When Cobb got home for lunch, he found his two children, Delia and Fabian, huddled over the stove and a large pot of stew.
“Where’s yer mother?” Cobb said.
“She’s lying down,” Delia said. “ She just got in.”
Cobb then remembered that Dora had not been in their bed when he woke up this morning. That meant she had been out on a call – some woman having a baby at a very inconvenient time of day, as usual.
“We got your dinner, Dad,” said Fabian proudly.
“But it’s yer mother’s job,” Cobb said, and headed for the bedroom.
Dora was not asleep. She was lying, all two hundred pounds of her, upon the duvet with her eyes closed and her clothes still on. “I’m tired through to the marrow of my bones,” she said to Cobb without opening her eyes.
“You been out all night, Missus Cobb?”
“Since three in the mornin’.”
“The kids’ve got dinner.”
“Bless ‘em.”
“I expect you’ll want to sleep.”
Dora struggled up and sat on the edge of the bed. “I do, but I got somethin’ that I gotta tell ya.”
“I don’t want to hear no details about the birthin’.”
“Oh, don’t worry, it was an easy birth. Mother and babe are doin’ just fine.”
“Remember, we got a pact.”
They had agreed that Dora would not speak of her midwifing activities if Cobb did not discuss the gorier aspects of his work.
“You’ll wanta hear this, believe me,” Dora said.
“All right, then. Go ahead.”
“Peggy Jane Doyle, the young maid at Rosewood, had her baby this mornin’ at ten o’clock.”
“But that part of town’s not yer territory.”
“Right. But the regular woman was on another call, so they come fer me in the middle of the night.”
“What has Peggy Jane Doyle got to do with me?”
“Well, she was a bit delirious, and I heard her say, ‘Oh, poor Mrs. Jones, poor Mrs. Jones.’ And I figured she was referrin’ to the night of her mistress’s death.”
“Very likely. Did she say anthin’ else?”
“She did. She kept repeatin’ ‘That man . . . I saw that man.’”
“She saw the killer?”
“I don’t know. She fell asleep. And probably still is.”
“This could be important information,” Cobb said.
“I thought you talked to all them servants.”
“All but Peggy Jane Doyle,” Cobb said, upbraiding himself silently for the omission. “I’m gonna go right over to Rosewood.”
“It may be too early.”
“We’ll see, won’t we?’
***
Cobb decided to approach Rosewood via the back door. Vera Mitchell answered his knock.
“Oh, it’s you, Constable Cobb.”
“I’d like to talk to Peggy Jane Doyle.”
“Oh, you can’t, I’m afraid. She’s . . .she’s not well.”
“I know she just had a baby,” Cobb said, stepping inside. “My wife delivered it.”
“So she did. I forgot she was married to you. But you see why Peggy can’t see you.”
“Would you mind seein’ if she’s awake. This is awfully important.”
“Well, if you insist.”
“I do.”
“Wait here while I check on her. She’s on a cot in the kitchen.”
Vera disappeared down a short hall. Moments later she returned. “Peggy’s awake,” she said, “but very weak.”
“Can she talk?”
“Yes. Follow me. And be very gentle.”
Cobb followed her into the kitchen, which was empty save for the maid and her baby, lying on a cot in the corner nearest the stove. Cobb hoped the babe wasn’t feeding.
“Peggy Jane, the constable would like a word with you. Can you answer some questions?”
Peggy Jane, very young and very pale, looked up from the babe in her arms and said in a soft voice, “I think so. I’ll try.”
“Mrs. Cobb heard you say that you saw a man on the night that yer mistress was killed,” Cobb said. “Is that so?”
Peggy Jane adjusted the sleeping infant and said, “Yes. I saw a man.”
“Where were you?”
“I was on the stairwell. There’s a window there.”
“And what did you see outside the window?”
“I saw a man runnin’ along the east side of the house.”
“What time was this?”
“About seven-thirty. Usually I’m workin’ upstairs.”
Cobb was elated. That was the time the acid was thrown and Mrs. Cardiff-Jones died. This was undoubtedly the third party that Gagnon had seen leaving the scene. Holding his breath, he said, “What did this man look like?”
“I just caught a glimpse of him. He was moving fast, But I don’t think he was a big man. He had on an overcoat and a hat. Grey, I think.”
“You didn’t see his face?”
“No. I was above lookin’ down.”
“I think that’s all the time you should take,” Vera said. “Peggy Jane looks very faint to me.”
“That’s all I need to know,” Cobb said.
He thanked the women, and headed straight for Briar Cottage with his news.
***
Those people who crowded the Court House galleries the next Monday morning were treated to a surprise witness. A young girl, pale and weak, was helped up to the witness-stand, where she was allowed to sit. She gave her name as Peggy Jane Doyle. A buzz went through the crowd as Marc led her through her testimony, which was a summary of Cobb’s interview with her. She said she had been coming down the east stairs about seven-thirty when she happened to glance out the stairwell window and saw a male figure moving quickly along the east side of the house.
“Would you describe the man for us,” Marc said.
“I couldn’t see his face as he had a hat on and his coat was pulled up over his chin.”
“Was he tall? Short? Fat? Thin?”
“I only got a quick glimpse, sir. He wasn’t tall and I’d say he was on the thin side.”
“Let’s be absolutely clear. This figure, in a great hurry, was scuttling along the east wall and coming from the direction of the front of the house, where the crime took place about seven-thirty?”
McBride started to interrupt, thought better of it, and sat back down.
“That’s right, sir.”
“Thank you very much, Miss Doyle. We appreciate your testifying under difficult circumstances.”
Marc was elated. He had his third party – a thin man or a woman in disguise.
McBride now began his cross-examination. He gave Peggy Jane an avuncular smile and said, “You testified that it was seven-thirty when you came down the east stairs?”
“Yes, sir. I always come down to do my evening chores at seven-thirty.”
“Did you look at a clock before you came down?”
“Well, no, I – ”
“How did you know it was exactly seven-thirty?”
“Well, I looked at the upstairs clock about seven-fifteen and I guessed it was about fifteen minutes later when I came down.”
“So you can’t be sure it was seven-thirty?”
“I guess not,” Mary Jane said very softly.
McBride glanced over at Marc with a small grin of triumph on his round face.
“Now, the east side of Rosewood – is that not an alley running between Rosewood and the building next door?”
“Yes, sir, it is.”
“And do people not use it as a short-cut to the lane that runs behind Rosewood?”
“Sometimes.”
“So this so-called mysterious stranger could have been anybody wishing to take a short-cut through to the lane?”
“I suppose so.”
“At anytime between seven-fifteen and quarter to eight?”
“It couldn’t have been that late because when I got downstairs, a few moments later I was called to the foyer to see what the to-do was in front of the house.”
“But it could have been, say, seven-twenty?”
“Perhaps. I’m not sure.”
“No more questions, Milord.”
McBride had weakened parts of her testimony, but the essential part remained. There was now a third party in the vicinity about the time of the murder. It was now up to Marc to let the jury know that there were plenty of candidates for that role. The next candidate was John Perkins, the dismissed servant.
“Mr. Perkins,” said Marc, “you worked in the household of Mr. Humphrey Cardiff?”
“Yes, sir. I was assistant to the butler, Mr. Diggs.”
“And were you recently dismissed from that position?”
“I was.”
“Under what circumstances were you fired?”
“Mrs. Cardiff-Jones dismissed me because I answered a question truthfully put to me by Mr. Cardiff.”
“And you considered this unfair?”
“It was unfair. I was only doing my duty.”
“Did you seek the assistance of Mr. Cardiff to intervene?”
“I did, but he refused. He said the servants were beholden only to Mrs. Cardiff-Jones.”
“Were you given references?”
“No,” Perkins said bitterly. “She wouldn’t give me a reference.”
“And you haven’t been able to find other employment?”
“Not yet, no.”
“Did you harbour feelings of resentment towards Mrs. Cardiff-Jones?”
“I was unhappy with her, yes.”
“And did you, in front of other servants, swear to get even with Mrs. Cardiff-Jones?”
“I was just blowing off steam.”
“Where were you on the evening of the crime?”
“I was home. Alone.”
“Can you substantiate that?”
“No.”
“So you harboured a grudge against Mrs. Cardiff-Jones and you have no alibi for the time of the crime?”
Perkins glared at Marc. “No,” he said.
“Did the police ask you to try on the glove that was found at the scene of the crime?”
“Yes.”
“And did it fit?”
“Yes. But it wasn’t mine,” Perkins cried, looking bewildered.
Marc turned Perkins over to McBride.
“Just a few simple questions, Mr. Perkins. First, where you home all evening on the night of the crime?”
“I was.”
“And did you throw acid in Mrs. Cardiff-Jones’s face?”
“I did not!” Perkins said loudly.
“And regarding this glove. Would you say you were an average size?”
“Yes. Average.”
“And therefore the glove might well fit hundreds of average-sized men in this city?”
“That’s right.”
“That you,” McBride said.
At this point Horace Macy was recalled to the stand.
“Mr. Macy,” Marc said, “were you paying court to Mrs. Cardiff-Jones?”
“We spent much time together,” Macy said. He looked wary.
“Did you ever propose marriage to her?”
“Several times.”
“And how did she respond?”
“She said she was not quite ready to be married.”
“And how did you take this refusal?”
“I was disappointed, but not discouraged. I loved her and I knew she liked me.”
“Were you under the impression that you were her only suitor?”
“At first I was.”
“When did you discover that there was another man in the picture?”
“One afternoon recently when I came out the back door of Rosewood, I found a Mr. Lionel Trueman waiting for me in the yard.”
“And he was as shocked to see you there as you were to see him there?”
“You could say that.”
“Did you subsequently get into an argument?”
“We quarrelled over who was the true suitor.”
“At some point did you challenge Mr. Trueman to a duel?”
“He accused me of seeking Mrs. Cardiff-Jones’s money.”
“And you took that as n insult to your honour?”
“I did.”
“Even though duelling is illegal?”
“We never intended to go through with it.”
“Did you not meet at dawn the next morning in the cricket grounds, armed with pistols?”
“It was all show – ”
“And were you not in the process of pacing off each other, pistols cocked, when you were interrupted by the police?”
“It wasn’t what it seemed.”
“Be that as it may, Mr. Macy, you were so besotted with Mrs. Cardiff-Jones that you were willing to fight a duel over her. What I want to know is when your affection, your obsession, turned to hatred.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Macy cried, looking desperately at the judge.
“You discovered that the object of your affections was double-dealing with you, isn’t that right? She was seeing Lionel Trueman seriously. And you couldn’t forgive her for that, could you?”
“That’s nonsense. I loved her. I hated him.”
“Yet you were seen after the duel talking to Trueman in a most friendly manner. Had you both decided you were being played for fools? Was that why you decided to get even?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Did the police ask you to try on the glove that was found at the scene?”
“Yes.”
“And did it fit?”
“It was a little too small. And it wasn’t mine!”
“Where were you on the evening of the crime?”
Flustered, Macy managed to blurt out, “I was at home at seven-fifteen.”
“Can you prove that?”
“My maid Gladys was in the room next to my study. She can verify that I never left the house.”
“What if I were to tell you that we have an affidavit from your maid saying that she fell asleep and therefore cannot vouch for your alibi?”
“That doesn’t mean I’m not telling the truth, does it?”
“I suggest, sir, that you left your house and went to Rosewood to confront your faithless lover, outraged as your were by her behaviour. And threw acid in her face.”
“Milord!” McBride was teetering, his jowls a-flush, his tragedian’s eyes blazing. “Mr. Macy is not on trial here.”
“I agree,” said the judge. “Cease this line of questioning immediately. The jury will ignore that last remark.”
Ignore it? Marc thought. It was now seared into their memory.
“I apologize, Milord.” Marc said, then turned abruptly to Macy. “Did you know Mrs. Marion Stokes?”.
Macy looked puzzled, but said, “Of course.”
“Did you know that Mrs. Marion Stokes and Mrs. Cardiff-Jones were friends?”
“I did. We both moved in the same social circles.”
“Two more questions. Did the police ask you to try on the glove found at the scene?”
Macy looked smug as he said, “They did, and it fit. But it wasn’t mine. I don’t wear brown.”
“Finally, sir, do you have access to sulphuric acid?”
“You know I do. I’m a chemist.”
“No more questions,” Marc said.
“Mr. McBride?”
“Mr. Macy,” said McBride, “did you throw acid at Mrs. Cardiff-Jones?”
“I certainly did not.”
“Did you harbour any ill-feelings towards her?”
“None.”
“Were you at home all evening on the night of the crime?”
“I was.”
McBride smiled, but some of the smugness was gone. Marc had shown that a third party had been seen running from the front of the house near the time of the crime. Now he had a suspect with a motive and no alibi.
Marc’s next witness was Cecil Denfield.
“Mr. Denfield, you told the police that on the evening of the crime you were at home from six o’clock onwards.”
“Yes, I did.”
“You also told them your wife was home with you, and she verified that?”
“That is so.”
“But your maid also told the police that you were ill and went to bed.”
“That’s correct.”
“She told them as well that Mrs. Denfield went out to visit her cousin about seven o’clock.”
Denfield was taken aback, but recovered quickly. The galleries were leaning forward, intent. “I was in bed. She may very well have slipped out without me knowing it.”
“And your maid said she herself went to her room for the rest of the night.”
McBride rose. “Where is this meandering dialogue leading, Milord? And Mr. Edwards should bring this maid on if he wishes to use her testimony.”
“Get to the point quickly,” the judge said to Marc.
“Yes, Milord. Mr. Denfield, is it not true that no-one can vouch for the fact that you were alone in bed during the time the crime was committed?”
“It would seem so. But I was, I swear.”
Marc looked down at his notes, then back up again. “Mr. Denfield, how long had you been Delores Cardiff-Jones’s lover?”
Sensation in the galleries. Then slowly all eyes turned to Audrey Denfield, seated in the left gallery. She stared ahead impassively.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Denfield sputtered.
“May I remind the witness he is under oath,” Marc said. “Please answer the question.”
Denfield looked down at his hands on the railing.
McBride interjected, having regained his aplomb. “What is the relevance of such an impertinent question?” he said.
“It goes to motive, Milord.”
“Well, tread carefully, Mr. Edwards,” said the judge. “Mr. Denfield is not on trial. The witness will answer the question.”
Denfield whispered, “Delores and I were lovers for almost three months.”
Again, Audrey Denfield stared straight ahead.
“And how was this affair managed?”
“We met several nights a week. I came secretly to her back door, and she or her trusted maid would let me in. I would always leave by midnight.”
“And as far as you were concerned, this was a secret affair?”
“Yes. Delores wished it and so did I.”
“When did you discover Mrs. Cardiff-Jones was being courted by other men?”
“I didn’t know that!” Denfield stammered.
“You weren’t aware that Mrs. Cardiff-Jones went riding with Lionel Trueman and entertained Horace Macy during the afternoons?”
“No, sir. I thought I was her lover.”
“So you didn’t become jealous of her behaviour? You didn’t find your affection turning to anger and outrage at the way she was playing with your affections? You were not angry enough to decide to seek revenge?”
“Milord, Mr. Edwards is badgering the witness. And he is accusing him of murder! Does he intend to accuse every adult male in Toronto? Including the bailiff?”
“Mr. Edwards, you have had your questions answered. Please refrain from embellishment and unsubstantiated accusations. The jury will ignore defense counsel’s remarks.”
“No more questions, Milord,” Marc said. But he sat down, well-pleased that he had produced another candidate for that third party. A man with motive and no alibi. Moreover, he had an even more likely candidate in the offing: Lionel Trueman.
McBride went through the motions of having Denfield deny he had thrown acid at the widow, and the court adjourned for lunch.