Cobb proceeded immediately to pour out his complaint, providing Dora with enough detail to assuage his pent-up frustrations but not enough to give away any state secrets.
“But the worst of it was that bed with all the girl’s blood soaked into it and some so-called gentleman lyin’ stark naked on them bloody sheets. I been havin’ nightmares ever since.”
“Don’t I know it. You been pokin’ yer elbows inta me and mutterin’ more gibberish than you usually do.”
Cobb shook his head. “I don’t know how ya do it, luv-pullin’ babies inta this world covered with slime and muck-”
“And you say this happened in one of them shady houses up in Irishtown?”
Cobb closed his eyes. “Christ, I can’t get her outta my head! Poor Sarah.”
Dora stopped her stirring. “A girl named Sarah, you say?”
“Sarah McConkey,” Cobb said before he could catch himself. “Jesus! Nobody’s supposed to-”
“I heard there was a funeral fer her up on John Street, but I didn’t know how she died.”
“You know her?”
“I oughta. I helped deliver her baby a couple of months ago.”
Cobb listened with increasing interest as Dora narrated the story of her involvement with Sarah McConkey. One day in late March or early April, a message arrived around midnight that a young woman needed the midwife. Dora picked up her bag, which was always packed and ready for use, and headed out into the chilly dark as she had hundreds of times in her long career as a midwife. The anonymous lad led her up to some place around Hospital Street. She couldn’t be certain of the exact location because it was an abandoned barn and they approached it through a field. To her surprise the barn was fitted out with a proper bed, two chairs, and a few domestic utensils. In the late stages of labour was a young, pretty, brown-haired girl who managed a gritty smile and said only that her name was Sarah. “McConkey,” the boy had added before the woman’s male companion shoved him away.
When Dora had requested hot water, the man, who was very nervous and obviously concerned, replied that he and his woman were impoverished squatters and had no access to hot water or anything else not already in the barn. Accustomed to such situations, Dora never pressed for more information than she needed to know. Her task was to deliver babies while doing her best to keep their mothers alive. While Dora tended to these duties, Sarah’s man paced up and down near the door of the barn. About two hours later Dora pulled the infant into the dank air of that profane stable. It was dead. Sarah moaned and mercifully passed out. The delivery had seemed normal, but the child had choked on the cord and died moments before entering the world. Dora set its still body beside her and knelt down to look to the afterbirth. She heard the man come up behind her. In the lantern’s light the dead gaze of the babe stared upward.
“He let out a cry of anguish the likes I’ve never heard before in all my years in this business.”
Dora assured him that Sarah had come through the ordeal in good shape. She gave him a vial of laudanum and instructions how to administer it. She offered to take the corpse and see to its burial, but he said he would do so himself.
“It was such a beautiful child,” Dora said, giving the stew a motherly stir. “A boy it was, with the brightest orange hair you ever did see.”
It was Cobb’s turn to go unnaturally still. “What did this so-called husband look like?”
“Big fella. With a bushel and a half of hair, just like the babe’s.”
Cobb had no notion what Dora’s unexpected revelation might mean. But he knew the Major would want to hear it, and with less than two hours before he was scheduled to appear before His Lordship, Marc would want to know now. So it was that Cobb left one supper suspended without explanation and fatally disrupted another. He rushed into the Edwardses’ cottage without knocking and burst straight into the dining room.
“I got somethin’ to tell ya!” he cried, and his look alone prompted Marc to get up, push aside a charred dumpling, and lead Cobb onto the front porch.
“Let’s have it, then, old friend,” Marc said, alarmed at Cobb’s beet-red face and anguished breathing. “Take your time. The world isn’t about to end.”
As coherently as he could under the circumstances, Cobb relayed to Marc the gist of Dora’s tale.
Marc said nothing for half a minute, then, “Are you sure it was Sarah McConkey?”
“There ain’t a doubt. And who else could the father be besides Badger?”
Marc nodded. “All right, then. Let’s go.”
“Where to?”
“To beard a lioness in her den!”
Trotting dutifully in his partner’s wake, Cobb was heard to mutter, “Not again!”
FIFTEEN
Marc’s mind churned all the way to Madame Renée’s, but he was not yet ready to share his thoughts with Cobb. They arrived to find the place shuttered and still.
“They’re gone off!” a voice called to them.
Cobb recognized the urchin loitering nearby: it was one of the lads who had tossed obloquy upon his nose the day before.
“All of ’em?”
“Yup. I seen ’em luggin’ their things up the road.”
Cobb threw him a penny. “I’m gonna ask fer a raise in pay,” he said to Marc.
“I think Mrs. Burgess is still in there,” Marc said.
“It sure looks deserted. They’ve scarpered, as Sarge likes to say. And why do ya figure the birds’ve flown the coop?”
Marc pounded on the door with his fist. “I know you’re in there, Mrs. Burgess. Open up, please. I must talk with you.”
Fearing his friend had slipped a gear, Cobb touched Marc on the shoulder. “I think ya oughta let it go, Major. We done our damnedest.”
Marc wriggled the door handle. The scarlet door swung open.
Mrs. Burgess was sitting in the near-dark in her customary easy chair. The air in the parlour was heavy and stale, but she appeared to take no notice of it, nor of Marc when he sat down across from her.
“Mrs. Burgess?”
She did not look up or reply, but her slumping posture and gray pallor told Marc that here was a woman on the verge of collapse.
“Please leave me alone.” The voice was hollow and without emotion despite the plea.
“I can’t do that,” Marc said. “There are important matters that you and I must discuss, however badly you feel.”
No response.
“Where are your girls?”
“Sarah’s dead.”
“I mean Carrie and Molly and Frieda.”
“I sent them away.”
“For good?”
“They’ll be fine.”
“You’re closing up shop?”
“Ruined,” she mumbled. “All ruined.”
“Cobb, would you bring Mrs. Burgess a glass of brandy from the sideboard?”
Cobb poured a generous glass from a decanter and brought it over. Marc put it into Mrs. Burgess’s hands, noticing how icy cold they were, and helped raise the glass towards her lips. To his relief she drank a mouthful, coughed, then drank another.
Cobb and Marc sat waiting. After what seemed an eternity and with a clock ticking nearby as a reminder of the eight o’clock deadline, Mrs. Burgess looked up and let them feast upon the devastation of her face.
“You loved Sarah,” Marc began. “So I need to know why you killed her.”
“Why do we do anything?” she replied.
“I’m going to describe what I think happened on Monday last, then I want you to tell me where I’m wrong, if I am. Do you understand?”
“I’m not deaf and dumb,” she said with an echo of her former aplomb.
“I’ll begin with events you may not know about. Out at the governor’s gala on Monday evening, one of your regular gentleman customers-”
“Callers.”
“Callers-got a young man drunk.”
“The pale gentleman.”
“Yes, who happened to be Lord Durham’s nephew.”
“A toff’s toff.”
Cobb ahemed loudly but was ignored.
“This so-called gentleman got young Handford Ellice drunk and drove him from Spadina to Hospital Street, then guided him here. Using the coded knock, he got you to open the door even though you were shutting down for the night. He pushed the lad inside and ran off. However, I’m certain that you knew who it was.”