The Widow's Demise (19 page)

“Miss Mitchell,” Marc began, “other than the
killer, you were the last person to see Mrs. Cardiff-Jones alive,
were you not?”

“Yes, sir. I helped my mistress get ready to
go out.”

“And where was she going on the evening of
her death?”

“She was going to visit Marion Stokes, her
best friend.”

“And when or how was this visit
arranged?”

“A handwritten message was delivered by a boy
to the front door and passed along to me.”

“A message ostensibly from Marion
Stokes?”

“Yes, sir. It was signed from Marion
Stokes.”

“What was the gist of the note?”

“It said that Marion needed to see Madam
right away.”

“And you showed the note to your
mistress?”

“I took it up to her room – ”

“What time was this by the way?”

“About seven-fifteen.”

“So you took the note into your mistress,
and?”

“And I told her what it said – it wasn’t in
an envelope, so I couldn’t help reading it. She said, ‘I’ll go
right away.’ And I helped her to get ready to go.”

“So your mistress did not actually read the
note?”

“No, sir. I put it on her
dressing-table.”

“And I, Milord,” said Marc, “would like it to
be Exhibit A for the defense.”

The judge took the note, glanced through it,
and handed it to his clerk.

“Now, Mrs. Mitchell, tell the court when you
learned this note was forged,” Marc said.

At this point, most of those in the galleries
leaned forward.

“The next day,” Vera said, “when Mrs. Stokes
came to pay her respects, I mentioned that my mistress was heading
out to visit her when she was killed. I mentioned the note. Mrs.
Stokes said she did not write it.”

“So this fake note was obviously used to lure
Mrs. Cardiff-Jones out of her house right away. At about
seven-thirty, as it turned out.”

“It would seem so, yes.”

“Possibly sent by the killer?”

“Milord,” McBride said, teetering on his tiny
feet, “Mr. Edwards is testifying.”

“You must not speculate or ruminate, Mr.
Edwards.”

“Sorry, Milord,” Marc said, then turned back
to the witness. “To your knowledge, ma’am, would anyone outside the
immediate family know that Mrs. Cardiff-Jones and Marion Stokes
were best friends? And that Mrs. Cardiff-Jones might respond right
away to a request for help?”

“I doubt it, sir. Theirs was a very personal,
private friendship.”

“So, if the killer sent the note to lure the
victim onto that public walk at seven-thirty, the killer would have
to be someone intimate with her family and their
relationships?”

“I suppose so.”

“Now, to your knowledge, did Mr. Gagnon, the
defendant, ever visit Rosewood?”

“Only once, sir. He had a short meeting with
the master.”

“And as the defendant had been in Toronto for
only two weeks, it is highly improbable, is it not, that he knew of
the friendship between the two women?”

“Very unlikely.”

“So he couldn’t very well have sent that
note?”

“I doubt it.”

“Your witness, Mr. McBride.”

Marc sat down, well satisfied.

“Miss Mitchell,” McBride said with an
ingratiating smile, “do you go out with your mistress when she has
occasion to leave the house?”

“Not usually, sir. Sometimes she takes me
along to carry parcels when she’s shopping.”

“And your mistress went out often?”

“Oh, yes. She was very sociable.”

“So you would often have no idea where she
went or who she went with?”

“Sometimes, but not always, no.”

“She could have been meeting with Mr. Gagnon,
could she not? On numerous occasions during his two weeks in
town?”

“It’s possible.”

“And in the course of their conversation
could he have learned about the friendship between Mrs.
Cardiff-Jones and Marion Stokes?”

“Well, it’s possible, but – ”

“So, it is conceivable, is it not, that the
defendant could have written that forged note?”

Vera hesitated, then said quietly, “Yes, it’s
possible.”

“No more questions, Milord.”

McBride had made his point but only by
stretching credulity. There was no evidence that Gagnon and
Cardiff-Jones had met at all outside the dance. And Marc would
hammer that point home in his summation.

“Redirect?” the judge said to Marc.

“Just one question,” Marc said. “Miss
Mitchell, did your mistress confide in you? Tell you about her
personal relationships?”

“Well, she did quite often. I often wished
she didn’t tell me her secrets because I didn’t like keeping them
and sometimes lying to the master.”

“Did she tell you about her gentleman
friends?”

“Yes, sir,” Vera said, blanching and looking
decidedly unsettled.

“Her lovers?”

Vera blushed, then said in a whisper,
“Yes.”

“So it is very likely you would have known if
your mistress were carrying on with Mr. Gagnon during his two weeks
in Toronto?”

“Definitely, sir.”

“And you heard nothing of such a
relationship?”’

“No, sir.”

“No more questions,” Marc said, and sat
down.

The next witness was Miss Constance Brown.
Beth had suggested to Marc that he had put too much emphasis on the
murder as the crime, when it really was the tossing of the acid
that was the primary offence. And that was a crime of revenge, and
more likely to be a woman’s method. And Constance Brown was a woman
seething with hurt and rage. At the moment she seemed relatively
calm, but puzzled as to why she was here.

“Miss Brown,” said Marc, “were you at one
time engaged to Mr. Horace Macy?”

“Milord,” snapped McBride, “what has that
question got to do with the murder of Mrs. Cardiff-Jones?”

“Mr. Edwards?”

“It goes to motive, Milord.”

“Very well, then, go ahead. But don’t loiter.
You may answer the question, Miss Brown.”

“Yes. I was engaged to Mr. Macy,” Constance
said.

“And was that engagement at some time
recently broken off?”

“It was.”

“Who broke it off, you or Macy?”

Constance glanced down, then back up. “Mr.
Macy,” she said in a low voice.

“Did he give you a reason?”

Constance hesitated, then said quietly, “He
said he was in love with another woman.”

“Did he say who that woman was?”

“Yes. It was Delores Cardiff-Jones.”

This brought murmurs from the galleries.

“And how did you feel when he told you
this?”

“I was . . . ah – disappointed.”

“And angry?”

“Yes, angry.”

“At Mr. Macy?”

“Yes.”

“But more at Mrs. Cardiff-Jones?”

“Yes.. She was a flirt and a man-chaser. She
was just toying with Horace.”

“Angry enough to throw acid in her face?”

“No!” Constance cried. “I’d never do
that.”

“Where were you on the evening the crime took
place?”

“I was at home. Preparing lessons. I’m a
schoolteacher.”

“Can anyone corroborate that?”

“No, I was alone the entire evening.”

“Do you know Mrs. Marion Stokes?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Did you know that Mrs. Stokes and Mrs.
Cardiff-Jones were best friends?”

Constance hesitated, unsure of the
implications of the question, then said, “Yes. Mrs. Stokes told
me.”

“So you could have written a forged note to
lure Mrs. Cardiff-Jones out to her death?”

“But I did not, sir!”

“Milord,” said McBride, snapping to his feet.
“Miss Brown is not on trial.”

“You’ve made your point, Counsellor. Move
on.”

“No more questions, Milord.”

McBride, in his rebuttal, got straight to the
point. “Miss Brown, did you throw acid in Mrs. Cardiff-Jones’s
face?”

“I did not.”

“Were you at home on the evening of the
crime?”

“I was.”

“Thank you. No more questions.”

McBride had done what he could, but Marc had
made his point. Constance Brown could conceivably have killed
Delores Cardiff-Jones.

At this stage, the judge announced that he
had to be out of town for a few days, and adjourned the trial until
nine o’clock next Monday morning. Marc was disappointed, as he had
three more suspects ready for interrogation. Moreover, he only had
Constable Wilkie’s reference to Gagnon’s claim that there had been
a third party present at the scene. What he needed now was a
witness to the third party so that his suspects would seem even
more plausible than they were. He now had five days to find such a
witness.


When Cobb got home for lunch, he found his two
children, Delia and Fabian, huddled over the stove and a large pot
of stew.

“Where’s yer mother?” Cobb said.

“She’s lying down,” Delia said. “ She just
got in.”

Cobb then remembered that Dora had not been
in their bed when he woke up this morning. That meant she had been
out on a call – some woman having a baby at a very inconvenient
time of day, as usual.

“We got your dinner, Dad,” said Fabian
proudly.

“But it’s yer mother’s job,” Cobb said, and
headed for the bedroom.

Dora was not asleep. She was lying, all two
hundred pounds of her, upon the duvet with her eyes closed and her
clothes still on. “I’m tired through to the marrow of my bones,”
she said to Cobb without opening her eyes.

“You been out all night, Missus Cobb?”

“Since three in the mornin’.”

“The kids’ve got dinner.”

“Bless ‘em.”

“I expect you’ll want to sleep.”

Dora struggled up and sat on the edge of the
bed. “I do, but I got somethin’ that I gotta tell ya.”

“I don’t want to hear no details about the
birthin’.”

“Oh, don’t worry, it was an easy birth.
Mother and babe are doin’ just fine.”

“Remember, we got a pact.”

They had agreed that Dora would not speak of
her midwifing activities if Cobb did not discuss the gorier aspects
of his work.

“You’ll wanta hear this, believe me,” Dora
said.

“All right, then. Go ahead.”

“Peggy Jane Doyle, the young maid at
Rosewood, had her baby this mornin’ at ten o’clock.”

“But that part of town’s not yer
territory.”

“Right. But the regular woman was on another
call, so they come fer me in the middle of the night.”

“What has Peggy Jane Doyle got to do with
me?”

“Well, she was a bit delirious, and I heard
her say, ‘Oh, poor Mrs. Jones, poor Mrs. Jones.’ And I figured she
was referrin’ to the night of her mistress’s death.”

“Very likely. Did she say anthin’ else?”

“She did. She kept repeatin’ ‘That man . . .
I saw that man.’”

“She saw the killer?”

“I don’t know. She fell asleep. And probably
still is.”

“This could be important information,” Cobb
said.

“I thought you talked to all them
servants.”

“All but Peggy Jane Doyle,” Cobb said,
upbraiding himself silently for the omission. “I’m gonna go right
over to Rosewood.”

“It may be too early.”

“We’ll see, won’t we?’

***

Cobb decided to approach Rosewood via the back door.
Vera Mitchell answered his knock.

“Oh, it’s you, Constable Cobb.”

“I’d like to talk to Peggy Jane Doyle.”

“Oh, you can’t, I’m afraid. She’s . . .she’s
not well.”

“I know she just had a baby,” Cobb said,
stepping inside. “My wife delivered it.”

“So she did. I forgot she was married to you.
But you see why Peggy can’t see you.”

“Would you mind seein’ if she’s awake. This
is awfully important.”

“Well, if you insist.”

“I do.”

“Wait here while I check on her. She’s on a
cot in the kitchen.”

Vera disappeared down a short hall. Moments
later she returned. “Peggy’s awake,” she said, “but very weak.”

“Can she talk?”

“Yes. Follow me. And be very gentle.”

Cobb followed her into the kitchen, which was
empty save for the maid and her baby, lying on a cot in the corner
nearest the stove. Cobb hoped the babe wasn’t feeding.

“Peggy Jane, the constable would like a word
with you. Can you answer some questions?”

Peggy Jane, very young and very pale, looked
up from the babe in her arms and said in a soft voice, “I think so.
I’ll try.”

“Mrs. Cobb heard you say that you saw a man
on the night that yer mistress was killed,” Cobb said. “Is that
so?”

Peggy Jane adjusted the sleeping infant and
said, “Yes. I saw a man.”

“Where were you?”

“I was on the stairwell. There’s a window
there.”

“And what did you see outside the
window?”

“I saw a man runnin’ along the east side of
the house.”

“What time was this?”

“About seven-thirty. Usually I’m workin’
upstairs.”

Cobb was elated. That was the time the acid
was thrown and Mrs. Cardiff-Jones died. This was undoubtedly the
third party that Gagnon had seen leaving the scene. Holding his
breath, he said, “What did this man look like?”

“I just caught a glimpse of him. He was
moving fast, But I don’t think he was a big man. He had on an
overcoat and a hat. Grey, I think.”

“You didn’t see his face?”

“No. I was above lookin’ down.”

“I think that’s all the time you should
take,” Vera said. “Peggy Jane looks very faint to me.”

“That’s all I need to know,” Cobb said.

He thanked the women, and headed straight for
Briar Cottage with his news.

***

Those people who crowded the Court House galleries
the next Monday morning were treated to a surprise witness. A young
girl, pale and weak, was helped up to the witness-stand, where she
was allowed to sit. She gave her name as Peggy Jane Doyle. A buzz
went through the crowd as Marc led her through her testimony, which
was a summary of Cobb’s interview with her. She said she had been
coming down the east stairs about seven-thirty when she happened to
glance out the stairwell window and saw a male figure moving
quickly along the east side of the house.