The Widow's Demise (13 page)

“Summarily – by Mr. Macy,” she said with a
trace of bitterness still in her voice.

“You expected to marry soon?”

“The banns had been read twice.”

“You must’ve been upset?”

“Of course I was. I had no inkling he’d gone
and fallen for that tramp.”

“He fell in love with Mrs. Cardiff-Jones, the
widow?”

“Fell in love with her money. He was in love
with me. But as you can see, I’m not rich by any means, nor is my
family in London. I teach school and earn my bread.”

“And Mr. Macy needed money fer his
business?”

“He was an inept chemist, but at one time a
lovable man. But what has all this to do with the death of the
woman? I heard that acid was thrown in her face and that you have
the culprit in jail.”

“We’re just tyin’ up some loose ends,” Cobb
said blandly.

“Well, I wasn’t anywhere near Rosewood that
night.”

“Oh. Where were you?”

Constance eyed him closely and said in a firm
voice, “I was here in my sitting-room all evening, doing
schoolwork.”

“All by yerself?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Yer landlady didn’t come in and see
you?”

“No. I was here alone. But I was here.”

“As you say.”

“You don’t think it was me who threw acid at
that Jezebel?”

“No . . . no.”

“I hated her with a passion, but not enough
to harm her. I’m not a violent person. And I blame him more than
her.”

“And I believe you, ma’am. Thanks fer yer
help.”

Cobb made his way out to the street. He was
not convinced that Constance Brown was not capable of murder.

***

This time Cobb went around to the back door of
Rosewood. He didn’t want to confront Diggs, the butler, if he could
help it. It was lunch time, and Cobb expected to find the servants
in the kitchen. So when a maid, not Vera, answered his knock, he
introduced himself and asked to see the cook. The maid led him
straight into the kitchen. There in the spacious, rectangular,
low-ceilinged room he found Vera, the cook, a scullery maid and a
footman – seated around a large table and sipping at their soup.
There was no sign of the young pregnant maid he had seen on his
first visit.

“Good afternoon,” he said, savouring the
aroma of the chicken soup. “I’m Cobb, a detective, and I’ve come to
ask you people about anythin’ you might’ve seen on the night of the
tragic incident.”

“Will you join us in a bowl of soup,
Detective,” said the cook, a jovial woman who obviously enjoyed her
own handiwork.

“I shouldn’t, but I will,” said Cobb, and
seated himself in the empty chair proffered by the footman. The
scullery maid placed a bowl of soup before him. It was piping hot.
He took a spoon and ladled a mouthful.

“Delicious,” he said.

“We would like to help you out, sir,” the
cook said, “because we’d all like to make sure the culprit hangs.
But I don’t think we’ve anythin’ to tell you that’s useful.”

“I was wonderin’ if any of you were lookin’
out a window when the incident happened?”

The cook looked around. “It was just after
the evenin’ meal, when most of us are quite busy. Lizzie, my
scullery, was here helpin’ me with the clean-up, and Agnes was
runnin’ up and down the stairs with dishes, and Amos was stokin’
the fire with fresh wood from the woodshed.”

“And you know where
I
was,” Vera said.
“In the hall helpin’ my lady with her coat and things.”

“I see. That accounts fer everybody,” Cobb
said.

The cook paused, glanced at Agnes, and said,
“Except Mr. Diggs. But he was in his office. He always does the
bills after supper.”

“So no-one was peekin’ out a window – at the
front or the east side of the house?”

Heads shook around the table.

Cobb tried one more tack. “Does anyone know
of any reason why anyone would want to hurt yer mistress?”

The question took the servants aback. No-one
said anything, but there was a great deal of head shaking.

“Unless you think that . . .that – ” Lizzie
said in a small voice.

“That what?” Cobb said, putting down his soup
spoon.

“Come on, Lizzie,” the cook said. “Finish yer
sentence.”

“I’m thinkin’ of Mr. Perkins.”

“Who’s Mr. Perkins?” Cobb asked.

“He was Mr. Diggs’ assistant, John Perkins –
until last week when the missus dismissed him.”

“I see,” Cobb said. “And was he upset with
the mistress?”

“Yes,” Lizzie said. “I heard him say – in
this very room – that he would get even with her if it was the last
thing he ever did.”

“I hope you’re sure about that,” the cook
said sternly.

“I heard it clear as day,” Lizzie said. “His
wife’s expectin’ a child and the missus refused to give him any
references, so he’ll have trouble findin’ another job. He was very,
very angry.”

“Thank you, Lizzie. You’ve been a great help.
Now where can I find the angry Mr. Perkins?”

The cook gave him the address.

Cobb – his soup finished and his questions
exhausted – got up, thanked everybody, and let himself out the back
door. He had just reached Front Street when he remembered that the
pregnant maid he had seen on his first visit had not been present
in the kitchen.

“The world to end on September 30! Read all
about it!”

Cobb looked to his left, the source of the
stentorian voice.

“Marvellous new pamphlet by the Reverend
Bolton Dawes! Yours fer only a penny!”

The shout was coming from a scrawny old man
with fearsome eyebrows and a long, beardless chin. He was dressed
in rags.

“Buy a pamphlet, sir?” the old fellow said to
Cobb in a lowered voice.

“You the Reverend Dawes?”

The old man chortled, then licked the spit
off his lips. “Good God, no. I only peddle this trash fer a few
pennies. I’m Sammy Slade.”

“I’ve seen you around here, haven’t I?” Cobb
said.

“Off and on. I come here regular, but I get
around most of the town.”

“Were you here by any chance three nights
ago? About seven or seven-thirty?”

Sammy Slade put his chin on top of the
pamphlets he was holding. “As a matter of fact, I was. I remember
because I was standin’ at the corner down there and I heard the
church bells chime seven times.”

Cobb held his breath as he asked, “Did you
see anyone standin’ here in front of Rosewood – this house?”

“I saw two people.”

“And where were they?”

“I saw a man and a lady standin’ on that
porch there.”

“What did the man look like?”

Sammy thought for a second, and said, “Oh, he
was a gentleman all right. Well dressed. Top hat. Tallish. And I
think he had a moustache.”

This was a clear description of Lionel
Trueman. Cobb’s pulse raced.

“Were the man and the lady just talkin’?”

“I’d say they was havin’ some kind of
disagreement, ‘cause I could hear them all the way to the
corner.”

“They were shoutin’ at each other?”

“I’d say so.”

“What did they do next?”

“Nothin’ that I seen ‘cause I turned and
walked back up the street. After all, a tiff between a gentleman
and his lady is nothin’ to me, is it?”

Cobb sighed his disappointment. Could the
murder have taken place moments after Sammy Slade turned his back?
The timing seemed a little off. Gagnon was sure it was closer to
seven-thirty when he arrived on the scene and witnessed the deed –
close to dusk. But Slade could easily have been mistaken about the
church bells. Much time could have elapsed between his hearing them
and his witnessing the argument between Trueman and Mrs.
Cardiff-Jones.

“I’ll need yer address, Sammy. You may have
to tell yer story in court.”

“I ain’t done nothin’ wrong?”

“You’ll just be a witness, Sammy. That’s
all.”

“I live in a shack in Irishtown. Anybody can
point ya to it.”

“All right, then. You c’n go.”

Sammy trundled off. At the next corner he
stopped, spotted a couple walking nearby and shouted, “End of the
world! Read all about it!”

Cobb decided to pay Lionel Trueman a second
visit. It appeared he did not spend the hour or so away from the
Reverend Ogilvie’s card game entirely at home. But first he had an
appointment with his number one snitch at The Cock and Bull on York
Street.

***

It was noon hour and The Cock and Bull was jammed
with customers, all calling at once it seemed for food or ale or
both. A smoke haze hung like a shook-out bed sheet at eye level.
Cobb peered through it and spied Itchy Quick at a table in the far
corner. Itchy’s two hundred and some pounds were easy to see,
despite the camouflage of pipe-smoke. Cobb went over and stood
beside the table. Itchy was nursing a flagon of ale.

“Oh, Mr. Cobb. You’re just in time. I was
about to take my last swallow.”

“And as usual you’re short of cash?” Cobb
said.

“A bit short today, yes,” Itchy said. “My
cousin come in from Burlington last night – stone broke – and I had
to lend him my last penny, didn’t I?”

Cobb sat down and waved for a waiter.

“We’ll have two ales here, sir,” Cobb said to
the fellow who, recognizing Cobb, had come right over.

“You’re a kind man, Mr. Cobb,” Itchy
said.

“I’d prefer Cobb without the mister.”

“Yes, Mr. Cobb. Anythin’ you say.”

“Would I be wrong in guessin’ that you could
use a little employment?”

“You know I’d do anythin’ fer you, sir. And
you can always pay me what you think I’m worth – as you always do,
bein’ a fair man.”

The waiter arrived with the drinks, and Itchy
moved as fast as he could to seize his – his normal movements being
about as quick as a drugged hippo.

“I’m workin’ on the murder of Mrs.
Cardiff-Jones,” Cobb said.

“Yeah. I heard of that. Sad business.”

“And I need to know if anyone was seen
lurkin’ about Rosewood between seven and seven-thirty on the night
of the crime.”

“Three nights ago?”

“That’s right. I want you to keep yer ears
open and to nose around amongst the low-life who might have seen
anything untoward. I’ll give you a few pennies in advance and a
shilling if you come up with anythin’ useful.”

Itchy took a huge swig of his ale, wiped his
mouth with his thick fingers, and said, “That’s more than generous,
Mr. Cobb. I ain’t heard anythin’ yet, but I’ll get ‘round to some
of the other taverns and keep my ears cocked.”

“I’d appreciate it,” Cobb said. He drained
his ale, got up and made his way through the smoke haze to the
door.

***

Lionel Trueman, in his study, was surprised to see
the detective-constable enter his private domain for the second
time.

“More questions?” he said to Cobb with barely
a nod of the head by way of greeting. “I thought you had your fill
the first time.”

“Somethin’s come up since I was last here,”
Cobb said. He remained standing, as did Trueman.

“What could that possibly be?”

“I’ve got a witness who says he saw you
havin’ an argument with Mrs. Cardiff-Jones on her front porch on
the night of the crime – about seven o’clock or later.”

Trueman’s gaze narrowed. “That’s
preposterous. I was at the Reverend Ogilvie’s.”

“And the good reverend tells me you left his
house for an hour and a half about six-thirty that evenin’.”

Trueman looked down, then up. “Oh. So I did.
I forgot. A message came that a friend wished to see me. I came
home and waited, but he didn’t arrive. I discovered later that he’d
had a fall and couldn’t make it.”

“But yer whereabouts are not known by anybody
else, are they? Between six-thirty and eight o’clock. And the
description the witness gave me suits you to a T.”

Trueman sighed. “All right, then. I was over
at Rosewood about seven o’clock. I called on the lady after my
friend didn’t show up. She would not let me in. She said she had an
important appointment and I was to come back the next morning.”

“An appointment with who?”

“One of her lady friends, she said.”

“You didn’t believe her?”

“I suspected it was a man. There had been
others than me pursuing the widow – ”

“And you were annoyed? Jealous?”

“I told her I didn’t believe her, and she got
very angry.”

“And yer jealousy turned to rage?”

“What are you driving at?”

“Maybe you came to Rosewood to have it out
with her.”

“With a vial of acid in my pocket? You’re
being ludicrous, sir.”

“Mr. Gagnon says he saw a man throw a vial of
acid in the lady’s face, then turn and run off around the east side
of the house.”

“And you think I could be that man?”

“It’s possible.”

“But I loved the lady. I was the favourite
among her suitors. Why would I try to destroy her?”

“Love and jealousy do strange things to
men.”

“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you,
Constable, but Mrs. Cardiff-Jones and I had a brief tiff on her
front stoop, then she went back inside to get ready for her
so-called appointment, and I went directly back home to see if my
friend had arrived late, then on to the Reverend Ogilvie’s.”

Trueman’s story might seem incredible, but it
did fit the time-line well. If the argument did take place closer
to seven than seven-thirty, then that would leave time for Mrs.
Cardiff-Jones to go back into the house, fetch her maid Vera, and
dress for her meeting with her friend, Marion Stokes.

“And you’re stickin’ with that story?” Cobb
said.

“I am because it’s the truth.”

Cobb thanked Trueman and was shown out.
Trueman’s tale might be dicey, Cobb thought, but a smart lawyer
could make much of it during a trial.

***

With Gussie’s help, Cobb wrote up a full report on
the investigation thus far, and left it on the Chief’s desk. He
hoped that Trueman would decided not to complain, although if he
were thrown off the case now, it would not be a calamity. He had
followed up almost every lead he could, except for John Perkins,
the disaffected servant. Of course, Itchy Quick might come up with
something. It remained now for him to make another report to Marc
Edwards.