Don Gutteridge - Bloody Relations

Marc took a seat in the back row. Cobb meanwhile perched on a dusty stove near the entrance and, satisfied that no grieving lover or drooling assassin had intruded upon the ceremony, proceeded to catnap. The Reverend Solomon Good, whose booming voice emerged almost miraculously from his narrow chest, began the service with a long and soulful prayer, of which Cobb caught only intermittent phrases concerning Mary Magdalene, casting the first stone, and the bounteous compassion of God’s only begotten son.

Cobb was unaware how much of the service he had dozed through when an alien sound to his left brought him almost awake. It was the click of a door latch being opened and closed. It took him a half-minute to get his mind in gear and ten more seconds to come to the conclusion that someone had just joined the mourners.

Although in the shadow of the far rear corner opposite Cobb, the figure was obviously tall, well built, and intent on remaining unobserved and unidentified. Despite the warmth of the day, it wore a loose-fitting coat and had covered its head and hair with a flowered scarf. It was peering around the room, looking for someone or something. The congregation by then was standing, and the hall was swelling with their voices raised in song and the hope of heaven.

“Jesus!” Cobb hissed to himself, “it’s Badger!” He sprang forward but managed only to stumble and alert the target. By the time Cobb regained his footing, Badger was out the door. Cobb did not think to call out to Marc; he simply gave chase as he had done a hundred times before in the execution of his duties. Blinking in the sudden sunlight of John Street, he looked quickly up and down the road and spotted the culprit running awkwardly into the service lane that backed onto the houses and shops along Wellington Street to the south. In seconds Cobb was up to full speed, a pace that never failed to be underestimated by fleeing felons. He wheeled into the alleyway. Badger was only thirty yards ahead, weaving and stumbling among the half-dozen carts, assorted donkeys and their masters, and the usual flotsam of these much-travelled lanes.

“Stop that thief!” he hollered, but the command produced only curious stares or irreverent rejoinders as he pushed aside man and beast blocking the way. The creature in flight was the key to the investigation! He had to be captured here and now. With excitement surging through him, Cobb quickly gained on his prey. Now only fifteen yards behind, Cobb spotted the narrow alley leading south to Wellington between two brick buildings. Every instinct told him that Badger would veer into it. That meant a straight, unimpeded dash to the main street. With his superior speed, Cobb would have the bastard well before he reached safety. Suddenly a dog ran in front of Badger, who tripped, righted himself, and headed for the alley. At that moment a gust of wind blew the scarf away, and Cobb got a split-second glimpse of thick, light-coloured hair. Got you now, you murdering bugger, Cobb said to himself as he nimbly sidestepped the mange-ridden mongrel and cantered towards the alley.

Which was precisely when his feet went out from under him and, in trying to prevent himself from landing on his back, he overcorrected and went skidding on his considerable belly for several yards, coming to a stop with his nose an inch from a brick wall.

“Shit!” he cried aloud, just as he came to the conclusion that he was lying in the very stuff.

Those spectators who had interrupted their business to take in the chase burst into mocking applause. Fuming and scarlet-nosed, Cobb resisted the temptation to instruct these scoffers in the awful solemnity of the law, picked himself up, and ran into the alley. Too late. Badger had reached Wellington Street. Winded and huffing, Cobb made it onto the thoroughfare. It was crowded with traffic, human and animal. Cobb looked left and right.

Badger had disappeared.

While the escape of Michael Badger was a blow to Marc and Cobb, at least it confirmed that he was still in the city. Constable Brown was dispatched to Government House with an official request from Chief Sturges that sufficient troops be deployed to surround the city limits. Constable Rossiter was put in charge of the deputized supernumeraries to scour the streets and alleys west of Yonge, and Constable Wilkie headed a similar squad to do the same east of Yonge. Cobb was ordered to go home and render himself less redolent.

Marc was left at the station to fret and ponder what might have been. But not for long. Just before noon he decided that, while Badger was being run to ground, he would start shaking the tree among the whist players to see what might fall out. He headed straight for the home of the Reverend Temperance Finney.

He got a cool reception. “My husband isn’t in,” Mrs. Finney told him at the door.

“Please tell me, then, where he has gone. I am on urgent government business, a matter of life and death. I must see him as soon as possible.”

“He doesn’t tell me where he goes,” was the curt reply, and the door closed in his face.

It was while he stood on the road, angry and frustrated, that he recalled without conscious effort what it was he had overlooked even as he had made copious notes earlier in the day. The only uncorroborated account of the drive back to the city after the gala was that of the Hepburns. Apparently they had gone as a couple and returned as a couple, with only the dubious testimony of their stableman to back their story. What if, for reasons not yet clear, Mrs. Hepburn had lied and bribed her coachman to do the same? While the police, and perhaps even the Durhams, might be content to have the murder attributed solely to Michael Badger, Marc was determined to uncover any political conspiracy. If proven, its exposure would help Lord Durham’s cause by undermining the extremist opposition to his proposals. Marc was not quite sure how he might go about the interrogation, but if he could just get the two Hepburns together in one room. .

He was sweating and excited by the time he had marched to Hospital Street and entered the Hepburn property. Striding up to the door, he gave a peremptory rap with the brass knocker. The time had come to drop the polite niceties. He had less than eight hours to solve the case and liberate the Durhams.

It was Una who opened the door. She was dishevelled, hollow-eyed, and distracted, almost slatternly.

“I wish to speak with Mr. Hepburn, please. Tell him it’s urgent.”

Una nodded without speaking, turned and shuffled back towards a heavy interior door, leaving Marc a clear view of her movements. She eased it open and he heard her say something in a timid voice. A murmur of male commentary rose in the room behind Una’s figure blocking the doorway. “He says it’s urgent, sir.”

“Damn it all, I told you never to interrupt me in here on Thursday afternoons!”

“I’ll tell him you’re busy, then.”

“You do that.”

Una stepped back to reveal her red-faced master.

“And keep this bloody door closed! How many times do I have to tell you, Miss Badger!”

Una pushed the door shut but not before Marc caught sight of three men seated around a baize-covered table, littered with upturned playing cards: Finney, O’Driscoll, and Harris.

Looking abashed and worried, Una hustled back to Marc. “He’s with his whist club, sir. Come back at four.”

For the moment, Marc was oddly uninterested in the whist-loving chums. “Is Michael Badger your brother?” he asked.

“He is,” she said, and burst into tears.

Marc offered his arm and led Una outside. They found a stone bench in a shady part of the garden.

“Tell me about Michael,” Marc said gently.

“I’d like to. I’ve been going crazy since I saw him on Tuesday, and nobody to talk to, nobody to help.”