“I can’t see why any of those women would have reason to lie,” Marc said glumly. “And if they did, the friends accompanying them would have to be in on it.”
“I don’t see any of them whist fellers lettin’ their wives in on any conspiracy,” Cobb added unhelpfully.
“You’re right. That’s why His Lordship and I decided to approach them with our phony story about a jewel robbery: we felt sure the women would tell us what was what on Monday evening.”
They turned off Yonge onto Hospital.
“You’re thinkin’ it may’ve been the Reverend Temper-rants who pestered Sarah McConkey, ain’t ya?”
“The thought has crossed my mind,” Marc said. “Mrs. Finney was so adamant about blaming the girl, who, after all, had not had much time to be corrupted by the iniquities of the city. I began to wonder if she were not protesting too much.”
“And if Finney was taken with Sarah and his old lady tossed her out, then he still might have a hankerin’ fer her.”
“Possibly. I don’t see him pursuing her into Irishtown, but his knowing her would give him some potential connection to Madame Renée’s and, not impossibly, to Michael Badger.”
“It may be all we got, Major. I don’t expect we’ll have any more luck here at Hepburn’s. And unless I know the stableman myself, I wouldn’t trust a word any of ’em utter. Most wouldn’t trade the truth fer a sofa chair in heaven!”
“I didn’t tell you, Cobb, but of the four whist players, both Lord Durham and I decided Hepburn was the most likely candidate to orchestrate any conspiracy.”
“And I’d agree with ya: nobody beats bankers at that sort of thing.”
The Hepburns occupied a fine brick and stone house located on the north side of Hospital Street. Built in the Georgian style, it boasted extensive barns and stables out behind; inside an enclosed paddock, several well-bred horses gleamed and pranced. Cobb headed directly for it.
A tall, middle-aged woman with masculine features and auburn hair pulled tightly into a bun showed Marc into a richly furnished sitting room complete with Turkish sofas, Persian rugs an inch deep, and high, spacious Italianate windows. Mrs. Matilda Hepburn was seated on one of the sofas, and from the cut of her dress and the flowered bonnet beside her, she had either just come in or was preparing to go out. She had a small face whose lineaments might have been admired when she was fourteen but had not bloomed as promised, leaving her with a pinched and impoverished face. She appeared to be compensating for its lack of physical character by keeping her chin higher than nature required and her sloe eyes dart sharp.
“That’ll be all, Una,” she said to the tall woman. “Though you might see if cook has any fresh tea and biscuits for our guest.” She waved Una off and then turned the gesture into an invitation for Marc to sit opposite her on an embroidered Queen Anne chair.
After introducing himself, Marc spun his yarn just as he had done three times previously that afternoon. He was beginning to believe it himself. Matilda Hepburn showed no emotion or response of any kind at the mention of the fictitious imposter or his clandestine thievery.
Before Marc could ask the routine and obvious question about the ride home to the city, she interrupted him to say, “I do not see, young man, why the police would come bothering us about such a thing. Mr. Hepburn and I are not accustomed to giving rides to total strangers, and certainly not one cloaked and wrapped in secrecy as the man you have described. I am sorry for Lady Durham’s loss, though I daresay neither she nor her affluent husband are pinched for pennies.”
“You’re telling me, then, that you and Mr. Hepburn rode home together, as you rode out to Spadina?”
The black eyes darted and pricked. “I hope you’re being deliberately naive, Mr. Edwards. The point I made was quite clear and in need of no elaboration.”
“You did not travel to the gala with friends or neighbours?”
“That should be of no concern to you, sir, but in order to show my respect for the law, I will tell you no: we travelled alone.”
“Please forgive me, ma’am, but I have been asked by the highest authority to make these intrusive and less than tactful inquiries.”
At that moment Una re-entered the room carrying a tea tray. She stumbled on the edge of the thick carpet and, in righting herself, let go of the tray. Teacups, teapot, biscuits, and steaming tea struck the arabesques on the rug.
“You stupid oaf!” Mrs. Hepburn cried, rising to her feet.
“I’m terribly sorry, ma’am, I-”
“Just get out! Fetch cook and get this mess cleaned up!”
Flushed and confused, Una staggered back and fled.
Her ruffled feathers quickly back in place, Mrs. Hepburn said to Marc, “She’s been like that for two days. Family problems, I believe. Come, I’ll show you the way out.”
In the lane, Marc met up with Cobb and gave him the disappointing news. “Did you find the driver of the barouche?” he said hopefully.
“I did, Major. He says it was a quiet night. Just mister and missus-out and back.”
“Did you believe him?”
“No reason not to, though I don’t know him from Adam.”
“Damn.”
“I guess we wasted an afternoon and lost half an inch of shoe leather inta the bargain,” Cobb said. “So what do we do now? You think we’re likely to get anythin’ more outta our four gentlemen if we was to ask them the same questions?”
“Not likely. I’ve been instructed to treat them with kid gloves. But there’s still the McConkeys. I’m certain that when we know the whole story of Sarah’s ten months in the city, we’ll have more clues to work with than we need.”
“You ain’t thinkin’ about ridin’ all the way out to Streetsville now, are you?”
“It’s only eighteen miles, and I have my choice of swift horses from Government House. I’ll be back before dark.”
“Well, then, I’ll keep pokin’ around town to see if I can help turn up Badger.”
“Good. If anything develops, leave a message at Government House. I’ve got to have something positive to report to Lord Durham later tonight.”
Beth had no intention of doing anything for Handford Ellice beyond bringing him back from his hallucinatory state to the real world. Whatever he had done, he would need to face it, the sooner the better, and perhaps begin to talk about it. But such decisions must be made by Ellice himself, not his doctors with their soporifics or the police with their interrogations.
Lady Durham, as discreet as she was intelligent, had a bowl of broth brought in but let Beth spoon it onto his lips. After a few mouthfuls and a smile at Beth that seemed more painful than purging, he sighed deeply and rolled back on his pillows. Beth was just about to get up and tiptoe away when he suddenly spoke again, keeping his eyes closed all the while and pausing frequently.
“I really thought I had killed you, Mrs. Edwards. You who befriended me and did not find my dancing laughable.”
“You’ve been ill and had a bad dream, that’s all.”
“A horrible dream. It kept coming back, over and over.” He opened his eyes briefly. They were full of tears. “But it’s gone now. I can close my eyes-like this-and still see you sitting there. With no knife in your neck.” He shuddered, then smiled wanly.
Beth leaned forward and took his hand. She used it to stroke her neck. “See, my neck is as good as it ever was.”
“As pretty, you mean.”
“What you need to do now, to keep the dream away, is take some soup, rest, and get yourself strong.”
“You’ll come again, though?”
“If you wish.”
“Good. I think I might go mad if I had to endure that nightmare one more time. You are lying beside me in a strange bed, and I wake up and see a knife in your neck, and I think ‘That’s odd’ and I reach over and gently pull it out. But no blood comes out with it. Isn’t that strange?”