Marc was aware that Cobb, who could be heard outside tapping and probing the windows, felt the murder to be the result of a domestic dispute, and if he were right, then motive could be the key to solving it. But there was clear evidence of mutual affection between Mrs. Burgess and the other three girls. It was conceivable, of course, that they all had some reason to hate Sarah and had colluded to get rid of her and blame a nameless client. He would have to keep an open mind about that. Still, he was bothered by the fact that neither Mrs. Burgess nor her three surviving girls fitted the stereotypical view of madam and whore, relayed to him in suffocating detail by his fellow officers eager to broadcast their exploits. What he had expected to find here were women of varying age, coarse demeanour, lathered with makeup and perfumed to camouflage their rapidly decaying bodies, and conveying in every word and gesture a sense of defeat, resignation, ennui, and hopelessness. But Carrie, Molly, and Frieda were of an age, perhaps twenty or a bit more. They looked as if they could have been cousins, sharing a slim build, heart-shaped faces, light complexion (Scots or Irish), and curly brown hair. Moreover, the best adjective Marc could think of to describe them would be “wholesome.” For here in the bland daylight, without makeup or corsets or coiffed tresses or lurid frocks, they looked healthy and guileless. And, Cobb had assured him, Sarah was of similar age and robustness, despite the shocking state of her body in death.
Nor did their mistress, Madame Renée, fit the received notions of a woman in her profession. First of all, she had been quick to drop the façade of “Madame Renée” and encourage the use of her real name. Secondly, she did not give the appearance of having worked in the trade herself, an almost universal prerequisite for the job of madam. While showing the world the effects of middle age (she looked about forty)-plumpness of flesh with unmistakable sagging of chin, forearm, and, no doubt, breast-she too wore no makeup, nor were there any signs that she regularly used it beyond some lip rouge and a pat of powder on the cheeks. She didn’t need it because while she was, and always had been, plain of feature, her eyes and range of expression radiated a personality to be reckoned with: shrewdness, detached humour, toughness, and strong feeling, for and against, Marc thought. Whenever she was interrupted by Frieda or Molly, she showed no irritation but merely paused, listened, and then carried on. Marc surmised that she governed with a productive mix of strict authority and genuine affection. At least, this seemed to be the case so far. There was still a ways to go.
Cobb and Carrie came back into the room. “All the windows are the same: high and narrow. And they got them cloth screens nailed onto them from the inside. No sign of any of ’em being tampered with.”
“I’ve told you, sirs, that no one entered this house after the pale gentleman.”
“It would seem unlikely, I agree,” Marc said, “even though you all say you went sound asleep after Mrs. Burgess here assumed that Sarah was safe for the night.”
The girls readily agreed.
“Sarah didn’t like to be woke up and moved once she nodded off with her last caller,” Carrie said, back on her perch with one pretty knee boldly exposed.
“ ’Course, we never let a caller stay the night,” Frieda said.
“That’s right, Mr. Edwards. I have a hard-and-fast rule about that. I roust them out at two o’clock whatever they might wish or whatever money they’re prepared to offer me. Peter and Donald are always ready to escort them back to Lot Street and their wives’ cold beds.”
“Which rule you violated last night.”
Mrs. Burgess slumped in her chair. When she looked up, her eyes were swimming. “Why do you think I been up all night? It’s the worst mistake of my life. But as I told Constable Cobb, we all thought the fellow was harmless and too drunk to do much. We felt sorry for him, if the truth be known. I never seen a young man look so desperate, so pleading-more in need of mothering than whoring.”
“That was my opinion of him, too,” Marc said.
“You knew him, then?” Mrs. Burgess asked. “Nobody’s yet told us who he was or how he happened to come here with one of our regulars.”
Marc hesitated before deciding how to answer. “I’m not at liberty to tell you his name, but he’s a gentleman about twenty years old, and is one of the party who arrived with Lord and Lady Durham.”
Mrs. Burgess’s face went even paler than it already was. The girls sucked in their breath.
“You mean to say he’s connected to one of the bigwigs the girls saw coming across the bay yesterday like Jesus walking on water?”
“I’m afraid so. You’ll understand why Lord Durham has asked me to make the most thorough investigation of the facts and-”
“-and pin the blame on one of us!” There was both defiance and apprehension in the glower she turned upon Marc.
Two of the girls began to weep, but Mrs. Burgess raised a restraining hand and they blubbered to a stop.
“Not so,” Marc said. “I have carried out four previous investigations in the province, three of them under the aegis of a governor. In each instance I got to the truth, even when it proved to be unwelcome news. I have sworn to Lord Durham that I will do so here, and he has agreed to abide by my findings whatever they may be.”
Mrs. Burgess gave him a long, searching appraisal. Finally she said, “Well, as I have no say in the matter, I’ll take you at your word. For now.”
“Thank you. Now, back to the facts of last night. All of you claim to have fallen into a deep sleep about one-thirty or so. I don’t think the exact time is as important here as the precise sequence of events. All was well, you told Mr. Cobb, until you, Molly, were wakened by a scream of some sort.”
“It was a kind of shriek,” Molly said. “But it wasn’t Sarah. It was definitely a man’s voice, though I remember thinkin’ it was like a little boy screechin’ at somethin’ he seen in a nightmare, or somethin’ like that.”
“I believe we may assume for the moment that the pale gentleman had woken up and witnessed the young lady dead and bloody beside him.”
“Please, sir-”
“I will not ask you or Molly to describe again the horror of that scene,” Marc said quickly. “Constable Cobb’s description and Dr. Withers’s report are all that we require on that score. There were no footprints or other smears in the blood on the floor or mat, so we’re satisfied you two didn’t dash in there and tamper, however innocently, with any aspect of that grisly tableau.”
“I sent Molly out for help right off, then sat out here waiting, and keeping an ear and eye out for Jocko-the pale gentleman-and the knife in his hand.”
“Did you have a weapon to defend yourself, had he wakened and attacked you?” Marc asked, and saw Cobb nod knowingly. It seemed a weak part of Mrs. Burgess’s story.
“I had that poker over there by the stove,” she said evenly. “It was pitch-dark in here, though Sarah’s bedside candle may still have been going. I planned to stand by the archway over there and crown him if he appeared belligerent.”
“And of course he would scarcely know where he was.”
“But he never come out, did he? And I had no intention of looking again on poor Sarah-”
“Naturally,” Marc agreed with a sympathetic nod. “And Constable Cobb’s description of that awful scene is very near to your own. But I am still a bit puzzled as to how or why the young gentleman cried out, apparently fifteen or twenty minutes after he had viciously stabbed her, and then dropped off to sleep again while she bled all over him and the-”