Cobb was in the constables’ room dictating notes to Gussie French, the clerk, about a pair of thieves he and Wilkie had caught drunk and disoriented in a dry goods store early Thursday morning. He was just getting started, and beginning to enjoy Gussie’s increasing anxiety as his pen failed to keep up with the pace of dictating, when he and Gussie’s pen were interrupted by a clump of heavy feet in the reception area. This impoliteness was followed closely by a grunted demand of some sort and then the Chief’s voice inviting the intruder into his office. Ten minutes later, Cobb was just finishing his report when he heard the outer door slam. He poked his head out. Chief Sturges was standing in the doorway of his office, and when he spied Cobb, he said:
“Cobb, I think you’d better come in and hear the story that rude fellow had to tell.”
Cobb trailed him inside. Sturges eased his gouty foot onto a padded stool and motioned for Cobb to sit down.
“Long story, is it, sir?”
“Long and upsetting, I’m afraid. I just had Burton Thurgood in here. He’s a mill-hand from up Trout Creek way, the one whose daughter died.”
“Whittle’s mill, ya mean? The one on the Baldwin property? Dora told me about that business.”
“He leases the land from Dr. Baldwin.”
“This have to do with the Baldwins, then?”
“It looks that way,” Sturges sighed.
“But if it’s about the daughter, we’ve already had an inquest. Dora give me chapter and verse.”
“It is about the girl. And the inquest may not be the last of it.” He went on to repeat to Cobb the tale that Thurgood had told him and the charge he was making.
“Jesus Murphy,” Cobb whistled. “Old Seamus Baldwin, you say? That’s pretty hard to swallow, ain’t it?”
“I agree. But he’s usin’ yer Dora as his chief witness. Did she say anythin’ about any death-bed claim made by the poor girl out there last Friday night?”
Cobb shook his head. “No, she didn’t. But that’s not unusual. We have a sort of pact not to gabble on or complain about each other’s work. But she has complained bitterly about that quack, Mrs. Trigger, and she did go on about what the old bird might’ve done to kill Betsy Thurgood, but she said she only had the parents’ word on that score.”
“And Trigger’s hat, which she testified she found in their kitchen. Enough to get a warrant out fer Trigger’s arrest. But I was at the inquest, and no mention was made by anybody of Seamus Baldwin bein’ accused of bein’ the babe’s father. And, of course, bein’ guilty of seduction and rape of a minor.”
“What did Thurgood have to say about that?”
“He said he thought tellin’ the police was the right way to go.”
Cobb sighed. “Betsy wouldna been the first housemaid put in the family way by a lecher-roused lord of the manor. Usually them matters is hushed up and taken care of by the swells themselves.”
“Not when the girl dies horribly and accuses the perpetrator before witnesses.”
“You want me to talk to Dora?”
“I do, Cobb. And mister and missus as well. Thurgood’s got a big chip on his shoulder. He more or less claimed we wouldn’t take his charge seriously because the accused was a bigwig Baldwin. I assured him it would be looked into by my top investigator, with a written report he would be allowed to read – if he can.”
“Top investigator?”
“That’s right, Cobb. Remember, I’m goin’ to the Council next month with that proposal we talked about. I want you to get off yer patrol. I’ll have Sweeney cover for you. Take all the time you need.”
“You want me in my Sunday suit?”
Sturges laughed. “Not yet. Not yet.”
***
Cobb found Dora in the parlour with her feet up and a cup of tea in her hand.
“What’re ya doin’ home now, Mr. Cobb?” she greeted him, as if he were some burglar who forgot it was daylight.
“Good mornin’ to you, too.”
She spied the serious look on his face, and said, “What is it?”
And he told her.
“I was just surprised he never said anythin’ about Seamus Baldwin at the inquest,” was Dora’s initial response to Cobb’s account of Thurgood’s visit.
“But you didn’t either,” Cobb said cautiously.
“Nobody asked,” she snapped. “And I had my doubts about the business anyway. Why smear a man’s character when you don’t have to?”
“It’s yer doubts I come to talk to you about. The Sarge has asked me to investigate the charge.”
“So I’m bein’ in-terror-grated, am I?”
“You are.”
Dora smiled as best she could. The grim events of Friday evening still weighed heavily upon her. “Shoot, then.”
“First off, did young Betsy call out the gent’s name when her mother asked her who the father of the babe was?”
Dora paused, and choosing her words carefully, she said, “Auleen did ask that question. But the girl was fevered and delirious. She’d been mutterin’ and murmurin’ in her fever all along, mostly gibberish as far as I could make out.”
“But the name Seamus did come out?”
“It did. Right after Auleen’s question. But I was nearest to the poor thing. Her tone was much closer to beggin’ than accusin’. I think she wanted someone to fetch Seamus, or Uncle Seamus as everybody out there calls him.”
“If he was her lover, though, she could’ve been askin’ fer him, eh?”
“It’s possible, but it sounded more like a child callin’ out fer an adult to come an’ comfort her.”
“Either way, that don’t sound too good, does it? The girl’s with child and she don’t call fer her mom or dad but fer Uncle Seamus.”
“She was dyin’, not birthin’. And she’d probably grown fond of the old gent, eh?”
“Not too fond, I hope.”
“Besides, Baldwin ain’t the only Seamus in the county. We can’t go accusin’ a man of a hyena’s crime just because a girl called out his Christian name?”
“That right. And that’s why the Chief’s sent me out to see if there is anythin’ that looks like real evidence.”
“If we c’n believe the Thurgoods, there was a five-pound note passed from the girl to Mrs. Trigger.”
“Who’s skedadelled off to Buffalo or Detroit with it, and with the murder weapon.”
“So what’re you gonna do?”
“I’m goin’ out to Trout Creek. Thurgood’ll be at work. I want to catch Auleen Thurgood by herself. The Major always says it’s best to question suspects alone and separate. You never know when or where their stories won’t match.”
“What about Seamus Baldwin?”
“I’ll go see him – dependin’ on what I find at the Thurgoods.”
“That won’t be easy.”
“I know. I ain’t lookin’ forward to it. The Baldwins are bigwigs. And they’re all good friends of the Edwards.”
“And they been good to us, too. Invitin’ Fabian out there fer the birthday party and the like.”
“Don’t make it worse, Missus Cobb. You remember what Fabian told us about the old gent’s antics after he come home – foolin’ about like a clown with the children and makin’ goo-goo eyes at the little girls.”
“Don’t talk nonsense! I’ve seen you cavortin’ about in yer Shakespearean costumes playin’ the jester with the neighbourhood kids.”
Cobb grunted and rose to go. “I hope there’s nothin’ to all this,” he said.
***
Once again in the morning Edie Barr was ordered into the library to play dominoes with Uncle Seamus. He had had a promising evening, sitting with Robert and Dr. and Mrs. Baldwin in the parlour and appearing to follow the conversation even if he were not contributing to it. But the night had seen a relapse into nightmare, wakefulness, and crying jags – and a lot of concerned care on the part of the servants. He had refused breakfast, but at the mention of Edie and dominoes in the library, he had agreed to come downstairs. Robert waited outside until he heard the exchange of giggles and guffaws. Then he tapped gently on the door. He was not looking forward to what lay ahead.
***
At the Chief’s suggestion, Cobb rented a buggy and drove up Brock Street to the Spadina road. There were now several taxicabs in Toronto, but they were notoriously unreliable, and could usually not be persuaded (without a suitable bribe) to go beyond the city limits. So only twenty minutes had passed before he turned onto the rugged bush-path that led to Whittle’s mill. The road improved as he approached the mill itself, its huge wheel turning ponderously in the race that ran down from the mill-pond and Trout Creek. He passed a small partially cleared farm on his left, crossed a rickety log bridge over the creek, and soon came to a clutch of log shanties set willy nilly along a rutted path. Dora had told him that the Thurgoods occupied the first one.
Auleen Thurgood must have heard the horse and buggy approach, for she popped her head out the front door, spotted the stranger in uniform, and ducked back inside, slamming the door.
Cobb tethered the horse and walked up to the house.
“Let me in, Mrs. Thurgood. I’m Constable Cobb, and I just wanta ask you a question or two: there’s nothin’ to be scared of.”
Ten minutes later Cobb was sitting with a mug of tea at the kitchen table, and Auleen Thurgood had finally stopped fluttering about like a lop-sided butterfly. She sat opposite him, thin-faced and large-eyed, with her fingers clenched.
“You want know more about what happened last Friday?”
“I don’t need to go over what you told the coroner, ma’am. I know how painful that must’ve been. But yer husband’s made a serious charge against Mr. Seamus Baldwin.”
“I know, he told me. I begged him to leave things be, but he never listens to me – or anybody else. He’ll get us all ruined.”
“Only if he ain’t tellin’ the truth. Which is why I’m here. I need you to tell me what happened in the minute or so before yer daughter . . . uh, passed on.”
Auleen’s lower lip began to quiver, but she took a deep breath and said bravely, “After Mrs. Trigger walked outta here floutin’ her five pounds, we run inta Betsy’s room and right away we saw what she’d done . . . what the two of ‘em had cooked up together. But Betsy was just a child, so she didn’t know what she was doin’, it was that dreadful – ”
“Yes, yes,” Cobb said. “And we’ll catch up with her. It’s what happened after Mrs. Cobb arrived that I need to know about.”
“And a wonderful woman yer wife is, sir. She done all she could fer Betsy, but the . . . the thing’d come outta her before she got here, and the fever was already terrible. We got hot water and cold cloths, but we could all see she was slippin’ away from us . . .”
Cobb pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and waited until Auleen had finished sobbing into it. “Take yer time, missus.”
“I thought I was all cried out, but I was wrong.”
“I take it you or yer husband had asked Betsy who the father of her babe was when she first hinted she was pregnant?”
“We did, but she said nothin’. Then later when she was wild with the fever I asked her again. And this time she answered. She said it was Seamus.”
“Seamus Baldwin?”
Auleen looked puzzled for a moment, then said, “No. Just Seamus. But she said it twice. She said, ‘Seamus . . .please . . . Seamus.’ We all heard it.”
“I know you did. Mrs. Cobb told me the same. But you see, it could’ve been any Seamus. And I’m worried about the word ‘please.’ Sounds more like she was callin’ fer him.”
“’Cause he was her lover!” Auleen cried. “’Cause he seduced her! A child! A girl’s who’s only had her monthlies since last March!”
Cobb squirmed at such bold woman-talk, but said kindly enough, “Please, calm down, ma’am. I’m here to get at the truth, not to doubt yer word.”
“What about the five pounds? No mill-hand ever saw a note like that. The only people within three miles of here that could’ve had that kinda money are the Baldwins. And Betsy’s worked up at Spadina for over two months.”
Cobb nodded as if he agreed, then said, “Any of them mill-hands named Seamus?”
“I thought you was lookin’ into the charge Burton made against Seamus Baldwin?” she cried, defiant. Then she put her head onto the table and wept.
“I take it there aren’t?” he said softly.
She shook her head without raising it.
“Mind if I take a peek at Betsy’s room?”
Auleen nodded miserably. Cobb got up and entered the cramped cubicle that had served as the dead girl’s only private space. The bloodied pallet had been removed entirely, leaving only a home-made night-stand as the sole piece of furniture. Two crude drawers had been fashioned and attached to the underside of an apple-box. A shard of broken mirror lay on its top, the girl’s pathetic looking-glass. In the first drawer he found several pairs of cotton underwear and two strips of cloth that were probably used for her menstrual periods. Cobb blushed at the thought, and was about to shut the drawer without further search when he heard the rustle of paper underneath the cloths. Slowly he drew into the dim light a half-sheet of writing paper. Cobb went to the oil-papered window and was just able to make out the pencil scrawl:
Dear Uncle:
Thank you for the five-pound note. It’s
a lifesaver and you are an angel. I love you.
XOXOX
Betsy
p.s. See you at Spadina
Oh dear, Cobb thought. This complicates things. On the face of it, this letter was a thank-you note that Betsy meant to give to Uncle Seamus for his generosity. But the “uncle,” in conjunction with “Spadina” and her death-bed cry of “Seamus,” pointed towards only one person who would answer to all three references. And it sure looked as if there had been a five-pound note, one that had passed from benefactor to pregnant girl to abortionist. Cobb had no choice now. He would have to interview Seamus Baldwin. He returned to the night-table and opened the second drawer: there could be more. But there wasn’t. In it he found a rabbit’s foot, a sling-shot, several marbles and half a dozen Indian arrowheads. An odd collection, he thought, for a girl.
He went back into the kitchen, where Auleen was sitting upright with a mug of tea clasped in all ten fingers.
“I’m goin’ to talk to yer husband, ma’am, but first I need to go over to Spadina. I got reason to believe Seamus Baldwin may be mixed up in this unhappy business. It’s way too soon, though, to conclude he was a seducer and a rapist.”
“I just want us to be left alone,” she said, setting her tea aside, “but if that man did do it, I’d like to see him punished.”
“So would I, ma’am.”
At the door he turned and said, “I found a bunch of things in Betsy’s room that looked more like the keepsakes of a lad than a lass.”
Auleen smiled wanly. “Oh, them things belong to my son Tim. He and Betsy shared that room when they were both children. Tim’s only four years older.”
“But he don’t live here any more?”
“He run off and got married at the end of July.”
“And you had an older girl?”
Auleen’s eyes narrowed. “We did. Lottie. She was a wild one. Seven years older’n Tim. She run away years ago.”
“So Betsy was yer last?”
Auleen nodded. “There’s nobody now but me and Burton. We’re all alone.”
***
A few rods back from the road, Cobb noticed someone working at the weir that served the mill. He tethered the horse and walked towards the figure, who stopped hammering at some lower section of the little dam and watched him approach.
“You Burton Thurgood?”
“I am. And you must be one of the bobbies.” Thurgood stepped up onto a platform.
“I want to talk to you about the charge you made against Seamus Baldwin,.” Cobb said evenly. “I’ve been asked to investigate and make a report.”
“Then why ain’t you over at Spadina doin’ yer job? I already told yer chief what happened Friday night and what I heard.”
“I need to hear it from the horse’s mouth. Soon as I do, I plan on headin’ over to talk to Mr. Baldwin.”
Thurgood, whose expression veered as close to a sneer as he dared, said, “I’ll believe it when I see it. I don’t really expect them swells to admit anythin’ to the likes of you.”
Cobb bristled, but kept his temper. “Maybe so. But I still need to hear what you got to say – fer my report.”
Thurgood grunted, and while Cobb took out his notebook and pretended to scribble in it, Thurgood gave Cobb an account of what happened that was not materially different from that of his wife’s, except in the pugnacity of its tone. Cobb had deliberately neglected to tell him he had already heard it from Auleen. The jibing of the two accounts confirmed the need for him to continue on to Spadina, as unpleasant as that might prove to be.
Cobb thanked Thurgood and turned to leave.
“Yer chief told me to come in and check on that report at seven o’clock this evenin’,” Thurgood said pointedly. “I’ll be there.”
I’ll try not to be, Cobb thought. And headed for his buggy.
***
“It’s good to hear you laugh again, Uncle,” Robert said.
“That lass makes me do it, even when it hurts,” Uncle Seamus said, absent-mindedly putting the dominoes back in their box.
“It’s a sad time for all of us. Father and I loved Betsy like one of our own.”
“You have other children.”
“And without them I’d never have survived Elizabeth’s death in ‘thirty-six. I trust you’ll lean on us and on Edie and the other servants to help you over this hurdle.”
“She was so young. And full of promise. She needed someone to talk to. As I did.”
Robert was pleased to hear his uncle talking of his loss. It was the first direct reference he had made to it since Betsy’s death.
“I’ll have Miss Partridge see that Edie’s duties are lightened for a while so she can help cheer you up whenever you wish to have her do so.”
“She’s a pretty little thing with a wicked sense of fun, but she’s not Betsy. Thank you, though, for that thought. I don’t wish to seem ungrateful to you or William. I know you’re doing all you can to help. Perhaps in a week or two I’ll feel up to chambers again.”
“Whenever you say.”
“And I know you’re needed in many other parts of the province.”
“I’m not leaving until I’m sure you’re going to be all right.”
“Your dad and Chalmers can look after my physical and spiritual needs. Please, go ahead and arrange your trip to London as you planned.”
“Do you wish to stay here and read, or do you want me to have Chalmers fetch Edie back?”
Uncle Seamus, having played the role so often and for so long, had evolved a jester’s face: when it smiled every crevice and plane smiled in concert with his vivid blue eyes; but when it frowned, every wrinkle and rosy patch sagged in sympathy. At this moment, his smile was struggling to maintain itself. “Have Edie come back in. I promised to let her win.”
Robert had put off the inevitable long enough. “I will, Uncle,” he said “but there is something I must tell you, even though it may upset you.”
“I can’t think of anything that would upset me more than I have been.”
“It has to do with Betsy.”
“Oh?” Was it fear or merely a twinge of further pain in his eyes?
“There’s no way to lead up to this, so I’m going to say it directly. Burton Thurgood claims that his daughter named you as the father of her babe.”
The colour drained from the old man’s face, then returned immediately as he began to laugh – a dry, mirthless, bitter laugh. Finally he was able to speak. “That’s absurd,” he said more calmly than Robert would have imagined in the circumstances. “I was her ‘uncle’ and she was my precious little ‘niece.’”
“I agree wholeheartedly. But three witnesses heard her reply ‘Seamus’ to the question ‘Who is the father of your child?’. One of the witnesses was Dora Cobb, the midwife.”
“But Betsy would have been delirious. She’d been butchered by that witch.”
“Exactly what I said to Thurgood when he came here yesterday looking for money in exchange for his silence.”
“I trust you sent him packing!” Some fire had come back into the old man’s face, a slight re-animation of the laugh-lines. Robert began once more to hope that his uncle’s recovery was beginning. Certainly this conversation was going a lot better than he’d expected
“He threatened to take his case to the police, Uncle, but I don’t imagine they would act on such a flimsy accusation. If he does and they do, I’ve a mind to report the attempted extortion.”
“Be kind,” Uncle Seamus said. “They’ve suffered dreadfully over there.”
At this point there came a tap at the door and Chalmers half-entered.
“There’s a Constable Cobb at the door, sir. He is asking to see Mr. Seamus.” Chalmers raised his eyebrows in a quizzical gesture that implied an impertinence had been approached but his response remained uncertain.
Robert sighed. “At least it’s Cobb.”
***
In the hall, Robert explained to Cobb how fragile a state his uncle was in. Cobb suggested that Robert remain near the door so that he could be fetched if Uncle Seamus required assistance. Cobb also promised to be tactful, insofar as he understood that ambiguous term.
Uncle Seamus sat at the library table waiting for him. He struck Cobb as a character out of Shakespeare, a Feste or Touchstone in a down moment, the kind they must have had when the duke wasn’t looking. Right now his gnome’s head seemed too large and heavy to be borne.
“You aren’t putting any credence in Thurgood’s charge, are you?” he said wearily when Cobb sat down opposite him.
Cobb did not take out his notebook. “We are obligated to look into it, sir, that’s all.”
“So you want to know if dear Betsy and I had ever been lovers?” Uncle Seamus said with a fine edge to his sarcasm.
“Somebody put a baby into her,” Cobb said quietly.
“Well, sir, it was not me. I loved that lass, but as a parent. She was a lonely girl whose own father and mother saw her merely as a cash-cow. She was very intelligent. She could read and write. I gave her the run of the library. I made her laugh – ” He could not continue. A held-back sob broke. He coughed it away and, to Cobb’s embarrassment, looked up at him with tears running down both of his scarlet cheeks.
“So you are denyin’ you ever ‘interfered’ with the girl?”
“I am, as God is my witness.”
“Well, that’s a good start, then.”
“A start?”
“Yes. I need you to give me a causible explanation for this letter I found in Betsy’s bedroom.” He drew the note from his pocket and handed it across to Uncle Seamus, who read it through carefully.
“Well, sir?”
“It’s a thank-you note for the five pounds I gave her last week.” His voice faltered as he added, “That’s her handwriting.”
“But you don’t understand, sir. That five pounds was handed by Betsy to Mrs. Trigger, the abortionist. You give the girl abortion money.”
“I did no such thing. She never told me she was pregnant. If she had, none of this would have happened, I guarantee you. She told me her mother had a tumour that needed to be removed by a surgeon. Obviously, and sadly, she lied to me. But I gave her the money for that purpose alone – and will swear to it, if need be.”
Cobb cleared his throat. “What do you make of that ‘I love you’ business at the end of the letter?” he said diffidently.
For the first time anger showed in Uncle Seamus’s eyes. “Good Christ, man, don’t you love your children? Don’t they love you?”
Cobb blushed, and the wart beside his left nostril quivered. “I see what you mean, sir.”
That burst of anger seemed to use up the last reserves of the old man’s energy. His face, his entire body, just sagged. “I’m awful tired,” he said, barely audible, and with that he slumped against the table.
Cobb went to the door and called for Robert. Chalmers was right behind his master.
“I’ll see to him, sir,” Chalmers said, scowling at Cobb.
Robert turned to Cobb. “This is a sorry affair,” he sighed.
“And I’m sorry fer upsettin’ the old gent,” Cobb said. “But it was a useful conversation.”
“You are satisfied he had nothing to do with Betsy’s death?” Much relief was evident on Robert’s face.
“He denies bein’ the father or in any way approachin’ the girl improperly. And he had a perfectly logical explanation for a letter I found from Betsy to him. As far as I can see, it’s his word against the Thurgoods. And my Dora’ll swear the girl was delirious to boot.”
“Thank God. It’s time we let this matter lie. For everybody’s sake.”
“I agree, sir. Now I got to head back to police quarters and dictate my report. Good day to you.”
Robert shook Cobb’s hand and led him to the front door. He didn’t know it, but it would be some time before they would be able to shake hands like this again.