The Widow's Demise (11 page)

“Good. You’ve done splendid work thus
far.”

“Do ya mind if I stay and say hello to Maggie
fer a bit?”

“I’m sure she’d be delighted,” Marc said.

Cobb decided to interview Lionel Trueman first.
Trueman lived in a rented house on north George Street. Cobb went
up and used the knocker. He waited a long minute and rapped again.
The door was at last opened by a uniformed maid.

“Good afternoon, sir. What can I do for
you?”

Cobb was relieved to see that she took him
for someone respectable. It must be the suit, he thought.

“I’m Detective-Constable Cobb. I’d like to
talk to Mr. Lionel Trueman.”

“That’s my master.”

“Is he in?”

“He is, sir. I’ll see if he can see you now.
Please step in and wait.”

Cobb stepped into a small vestibule. It was
warm and stuffy inside. He adjusted his collar. A minute later the
maid returned.

“Mr. Trueman has agreed to see you, sir.”

Cobb followed her down the hallway to a tiny
den, where Lionel Trueman stood waiting.

“Thank you, Mavis. That’ll be all.”

Mavis curtsied and left.

“Where’s your uniform, Constable?” Trueman
said, his pop-eyes appraising his visitor.

“I don’t wear one,” Cobb said. “I’m a
plainclothes detective.”

“What’ll they think of next?”

“I hope you’re all finished with duellin’,”
Cobb said.

“Oh, that was all a misunderstanding. You
haven’t come about that, have you?”

“No. I’m investigatin’ the murder of Delores
Cardiff-Jones.”

“I thought you had a suspect under lock and
key.”

“We do. I’m gatherin’ evidence fer the
trial.”

“Well, I don’t see how I can help you. I’m a
very busy man.”

“We’re tryin’ to find out how well our
suspect, Gilles Gagnon, knew Mrs. Cardiff-Jones.”

“How would I know anything about that?”

“You were at the Charity Ball the other
night?”

“I was.”

“Did you see Mr. Gagnon dance with the
lady?”

Trueman’s brow furrowed. “I saw her dancing
with a Frenchman. I heard them babbling in that tongue.”

“You must have been very close to them.”

“I happened to be nearby, yes. By pure
coincidence.”

“Did they look to be friendly?”

“They were dancing a reel. You can’t get too
friendly in those circumstances.”

“Did they talk afterwards?”

“As a matter of fact, they did. They were
cozied up near the drinks table.” Trueman’s disinterested manner
suddenly became personal. There was venom in his response.

“Like they knew each other?”

“I really couldn’t say. I merely glanced in
their direction.”

“I would’ve thought you’d’ve kept a close eye
on the lady.”

Trueman’s moustache quivered. “And why do you
say that, sir? Are you being impertinent?”

“Rumour has it that you and the lady were
very close friends.”

“There’s no need to beat about the bush,
Constable,” Trueman said with a tight little laugh. “The whole town
knows I have been pursuing Mrs. Cardiff-Jones for some time. I had
planned to marry the lady, if she would have me.”

“That’s what I heard.”

“So what are you driving at?”

“I just thought you might’ve been a little
bit jealous.”

“Pah!” Trueman snorted. “Why would I be
jealous of a Frenchman Delores had just met on the dance-floor.
Everybody knows she was a bit of a flirt. I was used to it. I
wasn’t bothered in the least.”

“I see. So you’re sure there was nothin’
goin’ on between the two?”

“As I said, sir, I don’t see how that was
possible.”

Cobb cleared his throat. “Where were you
about seven-thirty on the night of the murder?”

Trueman blanched. “What do you mean? Am I a
suspect?”

“Please, sir. Just answer the question.”

“I think you’re going beyond your authority,
sir. I loved the woman, and I’d like to be left alone to
grieve.”

“Gagnon’s lawyer, Marc Edwards, is fond of
pointing to other possible murderers durin’ the trial. We need to
make sure you’re not one of them.” Cobb was particularly pleased
with this improvised rationale.

“Oh, I see. Very well, then. I was playing
whist at the Reverend Ogilvie’s that evening. From six o’clock
onward. The Reverend and several others can vouch for me.”

“The Reverend will do.”

“Do you have any further questions?”

“Just one. This glove was found near the
scene of the crime. Is it by chance yours?”

Trueman looked at the glove with distaste.
“It is not, sir.”

“Would you mind tryin’ it on?”

“I would – ”

“Please, humour me, sir.”

“Oh, all right.”

He slipped the glove on easily.

“It’s too big,” Trueman said quickly.

“Looks fine to me,” Cobb said, retrieving the
glove.

“But I don’t wear gloves that colour. Ask
anybody.”

Cobb smiled. “Thank you, sir. You been most
helpful. I’ll see myself out.”

***

The Reverend Olgilvie lived only a few doors from
Trueman’s place. The Reverend was in, fortunately. He was a pale
man with an extra ring around his waist and a pair of side
whiskers. Cobb interviewed him in his office.

“How can I help you, Constable?” he said with
a friendly smile.

“I’m checkin’ on an alibi by Mr. Lionel
Trueman. It’s in regard to the death of Mrs. Cardiff-Jones. He says
he was here playin’ whist two nights ago. From six o’clock on.”

“Well, sir, we were certainly playing cards
that evening, and Mr. Trueman arrived shortly before six. But he
wasn’t here the whole evening.”

“Oh?”

“About six-thirty a message arrived for him
from a friend who wished to meet him at his house. It’s just half a
block from here. He left right away. He didn’t come back till
almost eight o’clock. But I’m sure he had nothing to do with any
crime. He’s a respectable gentleman.”

“Did he meet his friend?”

“No, the friend didn’t show up. Trueman
waited a while, then came back here.”

“I see,” Cobb said, getting up. “Thank you
fer that information.”

“I trust it’ll be useful. Good luck in your
investigation, Constable. It was a horrendous murder, and the
killer needs to have justice done.”

Cobb made his way out to the street. So, he
thought, Lionel Trueman had no alibi for the critical time of
seven-thirty, unless someone in his household remembered him there
at that time. Cobb couldn’t actually see a motive for Trueman,
unless he was indeed the jealous type and had been betrayed or
rebuffed by the lady. Love scorned could quickly turn to hate – and
rage.

Horace Macy, the chemist, was up next. As
Macy’s shop was on King near Jarvis, Cobb took the opportunity to
stop at the Police Quarters on Front Street. Gussie French, the
police clerk was as usual sitting at his table in the reception
area copying out a document of some sort. He glanced up at Cobb for
the half-second it took him to skip a comma, and went back to his
scribbling.

“I need you to take down some notes,
Gussie.”

Gussie’s pen stopped its stuttering.

“I gotta finish this warrant, first,” he
said.

“You c’n do that later. My notes are
important.”

“If you insist,
Detective
,” Gussie
said. Ever since Cobb had been promoted, Gussie had taken it as a
personal affront. Even though he liked to boast of his ability to
take shorthand, he seemed to resent Cobb’s cavalier way with
note-making and dictation. Cobb, on his part, got even by dictating
at a pace just faster than Gussie’s pen could keep up with.

“You want me to copy yer notes and fix them
up?” Gussie said.

“Oh, no, I’ll dictate them. They’re a mite
messy.”

Relying more on his prodigious memory than
the jottings in his notebook, Cobb dictated the results of his
interviews with Lionel Trueman and the Reverend Ogilive. Gussie’s
pen flew across the page. There was no time to pause for blotting.
Gussie cursed under his breath, but his pride would not let him
stop and complain.

When Cobb had finished, he thanked Gussie,
who grunted a response, as Cobb headed out the door before the
Chief could corral him.

Cobb walked up to King and over to Jarvis.
The chemist’s shop was a dingy little place sandwiched between two
more prominent shops. Cobb had heard that Macy’s business was
failing, and he could well believe it as he went into its murky
interior. A small window in the front provided the only light.
Apothecary jars and wooden boxes cluttered the room. Macy himself
was standing behind a counter at the end of the room, itself agog
with scales, spoons, bottles and boxes. Macy looked surprised to
see a potential customer enter, and he dredged up a smile.

“What can I do for you, sir?”

“I’m Detective-Constable Cobb, sir, and I’ve
come to ask you a few questions about the death of Mrs.
Cardiff-Jones.”

Macy’s face fell. “Damn tragedy, that. What
sort of nut would throw acid in a woman’s face – and kill her?”

“You knew the lady?”

Macy smiled slyly. “I did.”

“How well?”

“There’s no use in me pretending otherwise,
Constable; I knew her very well. My daily visits to Rosewood –
although supposed to be secret – were observed it seems by half the
town. About the only one who didn’t know was her father. Who
wouldn’t have approved. I have been devastated by her death.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about her father.”

“Oh? Well, what does it matter now? He’s lost
a daughter and I’ve lost a possible wife.”

“And her fortune,” Cobb said, leaning on the
counter.

“Now, now, sir, there’s no need for that kind
of talk. I was in love with Delores, not her money.”

“Did you know that there were other
suitors?”

Macy blanched, then smiled grimly. “I fought
a duel with one of them, remember? Why do you ask?”

“I was wonderin’ if the lady chose somebody
else to be her mate.”

Macy glowered. “You’re not thinking I had any
reason to throw acid in her face? I thought you had arrested the
killer?”

“We have a suspect, sir, but he claims he saw
a third party at Rosewood on the night of the incident, and I have
to make sure our case against the fellow has no holes in it.”

“Well, the lady was about to choose me, sir,
and I was at home in my study reading in the early part of the
evening.”

“Is there anyone who can confirm that,
sir?”

“There is. My maid Gladys was in the next
room the whole time. You can ask her.”

“Where do you live?”

Macy told him.

“Now, sir, you can help us in another way.
We’re tryin’ to find a motive fer the arrested man, Mr. Gilles
Gagnon. And it turns out, accordin’ to him, that they only met
while dancin’ at the Charity Ball. You, sir, were at that ball,
were you not?”

“I was there, yes. And this Gilles Gagnon was
one of the two Frenchman who came in about nine o’clock.”

“Yeah. He was with Mr. Lafontaine.”

“I saw them both.”

“Mr. Gagnon danced with Mrs. Cardiff-Jones,
didn’t he?”

“I believe he did.”

“You’re sure he did, aren’t you, sir, because
you would’ve kept a close eye on yer lady.”

“Is that unreasonable?”

Cobb ignored the question. “Did Gagnon and
the lady talk while they were dancin’?”

Macy paused to think this over. “Yes, now
that I think back on it, I’d say they had quite a little chat.”

“They were friendly?”

“Oh, I’d say more than friendly. The fellow
was smitten with her. I saw him make moon eyes at her. And when the
dance was finished, he followed her to the drinks table and
continued to talk at her.”

“But she didn’t return his talk?”

“No. She was a proper lady, Constable. And
she was in love with me. She had done her duty as hostess, and she
rebuffed him. He went scuttling back to his friends on the other
side of the room.”

Oh, oh, thought Cobb. He would have to
include this remark in his report, and some fancy Crown prosecutor
might construe it as a motive – slim as it was – for retaliation.
That is, of course, if Macy were telling the truth. His account
didn’t exactly jibe with Trueman’s, and he could be merely trying
to show that his lady was a loyal soul and not an incorrigible
flirt.

Cobb switched tactics. “I understand you’ve
got quite a temper.”

Macy glowered again. “Don’t be impertinent,
sir, or I shall have to complain to your superior.”

“You were charged with assault last spring,
and I caught you duellin’ the other day.”

“You know I was charged with assault because
you were the arresting officer.”

“It was a fight over a woman, as I
remember.”

“Yes, it was. The blackguard I struck made
insulting remarks about my fiancée.”

“Mrs. Cardiff-Jones?”

“Of course not. I was engaged at the time to
Miss Constance Brown.”

“When did you break off that engagement?”

“A month or so ago. When I became serious
about Delores.”

“How did Miss Brown take it?”

“I don’t see what business it is of yours,
but the end of our engagement was amicable. Naturally Miss Brown
was disappointed.”

“Where does Miss Brown live?”

“Surely you’re not going to bother her?”

“Only if I have to.”

“Very well, then, if it’ll satisfy you.” Macy
mentioned a house on Berkeley Street where Constance Brown boarded.
It had occurred to Cobb that Miss Brown may have been very upset at
the broken engagement and might have decided to blame the other
woman. It was worth checking out.

“And since you’re insistent on talking with
everyone even remotely involved with Delores,” Macy said, fiddling
with his scales, “you shouldn’t overlook Cecil Denfield.”

“Why is that?”

“Denfield was one of Delores’s dance
partners, and I thought he was cozying up to her in an outrageous
way, considering he’s a married man.”