Minor Corruption (4 page)

“Oh, no, not at all. Yer missus has been most
kind.” Cobb winced as he realized how much he sounded like Marc
Edwards, Esquire.

“Good. Good.”

Cobb sipped at his cooling coffee and
squirmed in his lumpy chair in a futile effort to get
comfortable.

“You are happy with your work?” Sturges said
after an anxious pause.

“’Course I am. Can’t think of anythin’ else
I’d like to do.”
Are you happy with
my
work?
was the
response Cobb wished to make. Was Sarge leading up to firing him?
Demoting him? He began to sweat.

“Glad to hear it.”

“I figure I’ll be workin’ on patrol till my
feet give out,” Cobb said, instantly regretting the remark.

Sturges chuckled, something he needed to do
more as it instantly invigorated the character in his face – a
high-browed, full-cheeked, essentially cheerful face with eyes that
had seen too much horror on the Spanish peninsula but still had the
urge to dance in their sockets if given the chance. “You wouldn’t
be thinkin’ of a change, then?”

Cobb flinched, rattling his coffee cup in its
saucer. “I’d like things to stay where they are,” he replied, “or
the way they useta be – when you could run like a greyhound.”

“Don’t we all?” He leaned forward, grimacing
at the effort. “But I’m thinkin’ of a change fer the better. Surely
you’ve heard the men talkin’ about me retirin’?”

“They’ve been mutterin’ about that when you
ain’t nearby, but I don’t
toll-or-rate
such talk. You’re the
Chief.”

Sturges heaved a theatrical sigh. “And I’d
like to be chief forever. But I asked you here to tell you, first
up, that the wife and I have come to a decision on the matter.”

Cobb was shocked and flattered – both. “Ya
mean you’re gonna quit?”

“I’m goin’ to retire on half-pay, as the
gentlemen officers say, like I did when I left the army and joined
Peel’s patrolmen back in ’twenty-nine.”

“But who’s gonna be our chief?”

“That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to
you about, man to man.”

“I can’t see any of us takin’ over,” Cobb
said quickly. The very thought of having to sit in an office most
of the waking hours, of hobnobbing with Magistrate Thorpe or the
Attorney-General or the Aldermen who continually butted into police
affairs, or of supervising laggards like Ewan Wilkie or bullies
like Bob Brown – such thoughts caused him to break out in
hives.

“Well, before we get anywheres near that
topic, there are other, bigger changes comin’ to the Toronto
constabulary.”

It was Cobb’s turn to lean forward. “What
kinda changes?” he said, barely breathing the words.

“Nothin’ lasts forever, my friend, and not
all change is fer the worse, though I know it usually works out
that way.”

“But the force is workin’ well, ain’t it? Is
the mayor unhappy with us?”

“No, no, no. It’s
because
things are
workin’ out well that the City Council is plannin’ to make the
force bigger and better.”

“But they’ve already made it bigger.”

Last year five part-time constables had been
added to the five permanent ones (including the chief constable) so
that certain sensitive parts of the city could be policed
twenty-four hours a day. The old night watchmen were gradually
being phased out.

“True, and as you can see fer yerself every
day on yer patrol, this city is growin’ by leaps and bounds. We’re
addin’ a thousand people a year. Our wharves are teemin’ with
immigrants from Britain. The shanties up in Irishtown are spreadin’
like pigweed. There’s talk of the army movin’ in and ejectin’ all
them squatters ‘cause the property is needed fer respectable
citizens.”

“Well, I’ll admit we don’t go inta Irishtown
alone no more. But still – ”

“The decision’s already been made,” Sturges
said, leaning back with elaborate care. “It’ll be official at the
next council meetin’.”

Cobb wished he were somewhere else – in his
“office” at the Cock and Bull, for example, with a frothy flagon of
ale in his right hand.

“First of all,” Sturges continued, “startin’
in the new year, we’ll have ten full-time constables with
twenty-four-hour foot-patrols throughout the town.”

“We ain’t got room fer an extra midget as it
is!”

“New quarters will be found or built. It’s
possible that a second quarters or station will be set up here in
the east end.”

“I see,” Cobb said, though he was having a
hard time imagining such sweeping change. “But they’ll still need a
new chief, won’t they?”

“They will. And believe me, Cobb, if I
thought there was the slightest chance you would consider it, I’d
recommend you.”

Cobb looked at Sturges long and hard enough
for him to realize that he was deeply touched by the offer but was
not tempted, even now, to change his mind on the question. “You
know I can’t,” he said at last.

“I do. And I didn’t bring you up here to
browbeat or sweet-talk you into takin’ on the job. As it turns out,
the Council is lookin’ to London again fer another chief, as they
did fer me.”

“Another – ”

“Limey? Yes, I’m afraid so.” Sturges chuckled
for the second time, tickled at Cobb’s embarrassment, which
inevitably reddened his already scarlet nose. “Alderman MacArthur
is headin’ to England this week, and he’s been asked to interview
candidates and bring back a recommendation when he returns in
December.”

“So I’m off the hook?”

“Not entirely. For there’s a second change
comin’, a very interestin’ one.”

Cobb waited, wary and apprehensive.

“I’ve been in correspondence with colleagues
in London, old pals of mine, and it seems like the police over
there are plannin’ to create a new class of investigator, someone
who will not be on patrol or even in uniform.”

“Sounds crazy to me. What would they do
without a truncheon or a helmet to protect their noggins?”

“These men would be called detectives. Their
sole purpose would be to investigate serious crimes – gather
evidence and question suspicious people and witnesses. The idea of
havin’ them in plain, gentleman’s attire is to allow them to move
about at will without scarin’ people and without havin’ to be stuck
on regular patrol. They’d need more brains than brawn.”

“But me and the Major’ve been investigatin’
quite nicely on our own, ain’t we?”

Sturges smiled as if he had at long last
reached the target he had been aiming at all along. “
Very
nicely, Cobb. That’s my point. And that’s why I’m goin’ to
recommend to Council that when the new chief arrives and the force
gets reorganized, you be made our first plainclothes
detective.”

Cobb was speechless. He wasn’t even sure how
he ought to feel.

“Don’t look so surprised or worried. The
changes’ll not be that severe. I know the Council will resist the
idea – they’re all stuck in the Dark Ages – so I intend to suggest
that we begin the experiment by havin’ you keep yer patrol –
day-patrol only, I might add – until a major crime occurs, one that
requires real investigation. Then you will be relieved of yer
patrol, remove yer uniform, and carry out the investigation
as
you see fit.
Subject to the chief’s guidance, you will be
allowed to direct one or more patrolmen to assist you, as
required.”

“Like I done with the Major, except I get to
wear my Sunday suit?”

“Except you won’t have Marc Edwards at yer
side.”

Cobb thought about that. Marc had taught him
much about interrogation and evidence-gathering. They had worked
well as a team. Could he work alone? More to the point, would the
Major be available in any case now that he had two children, a
barrister’s career, and a consuming passion for politics? Not
likely.

“It would mean a substantial increase in yer
salary,” Sturges said, seeing that Cobb had sniffed at the bait and
was now mouthing it.

That offer was welcome news, for Cobb had
school fees to pay for Delia’s winter term at Miss Tyson’s Academy
and, by next autumn, similar fees for Fabian at the grammar school.
Fabian was already the brightest pupil in the common school and
destined for something better than the life of a police
constable.

“You’d be willin’ to suggest all this to the
Council?” he said when he felt confident enough to speak.

“I would.”

“But with a new chief and all these new
constables, aren’t they likely to balk at extra expenses? They’re
too cheap to cobble or macadam the main streets, for God’s
sake.”

“They are. But I’ve got a long list of yer
successful investigations to regale them with. Besides, serious
crime is on the increase. Toronto would like to be the capital of
the united provinces when Kingston drops the ball, so they’re much
aware of our town’s safety and the success of our constabulary.
Anyway, as long as you approve of the idea, I’m goin’ to push it as
hard as I can.”

Cobb nodded his assent slowly. Then he said,
“You sure that gout of yers ain’t gonna get better?”

***

Beth dropped Marc off at Baldwin House and continued
on up Bay Street towards
Smallman’s.
Marc watched her
awhile, marvelling yet again how competent she was around horses
and most things practical, and at how content they both were at the
life they had begun making together. Like many people in this
colony, they had suffered the loss of those they had loved and
themselves had had brushes with death. But they had survived and
found each other. They had brought a daughter and a son into this
world. They could do nothing to alter the whims of Fate or a
vengeful God, but they could do all in their power to make the new
Canada a place fit to live and prosper in. Politics was a human
enterprise and, if possible, they would make sure it was humane as
well. Beth had worked for the Reform cause – the redress of
long-time grievances and the establishment of a responsible,
cabinet form of government – all her adult life. It was she who had
won him over to the cause, along with his heart. He watched her
now, and marvelled anew until the buggy wheeled east onto King
Street.

Marc turned back towards Baldwin House, which
faced Front Street at Bay. Half of the splendid, two-storey brick
building provided living quarters for Robert, his four children,
their governess Diana Ramsay, and their servants. The other half
contained the law chambers of Baldwin and Sullivan, the firm that
Marc, as a barrister, assisted from time to time but one that he
had so far resisted joining, as he had still not decided the
precise direction his future would take. His assistance this
morning, and for the next several weeks, would consist of writing
letters on Robert’s behalf while offering guidance to and keeping a
close watch on Seamus Baldwin as he settled in “to be of help.”
Uncle Seamus had come into town yesterday evening, and was to make
his inaugural appearance in chambers at nine this morning. Marc
went immediately to his office, a small but comfortable room next
to the suite of rooms occupied by Clement Peachey and his clerks –
the place where the conveyancing and other fee-paying business was
carried out. At the end of the hall lay two large and
well-appointed chambers reserved for the firm’s partners.

Robert’s manservant had set a small fire in
the corner stove to take the night chill off, and Marc had just
walked over to dampen it down when he heard a sharp cry. It had
come from next door, and sounded as if someone had jabbed something
sharp into Clement Peachey. Marc ran out into the hall. The cry had
evolved into a string of oaths, none of them complimentary. Marc
opened Clement’s door and went in.

“What happened?” Marc said, but already the
anxiety had gone out of his voice. Peachey was not injured. In fact
he had not risen from his desk. He was holding aloft what appeared
to be the firm’s seal, the one used to press hot wax onto the many
official documents and letters he dealt with daily. He was glaring
at it as if it had of its own accord chosen to alter its shape. He
glanced up at Marc, scowled, then looked down at the document
before him. Marc could see what might have been shards of clear
glass scattered over it.

“Macaroons,” Peachey said bleakly. “Some damn
fool glued bits of macaroon to my seal!”

Uncle Seamus had struck early.

***

It took Marc five minutes to get Peachey to cool
down and even longer to have him see the comic side of Uncle
Seamus’s prank. Robert was never far from a bowl of macaroons. Some
wags at court referred to the firm as Macaroon and Sullivan. That
its seal, its “coat of arms,” should include the macaroon could
well be seen as both fitting and funny.

“That’s all very well, Marc, but we’ve got a
business to run. While the two Roberts are off playing politics,
it’s me here and you in court who keep the firm solvent. Tell
Seamus Baldwin for me that I don’t intend to let any frivolous
prankster loose in here amongst my papers and files. I do have a
sense of humour, but it has no place in a
law
office!”

That may be the most appropriate place for
it
, was Marc’s thought, but he said, “I just heard Robert go
down to his chamber. Uncle Seamus may be with him. I’ll sort this
matter out right now.”

Marc left Peachey picking macaroon shards off
the company seal and started down towards Robert’s office.

“What the Sam hell!” It was Robert, his voice
raised to an unaccustomed level. He never swore, but was obviously
coming close to doing so.

Robert’s outcry was followed by a huge
guffaw.

Marc stepped into the room to find Robert
with his wooden macaroon bowl clinging, it appeared, to all five of
the outstretched fingers of his left hand.

“Gotcha!” Uncle Seamus roared, and clapped
his hands to his belly. The old gentleman was impeccably turned out
in his finest suit. Extra pomade and a centre-part had brought his
sheaf of grey-white hair close to respectability. His boots had
been polished till they bled. But nothing could really be done to
disguise the gnome’s body or the impish dance of his blue eyes. The
deep wrinkles of his troll-like features were contorted now into a
most unlawyerly grin.