Don Gutteridge - Desperate Acts

“Jesus,” Cobb said, “I don’t like the looksof this.”

“Me neither,” Marc said.

Marc joined Sturges and Cobb as they walked downChurch Street towards City Hall.

“Cobb, I want you to track down any possiblewitnesses today an’ report to me by seven o’clock. I’ll have Gussielined up to take notes or prepare affidavits.”

“Don’t worry, Sarge. There’s no way Brodieclubbed a fella to death in cold blood. I’ll find the bugger thatdid it, an’ when I do, he’ll be lucky if I don’t do the same tohim.”

“I’m heartened to see you take investigatingseriously,” Marc said to his long-time associate in such work.“Deadly serious.”

“I’d advise you to let the hangman take careof the killer,” Sturges said to Cobb. Then he turned to Marc. “Butif you’re gonna be Brodie’s lawyer, you can’t be headin’ out withCobb to do the interrogatin’. It’s now a police matter.” This lastremark was uttered with a sigh of disappointment. Sturges hadabsolute faith in Marc’s ability to ferret out the most cunning ofmurderers.

“That may be so, Sarge. But if Marc was to dosome of his own private investigatin’ an’ we was to bump into oneanother whilst on the job, so to speak, it’d be silly to pretend weweren’t in the same place, wouldn’t it?”

“Well, Brodie hasn’t been formally charged,”Sturges said as they turned onto Front Street. “But I want you twoto be discreet, eh?”

“ Tack-full , ya mean?” Cobb said.

“You know you can trust me,” Marc said.

“And I do, Marc. But you’ve got to promise mehere and now that if you learn anythin’ important – anythin’ - you’ll not hold back on us.”

“Agreed,” Marc said, “unless Brodie isformally charged and I take him on as a client. After that, ofcourse, I’ll play the lawyer – by the book.”

Sturges left them to return to the policequarters. Cobb had already decided to begin his investigativeeffort at The Sailor’s Arms. Thursday morning was one of Nestor’sregular workdays, and both the Budges were on Cobb’s list ofmaterial witnesses. And if Duggan really did live with Nestor, thestone-cottage beside the hatchery would need a thoroughgoing-over.

“I’ve got a meeting with Robert and FrancisHincks right now,” Marc said when Cobb had revealed his plans.“I’ll need to alert them of my possible prolonged involvement withBrodie.”

“An’ you could corner Miss Ramsay an’ deliverthe bad news. I figure Brodie could use a little friendly companybefore the day’s out.”

“I intend to do that, certainly. But thisbusiness couldn’t have come at a worse time for me.”

“Is there a good time to be accused ofmurder?”

“Parliament is due to open in two weeks orso, and the new governor is relying on Robert’s crew for almostdaily advice on how to manage the dozen moderate Tories we’vetargeted to support the Union Bill in the Assembly.”

“Without lettin’ on you’re doin’ so,” Cobbadded – to Marc’s surprise, for Cobb portrayed himself asblissfully uninformed about the machinations of politicians, evenones he liked and agreed with.

“Yes. We’ve been meeting secretly, at leastwe hope we have.”

“Well, I’m gonna find myself at Nestor’scottage about eleven o’clock. If you happen to be in the vice-inity , you could join me in searchin’ that dark an’depressin’ hovel.”

“I’ll be there,” Marc said. “And I’ll bringthe lantern.”

***

When Cobb arrived at The Sailor’s Arms, he was notsurprised to find it shuttered. While there were no regular orregulated hours for public houses, most of the respectable taproomsopened up sometime after noon on weekdays and observed the sanctityof the Sabbath. He rapped on the thick front door with histruncheon. It was a full minute before he heard footsteps comingalong inside, as he was certain they would. He knew how to knockwhen he wanted an answer.

Gillian Budge stood in the half-open doorway- leaning on a mop, with a bandana looped about her sandy curls.Her green eyes were flashing. “What do you want, Cobb? It’stwo hours before we – ”

“You ain’t forgot about last night already,have ya?” he said.

She adjusted the scowl on her facesufficiently to say, “Oh, that. You haven’t caught the culprit,then?”

“I need to ask ya some questions about whathappened, that’s all.” He regretted the somewhat pleading tone inhis voice, but Gillian Budge had that effect on people.

“Alright, if you must. C’mon inside, if youcan make your way through the rubbish and spit.”

Cobb followed her in. The taproom was coldand dark, lit only by two candles in sconces over the bar and beamsof sunlight slanting in through the front windows at a sharp angle.The tables and chairs were all askew, several of the latter tippedover, one of them broken beyond repair.

“A typical soirée at The Sailor’sArms,” Gillian said, and almost smiled.

“I thought I’d find Nestor here. He told mehe comes in to help clean up on Thursday mornin’s.”

“He hasn’t showed,” she said, revisiting thescowl. “I waited as long as I could, then I started in on this messmyself.” She gave the mop a push and it skidded along the slatefloor until it struck a pail beside the main stairs.

“You got a husband, ain’t ya?”

She seemed amused by this remark, and gaveCobb a rare view of the ironic glint in her very attractive greeneyes. Then she frowned and snorted, “That’s what the preachercalled him when I was foolish enough to say ‘I will.’ But he’s nothere, as usual when there’s elbow grease required.”

“Off to town, is he?”

“On a mission of mercy,” she said withscathing sarcasm. “Our barmaid Etta took sick last night – thethird time in a week – and he’s gone to the Market to see if he canfind some girl who’d rather have her bottom pinched in here thanspend a cold day fondling pumpkin-squash.”

“You think Etta’s gonna quit?”

“The last one just left here one night lastsummer and didn’t show up the next day. No goodbyes, no regrets, Iguess. But we’ve got to have help in here. Business is brisk untilthe freeze-up on the lakes. We can use two girls if it comes tothat.”

“When’re you expectin’ him back?”

“By opening time – at one.”

“Tell him I’ll be seein’ him about then.”

“I thought it was Nestor or me you wanted toquestion?”

“It is.”

“Well, let’s sit down, then.”

They found an upright table and sat down onopposite sides. Gillian Budge was certainly a handsome woman ofsome forty years, Cobb thought. She had the figure of a debutanteto complement her fair hair and rosy, freckled complexion. But fewpeople envied Tobias, her husband, for she had a wicked tongue andwas fearless in deploying it.

“You were in the upstairs room aboutnine-thirty last night?”

“Yes. The fat Englishman with the flabbyfingers ordered me to arrive at his side with a tray of glasses anda bottle of fancy wine at precisely nine-twenty-five.”

“They were windin’ up their confab?”

“Right. Five of them were seated around thelong table at the west end.”

“Only five?” Cobb thought it best not todetail the circumstances that had brought him into that crowdedplayroom last week.

“The other three went home after their foodand cigars – about half past eight.”

“Did you see any of the five leave – afternine-thirty?”

“I did. After bringing them their nightcapdrinks – they wanted to toast something or other, I think – ”

“Bein’ rich an’ idle-izin’ ,” Cobbprompted.

His quip drew a guarded smile from Gillian.“You’d think Shakespeare was God Almighty, wouldn’t you?”