Wilkie had blown his whistle until Constable Phil Rossiter had arrived, and the latter had set out immediately to inform his chief and the coroner. Meanwhile, Wilkie stood guard over the man he assumed to have been the cause of the havoc on the walk. The household of Rosewood had been disturbed by the commotion out front, and Vera, Delores’s maid, dashed to her dead mistress and began to weep and wail, much to Wilkie’s discomfort. Then Cardiff, the woman’s father, stepped out and went white with shock.
“Is she dead?” he said to Vera.
“She ain’t breathin’, sir.”
“She ain’t got no pulse,” Wilkie said, who had checked after he had ordered the killer to sit on the stoop and not move a muscle. Gagnon, in shock, did as he was bid, but not before uttering a stream of French at the bewildered Wilkie, who took the foreign lingo as a sign of the fellow’s madness.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Wilkie said to Cardiff.
“My god! Who has done this?” Cardiff cried, kneeling beside his daughter.
“I believe it was the fella over there,” Wilkie said.
Cardiff turned and stared at Gagnon. “What have you done?” he said, and made as if to move towards Gagnon.
It was at this point that Angus Withers arrived. He had been walking down King Street when Rossiter had encountered him, and had continued on down to Front Street via Bay.
“We got a dead woman here,” Wilkie said, “with her throat cut and her face all riled up.”
“It’s my daughter, Angus,” Cardiff said. “That fellow over there attacked her.”
Withers said a quick hello to Cardiff, then knelt beside him near the body. At this point Cobb arrived, by accident, from the opposite direction. He had been investigating a break-in at the Palace just up the street.
“What’ve we got here?” he said to Withers.
“A murder by the looks of it,” Withers aid. “It looks as if acid or something corrosive was thrown in Mrs. Cardiff-Jones’s face, and she fell on that low, spiked fence, severing her jugular vein. She died quickly.”
“I’ve got the vial the acid was in,” Wilkie said. “I found it in that man’s hand.” He pointed at Gagnon, who sat staring at the scene with blank eyes.
Withers took the vial and passed it under his nose. “It’s acid all right. Probably hydrochloric.”
“And what’s this?” Cobb said, bending down. He picked up a gentleman’s glove.
“It was right there when I come,” Wilkie said.
“Are you going to arrest this blackguard?” Cardiff said to Cobb. “Or do I have to give him a good thrashing first?”
“I’ll need to talk to him,” Cobb said.
“I’ll fetch him fer ya,” Wilkie said.
“I want to know what you saw,” Cobb said.
“Well,” Wilkie said, “I was just comin’ along Front Street here on my regular beat when I look up and see this fella bendin’ over somethin’ on the ground. I couldn’t tell then it was the lady of the house. I run up to him and I see he’s bendin’ over her and holdin’ that vial in his left hand. Then I see the blood on the lady’s throat and I know there’s been foul play. When the fella looks up, I see he’s got a fresh scratch on his face where the lady clawed him. Poor thing.”
“Did the man say anythin’ to you by way of explanation?”
“He started jabberin’ gibberish at me. I think he’s fer the loony bin.”
“The woman fell or was pushed against the spiked fence,” Withers said, getting up. “She slashed her own throat. You can see her blood on that spike there.” He pointed to the fence, where indeed one of the spikes was dripping blood. “I assume the acid was thrown at her first, but I can’t be sure.”
“Either way, we’re lookin’ at a grisly murder,” Cobb said. “You’ll check under her fingernails fer skin or blood?”
“I’ll do that back at the surgery.”
“Must you do an autopsy?” Cardiff said.
“It is my duty to do so, Humphrey. I’m very sorry. But I’ll do it right away so you can have the body.”
“This is all such a great shock to me,’” Cardiff said. “Why would anyone want to hurt my Delores? She never harmed a soul.”
“I think the fella’s crazy,” Wilkie said.
“Well, crazy or not, I gotta talk to him,” Cobb said.
Cobb went over to the stoop. “What’s your name?” he said to Gagnon.
Gagnon replied with a burst of French.
“Please, speak English if you can.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t even realize I was speaking French,” Gagnon said.
“The constable here says he found you bendin’ over the body with a vial of acid in yer left hand. And that’s some nasty scratchin’ you’ve got on yer face.”
“I did not harm the woman, Constable. I was walking along this street, heading for Rosewood to talk to Mr. Cardiff, when I saw a man greet the woman over there and toss something liquid in her face. She cried out and spun around, and I saw her fall over the fence. She jerked upward and then slumped to the ground. Meanwhile, the man dropped the vial and fled around the far side of the house.”
“And what did this man look like?” Cobb ran his hands through his untidy hair, surprised yet again not find his helmet there. He still was not used to being a plainclothes detective, even though he had now been at it for almost nine months.
“The man was short and slight. It was dusk and the light was poor. I just caught his outline, in a kind of blur.”
“Well, he left his glove behind, eh?”
“I wouldn’t know. But it’s not mine. I came away without my gloves this evening.”
“Let us be sure,” Cobb said, and he went over to where he had set the glove and returned with it. “Here, try it on.”
Gagnon tried unsuccessfully to pull the small glove over his large hand. “It won’t fit. It’s only half the size of my hand.”
“Maybe the glove was lyin’ there all along,” said Wilkie.
Cobb smiled, as Wilkie generally did not deploy logical thought or, if he did, preferred to keep it to himself.
“You could be right, Wilkie.” Cobb took the glove back. To Gagnon he said, “How do you explain holdin’ a vial of acid in yer hand and bendin’ over the dead lady who managed to scratch you before she died?”
“I was checking to see if she was still alive. I was going to rouse the household when the constable came along and more or less arrested me.”
“But the vial?”
“It was lying beside the woman. I could see her ruined face and I just picked it up out of curiosity.”
“But why would the lady scratch you if she wasn’t afraid of you?”
“She must have mistaken me for her attacker. You can’t think I did this. I don’t even know the woman.”
“You never met Mrs. Cardiff-Jones?”
“Only once, briefly. At the Charity Ball. I had no reason to throw acid in her face.”
“You ain’t gonna believe that load of malarkey?” Wilkie said.
“What do you think, Angus?” Cobb said to Withers.
“Plausible, but not likely, eh? That scratch is pretty damning.”
“I’d like you to come to police headquarters fer more questions,” Cobb said to Gagnon. “We’ll see what the Chief makes of all this.”
“You’re not going to let him go?” Cardiff said, looking over at Gagnon and then at the members of his staff who had now all come out to see what was going on.
“Not fer the moment, no,” Cobb said.
He signalled to Wilkie to get Gagnon on his feet. Cobb was very excited. This was his first solo murder case.
***
Chief Constable Cyril Bagshaw was waiting for Cobb, Wilkie and Gagnon, having been alerted to the general circumstances of the crime by Phil Rossiter. Bagshaw was whippet-thin. His uniform seemed to be ironed on him (it was his sergeant’s uniform from his glory days on the London Metropolitan Police Force). He sported a brace of craggy brows, an outsize nose and a pair of pop-eyes that seemed manufactured for pouncing.
“Rossiter tells me you found the perpetrator on the scene,” Bagshaw said to Wilkie as they came into the reception area.
“I caught him red-handed, sir. With a scratch on his face and weapon in hand,” Wilkie said as he shoved Gagnon farther into the room.
“You’ve questioned this fellow?” Bagshaw said to Cobb.
“I have, sir, and I’m not certain we have the right fellow.”
“What’s your name?” Bagshaw said to Gagnon.
“I am Gilles Gagnon,” Gagnon said. “I am an associate of Louis LaFontaine. I am helping him with his election campaign, and I am innocent of any wrongdoing.”
“You’re French, then?” Bagshaw said.
“I am from Montreal. Monsieur LaFontaine is running in the fourth riding of York.”
“I know who Mr. LaFontaine is, sir, and I know where and why he’s trying to get elected. But right now I’m interested in what happened up at Rosewood. I suggest we go into that off ice and discuss the matter.” He pointed to the office shared by the constables and used by Cobb to store his files and papers.
Bagshaw, Cobb, Wilkie and Gagnon went into the office and arranged themselves around the table inside.
“Wilkie, you were the first one on the scene, I take it?” Bagshaw said.
“Yeah,” Wilkie said. “And I seen this man bendin’ over the dead woman – ”
“Who is?”
“Mrs. Cardiff-Jones,” Cobb said. “The daughter of the Attorney-General.”
Bagshaw’s eyebrows shot up and quivered. “Oh, my. This is a calamity!”
“It happened on her own front walk, in broad daylight,” Wilkie said.
“Go on, then, Wilkie.”
“I come up to this man and see him holdin’ a vial of some sort, and I notice that scratch on his face.”
“Given by the lady?” Bagshaw said.
“Yes,” Gagnon interrupted. “I admit she scratched me. I was bending down to see if she was still breathing and she must have mistaken me for her attacker because she lashed out. I didn’t jump back in time.”
“So you admit what Wilkie saw?” Bagshaw said.
“I cannot deny it, but I did not harm the lady.”
“How did the lady die?” Bagshaw said to Cobb.
Cobb gave the Chief a brief summary of Dr. Withers’ examination at the scene.
“She had her throat cut open by a spike on the fence?” Bagshaw said, incredulous.
“Dr. Withers thinks she was reacting to the acid thrown in her face,” Cobb explained.
“And I caught Mr. Gagnon red-handed,” Wilkie said. “And he started babblin’ like a madman.”
“He was speakin’ French,” Cobb said.
“The evidence is all against you, sir,” Bagshaw said to Gagnon.
“But I actually saw the real killer,” Gagnon said. “I saw him commit the crime. I saw him toss the acid and then run off around the far side of Rosewood. He was a short, slight fellow, dressed in gentleman’s clothes.”
“A convenient story, I’m sure,” Bagshaw said. “I’m going to lock you in our holding cell until I can get an arrest warrant from the magistrate.”
“You’re charging me with murder?”
“I am.”
“But I hardly knew the lady. Why would I kill her?”
“You met her at the Ball,” Wilkie chimed in.
“I danced with our hostess. That’s the only contact I’ve had with the woman,” Gagnon protested.
Bagshaw made a mental note to question witnesses to this dance at the Charity Ball. Perhaps there had been something more than a simple dance. “I don’t know why you would want to throw acid in the lady’s face and cause her death, and I don’t really care. You were caught standing over the body of a person who had just been killed.”
“That’s what the doc said,” Wilkie added. “She was still warm.”
“But I’m innocent! I want a lawyer!”
“In due course,” Bagshaw said. “You’ll certainly need one.” He turned to Cobb. “Put Mr. Gagnon in our cell, then go and write out a complete investigative report for me. It looks like we won’t need a lot of fancy detective work on this case.”
The police quarters contained a small holding-cell. The main jail was only a block or so away on the corner of Church and King. Cobb did as he was told. He locked up Gagnon, still protesting his innocence. Gagnon said to Cobb as he turned to leave. “Will you send a message to Marc Edwards for me?”
“You want him fer yer lawyer?”
“I do. And he’ll let LaFontaine and Baldwin know what’s happened.”
“You’ve got some in-flew-ential friends, I see.”
“It looks like I’m going to need them,” Gagnon said.
***
Cobb went outside the police quarters where, as usual, he found a street urchin lurking.
“Hey, Nosy, I want you to take a message to Mr. Marc Edwards. You know where he lives?”
“In Briar Cottage,” Nosy said, snuffling in the manner that had given him his nickname.
“That’s right. Tell him he’s wanted here right away.”
“You’ll pay me now?”
“I will, but you better not bugger off. It’d be worth yer life.”
Nosy stuck out his hand and Cobb put a half-penny into it. Nosy then scampered away as if the money might dissolve were he not to dash off..
Cobb went back inside and stepped into his office. He opened his notebook and began to write up the details of the crime and his interrogation of Gilles Gagnon. He was his usual thorough self. Although he found writing painful and mainly relied on his prodigious memory to recall details, Cobb nevertheless realized that note-making and report-writing were important aspects of his work. His thoroughness made it easy to get the necessary warrants for search and seizure and for arrests from Magistrate Thorpe. And, of course, Cyril Bagshaw was a stickler for details. Bagshaw had never really approved of having a plainclothes detective on the force (unless it were he himself and that was not possible), and Cobb had to be painstaking in order to convince the Chief of his theories and conclusions. When he had finished the report, he took it in and placed it on Bagshaw’s desk. Bagshaw acknowledged the gesture with a grunt.
Ten minutes later Bagshaw shouted out Cobb’s name – once. Cobb immediately went next door, braced for the worst.
Bagshaw’s pop-eyes pounced on the open report and then pounced on Cobb.
“What is the meaning of this drivel?” he snapped.
“It’s what I heard and seen, sir.”
“I’m talking about your conclusions, and you know it!”
“What’s the matter with them?”
“You say here that there’s a good possibility that Gagnon’s preposterous story may be true and that he may not be the killer!”
“But surely that is an obvious conclusion, sir.”
“The fellow was caught in the act! What else is he going to do but make up a cock-and-bull story to save his own skin?”
“But he has no motive. And Marc Edwards always taught me to start with the motive.”
“We don’t need a motive. Gagnon had the vial of acid in his hand, spotted by a policeman!”
“In court, we’ll need a motive. Mr. Gagnon is an important fellow. A gentleman, even if he is French. Gentlemen don’t go around tossin’ acid at women they hardly know.”
“We’ve only got his word for that. I expect you to talk to people at that Ball and find out just what went on there. And talk to friends of Mrs. Cardiff-Jones to find out how well she might have known him.”
“I was plannin’ on doin’ that, sir. I didn’t say in my report that he wasn’t guilty. I just said there was questions that needed answerin’ before we charged him.”
“You raise the business of the glove.”
“Right. Gagnon wasn’t wearin’ any, so where did a single glove come from? A glove that didn’t fit Gagnon.”
“Surely the answer is obvious. It was dropped there sometime before the crime. It must’ve been.”
“Unless there was a third person about, sir. The one Gagnon says he seen.”
“Nonsense. You take this detective business too seriously. You see things that aren’t really there and ask sill questions about silly details.”
“I’m just tryin’ to do my job.”
“Well, I’m ordering you to go back and rewrite that report. Leave off all your conclusions. I’ll fill in that part and take it to James Thorpe.”
“So you’re gonna charge Gagnon?”
“I am. With cold-blooded murder.”
Cobb heaved a big sigh but knew better than to argue with Bagshaw once he had made up his mind. He picked up the report and left.
***
Marc arrived at the police quarters about an hour later. Bagshaw had got his warrant, and Gilles Gagnon was officially charged with the murder of Delores Cardiff-Jones. Marc and Gagnon stood toe to toe in the cramped cell and talked. (Gagnon was to be transferred to the main jail within the hour.)
“You were just on your way to see Humphrey Cardiff, weren’t you?” Marc began in French.
“Yes, and as I approached Rosewood, I saw the crime being committed, and merely went to see if I could help the victim. The attacker had already run away.”
Gagnon then proceeded to tell Marc exactly what had transpired in those fatal moments on the walk of Rosewood.
“You actually saw the killer?” Marc said.
“I did, but the police don’t believe me.”
“I admit it looks bad at first glance,” Marc said, “but there is the small matter of motive. You haven’t any.”
“That’s right. And I only danced once with the lady at the Charity Ball. We exchanged half a dozen words. No more.”
“That will play out powerfully in court.
“And the killer left a glove. One that doesn’t fit me.”
“Too small?”
“Yes. The killer was a short, slim man. He’d have small hands.”
“Again, that’s a fact that will point to a third party and be very convincing to a jury.”
“But this scratch looks bad, doesn’t it?”
“Yes. And since I can’t put you on the stand, it’ll be hard to get your plausible explanation before the jury. But you did relate your account to Cobb and Wilkie, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll get them to quote from their notes.”
“What if they don’t get put on the stand?”
“They’ll have to put Wilkie there. He’s the crux of their case.”
“Can’t you get the charge dropped? We’re in the middle of an election.”
“And this won’t help any, will it?” Marc said. “A French-Canadian charged with killing the daughter of the Attorney-General of Canada West. The anti-French sentiment will be stirred up madly, I’m afraid.”
“With violence,” Gagnon said. “Like Terrebonne.”
“Let’s hope not.”
“Could we actually lose the election?”
“I doubt it very much. But our priority is getting you free. It doesn’t look as if Chief Bagshaw is in a mood to drop the charges, but I’ve got a strong case to take to court. Maybe the powers-that-be will expedite the trial in order to gain a political advantage.”
“Well, thanks for coming.”
“I’ve sent word to Louis and Robert. They’ll be along to see you when they take you over to the county jail. We’ll make you as comfortable as possible.”
Marc signalled to Cobb and was let out of the cell.
***
“Come into my office, Major,” Cobb said, using his nickname for Marc.
“You want to discuss the case?”
“I do.”
Marc followed Cobb inside. Cobb closed the door, even though Chief Bagshaw was back over at the Court House.
“You don’t agree with Gagnon’s being charged?” Marc said, sitting down opposite his old friend. They had collaborated more or less on eight previous murder investigations – before Cobb had been made detective and even after Marc had become a barrister.
“I don’t,” Cobb said.
“I’m glad, because the case is full of holes, despite your eye-witness account.”
“I know. You taught me good.”
“There’s no motive.”
“That’s the first thing I told Bagshaw. But with an eye-witness, he says a motive don’t matter.”
“And the glove suggests a third party.”
“That’s what I wrote in my first report.”
“And if the woman was dying in front of him, it’s only natural for Gagnon to be bending over her to check her wound and general state.”
“And Wilkie didn’t see the crime itself,” Cobb said. “He only saw what happened afterwards.”
“I’ll have a field day in court.”
“But the investigation’s not closed,” Cobb said, smiling slightly.
“Oh? In what way?”
“Bagshaw wants me to go fer the motive. I’m to interview the lady’s a-quaint-ances to see if she knew Mr. Gagnon at all.”
“What are you saying, old friend?”
“Well, Bagshaw won’t know it but I can still poke about and see if I can find any other suspects. Someone with a reason to throw acid in the lady’s face.”
“Yes. Acid is a very personal crime. The intention here was not murder, even if that was the unhappy result. You’re looking for a short, slight man, although you must remember that Gagnon only caught a fleeting glance as the fellow rounded the corner of the house. Don’t limit yourself to small men, although the killer likely has small hands.”
“I’ll keep you informed of anythin’ useful I find,” Cobb said.
“Isn’t that dangerous? I know you’re not Cyril Bagshaw’s favourite policeman.”
“I’ll be careful. And, of course, I may turn up some evidence that points to yer client.”
“It’s the truth that we’re after here.”
“Yeah,” Cobb said. “The truth.”