“Please tell me.”
“He would pick up the closest one, give him a bear hug until he said uncle, then tip him upside down and quietly shake him until the other boys laughed. Then he dropped him and laughed with them. They soon got to like Michael. He had his faults, but people liked him. And he was fun to be with. He could talk the ear off a donkey!” Her face lit up momentarily at the memory of what was past and would not return.
“Still,” Marc said hesitantly, “he became a bruiser in a brothel.”
“But don’t you see, sir, if he couldn’t sweet-talk a drunken sailor out of being belligerent, why, he’d just give him a bear hug and flip him topsy-turvy.”
“And Madame Renée didn’t entertain too many sailors?”
Una smiled. “Michael called her customers ‘pillow-puffs.’ His only worry was that he would meet one of them on the street and get in Dutch for recognizing him.”
Had Badger possibly encountered Hepburn at Madame Renée’s? Was that the reason for Hepburn’s “friendliness” towards him? Or was it a simple and deadly case of blackmail? What did it matter now anyway? Badger was gone and Hepburn was too clever to be implicated in either crime.
Una Badger suddenly grasped both of Marc’s hands. “Michael couldn’t have hurt any of those girls, not a hair on their heads. He liked them. He treated them like younger sisters. He took them little presents. He wouldn’t let any of the men be insulting to them. And he never touched them in that. . that other way.”
“But-”
“Mr. Edwards, you’ve got to tell the police and the magistrate that my brother couldn’t kill anyone!”
Una Badger had left to go up to Dr. Withers’s surgery to claim her brother’s body. Marc’s head was spinning too much for him to be able to compose a note for Wilfrid Sturges, but he did not need to, for the chief himself soon arrived. Marc rattled off a highly edited and barely coherent explanation of why he had bearded Alasdair Hepburn in his home, but his embarrassment was scarcely noticed. The chief was a happy and relieved man and cared not that a prominent citizen may have been needlessly bullied.
“Stop worryin’, Marc. We’ve all done our duty and then some. We’ll have this whole business wrapped up by noon tomorrow. We’ll make a sweep of the rot around the Tinker’s Dam, but it’s not likely we’ll ever find out who done us a favour by poppin’ off Mr. Badger. Still, we can safely go up and tell His Lordy-ship that his nephew’s off the hook.”
Marc nodded numbly.
“Do you want me to tell ’im?” Sturges offered affably.
“No. Thanks anyway. I’m to make a full report to him at eight o’clock. I’ll just go on home to have some supper and compose my notes.”
“Be sure and put in a good word fer us peelers.”
“That will be a pleasure, Wilfrid.”
Out on the stone walk, Marc found himself fighting for breath. Confused and frustrated he might be, but one thought rang in his mind clear and unequivocaclass="underline" Michael Badger did not murder Sarah McConkey.
“Marc, stop this pacing up and down,” Beth said, “you’re gonna wear a path in the new rug.”
Marc halted, said nothing, then began to pace again.
“You’re scaring Charlene.”
“She’s in the kitchen burning the dumplings.”
Beth laughed, and Marc sat down, his head in his hands.
“I’ve never seen you like this before.”
“I’ve never felt like this before. Don’t you see how impossible the situation is? In two hours I’ve got to walk up to Government House and inform Lord and Lady Durham that the police have attributed the murder to Michael Badger for reasons that have nothing to do with Handford Ellice. And everybody is supposed to be happy about it.”
“But you and Una Badger are the only ones who think he didn’t do it.”
“I’m certain of it. Just as I’m positive that Alasdair Hepburn lured Ellice to that scarlet door and bribed Badger to cause some sort of commotion in there-an elaborate prank perhaps, intended principally to embarrass Lord Durham and give him something besides Upper Canada to be concerned about.”
“But you said Badger wasn’t involved. You’ve lost me.”
“He was supposed to sneak in there, but if he did-and we’ll never know for certain-he must have got quite a grisly surprise.”
“You figure he may’ve found Sarah dead?”
“It’s possible. He arrived at Hepburn’s later that morning in terrible shape, according to Una. But one way or another, he did not kill Sarah. Everything I’ve heard about him so far suggests that he would not have murdered in a sudden rage, and certainly not one of those girls.”
“So an innocent man’s reputation will be sacrificed to keep the bigwig safe?”
“I don’t see how I can stop it.”
“You’re certain the key you found on Badger fits the little door?” Beth suddenly said.
Marc smiled. “Not yet. I suppose Cobb or Sarge will check that tomorrow. They’re in no hurry now that they’re sure they’ve got their man. Anyway, I wouldn’t bet one of Charlene’s dumplings on it.”
Beth nodded, then said evenly, “And there’s Lady Durham, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“She has her own doubts about Handford. If you tell her husband what you’ve just told me about Badger, then she’ll leave here never knowing for sure whether her sister’s boy is truly blameless.”
Marc groaned. It was getting worse. “But I can’t lie to Lord Durham. He wants the truth.”
“If he doesn’t ask, you could just leave out some of the details.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
There was a clatter of errant pots from the next room.
Beth said, “If Badger didn’t do it, then who did?”
“One of the women of the house or someone from Madame Charlotte’s, I suppose.”
“You don’t seem all that interested.”
“I would be if I could find a motive. But I’ll be damned if I can think of one. I’ve observed the women closely. While the two madams are rivals and routinely disparage each other, I saw them embrace at the funeral. Similarly, I could detect no serious tensions among the girls of either house. Sarah was stabbed to death with one brutal, savage blow. Petty jealousy and simple revenge do not seem appropriate to such a crime.”
Beth looked thoughtful for a moment. “Have you considered betrayal?”
“Betrayal?”
“Sometimes love can turn to hate real quick.”
Marc was about to question Beth further when the first whiff of burnt food struck his nostrils.
From the kitchen came a mortified cry: “Help!”
Cobb sat on a stool in the summer kitchen and watched Dora prepare supper. Beads of sweat dropped from her nose and chin onto the bevel of her half-exposed bosom. Normally he found this sight both appetizing and erotic. Today, though, had been a long way from normal. The shock of seeing, close up, his second bloodied corpse in three days had unnerved him. He thought he now knew why the Major had tossed his uniform aside. It was one thing to face the sanguinary results of fistfights in dives or alleys, but the stilted, blank gaze of dead eyes was something utterly different: it was like encountering the moment after your own death.
Dora was humming, a deep and satisfied sound from the vast drum of her diaphragm. He found this, too, irritating, for what he needed most was for her to give him leave to talk about the events of the week and lay some of the angst upon her unwarranted contentment. But the pact they had made was solemn and inviolable: no talk about the travails of one’s profession without explicit, advance permission. Cobb realized, though never admitted it, that he was the principal beneficiary of this agreement, as it allowed him to escape yet another gory epic of childbirth and its messy aftermath. He shifted his bottom on the stool and coughed.
“Well, Mister Cobb, let’s have it. I ain’t gonna get a peaceful minute till you tell me what’s eatin’ ya.” She continued stirring the stew.