Don Gutteridge - Minor Corruption

“Thanks, Marc.” They were at the door. Robertsighed: “Now I’ve got to find a way to break the news to Eliza andthe other children.”

***

Angus Withers, the coroner, went out to the Thurgoodhouse before noon. The body and the foetus had already been removedand brought to his surgery for examination, but Withers wanted tohear the Thurgoods’ account of events to see if it jibed with hisfindings. The girl had been mauled by a sharp instrument, and ifCobb’s report, based on his wife’s summary of what happened, wasaccurate, a two-month-old foetus had been brutally aborted. BurtonThurgood did most of the talking, even though he seemed to be in astate of shock, but it was Elsie Trigger whom both parents pointedto as the culprit. “The murdering bitch” was Thurgood’s colourfulphrase. At any rate, Withers had seen enough to call for aninquest, which he set for the following Tuesday, the day after thefuneral. The police were asked to pick up Mrs. Trigger and hold heras a material witness.

***

Cobb and Ewan Wilkie had worked together in theToronto constabulary for five years, ever since its inception, butcareer-wise had gone in separate directions. Wilkie had beencontent to plod along on his assigned patrol, putting forth onlythe effort required to avoid outright dismissal. He was steadfastenough when it came to supporting his colleagues in breaking up atavern brawl, if his attention were sufficiently engaged, butcouldn’t spot a thief if the fellow were fleeing a jewellery storemasked and draped with gems. Cobb meanwhile had been fortunateenough to have been teamed up with Marc Edwards to help investigateand solve seven murders, during which experience he had learned touse his brains as much as his brawn. And at this moment, headinginto Irishtown in quest of Elsie Trigger, he might requireboth.

Irishtown was a squatters’ “paradise” thatsprawled unchecked above Queen Street in the north-central sectionof the city. Its entrance was hidden from respectable view by ascreen of scrub trees and scraggly bushes, but Cobb knew it well.He also knew that, contrary to popular opinion, most of thedenizens of Irishtown suffered from the crime of poverty, and didnot break the law, in any serious way, any more than did their morefortunate counterparts in the visible sections of town. However,there were brothels and bootleggers’ dives and even opiumdens scattered throughout the maze of shanties and shacks. And thewarren of twisted alleys and hovels provided an effective, iftemporary, refuge for thieves and swindlers. In addition, over thepast year an influx of impoverished immigrants had swollen thepopulace and exacerbated the multitudinous sufferings andinconveniences. This in turn had led to a dramatic rise in pettycrime in the city proper, and had increased tenfold the dangers ofany outsider entering Irishtown – including, alas, policeconstables.

As they entered the main section of theplace, Cobb suggested to Wilkie that it might be prudent for him tokeep his truncheon out of sight instead of brandishing it in hisright hand like a drum-major.

“We ain’t come to beat anybody up, Wilkie.And some of these folks are like dogs. They can smell fear. Justwalk along beside me non-gallantly-like and we’ll beokay.”

Wilkie sheathed his weapon, but kept a waryeye on their rear, while squeezing his nostrils shut against thevariegated stenches wafting up into the bright sunshine of theIndian summer day. “You know where we’re goin’?” he asked for thethird time.

“No, but I’ll know when we get there,” Cobbsaid grumpily. The tale of Betsy Thurgood’s horrible and senselessdeath, as relayed to him at six o’clock this morning by an upsetand fulminating Dora, had disturbed him mightily. He only hoped hecould restrain himself when they caught up to Elsie. (“Remember,you’re goin’ to gather evidence, Cobb,” the Chief had warned him.“You’re an investigator. We’d like that knittin’ needle and, if sheain’t spent it on booze already, that five-pound note.”) Dora hadnot, as was her custom, speculated on who had fathered Betsy’schild.

After three left turns and two to the right,Wilkie was hopelessly lost. If Cobb was, he was not about to admitit. Suddenly Cobb stopped and made a sideways lunge into a stinkingalley.

“Gotcha, ya little bum!” Cobb emerged with aneight-year-old ragamuffin dangling by the scruff – kicking andscreaming. “If you stop that cat-er-bawlin’ , you might makea penny or two,” Cobb said sternly as he dropped the lad into thedust of the path they were treading.

The boy shut up instantly, as if a hand hadbeen clamped over his mouth. “How many pennies?” he croaked througha chest thick with a cold, or worse. His face was blotched andblack, and something dripped out of one eye.

“Three if you can take me to the house ofMrs. Elsie Trigger.”

“What you want with the likes of her?”

“None of yer bees-wax. Here’s a penny, andyou get the other two when we get there.”

The boy grabbed the penny and started to run,but quick as a cat Cobb had him by the shirt-collar again, and hisscrawny legs thrashed uselessly in the air under them.

“Now then, walk. And you better knowwhere you’re goin’!”

The boy was not frightened, but rather lookedback up at Cobb with what might have been respect – admirationeven.

At any rate, five minutes later all threewere standing in front of a shack constructed entirely of ageingpieces of packing crate with a tarred roof and one oil-paperedwindow. A crude door hung by a single leather hinge.

“This is it,” Cobb said. “Nobody could fergetit, could they?” He flipped two pennies into the dirt. The boyscooped them up and bolted. “Let’s go,” Cobb said, and kicked thedoor aside.

Elsie Trigger looked up, momentarily stunned,her mean grey eyes as round as saucers. “What the fuck do you want?” she yelled when her breath returned.

Seeing they had her penned inside, Cobb andWilkie stopped and stood near the doorway, noting the particularsof the midwife’s “parlour.” The room was a shambles. Drawers hadbeen turned out and tossed aside. Clothing and blankets lay rumpledin piles or draped crazily over the pathetic stick furniture. Theair stank of grease and sweat and offal. Half a dozen whiskey jugsand bottles lay empty and discarded. Elsie herself, however, wasattired in a scarlet dress of some silky, shiny fabric. Agem-embedded necklace graced her throat and the top of her meagrebosom. Her white hair had been drawn up into a bun and pinned witha gold clasp. She sported enough rouge, powder and mascara tofrighten a witch.

And she was standing before a table stuffingclothes into the second of two large carpetbags.

“Goin’ somewheres, missus?” Cobb said withsoft menace.

“What’s it to you?”

“It’s a lot to me, Elsie. And I think youknow why we’re here. That little girl you butchered last night, sheup and died an hour after you left her bleedin’ and alone.”

“She wasn’t bleedin’ when I left her! And itwas all her idea to get rid of the babe. What was I to do? Shewaved five pounds at me!”

“You c’n tell yer sad tale to the magistrate.Which is where you’re goin’ right now.”

“You can’t arrest me. I know my rights!”

“Then why was you set to fly the coop, eh?Wilkie, you keep an eye on her and have a peek through them bags.You know what we’re lookin’ fer.”

“You won’t find nothin’ in there youshouldn’t!”

Cobb ignored her. “I’m gonna search the otherroom.” He pushed his way through a beaded curtain into Elsie’s“boudoir.” It was every bit as chaotic as the parlour. The womanhad obviously been told of Betsy’s death and her purported role init – by one crony or another – and had jammed all her portablevaluables into a pair of her biggest carpetbags, preparatory tofleeing the city. He rummaged about for five minutes, but foundnothing resembling a bloody knitting needle. He was about to giveup when he heard Wilkie cry out once, and then begin to sneeze.