Don Gutteridge - Governing Passion

“How’s it goin’, Itchy?” Cobb said, sittingdown.

“My flagon is empty, Mister Cobb,” Itchy saidsorrowfully. “Like my life.”

“Would a fresh ale improve yer spiritsany?”

Itchy thought about the offer for severalseconds, rubbing the back of his scalp. “It just might.”

Cobb waved at the barkeeper, who, seeing itwas Cobb, hustled over.

“A flagon of your finest,” Cobb said.

“You payin’?” the barkeeper said.

“I’m payin’,” Cobb said.

“Thanks, Cobb.”

“Now that I’ve done you a favour,” Cobb said,“how about doin’ me one?”

“You want some information?”

“I do.”

“On the murders we been havin’ the pastweek?”

“Somethin’ to do with them, yes. You beenhearin’ anythin’ on the street or in here?”

Itchy scratched his scalp again. “What I beenhearin’, it ain’t the fault of any of the regulars of Devil’sAcre.”

“That’s been my feelin’, too.”

Itchy took hold of the flagon that had justarrived and downed half of it, slowly but surely. “They tell meit’s terrible fer business. They need respectable folk to feel safein there. They wouldn’t do anythin’ to ruin their ownprospects.”

“So it’s got to be somebody from outside,doesn’t it?” Cobb said, more to himself than to Itchy, who was inthe midst of a second swig.

“Some crazy person, that’s fer sure.”

“But what I wanted to ask you, Itchy, isabout the laundry women who might go into Devil’s Acre.”

Itchy looked at the empty part of his flagonlongingly. “Well, the big brothel, Madame LaFrance’s, does its ownlaundry. But there’s a smaller brothel, Mrs. Purdy’s, up nearChurch Street that uses somebody from the outside.”

“And you know who?”

“I believe I do, yes.”

Itchy drained his ale with a meaningfulslurp. Cobb sighed and waved at the barkeeper.

“Gracie Fitchett. She lives on BerkeleyStreet, this side, two houses up from King.

Cobb tossed a coin on the table and got up.“That’s what I needed to know,” he said, and hurried out.

***

Cobb found the house on Berkeley Street. It was aramshackle cottage, unpainted, with a roof that sagged, andtired-looking oil-paper windows. A wreath of black smoke poured outof its single chimney. Cobb rapped on the door.

“Who’s there?” The voice was female, butsharp and low, like a witch’s cackle.

“Constable Cobb, with the Torontopolice.”

“Go away! I’m busy workin’.”

“I need to talk to you — about the murders inDevil’s Acre.”

“I didn’t do it, so go off and leave mealone.”

“I insist you open up, madam!”

The door squealed open and a large womanfilled the doorway. She was flushed and sweating, the beads ofsweat rolling down her plump cheeks and settling in the folds ofher multiple chins. Her blue eyes were round as buttons and staredout at the world with sustained belligerence.

“I told you, I ain’t no murderer!”

“I didn’t say you were, ma’am. But I believeyou may have seen the killer on the night when Sally Butts waskilled.”

“I remember the night that poor lass had herthroat cut, but you can’t get round me with that ‘ma’am’ business.I’m no ‘ma’am,’ just plain Gracie.”

“May I come in for a minute, then?”

“You gonna help me with my laundry? I got atubful ready to come out.”

Cobb glanced at the far side of the room ashe walked in, spotting several steaming tubs, a pair of washboardsand a mangle. Gracie Fitchett was indeed hard at work.

“I just need to ask you one question,” Cobbsaid, shutting the door behind him.

“Since when do bobbies ask people questions?I thought you bashed in the heads of drunks and robbers.”

“I’m a detective,” Cobb said, as if thatexplained all.

“What in hell is a detective?”

Cobb winced, but said evenly, “I investigateserious crimes like murder and robbery. My job is to go around andask people questions.”

“And they pay you fer that?”

“They do, and I’d appreciate it if you’danswer one fer me.”

“All right, then. But I’ve got to get themsheets out of the tub before they boil to death.”

Cobb waited patiently until Gracie wasfinished and came back to him, puffing and panting.

“Were you in Devil’s Acre the night thatSally Butts died?”

Gracie thought about the question, then said,“I was. What’s it to ya? I told you I didn’t stab that poor girl.Why would I?”

“What time were you there?”

“I don’t know fer sure. Between nine and teno’clock. I had a load of laundry to pick up at Purdy’s place.”

“Purdy’s is over near Church Street, isn’tit?”

“Yeah, that’s right. What of it?”

“You left Devil’s Acre by Church Street?”

“Why wouldn’t I? It’s the nearest exit.”

“Did you see anyone else come out of Devil’sAcre at that time?”

“Say, you’re way past yer one question.”

“Please, just answer me.”

“I didn’t see a soul — that time ofnight.”

Cobb was hugely disappointed. Surely this wasthe figure the watchman had seen that night. But she herself hadseen nothing.

“Thank you fer yer help,” Cobb said.

Gracie’s expression softened as she said, “Ihope you catch the bugger.”

***

Cobb went to Bartholomew Pugh’s house once more, andwas once more snubbed by the butler. He found Pugh in his billiardroom, practising his bank shots.

“You again,” he snarled. “What is it thistime? I’ve given you a description of the killer. Why haven’t youcaught him?”

“You were at Madame LaFrance’s again thenight before last, the night Mr. Whitemarsh was murdered.”

“Damn shame that. You’re not accusing me ofkilling my own friend?”

“We believe the killer mistook him for awoman. It was dark and the mistake is quite understandable.”

“But I saw the man in woman’s clothing in thebrothel. I knew , didn’t I?”

Pugh was making a valid point.

“But you left Madame’s right after Idid.”

“And walked directly west, as I always do,not south — like Simon.”

“And Mr. Clough?”

“He turned east, as usual.”

“So you saw or heard nothing?”

“How many times must I repeat myself?”

“Thanks fer yer help, sir.”

Cobb found his own way out, avoidingSmithers.

At Gardiner Clough’s Cobb got the same frostyreception, and the same response. Nobody saw or heard anything.

***

“So,” Cyril Bagshaw said to Cobb, “you’ve finallyeliminated two of the town’s finest gentlemen?”

“Not really, sir. They had means andopportunity for all three killin’s. A knife is an easily concealedweapon.”

“But you have no motive, man. Where is yourbrain, in your truncheon?”

“Our killer is crazy in the head, sir. Lookat what we’ve got so far. Three victims, all blond young women ormistaken fer such. The killer has it in fer blondes. Perhaps ablond lover jilted him or he hated his blond mother. Somethingtriggers his madness for the murders are two or three nights apart.When the sickness comes on, I figure it comes real sudden and can’tbe helped. He goes huntin’ fer blond women, and as soon as he seesone, he cuts her throat and skedaddles. He’s dressed like agentleman, with a greatcoat, a fur hat, and proper boots, so nobodywill take a second look at him in Devil’s Acre, where gentlemen areforever comin’ and goin’. So far he’s lucky not to have been seen.He heads straight out of the place as soon as the murder’s done,back to his home — with nobody the wiser. You see, Pugh or Cloughcould look normal to you and me, and suddenly the urge to killtakes over and they go stark mad. Afterwards they go back to bein’themselves. And don’t forget, they did drop a glove and ascarf.”