Governing Passion (17 page)

Well, Cobb thought, this is going to be a
long and boring assignment.

Just then a pretty upstairs maid arrived on
the stairwell.

“What is it, Bridget?” Mrs. Baldridge said
shortly.

Bridget blushed and stammered, “It’s Miss
Pettigrew. She wants the constable to join her in the
sewing-room.”

***

Miss Pettigrew ordered coffee and sweetmeats from
Gulliver, who looked as if he might faint from chagrin at the sight
of his mistress seated across a little table from Horatio Cobb and
preparing to engage him in polite conversation. When Gulliver left,
Christine said, “I have no-one to talk to around here except
Baldridge, and she’s been here for donkey’s years.”

“She helped to raise you?”

“My parents died before I was twelve, so
she’s been like a second mother to me. But one can’t spend all
one’s time talking to one’s mother, can one?”

“What do you want to talk about?” Cobb
said.

“Anything except what has to do with Birch
Grove. It’s not the same around here since Christopher left
me.”

“Your husband?”

“Oh, no. My twin brother. We’ve been
separated only once before, you know.”

“You’ve got a twin, eh?”

“Yes. For twenty-five years we’ve been
together, we’ve been soul-mates, and now he just up and leaves me.
Do you think that’s fair?”

“Depends on why he left, I suppose.”

Christine’s expression darkened suddenly. “He
left to get married, that’s why.”

“Ah. . . I see. And where’s he gettin’
hitched?”

“Away off in Kingston.”

At this point Gulliver arrived with coffee
and chocolates. Cobb helped himself to both and earned a glare from
the butler, who backed discreetly out of the room, his face
squeezed perilously inward.

“Are you not goin’ to the weddin’?” Cobb
said.

“I don’t see why I should, do you?”

“You’re the fella’s sister.”

“I have no intention of meeting this bride –
ever.”

“Are they stayin’ in Kingston?”

“Oh, no. They think they’re coming back here.
But I won’t have it, will I?”

“I can see you’re worked up about all
this.”

“It’s his bride, you see. He tells me she
looks like me, thinking that that would make me feel better about
being abandoned, about being left here with an old crone of a woman
servant and a big, old, empty house. But I won’t be appeased!” The
blue eyes now blazed, and she seemed to be talking right past Cobb
to some invisible soul farther into the room.

“You never met the bride?”

“I don’t have to! I know what she must be
like. She’s selfish and cruel to steal my darling Christopher from
me. Don’t you agree?”

“Well, I’d have to meet her, wouldn’t I?”

“She’s a witch! She’s bewitched my poor,
helpless Christopher. Damn her!”

“I think you’re gettin’ yerself all worked
up, ma’am. Perhaps I oughta go and leave ya to yer thoughts.”

Christine looked over at Cobb with something
like pity in her eyes. “You’re a man, aren’t you? I wouldn’t expect
you to understand anything of what I’m suffering.”

“I know you’re upset, that’s fer sure.”

“Well, go, then. I’ll just have to talk to
Christina.”

“Who’s Christina?”

In a faraway, plaintive voice, Christine
said, “Oh, just a friend who comes by every once in a while.
Perhaps she’ll come this evening. Do you think so?”

“I’m sure she will,” Cobb said. He got up,
snatched a chocolate, and said, “I best be off to my post.”

But she didn’t seem to hear him. She was off
in some world of her own – where twin brothers didn’t betray.

TEN

A day later, Marc returned to Marvin Leroy’s
boarding-house. This time, Mrs. Soames, his landlady, was home. She
herself answered the door. She was a tiny wisp of a woman with red
hair and bright blue eyes. She wiped her hands on her apron and
invited Marc in.

“I’ve come to ask you a question about the
night that Earl Dunham was murdered,” Marc said. “Two nights
ago.”

“Well, come in and have a cup of tea,” Mrs.
Soames beamed, her friendly face seemingly arranged in a permanent
smile. “It’s not every day I get to meet a gentleman.”

“Please, don’t go to any trouble. This will
just take a minute.”

“I don’t hurry in my business, young man. If
I did, I’d never stop running. I’ve already got the kettle on the
boil. I’ll just make us a fresh pot. Come along into the
kitchen.”

The Soames’ kitchen was spacious and
comfortable. Mrs. Soames made the tea and put out a plate of tarts.
She settled down at the kitchen table opposite Marc, who had
removed his hat and coat and placed them on a chair. The room was
warm and cosy. It reminded Marc of Briar Cottage and the family he
hadn’t seen for over a week.

“Now then, you had a question you wanted to
ask me,” Mrs. Soames said, sipping her tea.

“Yes, I’m investigating the murder, and I
need to know what time Mr. Leroy, your boarder, arrived home the
night it happened. Did you hear him come in?”

“I’m a light sleeper. I remember hearing the
clock strike one, and I hadn’t heard the door open and close by
that time.”

“So Leroy could have arrived much later?”

“I suppose he could. I fell asleep after
one.”

So Leroy had no real alibi. And no real
motive either.

“You are married?” Mrs. Soames asked.

“Yes, and I have two children.”

“How wonderful. Mr. Soames and I have not
been so blessed.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“But I take a keen interest in the young men
who board here.”

“So you know Mr. Leroy well?”

“He’s only been with us six months, but he’s
a talkative fellow and we hit it off right away.”

“And he’s an honest, upstanding fellow?” Marc
asked, seeing his chance to get some background on Leroy.

“Oh, yes. Despite the sad life he’s led.”

“Oh? He’s suffered some tragedy?”

“Not directly. It was his sister who was the
tragic figure.”

“They were close?”

“Very close.”

“What happened? Did his sister die?”

“Oh, no, sir. Worse than that. She was left
standing at the altar, if you can believe it.”

“Her husband-to-be didn’t show up?”

“That’s right. Backed out at the last
minute.”

“That must have been devastating.”

“It was. And I’m afraid Mr. Leroy bears a
hatred for the man to this day.”

“It would be hard to blame him.”

“And then he comes from Montreal and finds
out he’s got to work right next to this dreadful man.”

“Out at the hospital?”

“That’s right.”

“Who would that be, ma’am?”

“Why the man who was killed – Earl
Dunham.”

***

So, Marc had now come up with three viable suspects:
Michel Jardin, Gregory Manson and Marvin Leroy, each with strong
personal motives and no real alibi. Of the three, Manson had
definitely been out at the building site after midnight. But if he
did leave Dunham alive, then either Leroy or Jardin could have come
along afterwards and done the deed. But how was Marc to get any
closer to discovering which one did it? The murderer did not seem
likely to confess, and Marc had no physical evidence other than
Manson’s lost button and the murder weapon, LeMieux’s hammer. He
explained all this to Robert back at the hotel.

“You’ve done good work, Marc. But we’ve
reached a dead end, eh?”

“It looks that way, Robert. But if I can’t
find the real killer, I’m pretty sure I can get an acquittal for
LeMieux in court.”

“But that won’t be for several months at the
Spring assizes,” Robert said. “And I understand the small French
community in town is quite upset at LeMieux’s being charged.
There’s talk of a revolt by the French workmen out at the site. And
with negotiations still going on between Louis, us and the other
potential French members of our alliance, the whole enterprise
could be put in jeopardy, especially if this unrest among the
French here grows worse. In short, we can’t wait for the
assizes.”

“Well, I’ll think of something,” Marc
said.

“Meanwhile, I need you to accompany young
Pettigrew to Cornwall on the chance that Thériault will be lured
there by Pettigrew’s most recent letter. The murder investigation
will have to be put on hold.”

“I’ll go and see Pettigrew right away. We’ll
leave this afternoon.”

Marc went immediately to Christopher
Pettigrew’s room The young man answered the door in an agitated
state.

“What’s the matter?” Marc asked.

“It’s my sister,” Pettigrew said, waving a
sheet of paper at Marc. “She’s had a terrifying experience. I’m
needed at home right away.”

“Is that a letter from her?”

“Yes. You’d better read it.”

Marc took the letter and read:

Dear Christopher:

You had the gall to send me a miniature of your
harlot. I spit upon her yellow-headed image! How dare you choose
someone who resembles me? Do you not have a heart? Have we not
shared our lives for twenty-five years. Can you forget the thousand
childhood hours we spent in each other’s company? Even Mother and
Father could not keep us apart for more than a minute. Why do you
think I dressed as a boy and had my hair cut short when we were
eleven? I could not bear to have you go off hunting with Father
while I sat in our rooms tatting doilies. I hunted as keenly as you
did. And wasn’t it you who cried the first time you shot a rabbit,
and wasn’t it you who were afraid of father’s skinning knife, even
when he showed us how to use it, and later in our room I consoled
you and swore the next time I would cry along with you just so you
wouldn’t be embarrassed? These were the moments that bonded us as
close as if we were identical and not fraternal twins.

I think of these matters in the midst of my
pain, with only old Mrs. Baldridge to try to soothe it away, when
all I need is my loving brother near me. If you do not come back
immediately, I feel I will sink permanently into the blackness that
engulfs me whenever I think upon your absence and your lies and
that wanton creature you claim will take my place and leave me
forsaken forever!

And just now a horrible thing has happened. I
have been attacked in the street by a madman, and almost killed! I
was so lonely I went off to see our cousin at ten in the evening. I
got lost in Devil’s Acre. And had to face – alone – a
knife-wielding killer. And why was I alone? Because you’ve
abandoned me!

Come home. At once. Without your harlot!

Christine 


Marc went and sat down beside Pettigrew’s desk.
Pettigrew, anxious and sweating, sat down opposite him.

“This is a very disturbing letter,” Marc
began.

“She has a right to be upset.”

“I agree. But it’s the first part of the
letter – written, it appears, before the incident she mentions at
the end – that I find disturbing. The language is extreme and seems
unwarranted by the circumstances. You’ve only been gone a few
weeks.”

“But she was almost killed!”

“It appears so. And it looks as if there’s
some kind of killer loose in Toronto.” Marc thought of Cobb and
their previous investigations together. “Still, I don’t believe
your sister is in danger now. She’s escaped an attack and surely
will stick close to home. But she’s certainly emotionally upset.”
Marc was more puzzled and concerned about the tone of the letter
than he was letting on to Christopher. But, then, Marc had no
experience with twins or their eccentric behaviour.

“Do you think I ought to go there?” Pettigrew
said.

Marc hesitated. They really needed Pettigrew
to go to Cornwall to meet Henri Thériault, but Marc felt obligated
to give an objective answer, at least as objective an answer as he
could. “Look at it this way,” he said. “If you do go back, you’ll
have to leave again, won’t you? Unless you’re thinking of not going
through with your wedding plans.”

“I can’t cancel them. I’ve committed myself
as a gentleman. So, yes, I could only stay for a few days.”

“And would Christine not see your leaving a
second time as another betrayal? Remember, it’s your bride who is
the problem here, not your absence as such.”

“I see what you mean. It’s clear that
Christine doesn’t want me to marry,” he said miserably. “Perhaps
not ever. But I must. And she must come to accept it.”

“Then I’d advise you not to go back, at least
not now. Give her a chance to recover from this attack, and keep on
writing her reassuring letters.”

“All right. I’ll do that.”

“You’ve got time to write a reply,” Marc
said. “Then you and I are going to head for Cornwall.”

Where the hopes of the alliance now lay.

***

Just as Marc was preparing to go out to meet
Christopher Pettigrew on the cutter he had hired, Robert came into
the foyer with a package in his hand.

“What’s that?” Marc asked.

“It’s a parcel from Toronto for you. From
Constable Cobb.”

“Just put it in my room, will you? I’ll read
it when I get back.”

“Good luck in Cornwall,” Robert said.

Marc joined Pettigrew on the cutter outside
the hotel. The drive to Cornwall over a snow-packed road with a
team of stout horses would take them six or seven hours. They would
be there late in the evening. Then it would be a question of
waiting a day or two to see if Henri Thériault had taken up
Pettigrew’s invitation to meet him at the Roadside Inn. The
Kingston Road, which linked Cornwall and Toronto, was designated a
highway, but it was in reality a bush-trail some twenty-five feet
wide, cut out of the woods that surrounded it on both sides. It
meandered along the line of least resistance, but in the
winter-time passage over it was both smooth and fast. Since they
would not be changing horses, however, Marc urged their team on at
a sedate, steady pace. They were in no real hurry.