Greg Mason and Marvin Leroy
were in here last night, were they not?”

“They’re regulars. After work, every day.
Stay till midnight or so.”

“Was it midnight when they left last
night?”

“Well, I don’t keep track of time in here,
but I guess that would be about right.”

“And they left together?”

Bernie looked surprised. “Why, no, as a
matter of fact they didn’t.”

“They left separately?”

“That’s what I’m sayin’. Manson left first,
I’m sure. Leroy was caught up in a dice game and didn’t want to
leave while he was winnin’. Manson cursed him and left.”

So, Marc thought, both Manson and Leroy had
lied to him in saying they had left together. To cover for one
another. Unless their landlords gave them an alibi, they were both
loose and apart with time to go back to the hospital building and
club Denham to death.

“A Frenchman, Jacques LeMieux was also in
here last night. Did you hear him making any threats?”

“I know the fella. But he was cursing
somebody in French. I paid no heed to it.”

“Thank you, Bernie. You’ve been a big
help.”

“Would you like a drink?”

“Not today, thank you.”

“Too good fer us, eh?”

This latter remark came from a heavy-set
fellow with a permanent scowl on his flushed face, exaggerated by
two broken front teeth. He had left the dicers and come up beside
Marc at the bar. The other bar-flies immediately pulled back into
the shadows.

“Now, Joe, take it easy,” Bernie said
evenly.

“You’ve got the strut of an army officer,”
the fellow called Joe said to Marc.

“That’s because I was an officer in the
army,” Marc said, facing the man down.

“We don’t take to barn-burning soldiers
around these parts,” Joe said, edging closer to Marc.

“I didn’t burn barns, sir. I did my
duty.”

“Let it go, Joe,” Bernie said with a hint of
warning in his voice.

“I’m about to leave,” Marc said to Bernie,
and made the mistake of turning away from Joe to head for the door.
Joe wound up and sucker-punched Marc on the back of the neck. It
was a glancing blow and succeeded only in pitching Marc a couple of
steps forward. Marc wheeled and faced his adversary, towering over
him. But Joe had already launched himself at Marc and pushed him
over a stool. Marc fell backwards in a heap, and Joe was instantly
on top of him.

“Let him have it, Joe!”

“Don’t let him up!”

Marc heard the cries of Joe’s supporters and
realized he had walked into a hornet’s nest. These men were drunk
and itching for a fight, at least itching for their champion to
have a fight.

Joe had both hands around Marc’s throat, and
Marc felt his breath being slowly squeezed off. He tried to buck
the fellow off but was unable to detach him. Suddenly Joe’s fingers
relaxed, and he rolled sedately to the floor beside Marc. Standing
over them both was Bernie, a chunk of firewood in his right
hand.

“It’s a crude weapon, but it works,” Bernie
said. “Now, mister, you better go before things get ugly in
here.”

Marc got up, brushed himself off, and left.
But he had got what he’d come for.

***

After supper Marc drove along Front Street past the
limestone façades of Kingston’s business section and on towards the
mighty fort, the fort that had held rebel prisoners after the
revolt had been put down. He turned off onto a narrow side street
until he came to a substantial limestone house that he had been
told was the boarding place of Michel Jardin, the French-Canadian
lather. Jardin had said he went for a walk about ten o’clock and
didn’t think his landlady heard him come in a little later on. Marc
wanted to check out the details of that story. If no-one heard
Jardin come back in, then he would have had time to walk out to the
building site and kill Dunham. The walk could be done in less than
half an hour, even in the winter weather. Marc went up and knocked
on the door. After a bit the door was opened by an imposing
dark-haired woman in her late thirties. She had a ready smile for
Marc, but there was a wariness in her deep brown eyes, as if
experience had taught her to be cautious with her smiles.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” Marc said in French.
“My name is Marc Edwards and I’m investigating the murder of Earl
Dunham out at the Parliament building last night.”

“Yes. Michel told me about it just a few
minutes ago. Terrible thing, eh?”

“A brutal killing, yes.”

“You don’t think Michel had anything to do
with it?”

“I’d like to eliminate him and you could help
by answering a question or two.”

“Then please come in. I’ll put the kettle
on.”

Marc followed her into a large kitchen in
which the supper dishes were still being put away. A cooking-stove
in one corner looked red hot, and the room itself was exceedingly
warm. Marc took off his coat and hat.

“I’m Madame Poulin,” the woman said. “I run
this boarding-house with the aid of my son. I’ve got water already
hot. I’ll just make the tea.”

While Marc watched, she made a pot of tea and
served Marc a mug. He sipped at the tea appreciatively.

“Now, how can I help you?”

“Well, Michel told me that he was in here all
evening, but went out for a walk about ten o’clock. Did you see him
do so?”

“Yes, I did. I heard the clock striking ten
when he told me he felt like a walk. He hadn’t slept well since
that foreman fired his brother Denis off the job. Denis boards here
with his brother.”

“Were you awake when he got back?”

“I’m afraid I wasn’t. He has a key for the
front door. He must have let himself in.”

So, Jardin had no real alibi, and a strong
motive: revenge for the firing of his brother and Dunham’s general
mistreatment of French-Canadians.

“So it might have been very late?”

Madame Poulin looked puzzled. “I shouldn’t
imagine he was more than an hour or so, but as I said, I was fast
asleep.”

“Thank you. That’s helpful information.”

They sipped at their steaming tea.

“You’re one of them Reformers that are
meeting at the Clarendon, aren’t you?” Madame Poulin said
suddenly.

“Why, yes. How did you know?”

“I saw you coming out of the hotel yesterday
and you were with Mr. LaFontaine.”

Marc looked up, alert. “So you are familiar
with politics?”

“One has to be, eh?”

“Well, I am indeed an associate of Mr.
LaFontaine.”

“And Robert Baldwin?”

“And Robert Baldwin.”

“We hear that you are planning some sort of
alliance.”

“I see that word has reached ground level,”
Marc said with a smile. “What is your opinion of what we are
doing?”

“Well, like most French people, I am
surprised that you would try, let alone succeed. There is so much
bitterness between the races – ever since the rebellion.”

“That is precisely why we feel we must try to
reconcile the two races, especially at the political level. We
Reformers by and large did not support armed rebellion, but we did
sympathize with its aims.”

“So you are radicals, too? And you hope your
radicalism will be enough to overcome your natural dislikes?”

Marc realized he was in the presence of a
fine intelligence. And decided here was a chance to get some
feedback from the French trenches.

“You are an admirer of Mr. LaFontaine?” he
said.

“Yes and no. He has been strong and
consistent in his denunciation of the terms of the union, and yet
now he is proposing to take part in the new Parliament and
cooperate with those he’s denounced for four years. He is a
puzzle.”