Bloody Relations (6 page)

“Who was the victim?” he said to Madame Renée.

“Sarah McConkey. She was one of my four girls. You've met Molly—”

“Molly Mason, I am.”

“And over there is Carrie Garnet and Frieda Smiley. We work in this part of the house and live together in the adjoining section.”

“Was it you, ma'am, who found Sarah like that?”

“It was Molly and me together. We were all asleep in our rooms over there—Molly was sleeping with me and Frieda and Carrie right next—”

“You left Sarah alone with a . . . customer?”

“He seemed so harmless,” Madame Renée said, and faltered.

“It weren't your fault, Mum,” Molly said, reaching across and giving her mistress a pat on the forearm.

“What I need to know more'n anythin' else is exactly what you saw when you opened the curtains and looked in there.”

“Molly and I were asleep when Molly woke up saying she heard someone yell.”

“It was a sort of shriek,” Molly said with a shudder, recalling it.

“Sarah?”

“I'm sure it was the gentleman.”

“Anyway, we both ran in here and then into the east bedroom,” Madame Renée continued. “We were both standing in the doorway, struck dumb.”

“The candle beside the bed was almost burned down, but we could still see, couldn't we, Mum?”

“I saw the blood, everywhere. I saw the wound in Sarah's neck. I knew she was dead. And that man, that horrid little man was snoring away—still drunk.”

“Then he must have cried out in his sleep,” Cobb said. “Sarah must've been stabbed long before that noise woke you up. It'd take some time fer all of that blood to drain outta her.”

Frieda and Carrie, both very young and very frightened, emitted a joint cry of anguish. Cobb turned and apologized, “Sorry to be so blunt.”

“Yes, I knew she was already dead. And I couldn't bring myself to walk through her blood, I—”

“Now, don't go upsettin' yerself so,” Cobb said. “It's the man I want to know about.”

“He had Sarah's knife in his hand!” Molly said.

“
Sarah's
knife?”

“She kept that little dagger under her pillow whenever she had a caller—”

“You warned her about it, didn't you, Mum?”

Madame Renée looked at Molly with a sad, grateful nod. Her eyes were full of tears. “But Sarah was a strong-willed girl,” she said to Cobb.

“So you both saw the knife in his right hand, just as I did?”

“Yes, we did.”

Well, that more or less clinched it. Cobb congratulated himself. Nevertheless, he felt obliged, despite the discomfiture of feminine tears and the near nakedness of the women he was questioning, to establish a chronology of events before waking the murderer and making any accusations. Piece by piece, with help from both Madame Renée and her three charges, they painted a vivid picture of what had happened before the discovery of the body. Because the brothel drew its clientele from among the prosperous and respectable in the community—merchants, bankers, councillors, army officers, and the like, if Madame were to be believed—the governor's ball had robbed them of a good night's take. Only three of their regulars had visited, elderly gentlemen too decrepit or senile to attend the gala at Spadina. Cobb was fascinated by the complex workings of a fancy brothel in the midst of a shantytown. Each of the regular callers, it seemed, had a nickname (Madame professing not to have the slightest notion of who they really were). Her trackers scouted the verges of Lot Street and, when a regular showed up, they escorted him safely to the red door. The caller would then use the brass knocker to
rap out a prearranged code (frequently changed). The tracker lads had a different knock if they merely wanted to convey messages or otherwise be admitted. The parlour door, heavily barred, was the only way into the working section of the house. The windows were all high, small, and either shuttered or screened. None of the screens showed any signs of forced entry. One other door at the far west side of the house, with its own sturdy bar, led into the living quarters of the women.

About one o'clock, realizing that no one else was likely to arrive this night, Madame had sent Peter and Donald home, barred the red door, and prepared to close up shop. They had just finished a cup of tea and were walking towards their own quarters when they heard a discreet rap—of one of the regulars. They waited. The knock was repeated. Madame unbarred the door and eased it open. A pale young man, heavily cloaked, stumbled in as if he had been pushed. He was a stranger. Puzzled, for the knock had been legitimate, Madame stepped out in time to see the back of a man in a purple or black cape and top hat moving quickly into the darkness. She concluded that one of her regulars—who knew his way in without assistance—had brought along a friend, though it was curious that he himself had not stayed to introduce him. When Cobb queried Madame as to why she didn't simply toss the intruder back into the murk outside, she sighed and said that he was very young, unthreatening, and exceedingly drunk. He also waved a wad of pound notes at her, ogled the girls, and gave them all such a boyish, helpless sort of grin that they took pity on him. And none of them, it was clear, would ever forgive themselves for doing so.

Because Sarah McConkey was the only one of the girls not to have entertained a client that evening, she inherited the task of divesting the young gentleman (whom she dubbed Jocko, which
seemed to amuse him) of his clothes and enticing him into bed. Madame insisted that she had remained awake in her room for half an hour or so, until she heard Jocko's drunken snores. Then she peeked in and found both of them sound asleep. She returned to her own room and lay down beside Molly. The rest he now knew.

Cobb stood up and thanked Madame. He was sure he heard footsteps approaching. It would be Dr. Angus Withers to confirm his own findings or Chief Constable Sturges to congratulate him and take the accused into custody. But before he could unbar the door, he was startled by a sound behind him and a collective gasp from the women. He swivelled around. There in the opening to the little hallway—naked, detumescent, blood-smeared, and plainly horrified—stood the murderer.

•  •  •

DR. ANGUS WITHERS, PHYSICIAN TO THE
well-heeled and the self-important but a kindly gentleman himself, was in Sarah's cubicle examining the body. The man presumed responsible for its condition was seated on the edge of a hard chair near the stove, which was throwing off more heat than anybody but the killer required. The moment he had appeared in the parlour, Cobb—offended by the man's nakedness and spooked by the wild look in his eye—had moved decisively. Calling for a blanket to cover the wretched creature's shame, Cobb had thrown both arms around him and half-dragged him to one of the armchairs. Amid the initial shrieks of the three girls, Madame Renée was a pillar of steely determination. Whatever revulsion she may have felt for the man who had slaughtered Sarah, she kept it under control, chivvying her young charges back into their quarters and returning with another dressing gown. She tossed it at Cobb, and he wrapped it around the shivering form before him.

Cobb had waited in vain for the man to calm down, hoping to question him and even drawing out the notebook he carried to jot down items he might fail to remember. His memory, however, was usually quicker and more reliable than his handwriting, so he was content to carry information in his head and, when he returned to the station, to dictate it to Augustus French, the police clerk. But the only word the trembling fellow had uttered in the past fifteen minutes was something resembling “awful,” and even that was garbled and hesitant. Madame Renée sat a few feet away, staring at him. Cobb could sense that she too was on the verge of crumbling. Dr. Withers had suggested sedatives all 'round, but Cobb had waved him to the victim's room.

As soon as the doctor disappeared down the hallway, Cobb had decided to accelerate the proceedings. He unwrapped the dagger, which he set on one of the end tables, and held it up into the candlelight before the killer. “This is what you stuck inta that poor lass's throat,” he snarled.

The man had yelped, as if he too had been stabbed, leapt up, and staggered over to the chair near the stove. Without looking up, he moaned, and this time the words were clear: “I d-d-didn't mean to.”

Cobb had turned away in disgust. So here they sat, the three of them, waiting for the doctor to confirm the obvious and, in Cobb's case, listening for the arrival of the chief constable. The wood in the stove crackled like gunshot.

Cobb suddenly thought of a use for his notebook. He turned to Madame Renée.

“What was the young lady's full name again?”

“Sarah McConkey.”

“And the others?”

“Molly Mason, Carrie Garnet, and Frieda Smiley.”

Cobb gave a little cough and said, “And your name, ma'am?”

A wee smile trembled at the corners of Madame Renée's mouth. “Norah Burgess,” she said. “Just plain Norah Burgess. Madame Renée is my . . . professional appellation.”

Cobb nodded sagely. “Yer sober-ket, I take it.” He scribbled down all the names, content with phonetic approximations. Gussie French could tidy up the spelling, and enjoy himself in the process.

“Do you know where Sarah's from? Who her parents are?”

Norah Burgess grimaced. “I do. But I doubt they'll give a damn about what's happened here.” She spat out these words, then added tonelessly, “They live on a farm out near Streetsville.”

“Sarah and them didn't get along?”

“They threw her out on the street. Disowned her. It was me who took her in when no one else would. She was beautiful and sweet. They didn't deserve her.”

“They'll have to be told, all the same,” Cobb said gently. “Do you know where we can find them? They may want to make the arrangements.”

Norah's face darkened, its pleasant, plump contours suddenly hardening. “I'm gonna give her a proper burial. Up in the town. I won't have her body dumped into some pauper's grave.”

“Well, ma'am, her soul's elsewhere now.”

“With God,” Norah said, with a touch more bitterness than gratitude.

Cobb wasn't sure there were harems in heaven, so refrained from comment.

“We're ruined, you know, Constable. What gentleman would come here now with such a scandal about the place?” She looked around at her handiwork. “We'll have to cater to drunken sailors with the clap and no manners.”

Just then Dr. Withers emerged from the bedroom. He glanced fiercely at the perpetrator of the outrage he had just scrutinized. The killer, however, remained oblivious, rocking on the edge of his chair with both arms locked around his chest and his chin on top of them, the rose-petalled dressing gown still draped preposterously over his pathetically thin body. He was white enough to intimidate a ghost.

“She was stabbed once in the throat with a thin blade,” the doctor said to Cobb and Norah Burgess. Cobb indicated the bloody weapon on the end table.

“A single powerful thrust. Straight in, then twisted about. Cut the jugular in two by the looks of it. Then kept on going through the neck, severing the spine, I'd say. Certainly there was no resistance, no spasming of the body. Very likely she was in a sound sleep and died instantly.” He looked at Norah Burgess. “Without pain.”

“I think you oughta have a gander at the fella here who did it. I can't get a sensible word outta him.”

“Shock,” Withers said. “It does that to people.”

“But the fella was sound asleep and snorin' like a spent horse when I got here,” Cobb said. “How could he stab a helpless girl to death with such a blow and then drift off like nothin'd happened?”

“Perhaps he did it in his sleep,” Withers suggested. “It wouldn't be the first time.” With that he went over to the fellow, stayed the rocking, catatonic figure with one gentle hand, and very slowly lifted the chin up to expose the wan face and desperate eyes, feral with fear.

“I'm going to give you something to drink, young man: tincture of laudanum. It'll calm your nerves.”

Outside the door they could hear footsteps and voices. Cobb recognized the cockney semitones of his superior: reinforcements
had arrived. But most of the work here, Cobb thought to himself with restrained pride, had already been done—and done well.

“My God!” Withers cried. “I know this man.”

Cobb reached for his notebook. The final piece of the puzzle was about to fall into place. There was a timely pounding on the scarlet door.

“Who is he?” Cobb asked quickly of the doctor.

“I saw him at the gala out at Spadina not three hours ago. At the whist table.”

There was a flicker of recognition in the murderer's face.

Norah Burgess stood to unbar the door.

Dr. Withers drew Cobb to one side and said in a low, tremulous whisper, “This is Handford Ellice, Lord Durham's nephew.”

Cobb dropped his notebook.