Marc was still numb when he crossed Front Street and began drifting westward along the broad, grassy expanse that paralleled the shoreline of the bay and permitted the town’s worthiest ratepayers an uninterrupted view of blue water, bluer sky, and the picturesque island-spit. Fishing boats with big-bellied sails still plied the lake, and several had already returned from an early-morning excursion to sell their catch to the fishmongers, whose wooden stalls dotted the beach and whose cries sang the virtues of perch or whitefish or, on a lucky day, sturgeon. Marc did not hear them as he wandered among those who had come down to the shore to buy their breakfast, take the “sea” air, or simply appraise the scenery from one of the many benches or tree-stumps set out for that purpose. Marc sat down on one of these at the foot of York Street, and tried to think.
Robert’s proposal had been delivered in the form of a request, but it was no such thing. To ask someone to choose between saving the life of one man, innocent or not, at the expense of the well-being of all those in the province who wished their children and grandchildren to have a country worth living in – was no choice at all. And Marc was not just any man; he was a barrister. He was ethically bound to offer his client the best defense possible – and that, with the assistance of Beth and Cobb, he had been able to do. After consulting with Robert this morning, his intention had been to go straight to the jail to bring Brodie the good news that he now had every reasonable chance of being acquitted, for his barrister had moved Heaven and Earth to produce five suspects with motive and opportunity – and now they had supporting evidence strong enough to convince a judge and jury. But that defense, the only viable one, was no longer an option. Somehow he would have to stand by and watch Brodie be convicted. Somehow he would have to find the courage to look him in the eye afterwards.
Marc knew it was too early to catch Cobb in The Cock and Bull, so he remained seated on the bench and waited for him to come down Bay Street along his regular day-patrol. He didn’t have to wait long. Cobb spotted him first, and crossed Front Street, dodging horse-carts, pack-mules and pedestrians heading towards the Saturday market.
“Mornin’, major,” he said, coming up to the bench. “Somebody die?”
Marc motioned for Cobb to sit beside him. “No, but somebody we know is about to.”
From that cryptic remark, Marc went on to tell Cobb exactly what had transpired in Francis Hincks’ library. Cobb listened with increasingly large intakes of breath and rueful shakes of the head.
“So all the diggin’ we done to help Brodie is fer nothin’?” he said when Marc had finished.
“Yes. And I’ve got till Monday morning to develop a new defense, and even if I manage to get my mind to work, I don’t think it’s possible to come up with one.” He grabbed Cobb by the shoulders, and shouted, “Goddammit, Cobb, it’s not right! How can we live in a country that lets innocent young men go to the gallows like lambs to the slaughter!”
“Jesus, major, I ain’t the hangman!”
Marc stopped shaking his partner and dropped his hands disconsolately to his side. “I’m sorry, old friend. You’ve worked harder and risked more than any of us.”
“Risked the family jewels,” Cobb said.
Marc smiled weakly. “So you did.”
“I ain’t never seen you as low as this. You’re givin’ me a fright. We ain’t done yet, are we? All we gotta do is get that peahead, Peck, to remember who made the death-threat. If you know who the killer is, you c’n call him to the stand first an’ have a free run at him. You could even call Nestor right off an’ scare the bejeezus outta the killer before he gets up there. That way, we won’t be ruinin’ anybody who don’t deserve to be ruined, an’ there’ll be enough evidence to back you up – so it won’t look like a political hatchet-job.”
Marc’s smile broadened. “We’ll make a lawyer out of you yet. And you’re perfectly correct in your thinking here. The problem is getting Nestor to remember that name. He has every reason to do so, but can’t. Still, we have to try.”
“We could put him on the rack!”
“And break the few bones he still has intact?”
“There’s other ways, ya know. Up in Irishtown there’s a fella that does magic tricks an’ the like at the hooer-houses, an’ one of his tricks is to mesmerize customers an’ make them do things even sillier than the ones they usually do in there. They tell me he can make people remember what they think they’ve forgot.”
“I doubt that Nestor is a candidate for hypnotism.”
“Alright, then I’ll head up to Nestor’s hovel an’ tear it up board by board. It could be that note is hidden somewheres we didn’t look. Then we’d have the killer’s own writin’ to bring to the judge.”
“It would certainly help to have an extortion-note with a death-threat on the back.”
“Well, then, I’ll go straight there now. An’ then I’ll beetle into Irishtown an’ have a look fer the mesmerizer.”
Cobb was beginning to work up some genuine excitement, mainly to try and raise Marc’s spirits, but he noticed that his partner had drifted into a brown study. Marc was staring out at the island as if some solution to the problem lay encrypted in the branches of its leafless trees. When he turned back to Cobb, he too was excited.
“That death-threat on the reverse side of Duggan’s blackmail-note is the key to this whole business,” he said.
“But we ain’t got it – yet.”
“Ah, but you see, old friend, we don’t actually need to hold it in our hands.”
“Whaddya mean? You plannin’ on a little ledger-domain?”
“No. I’m counting on the fact that only we and the killer know of its existence.”
“An’ Nestor.”
“Exactly. Can you get Wilkie or one of the part-timers to cover your patrol for the next hour or two?”
“Wilkie can’t be roused once he’s asleep, but I can get somebody else.”
“Great. Meet me in an hour at your house.”
“You figured out another way?”
“I have. But we’ve got to hurry.”
Cobb got up, started to trot off, then stopped and turned back to Marc. “You still want me to go up to Pokewood Manner tonight?”
“Yes, definitely. For what I have in mind, we’ll need our suspects completely relaxed and off-guard. After tonight it won’t matter whether you keep on acting or not.”
“Okay, major. I’ll go. And I have to say, I ain’t hated it as much as I thought I would.”
***
Cobb was waiting for Marc when he arrived at the Parliament Street cottage.
“He’s in the kitchen” Cobb said, “eatin’ everythin’ but the fryin’ pans.”
Dora was just serving Nestor a plate of crisp back-bacon and four fried eggs when Marc and Cobb burst in.
“Finish up yer vitals, Nestor,” Cobb said, “an’ then come inta the parlour. You got work to do.”
Dora grinned. “We’re startin’ to fatten him up – fer Sunday dinner.”
“I can’t do no liftin’,” Nestor complained without looking up or interrupting the regular see-sawing of his fork.
“We’ve got something a lot more interesting,” Marc said.
***
Ten minutes later found Nestor seated between Marc and Cobb at Dora’s little writing-table in the parlour, upon which were spread out several sheets of stationery, a jar of ink, and a quill-pen. Marc had finished sketching out his plan to Cobb while they were waiting, and both men were highly excited, a state that prompted nothing but anxiety in Nestor.
Marc began: “Nestor, you are going to help us catch the man who killed your cousin. I want you to do precisely what I tell you, without asking any questions. Is that clear?”
“I ain’t gonna be stickin’ my neck out, am I? ‘Cause I don’t think I could manage that in my – ”
“You’ll manage whatever we tell ya to manage!” Cobb said.
“The alternative,” Marc said, “is for you to be subpoenaed to testify in court on Monday afternoon.”
That did the trick. Nestor shut up, and contented himself with looking aggrieved.
“The killer, as you informed us yesterday, wrote Albert a death-threat on the back of Albert’s own extortion-note. As far as the killer knows, that note is still in existence. He may even have gone over to your house and searched for it. And the killer now knows not only who Albert Duggan was, he knows who he lived with – thanks to the newspaper accounts and the very public trial. What we’re planning to do is set a trap for him – and you’re going to be the bait.”
“The bait! But I’m a sick man, I nearly – ”
“Shut up an’ do what you’re told!” Cobb hissed. “Brodie Langford ain’t gonna hang just because you’re a snivellin’ coward!”
Nestor began to tremble, but had no other response.
“Take the pen there and write out on a sheet of paper precisely what I tell you to,” Marc said.
“But I can’t spell,” Nestor protested as he took the pen in hand.
“I’m counting on that,” Marc said. Then, as Marc dictated, slowly and word by word, Nestor scratched away beside him:
Shutelwerth
I’m back in town and I got that note yu sent to
my cuzzin, Mr Duggen. I no yu kilt him. I’l sell yu the note fer 25
pownds. Cum to the allee behind the cofee howse on Yung and King
at 10 Sunday nite. I’l hav the note. Yu hav the munee.
Nestor Peck
“But what if it ain’t Shuttleworth?” Nestor said, beginning to sense what the scheme involved and trembling accordingly.
“Don’t worry about that,” Marc said. “You’re going to make four more exact copies, except that they’ll be addressed to Tobias Budge, Horace Fullarton, Andrew Dutton and Cyrus Crenshaw.”
“My fingers’ll be worn to a frazzle!”
The ingenuity of Marc’s plan, as he had outlined it for Cobb, was that only the killer would be tempted to respond to such blatant extortion. The others would dismiss Nestor’s note as a crank attempt by the murdered man’s cousin to cash in on the crime. And whatever they might think about the effort, they certainly would not go to the alley behind the British American Coffee House tomorrow night at ten. Nor would they likely tell anyone else about it: each of them had a secret to be kept. Moreover, Nestor’s reference to his having possession of a death-threat note would suggest to them that the cousin had only this bogus means of extortion at his disposal – and not the dastardly secrets Duggan had, mercifully, taken to his grave.
Marc had already reconnoitred the alley. It was a perfect location. The coffee house would long be closed, and the street dark and quiet. The alley could be entered at the south end from King Street or at the north end from its junction with the east-west service lane. And the buildings that formed the sides of the alley had numerous ells and alcoves where a man could remain out of sight and still command a view along its entire length.
It took Nestor fifteen minutes of scratching, dipping, blotting and complaining to complete the five separate copies required. Marc then folded each, tucked it into an envelope and sealed it. He then had Nestor write the addressee’s name on each envelope.
“How can I take a letter, which I don’t have, to this alley?” Nestor said when he was finally finished.
“You’ll take this,” Marc said, and showed Nestor the note he had prepared and which was to substitute for the real thing. “I’ve written a phony name at the top and then smudged it, as if it had got wet. Below it, you’ll see I’ve penned something like the note that Albert sent Brodie.”
XXXXXXXXXX:
Bring the money agen this week to the
usual place. I mean bisness. You won’t want to be ruined.
“And on the other side I’ve composed a death-threat of sorts.”
“An’ you think some guy’s gonna give me twenty-five pounds fer this?”
“He is,” Marc said, “or I’ve misjudged him.”
“You try an’ run off with the money and I’ll break both yer legs!” Cobb added.
“But what happens if the fella peeks at the letter an’ knows right off it ain’t the one he wrote?”
“It won’t matter. Once there’s been an exchange – witnessed by Cobb and me, who’ll be hidden nearby – then we move in and arrest him.”
“But what if he just comes there without the money to beat me to death like he did poor Albert?”
“That’s a chance I’m willin’ to take,” Cobb grinned. “An’ then we’ll know fer sure we got the killer, won’t we?”
“Actually, Nestor, there’s little risk of that happening. Albert was killed in a sudden, unplanned burst of fury. I don’t believe we’re dealing with a hardened killer. All he needs to do is buy that note, expecting that Brodie will be convicted by Tuesday, after which it won’t matter if you go to the police or try further extortion, for who would believe you without the note as evidence?”
“You fellas’ll be close by, eh? You won’t let me get hurt?”
“’Course not,” Cobb said. “Right now, you’re the most valuable person we know.”
“An’ just how’re these letters gonna get themselves delivered?”
“They’re going to be delivered by hand,” Marc said. “Under cover of darkness. Tonight. By you.”
Nestor had to be helped to his room.
***
While Cobb went off to the near-dress rehearsal of The Dream Sequence (in style via taxicab with a donkey’s head tucked underneath his arm), Marc prepared to have the extortion-notes delivered. First of all, at Beth’s suggestion, Marc disguised himself by borrowing a large overcoat and tradesman’s cap from Jasper Hogg next door. Further deception was provided by Jasper’s horse and buggy, the latter having a leather canopy under which Marc and Nestor could huddle and remain inconspicuous. Nestor himself was suited up in a pair of Cobb’s overalls, a cotton shirt and a wool sweater. The only boots that would fit his shrivelled feet were a pair belonging to young Fabian Cobb. This outfit, however, was not intended to disguise Nestor, for, as Marc explained to him upon setting out, Nestor was to dash up to the front door of the designated house, shove the envelope under the door, then turn and flee. If someone – maid or butler – were to hear him, fling open the door and spot him scuttling off into the thin moonlight, all the better, as long as he wasn’t caught. Any report of a scruffy scarecrow of a fellow hightailing it into the shadows was certain to add authenticity to the ruse they were perpetrating.
It was eight-thirty when they set out. A quarter-moon in a clear sky provided just enough light for them to carry out their plan as conceived. First, they headed up Sherbourne Street. A few hundred yards from Oakwood Manor, Marc pulled over to the side of the road and brought the horse to a halt in some deep shadow.
“All right, Nestor. Here’s Sir Peregrine’s envelope. Walk along the road, keeping to this side in the dark. When you come to the gate, slip in towards the house – not on the gravelled path but beside it and out of sight. Go up to the verandah, make a bit of noise as you’re doing so, and push the envelope under the front door. Give the door a kick, then run into the woods on this side of the property. It’s not dense, so all you have to do is look up at the slice of moon there. It’s in the south-eastern sky. Follow your nose till you hit this road again. I’ll swoop by and pick you up.”
Nestor, who had been too frightened to speak since they had left Cobb’s house, tried one last time to register a protest, but failed.
“Don’t worry,” Marc said. “Just do as I’ve suggested and you’ll be fine.” Very gently he lifted Nestor up off the padded seat and dropped him feet-first onto the ground. “Go!”
Nestor went. Soon he was zigzagging along the shadow-ridden verge of Sherborne Street north.
A good twenty-five minutes went by. Fifteen minutes should have been more than enough time for the task to be completed. Surely the entire Shuttleworth household would be too focussed on their rehearsal-in-costume to notice the arrival of Nestor at the front door, however clumsy he might be. But Marc was worried, and not sure what he could do to help. He couldn’t leave the buggy and go wandering into the woods after Nestor and he couldn’t risk driving up to the gate. While he was still searching for a third option, he heard the sound of footfalls crashing through the underbrush nearby. They had a desperate ring to them. Marc stepped down to the side of the road just as Nestor staggered out of the darkness. His face was as white as the moon.
“Are you being pursued?” Marc said as Nestor crashed into him and flung both scrawny arms around his waist.
“N-no,” Nestor stammered. “I got lost.”
***
While Nestor pulled the burrs and nettles out of his hair and his sweater, and muttered under his breath about never again going near the bush or trapper’s cabins, Marc eased the buggy along the back streets until he calculated he was about a block from Horace Fullarton’s place on George Street. He pulled over to one side and pointed out the house, a distinguished, two-storey residence with four chimney-pots.
“Stay here, well out of sight, Nestor. I’m going to drive past the house and park farther up the street. Deliver the envelope and then run up the road until you see the buggy, then hop on quickly. There’s no need to make a noise in there. We don’t want to disturb Mrs. Fullarton. She’s an invalid.”
This delivery went off smoothly, if you didn’t count Nestor’s tripping on a rut in the road near the buggy and breaking his fall with a chin.
Andrew Dutton, who lived farther west on Jarvis, was next. His house was set back in a copse of evergreens, and Nestor, bruised and burred (in addition to his wasp-wounds), was very nervous about going up to it.
“He’s not at home,” Marc reminded him. “Everybody on our list except Budge is up at Oakwood Manor.”
Nestor took a deep breath and vanished into the evergreens. Marc moved the buggy down the street about a hundred yards, and waited. Five minutes went by, and no Nestor. Then, to his dismay, Marc heard the blood-lust yodel of dogs on the scent. Above the yowling of the beasts came an even higher-pitched hog-squeal – piteous and unending.
Marc wheeled the buggy around and raced back towards the entrance to Dutton’s property. Into a sliver of moonlight sprang Nestor Peck, his bony bow-legs pistoning him forward. Marc reached out with his hand, but his assistance was not required. Nestor’s momentum carried him up and into the well of the buggy, where he collapsed in a heap.
They were almost at The Sailor’s Arms before Nestor was able to state the obvious: “D-dogs,” he said. “A whole pack of ‘em.”
“But you did deliver the envelope?”
Nestor grinned. “I did, didn’t I?”
***
Nestor slipped Budge’s envelope under the side door on Peter Street that led to the barkeep’s private quarters. Both mister and missus would be occupied in the taproom into the wee hours, but they would see the note in the morning. If Gillian found it, Tobias might have some explaining to do, but Marc figured he was good at that sort of thing. The final drop was made at Crenshaw’s place up on York Street north, where Nestor was actually chased for thirty yards by a burly but slow-moving servant.
Marc praised Nestor’s courage, and assured him that everything would go well Sunday evening when phase two of the plan would be executed. Then he took him to Cobb’s house. There he was put back into Dora’s care, where he calmed his nerves with two platters of ham and eggs.
***
After church on Sunday, Marc walked down to the jail and asked to see Brodie. If the lad was anxious, he did not show it. Calvin Strangway had kindly allowed Diana Ramsay to visit several times on Saturday, bringing him food and drink. But it was her company and her faithfulness that were keeping the young man’s spirits as high as could be expected. Without going into details, Marc told him that he and Cobb had hatched a plot to entrap the murderer. If it worked, all would be well in the morning. If not, Marc assured him that they still had a solid strategy to fall back upon in court. This of course was close to an outright lie, in that all Marc had left for the jury was a trio of character-witnesses and a run at Budge as a “possible.” And while Robert could not object to Budge being set up as a potential murderer, Marc would be limited to suggesting that the motive was based on the altercation between the barkeep and Duggan in the taproom the week before the crime. There was now no way for Marc to introduce Duggan’s target-list and Nestor’s corroborating testimony without exposing the worthies that Robert wanted protected. But beard Tobias Budge he would, and then move on to a sizzling summation.
But if his plan to expose the real killer failed tonight and if he failed tomorrow to gain an acquittal, would he have the courage to admit to his client that he had deliberately abandoned his best defense? Could he ever practise law again? Or look at himself in the mirror? Brodie, bless him, did not press for details. His trust in Marc was touching – and absolute.
That afternoon and early evening were unbearably long. There was nothing to do but wait – and hope that the messages had been read and the bait taken. Jasper came over to visit Charlene, and Marc sat down with them and Beth to review their tentative plans for the addition to Briar Cottage in the spring (when Maggie was to be joined by a baby brother). Jasper was particularly excited because he had enlisted the aid of Billy McNair, a master carpenter and friend of the Edwards. Billy and Jasper would work together on the new rooms, and if Billy were suitably impressed, he promised to take Jasper on as a partner. In the meantime, he would try to pass along small jobs to Jasper over the winter.
After supper Marc tried to while away the time reading Oliver Twist, a novel that Beth had recently purchased by an author she had taken a fancy to. But the words remained merely words on the page. Every ten minutes or so he would consult his pocket-watch, and try not to think of all the things that could go wrong with his plan. Maggie provided some welcome diversion when she astonished her parents by attempting to crawl across the rug in front of the fire.
Finally, at nine o’clock, he kissed Beth, bussed the sleeping baby, and drove over to Cobb’s house. Nestor and Cobb were waiting on the stoop. No-one said a word as they trotted along King Street towards Yonge. The scheme had been gone over thoroughly. Everyone knew his role. Nestor was pale, but looked determined enough. Much depended upon him.
At the Court House Marc pulled the carriage up, parked it at the side of the building and tethered the horse to a post. Cobb left first, followed a minute later by Nestor, and then Marc. With Cobb leading the way, they walked at one-minute intervals northward up Toronto Street to Newgate, then west across Yonge to Bay. There they turned south, keeping to the shadows, but meeting no-one on this quiet Sabbath evening. As each neared the east-west service lane above King, they slipped soundlessly into it and moved due east until they came to the head of the alley in which the exchange was to take place. This elaborate and roundabout route had been necessary, in Marc’s thinking, because the killer might decide to arrive well before ten o’clock in order to command a view of the obvious entrance to the alley – from King Street. Cobb and Marc must not be seen anywhere near Nestor in advance of the event. And it was imperative that both of them witness the exchange of note and cash, and overhear any incriminating dialogue between Nestor and his “target.”
Cobb now left Marc and Nestor, and inched his way south among the shadows of the alley, lit only by pale shafts of moonlight here and there as they shot through the gaps between gables and chimney-pots. Ten yards from King Street, he eased back into an alcove and squatted down, hidden completely by shadow. Next, Nestor came down the alley, not worrying that he might be seen since the killer expected him to be here. At the halfway point he stopped, peered nervously about, found the apple-box he was looking for, and sat down to wait. Just in front of him a swath of moonlight poured down, into which he could step and be seen when the time came to do so. Meanwhile, Marc crouched down, as Cobb had done, and stayed hidden at the head of the alley, with a clear view southward all the way down to King Street. They were all now in place, their arrival unobserved. The waiting began.
***
And a long wait it was. It must have been close to ten-thirty when Cobb’s legs began to cramp and the scarf at his throat no longer kept the chill out. He shifted from side to side, to no avail. Finally he had to sit down on his haunches and stretch his legs full out – leaving himself vulnerable. Fifteen yards away, he could hear Nestor cough and the apple-box creak. If the killer didn’t come soon, Nestor was certain to panic and make a break for it. Cobb had just worked the cramp out of his left calf and painfully got back up into a crouching position when he heard footsteps. The sound, just audible, came from the King Street entrance to the alley. The new arrival was treading slowly, stopping every few feet – probably to make sure he was alone. Cobb wanted to tilt his face up to have a look, but he dared not for fear that either the movement or the whites of his eyes would alert the killer, and spook him. So he remained utterly still as the fellow moved past him, not five feet away, and on up towards Nestor and the apple-box. As instructed, Nestor must have now stepped up into the light, for his voice, trembling and falsetto, could be heard saying, “You brung the money?”
Cobb raised himself up at this, and peered up the alley. Nestor was standing in a wedge of pale moonlight, but the killer was beside him, obscured by shadow. He was wearing a bulky, calf-length overcoat and a fur cap – in an attempt to disguise himself. He could be any one of the “possibles.” The fellow made some response to Nestor’s question, but it was low and muted.
“I gotta see yer money before I c’n give ya the letter,” Nestor said shakily.
Cobb saw the killer’s arm move up into the light, a package of some sort in his hand. Nestor took it and began to fumble at its contents. “Okay. Here’s the letter ya wanted.”
The fellow snatched the envelope and began to tear it open. Nestor glanced north to where Marc was hidden, expecting instant rescue. But the killer had ripped the sheet out of its envelope and was holding it up to the light.
“You bastard! This isn’t my note!”
A pair of hands seized Nestor by the throat, and began shaking him.
“Help! Help! I’m bein’ kilt!”
But Nestor was in no danger of being murdered. His attacker released him as suddenly as he had grabbed him, and made a pass at the packet with the money in it. Nestor let go without a struggle. With some of the banknotes spilling out, the killer started back down the alley, picking up speed as he went. Cobb had already stepped out to block his path, and Marc could be heard sprinting hard a few yards behind him. Cobb planted his feet, stuck out his belly, and met the killer chest to chest. There was a resounding whump. Both men tumbled to the ground, winded. Cobb was first to recover. He rolled over, sat up, and stared down at his assailant, who lay on his back, fur cap askew, gasping for air.
“I don’t believe it!” Cobb cried.
And Marc, who arrived a second later, said, “I don’t believe it either.”
They were staring down into the anguished face of Horace Fullarton.