Don Gutteridge - Bloody Relations

“Do you want me to tell ’im?” Sturges offered affably.

“No. Thanks anyway. I’m to make a full report to him at eight o’clock. I’ll just go on home to have some supper and compose my notes.”

“Be sure and put in a good word fer us peelers.”

“That will be a pleasure, Wilfrid.”

Out on the stone walk, Marc found himself fighting for breath. Confused and frustrated he might be, but one thought rang in his mind clear and unequivocal: Michael Badger did not murder Sarah McConkey.

“Marc, stop this pacing up and down,” Beth said, “you’re gonna wear a path in the new rug.”

Marc halted, said nothing, then began to pace again.

“You’re scaring Charlene.”

“She’s in the kitchen burning the dumplings.”

Beth laughed, and Marc sat down, his head in his hands.

“I’ve never seen you like this before.”

“I’ve never felt like this before. Don’t you see how impossible the situation is? In two hours I’ve got to walk up to Government House and inform Lord and Lady Durham that the police have attributed the murder to Michael Badger for reasons that have nothing to do with Handford Ellice. And everybody is supposed to be happy about it.”

“But you and Una Badger are the only ones who think he didn’t do it.”

“I’m certain of it. Just as I’m positive that Alasdair Hepburn lured Ellice to that scarlet door and bribed Badger to cause some sort of commotion in there-an elaborate prank perhaps, intended principally to embarrass Lord Durham and give him something besides Upper Canada to be concerned about.”

“But you said Badger wasn’t involved. You’ve lost me.”

“He was supposed to sneak in there, but if he did-and we’ll never know for certain-he must have got quite a grisly surprise.”

“You figure he may’ve found Sarah dead?”

“It’s possible. He arrived at Hepburn’s later that morning in terrible shape, according to Una. But one way or another, he did not kill Sarah. Everything I’ve heard about him so far suggests that he would not have murdered in a sudden rage, and certainly not one of those girls.”

“So an innocent man’s reputation will be sacrificed to keep the bigwig safe?”

“I don’t see how I can stop it.”

“You’re certain the key you found on Badger fits the little door?” Beth suddenly said.

Marc smiled. “Not yet. I suppose Cobb or Sarge will check that tomorrow. They’re in no hurry now that they’re sure they’ve got their man. Anyway, I wouldn’t bet one of Charlene’s dumplings on it.”

Beth nodded, then said evenly, “And there’s Lady Durham, too.”

“What do you mean?”

“She has her own doubts about Handford. If you tell her husband what you’ve just told me about Badger, then she’ll leave here never knowing for sure whether her sister’s boy is truly blameless.”

Marc groaned. It was getting worse. “But I can’t lie to Lord Durham. He wants the truth.”

“If he doesn’t ask, you could just leave out some of the details.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

There was a clatter of errant pots from the next room.

Beth said, “If Badger didn’t do it, then who did?”

“One of the women of the house or someone from Madame Charlotte’s, I suppose.”

“You don’t seem all that interested.”

“I would be if I could find a motive. But I’ll be damned if I can think of one. I’ve observed the women closely. While the two madams are rivals and routinely disparage each other, I saw them embrace at the funeral. Similarly, I could detect no serious tensions among the girls of either house. Sarah was stabbed to death with one brutal, savage blow. Petty jealousy and simple revenge do not seem appropriate to such a crime.”

Beth looked thoughtful for a moment. “Have you considered betrayal?”

“Betrayal?”

“Sometimes love can turn to hate real quick.”

Marc was about to question Beth further when the first whiff of burnt food struck his nostrils.

From the kitchen came a mortified cry: “Help!”

Cobb sat on a stool in the summer kitchen and watched Dora prepare supper. Beads of sweat dropped from her nose and chin onto the bevel of her half-exposed bosom. Normally he found this sight both appetizing and erotic. Today, though, had been a long way from normal. The shock of seeing, close up, his second bloodied corpse in three days had unnerved him. He thought he now knew why the Major had tossed his uniform aside. It was one thing to face the sanguinary results of fistfights in dives or alleys, but the stilted, blank gaze of dead eyes was something utterly different: it was like encountering the moment after your own death.

Dora was humming, a deep and satisfied sound from the vast drum of her diaphragm. He found this, too, irritating, for what he needed most was for her to give him leave to talk about the events of the week and lay some of the angst upon her unwarranted contentment. But the pact they had made was solemn and inviolable: no talk about the travails of one’s profession without explicit, advance permission. Cobb realized, though never admitted it, that he was the principal beneficiary of this agreement, as it allowed him to escape yet another gory epic of childbirth and its messy aftermath. He shifted his bottom on the stool and coughed.

“Well, Mister Cobb, let’s have it. I ain’t gonna get a peaceful minute till you tell me what’s eatin’ ya.” She continued stirring the stew.

Cobb proceeded immediately to pour out his complaint, providing Dora with enough detail to assuage his pent-up frustrations but not enough to give away any state secrets.

“But the worst of it was that bed with all the girl’s blood soaked into it and some so-called gentleman lyin’ stark naked on them bloody sheets. I been havin’ nightmares ever since.”

“Don’t I know it. You been pokin’ yer elbows inta me and mutterin’ more gibberish than you usually do.”

Cobb shook his head. “I don’t know how ya do it, luv-pullin’ babies inta this world covered with slime and muck-”

“And you say this happened in one of them shady houses up in Irishtown?”

Cobb closed his eyes. “Christ, I can’t get her outta my head! Poor Sarah.”

Dora stopped her stirring. “A girl named Sarah, you say?”

“Sarah McConkey,” Cobb said before he could catch himself. “Jesus! Nobody’s supposed to-”

“I heard there was a funeral fer her up on John Street, but I didn’t know how she died.”

“You know her?”

“I oughta. I helped deliver her baby a couple of months ago.”

Cobb listened with increasing interest as Dora narrated the story of her involvement with Sarah McConkey. One day in late March or early April, a message arrived around midnight that a young woman needed the midwife. Dora picked up her bag, which was always packed and ready for use, and headed out into the chilly dark as she had hundreds of times in her long career as a midwife. The anonymous lad led her up to some place around Hospital Street. She couldn’t be certain of the exact location because it was an abandoned barn and they approached it through a field. To her surprise the barn was fitted out with a proper bed, two chairs, and a few domestic utensils. In the late stages of labour was a young, pretty, brown-haired girl who managed a gritty smile and said only that her name was Sarah. “McConkey,” the boy had added before the woman’s male companion shoved him away.

When Dora had requested hot water, the man, who was very nervous and obviously concerned, replied that he and his woman were impoverished squatters and had no access to hot water or anything else not already in the barn. Accustomed to such situations, Dora never pressed for more information than she needed to know. Her task was to deliver babies while doing her best to keep their mothers alive. While Dora tended to these duties, Sarah’s man paced up and down near the door of the barn. About two hours later Dora pulled the infant into the dank air of that profane stable. It was dead. Sarah moaned and mercifully passed out. The delivery had seemed normal, but the child had choked on the cord and died moments before entering the world. Dora set its still body beside her and knelt down to look to the afterbirth. She heard the man come up behind her. In the lantern’s light the dead gaze of the babe stared upward.