Governing Passion (19 page)

Sometime towards morning, Cobb dreamt that
Dora arrived home from one of her night visits with a large bag
slung over her shoulder, like a laundry woman’s. ‘I’ve had a busy
night collectin’ these,’ she said merrily, and dumped the contents
of the bag on the floor beside Cobb. They were babies, live
squirming babies. Cobb woke up with a start, breathing heavily.
Daylight was just beginning to seep through the dining-room
windows. He could hear the servants below, getting the day started.
The room was icy cold. Cobb shivered. How many more nights like
this would he be required to endure?

***

“Bagshaw’s got it in fer you,” Dora Cobb opined as
she shovelled another helping of sausage onto her husband’s
breakfast plate. “That’s all there is to it.”

“He don’t want me to play detective, I
guess.”

“Pure jealousy, I’d say. And where is it
gettin’ him?”

“I’m sure I could’ve found the gentleman
doin’ these awful deeds,” Cobb said, chomping into a sausage. “But
how can I help out bein’ stuck at Birch Grove baby-sittin’ a
strange woman?”

“Strange? In what way?”

“Well, fer one thing, she calls me upstairs
because she needs someone to talk to.”

“You?” Dora said, raising her eyebrow.

“Yeah, me. Ain’t that pathetic?”

“I can’t imagine what you’d have to talk
about.”

“Well, she just wanted a listenin’ post fer
her so-called troubles.”

“She
was
assaulted, though.”

“That didn’t seem to bother her as much as
her twin brother gettin’ married down in Kingston.”

“A twin, eh? They’re always mighty
close.”

“Well, she went on and on about bein’
betrayed by her brother leavin’ her. I was glad to get out of
there.”

“I guess you’ll be wantin’ to sleep through
the day?”

Cobb grinned. “Somehow I don’t feel so
sleepy.”

***

Cobb arrived at Birch Grove at seven o’clock
that evening to find that Miss Pettigrew was just about to sit down
to her supper. Gulliver was steering Cobb towards the stairs to the
servants’ quarters when Christine called out to him from the
dining-room.

“Have Mr. Cobb come in and take a seat,” she
said.

“Oh, I’ve already eaten,” Cobb said. Gulliver
had not let go of his sleeve.

“I’ll have Mrs. Baldridge bring you a cup of
coffee.”

Gulliver let go reluctantly, and Cobb went
through the archway into the dining-room. Mrs. Baldridge glowered
at him, but went off to fetch his coffee. Christine was seated at
one lonely end of a long table, her soup steaming in front of her.
Then Cobb noticed that a second place had been set beside her. He
moved towards it.

“Oh, no, not there!” she cried. “That’s
Christopher’s place.”

“But Christopher’s in Kingston” Cobb pointed
out gently.

“But he could arrive home any minute. I
always set a place for him.”

Cobb sat down on the opposite side of the
table, feeling decidedly uncomfortable. “Is it all right here?”

“Oh, yes. You’ll have coffee while I
eat.”

“That’s good of you, ma’am, but I don’t mind
the servants’ quarters.”

“I need someone to talk to.”

“So you said last night. Why don’t you invite
your friend to visit you?”

Christine’s face darkened. “Christina only
comes when she feels like it. Sometimes I think she doesn’t even
like me.”

“Well, you could go to her house perhaps. I’d
be happy to escort you.”

“She doesn’t like anyone suddenly dropping in
on her.”

Cobb wondered what kind of friend this could
be.

“Anyway, I want to talk to you. You seemed so
understanding last night when I told you how faithless my brother
has been.”

“But your brother will have to marry
sometime, won’t he?” Cobb said, pointing to what he thought was
obvious.

“Of course he won’t!” she snapped. “He’s
already got me, hasn’t he?”

“But he might want children, a regular family
life.”

“You’re beginning to sound just like him.”
Her pale blue eyes widened and a wild, almost desperate, look came
into her expression.

At this point the conversation was saved by
the arrival of Mrs. Baldridge with a cup of coffee on a tray.
Beside it was an envelope.

“What’s that?” Christine said sharply.

Mrs. Baldridge replied hesitantly. “Well,
Gulliver picked this up at the post office this afternoon, and
seeing how letters seem to upset you so, he held onto it. I’ve
already chastised him for it.”

“Leave it with me.”

“Couldn’t you wait till after you’ve
eaten?”

“It’s from Christopher. I must read it right
away.” She snatched the letter from the tray, tore it open, and
began reading the letter, muttering under her breath as she did
so.

“He’s not coming home! He’s not coming
home!”

“Please, Christine, don’t upset yourself,”
Mrs. Baldridge said. “He’ll be home as soon as he can. He’s an
important man of the world now. We can’t have him all to
ourselves.”

“And he mentions that harlot again!”

At this she rose up, spilling her soup, and
hurled the letter to the floor. Her face went beet-red, twisted in
pain and frustration. Her hands turned to fists as she leaned
against the table. Suddenly her whole body began to tremble, and
her eyes rolled back in her head. Mrs. Baldridge let out a little
cry and reached out to catch her mistress as she collapsed in a
faint.

Cobb was up instantly and at Mrs. Baldridge’s
side.

“Is she havin’ a fit?” Cobb said, staring
down into the girl’s face, now becalmed.

“It’s her headache. It often starts this way.
I’ll carry her to her room.”

“Can you manage?”

“I have for twenty-some years.”

With that, the little woman carried the tall
girl into the next room and through a far door, which led to
Christine Pettigrew’s suite. Cobb ran ahead and opened the
door.

“No-one’s allowed in but me,” Mrs. Baldridge
said firmly, and swept inside. The door closed behind her.

‘What have I gotten myself into?’ was Cobb’s
thought.

He turned and went back into the dining-room.
His coffee was still there, still hot. He sat down and drank it. No
sound came from Christine’s suite. Cobb noticed the letter on the
floor. He picked it up. He remembered seeing several like it on a
small secretary in the sewing-room last night. He decided to put
this one with its fellows. There were four or five other letters in
a neat pile on the desk. He placed this one on top. Then something
made him browse through the others. They were all from Christopher
in Kingston. They had come quite regularly. And, he assumed, each
one had brought on the “headache.”

He went back into the dining-room and took up
his post for the night. He thought that Miss Pettigrew would likely
be sedated and unaware of any peeping Tom, should one happen to
come.

A few minutes later, Mrs. Baldridge came out
of the suite, and then did a strange thing. She reached in her
apron pocket and pulled out a large key. She inserted it into a
lock on the door, and turned it. She put the key back in her pocket
and came into the dining-room.

“I’ll take these dishes downstairs,” she
said. “You can stay where you are.”

Cobb sighed. Now he was taking orders from a
lady’s maid.

Mrs. Baldridge reappeared and went to take up
her own post outside Christine’s door. Out came the knitting. Cobb
yawned. At ten o’clock, Mrs. Baldridge, without saying goodnight,
got up and disappeared into her own quarters. Christine was all
alone with her headache.

As Cobb drowsed, dreamt, and came awake, he
remembered the dream he had had the previous night. And suddenly he
knew what clue he had missed: the image of a laundry woman with a
white bag over her shoulder on the night of the first murder. And
he thought about the regularity of those letters, and a scarf left
behind in an alley. And then a cold shiver came up his spine. He
had a wild, fantastic thought. And suddenly,
he had to
know
.

First he had to get the key. He went into a
little hallway off the drawing-room and, following the snores he
could hear, he soon found Mrs. Baldridge’s bedroom. The door was
partially open. He gave it a push. No squeak. He slipped into the
room, lit by moonlight from its sole window. Mrs. Baldridge was
asleep on a cot in a far corner. Her apron was draped over a chair.
Cobb tiptoed across to it. He hit a squeaky board, and stopped
dead. The snoring hesitated, then resumed. Cobb reached the chair
and felt about in the apron for the key. It was there.

He slipped back into the drawing-room and
went up to the door of Christine’s suite. He realized the danger in
what he was doing. If he disturbed Christine from her sleep, she
might cry out before he could explain that he had heard a noise
outside and was checking to see if she were all right. (He was
praying she didn’t realize she was locked in.) If the hue and cry
were raised, however, he would have no plausible way of explaining
how he had come by the key.
But he had
to know
.

He inserted the key and slowly turned it. He
eased the door open and put his head inside. What he could see,
with moonlight through the windows, was enough to let him know he
was in an anteroom off the boudoir. There was a couch on the far
side near a fireplace, but it was empty. He stepped into the room.
The boudoir was to his right. He could see the small door leading
to it. Fortunately it was open. He went over to it and peeked
inside.

The room was small, containing just a vanity,
a tall wardrobe and a curtained bed. The curtains were drawn back.
No-one was sleeping there, though someone
had
been. Cobb
decided to take a huge risk. Softly, he called out, “Miss
Pettigrew? Are you here? Are you awake?”

No response. Not a breath of sound.

He went back into the bigger room and
satisfied himself that it too was unoccupied. What was he to think?
The outer door was locked from the outside. Christine could have
had a key of course, but if she did, then why did Mrs. Baldridge
bother to lock her in? Cobb knew he had dozed off a bit, but surely
he would have heard the click of a lock. He went over to each of
the windows and noted that neither had been opened that winter.

Where was she?

Then he remembered the tall wardrobe. She had
to be in there. He went back into the boudoir and over to the
wardrobe. It opened easily. It seemed full of dresses and other
ladies’ garments. He pushed at them, expecting at any moment to hit
something solid. Then he pushed too hard and stumbled into the
cupboard. He pitched forward and hit his head on the far wall.

It swung open.

It was actually a door, set in what had once
most likely been a window. He crawled through it – into a cold,
dark room. There was just enough light for him to realize that he
was in a milk shed, attached no doubt to the back of the stone
house. Cobb shivered at the shock of cold air, but went across to
an outside door and opened it. He was staring at the snow-covered
kitchen garden. A narrow path led off to the right, packed hard by
the tramp of servants. He couldn’t tell if anyone had come out here
tonight. But he was now certain that someone had.

He went back inside. What to do? He made his
decision. He went into the boudoir and sat down on the bed. He
hoped he knew what he was doing.

***

He didn’t have to wait long. About half an hour
later he heard the door to the milk shed bang shut. Then he heard
the secret door to the wardrobe open. He stood up, just as a heavy
laundry bag was flung onto the boudoir floor. Then Christine
Pettigrew herself came through. She had a knife in her hand.

Cobb lunged for the knife, but he wasn’t fast
enough. He knocked it aside, but it swung back in a sharp arc and
sliced through Cobb’s shirt. He heard the girl grunt with the
effort. With both hands he seized the arm wielding the knife. She
strained to break free of his grip, and Cobb felt, and was amazed
by, the strength in her. The girl’s rasping breath was in his ear.
Finally Cobb brought the arm down on his knee, and heard the girl’s
cry and the knife hitting the floor.

“It’s all over, Christine,” he cried. “Give
it up.”

Suddenly all the fight went out of her. She
heaved a big sigh and collapsed in Cobb’s arms.

Her cry brought Mrs. Baldridge to the
door.

“What are you doing to my precious?” she
demanded.

“It’s what she’s done to me and others that
matters,” Cobb said. “I’ve just captured the mad killer who’s been
terrorizin’ the town!”

Mrs. Baldridge acted as if she had not
heard.

“Put her on the couch. I’ll get the smelling
salts.”

Cobb hauled the dead-weight of the girl over
to the couch in the anteroom. He went back and picked up the knife.
There was, thank God, no blood on it, his or anyone’ else’s. The
hunt had been unsuccessful this night.

Mrs. Baldridge retuned, propped Christine up,
and applied the smelling salts. The girl woke up drowsily.

“Hello, Nanny,” she whispered in a
little-girl voice. “Oh, hello, Mr. Cobb. What are you all doing in
my room?”

“I think Christina’s been for a visit,” Mrs.
Baldridge said.

***

“Whenever Christine has one of her headaches,
Christina is likely to appear,” Mrs. Baldridge explained. Christine
was sitting up and merely looking bewildered. She apparently had
little or no memory of what she had just been doing. “And Christina
is not a very well balanced lady, so I lock the room at night.”

“Christina is sometimes very bad,” Christine
said.

“So you know about Christina, then?” Cobb
said.

“Oh, yes. We talk often, and Christina
delights in telling me about her being naughty.”

“She sneaked out of the house?”