Don Gutteridge - The Widow's Demise

“Delicious,” he said.

“We would like to help you out, sir,” thecook said, “because we’d all like to make sure the culprit hangs.But I don’t think we’ve anythin’ to tell you that’s useful.”

“I was wonderin’ if any of you were lookin’out a window when the incident happened?”

The cook looked around. “It was just afterthe evenin’ meal, when most of us are quite busy. Lizzie, myscullery, was here helpin’ me with the clean-up, and Agnes wasrunnin’ up and down the stairs with dishes, and Amos was stokin’the fire with fresh wood from the woodshed.”

“And you know where I was,” Vera said.“In the hall helpin’ my lady with her coat and things.”

“I see. That accounts fer everybody,” Cobbsaid.

The cook paused, glanced at Agnes, and said,“Except Mr. Diggs. But he was in his office. He always does thebills after supper.”

“So no-one was peekin’ out a window – at thefront or the east side of the house?”

Heads shook around the table.

Cobb tried one more tack. “Does anyone knowof any reason why anyone would want to hurt yer mistress?”

The question took the servants aback. No-onesaid anything, but there was a great deal of head shaking.

“Unless you think that . . .that – ” Lizziesaid in a small voice.

“That what?” Cobb said, putting down his soupspoon.

“Come on, Lizzie,” the cook said. “Finish yersentence.”

“I’m thinkin’ of Mr. Perkins.”

“Who’s Mr. Perkins?” Cobb asked.

“He was Mr. Diggs’ assistant, John Perkins -until last week when the missus dismissed him.”

“I see,” Cobb said. “And was he upset withthe mistress?”

“Yes,” Lizzie said. “I heard him say – inthis very room – that he would get even with her if it was the lastthing he ever did.”

“I hope you’re sure about that,” the cooksaid sternly.

“I heard it clear as day,” Lizzie said. “Hiswife’s expectin’ a child and the missus refused to give him anyreferences, so he’ll have trouble findin’ another job. He was very,very angry.”

“Thank you, Lizzie. You’ve been a great help.Now where can I find the angry Mr. Perkins?”

The cook gave him the address.

Cobb – his soup finished and his questionsexhausted – got up, thanked everybody, and let himself out the backdoor. He had just reached Front Street when he remembered that thepregnant maid he had seen on his first visit had not been presentin the kitchen.

“The world to end on September 30! Read allabout it!”

Cobb looked to his left, the source of thestentorian voice.

“Marvellous new pamphlet by the ReverendBolton Dawes! Yours fer only a penny!”

The shout was coming from a scrawny old manwith fearsome eyebrows and a long, beardless chin. He was dressedin rags.

“Buy a pamphlet, sir?” the old fellow said toCobb in a lowered voice.

“You the Reverend Dawes?”

The old man chortled, then licked the spitoff his lips. “Good God, no. I only peddle this trash fer a fewpennies. I’m Sammy Slade.”

“I’ve seen you around here, haven’t I?” Cobbsaid.

“Off and on. I come here regular, but I getaround most of the town.”

“Were you here by any chance three nightsago? About seven or seven-thirty?”

Sammy Slade put his chin on top of thepamphlets he was holding. “As a matter of fact, I was. I rememberbecause I was standin’ at the corner down there and I heard thechurch bells chime seven times.”

Cobb held his breath as he asked, “Did yousee anyone standin’ here in front of Rosewood – this house?”

“I saw two people.”

“And where were they?”

“I saw a man and a lady standin’ on thatporch there.”

“What did the man look like?”

Sammy thought for a second, and said, “Oh, hewas a gentleman all right. Well dressed. Top hat. Tallish. And Ithink he had a moustache.”

This was a clear description of LionelTrueman. Cobb’s pulse raced.

“Were the man and the lady just talkin’?”

“I’d say they was havin’ some kind ofdisagreement, ‘cause I could hear them all the way to thecorner.”

“They were shoutin’ at each other?”

“I’d say so.”

“What did they do next?”

“Nothin’ that I seen ‘cause I turned andwalked back up the street. After all, a tiff between a gentlemanand his lady is nothin’ to me, is it?”

Cobb sighed his disappointment. Could themurder have taken place moments after Sammy Slade turned his back?The timing seemed a little off. Gagnon was sure it was closer toseven-thirty when he arrived on the scene and witnessed the deed -close to dusk. But Slade could easily have been mistaken about thechurch bells. Much time could have elapsed between his hearing themand his witnessing the argument between Trueman and Mrs.Cardiff-Jones.

“I’ll need yer address, Sammy. You may haveto tell yer story in court.”

“I ain’t done nothin’ wrong?”

“You’ll just be a witness, Sammy. That’sall.”

“I live in a shack in Irishtown. Anybody canpoint ya to it.”

“All right, then. You c’n go.”

Sammy trundled off. At the next corner hestopped, spotted a couple walking nearby and shouted, “End of theworld! Read all about it!”

Cobb decided to pay Lionel Trueman a secondvisit. It appeared he did not spend the hour or so away from theReverend Ogilvie’s card game entirely at home. But first he had anappointment with his number one snitch at The Cock and Bull on YorkStreet.

***

It was noon hour and The Cock and Bull was jammedwith customers, all calling at once it seemed for food or ale orboth. A smoke haze hung like a shook-out bed sheet at eye level.Cobb peered through it and spied Itchy Quick at a table in the farcorner. Itchy’s two hundred and some pounds were easy to see,despite the camouflage of pipe-smoke. Cobb went over and stoodbeside the table. Itchy was nursing a flagon of ale.

“Oh, Mr. Cobb. You’re just in time. I wasabout to take my last swallow.”

“And as usual you’re short of cash?” Cobbsaid.

“A bit short today, yes,” Itchy said. “Mycousin come in from Burlington last night – stone broke – and I hadto lend him my last penny, didn’t I?”

Cobb sat down and waved for a waiter.

“We’ll have two ales here, sir,” Cobb said tothe fellow who, recognizing Cobb, had come right over.

“You’re a kind man, Mr. Cobb,” Itchysaid.

“I’d prefer Cobb without the mister.”

“Yes, Mr. Cobb. Anythin’ you say.”

“Would I be wrong in guessin’ that you coulduse a little employment?”

“You know I’d do anythin’ fer you, sir. Andyou can always pay me what you think I’m worth – as you always do,bein’ a fair man.”

The waiter arrived with the drinks, and Itchymoved as fast as he could to seize his – his normal movements beingabout as quick as a drugged hippo.

“I’m workin’ on the murder of Mrs.Cardiff-Jones,” Cobb said.

“Yeah. I heard of that. Sad business.”

“And I need to know if anyone was seenlurkin’ about Rosewood between seven and seven-thirty on the nightof the crime.”

“Three nights ago?”

“That’s right. I want you to keep yer earsopen and to nose around amongst the low-life who might have seenanything untoward. I’ll give you a few pennies in advance and ashilling if you come up with anythin’ useful.”

Itchy took a huge swig of his ale, wiped hismouth with his thick fingers, and said, “That’s more than generous,Mr. Cobb. I ain’t heard anythin’ yet, but I’ll get ‘round to someof the other taverns and keep my ears cocked.”

“I’d appreciate it,” Cobb said. He drainedhis ale, got up and made his way through the smoke haze to thedoor.