Minor Corruption (28 page)

“And you succeded both ways,” Sturges said
proudly.

“I did. Whittle spat out a
deny-all
about poachin’, but his eyes were lyin’. Then I went to the farm
where he sent me, and Tim’s friend, Will Getty, finally told me I
could find Tim at the hotel in Thornhill, usin’ the name Kilbride.
I knew I had to get up there and back before nightfall, so I rented
a horse.”

“The supreme sacrifice,” Marc said, much
amused.

Reminded of that harrowing journey, Cobb
unconsciously adjusted the pillow he had been sitting on. “And when
I finally found Tim and his wife, there was a second lady seated at
the kitchen table. I knew right off it was Lottie Thurgood and I’d
hit the bull’s-eye.”

“You had no trouble persuading them to come
into town and do their duty?”

“None at all. They were as mad as could be,
both of ‘em, though Lottie looked awful frail. I hired a carriage
and we drove back, slowly, to Toronto. My rear end still recollects
every bump.”

“Cobb took them home, reported to you, then
came to me,” Marc said. “Early in the morning Robert and I worked
out our new defense. Fortunately we had to use only part of
it.”

Also, at Marc’s the previous evening, the two
friends had fallen over each other with apologies for their sharp
exchange in the attorneys’ wig-room. Marc readily admitted that if
he had not been so eager to become Doubtful Dick Dougherty, he
might have done some investigating on his own and discovered the
truth. He had relied solely on Cobb’s recorded interviews when he
could have been out at Spadina quizzing the servants and spending
more time with Uncle Seamus. He had visited the crime scene once –
but that was all. While he couldn’t tamper with the Crown’s
witnesses, he could have walked over to the cluster of workman’s
houses and played investigator. But he hadn’t. For his part Cobb
had confessed to focussing solely on whether or not Uncle Seamus
had committed the crime and, having once determined the case, to
clinging to it at all costs. Still, their deeper accusations about
motive went undiscussed, and it might be some time before their
friendship came fully back on course – if it ever did.

“Well,” Sturges said, summing up, “there are
really only two completely positive things to come outta this
case.”

“What are they?” Marc said.

“First of all, I got word an hour ago that
Mrs. Trigger was found dead up in Newmarket. Fell down in a drunken
stupor, I’m told, and struck her head on somethin’ sharp.”

“Good riddance,” said Cobb.

“And the second thing?”

“We’ve found ourselves a
bona fide
detective, ain’t we?”

And he looked admiringly, imploringly at
Cobb.

***

In bed that night, after she had heard all of the
pertinent details of the case and accounts of Cobb’s brilliance,
Beth said, “Do you think Thurgood went after Betsy while she was
nursing her sick mom?”

“Thurgood told the magistrate that the girl
slept beside her mother the whole time – ostensibly to nurse her
better.”

“It seems that Betsy did lie to get the five
pounds to procure an abortion. Why would she herself have not
hinted that a midwife would be a good idea that evenin’, knowin’ it
would be the notorious Mrs. Trigger?”

“She knew her father, eh? He’d never call a
doctor. Who else, then, but Mrs. Trigger? And remember, Betsy
played ignorant of the facts of life when it’s obvious now that she
knew the trouble she was in and, vaguely, who might help her out of
it.”

“The poor girl probably only knew that a
midwife would know what to do.”

“She was still an innocent in my book.”

“What I don’t get, though,” Beth said,
stifling a yawn, “is why Thurgood would pursue Uncle Seamus so
madly when he himself defiled his own daughter. Wouldn’t he have
been wise to just let sleepin’ dogs sleep?”

“True. But Thurgood tried to extort money
from the Baldwins before making his charge against Uncle Seamus
public. He was enraged when they slighted him, and once the whole
business got rolling, after Jake Broom’s accusation, there was no
way for him to stop it. Besides, he never imagined anyone would
discover the truth. Once Betsy appeared to have named Uncle Seamus
as the father of the child and he had his alibi handed to him, he
must have felt invulnerable.”

“He also had a wicked temper,” Beth pointed
out. “And all that grief and guilt had to go somewhere, didn’t
it?”

“This whole affair has been one vast
tragedy.”

Beth brightened. “But it was you who realized
someone other than Uncle Seamus could have big, grey hair. It was
you who thought up the idea that the wheat chaff and tricky
lighting could’ve caused Jake Broom to make a terrible
mistake.”

Marc smiled. “It was, wasn’t it? You know,
Mrs. Edwards, you’re married to a genius.”

Beth leaned over, kissed him and said, “You
ain’t there yet, luv.”

Don Gutteridge is the author of more than 40
books: fiction, poetry and scholarly works, including the Marc
Edwards mystery series. He taught in the Faculty of Education at
Western University for 25 years in the Department of English
Methods. He is currently professor Emeritus, and lives in London,
Ontario.

Turncoat

Solemn Vows

Vital Secrets

Dubious Allegiance

Bloody Relations

Death of a Patriot

The Bishop’s
Pawn

Unholy
Alliance

Desperate
Acts

Or visit the
Simon & Schuster Canada Website

Coming Soon in the Marc Edwards Mystery
Series:

Governing Passion

The Widow’s Demise

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Editions

One

Toronto, Upper Canada: 1840

The blizzard that howled across the icy expanse of
Lake Ontario and struck the defenceless city broadside on this
particular midwinter evening was little noticed by the five
gentlemen seated in the drawing-room of the Bishop’s palace on
Front Street. After all, supper had been lavish, as usual, and more
than satisfying, especially so since not one of the prelate’s
guests felt himself to be less than deserving of the great man’s
largesse. Friday evening was secular night at John Strachan’s
palatial residence, an opportunity for men of worth and promise to
congregate, sup well, gossip idly, and then move on to discuss the
pressing political issues of these turbulent times. Though the
guest-list varied from week to week, those attending invariably
shared a number of beliefs and convictions. That all were adherents
of the Church of England was a given, and whether that fact was
instrumental in shaping the rest of their character or not, they
were, to a man, High Tory in their politics, conservative in their
morals and demeanour, terribly sensitive to distinctions of race
and class, and inclined towards capitalist enterprise. And no less
importantly, they were susceptible to a good cigar and a fine
sherry.

Enjoying the latter post-prandial
refreshments, while the wind scoured and screeched against the
red-brick walls and mullioned windows, were Ignatius Maxwell,
receiver-general of Upper Canada and judge-designate; Ezra
Michaels, local chemist; Ivor Winthrop, furrier and land
speculator; Carson James, a non-practising barrister with a very
rich wife; and their host, John Strachan, the recently elevated
Bishop of Toronto.

“That was one superb dinner, Bishop,” James
said, inhaling deeply, “and, if I may say so, was meticulously
presented. I don’t know where you find such well-mannered and
properly trained servants, but they are most impressive.”

“Worth their weight in gold,” Michaels added,
reaching for the sherry. “We’ve had three maids and two houseboys
since September.”

“You’d think with so many people out of work
and begging for employment, that they’d be happy to do an honest
day’s work without complaining or demanding higher wages,” Winthrop
said solemnly.

“Or dropping the crystal,” Maxwell said with
a chuckle.

“I take no credit for my servants’
performance,” Strachan said in the deep, authoritative voice that
had made his sermons at St. James justly renowned. “It is Mrs.
Strachan alone who manages my household, with thrift and a good
heart.”

“I take it you’ve all heard about poor
Macaulay?” James said.

Several murmurs followed this remark, but
Michaels, looking puzzled, said, “You mean his wife going off to
Kingston to see her specialist?”

“I did hear that,” James said, “but I was
referring to what happened to his butler before Christmas.”

“Ah, yes,” Michaels said, flushing slightly.
“Alfred Harkness had been with the Macaulays for over twenty years,
hadn’t he?”

“Cancer. Out of the blue,” Maxwell said.
“Mercifully, he didn’t suffer long.”

“It is not given to us to know when it is we
are to meet our Maker,” the Bishop intoned. “For which mercy we
should be eternally grateful,” he added.

“Even with all
his
money, Macaulay
won’t find it easy to replace Alfred Harkness,” James said with a
certain degree of satisfaction.

“The fellow was a gem,” Michaels sighed.

For a few moments the assembled worthies
stared into their sherry, contemplating the virtues of the late
Alfred Harkness.

It was Receiver-General Maxwell who broke the
silence. “It’s still a puzzle to me how a chap like Garnet
Macaulay, with his father’s fortune in hand and a splendid estate
like Elmgrove, should have thrown his lot in with the Reformers.
Old Sidney would turn over in his grave if he could see what a
radical his son has become.”

“But I’ve felt the same all these years about
Dr. Baldwin and his intransigent son,” Strachan said forcefully.
“They sit in their pew before me Sunday after Sunday, professing to
be loyal Anglicans, and then do everything in their power outside
of church to destroy the foundations upon which it stands by
spreading the infections of liberalism and democracy amongst
us.”

“Well, they are Irish, after all,” Maxwell
said with another chuckle. “That often explains the
inexplicable.”

“True,” James said, not chuckling. “But the
Macaulays were as English as Cheshire cheese, weren’t they?”

Ivor Winthrop, who had been following the
conversation closely but not contributing, suddenly said, “English
or Irish, the man’s already solved his butler problem.”

This remark, apparently incontrovertible,
left the others without a reply. Finally, the Bishop said, “You
mean he’s already replaced Harkness?”

Winthrop, lantern-jawed with bold black eyes
that rarely came to rest in their bony sockets, smiled and said,
“I’m
sure
he has.”

“Then you’ve got a sharper ear on the rumour
mill than any of us,” Michaels said, impressed despite himself. “My
lad delivered some medicine to Elmgrove a few days ago, and there
was no sign of a butler.”

Pleased with the attention he’d garnered,
Winthrop said slowly, “Quite so. You see, my sources tell me that
the new butler has not yet arrived, but is most assuredly on his
way here.”

As it was now clear that Winthrop intended to
keep them dangling, James happily fed him his next cue: “On his way
from where?”

“England,” Winthrop said, and leaned over to
the trolley near the blazing hearth to refill his sherry glass.

“Garnet Macaulay is importing a butler all
the way from England?” the Bishop said in a tone so accusatory that
the bloodhound dozing by the coal-scuttle flinched.

“At
this
time of year?” Maxwell said,
incredulous.

“Some stranger he hasn’t even met?” Michaels
said, more incredulous still.

“What in the world is he trying to prove?”
James said.

“I’m told the fellow is already on his way
overland from New York City,” Winthrop said, glancing at Michaels.
“The roads are as passable as they ever get – with the winter we’ve
had.”

“But a sea voyage in February?” said
Michaels, ever practical and not a little awed.

“And just how did you come by this
information?” Strachan inquired, visibly irritated that such a
singular event should be unfolding among the better class without
his knowledge or consent.

“My brother’s butler, in Cobourg,” Winthrop
said, but not before he had taken a measured sip of his sherry. “It
seems these chaps have some sort of fraternity. Whatever the case,
news of Macaulay’s efforts has reached as far as Cobourg.”

But not, the glower on Strachan’s face
suggested, as far as the bishop’s palace, seventy miles closer.

“Know anything about him?” James asked.

“Not much. Macaulay has numerous relatives
back home, so I assume he got a recommendation from one of
them.”

“Some snooty cast-off,” Michaels said.

Maxwell was heard to chuckle again as he
said, “Believe it or not, I understand that Alfred’s younger
brother, Giles, thought he might be offered the post.”

“Macaulay’s coachman?” Michaels said, amazed.
“A mere stableman? You can’t be serious. The fellow’s a boor. Even
the pigs out there keep clear of him.”

“Well, I’m told
he
took the idea
seriously,” Maxwell said.

The Bishop cleared his throat. “You see,
gentlemen, what comes of too much social levelling – stable hands
aspiring to be butlers and valets. What next?”

The deluge
apparently, for a deep,
chastening silence settled on the company, during which there was
heard only the wheeze of cigars and the silky slither of sherry
over lip and tongue.