Don Gutteridge - Vital Secrets

“This Dorothea person comes knockin’ at my back door about two o’clock in the afternoon. She looks like Death’s daughter, so I ask her in. Even before she starts talkin’, I recognize the symptoms, so I ain’t surprised when she tells me she’s pregnant.”

“We already know that,” Cobb said.

“An’ that’s all you’ll be knowin’, Mr. Cobb, if you have the impudence to butt in one more time.”

Cobb flushed, but decided not to risk retaliation.

“Please, go on,” Marc said soothingly, but he, too, found his heart beating with anticipation.

“‘Well,’ says I, ‘it’ll be a few months down the road before ya need my services.’ At that, she busts out cryin’. An’ pretty soon I get the whole sad story. Seems this actor fella got her in the fambly way an’ then, havin’ had his fun-like most men-he tells her to bugger off. Seein’ her life is now ruined, she decides to do away with herself an’ the unborn child, so she goes to old Ezra fer some ‘poison.’ When she gets outta the shop, she changes her mind-goes back in and asks Ezra’s wife if she knows of a midwife in town. That brings her here. What she wants now, of course, is to do in the bairn but not herself, an’ she reckoned I’d know how to go about it-fer a fee.”

“Missus Cobb don’t have nothin’ to do with that sort o’ sin!” Cobb said. “Do ya, sweet?”

Dora acknowledged his defense of her integrity with a dip of her chins, and went on. “I told her just that, an’ she sets inta bawlin’ somethin’ terrible. I was glad the kids was out. Anyways, I set her down an’ let her talk and talk. An’ by the time she left, she was feelin’ a whole lot better. I told her that men often reacted that way at first, but if she gave him a little time an’ space an’ was real patient, he’d probably come around. ’Course, that was a wad of malarkey, but I didn’t want the woman’s suicide on my hands.”

“You obviously did well for her,” Marc said. “She is suffering, but I believe she’ll be all right.” He didn’t think it prudent to mention the brutal death of the child’s father.

“I know, luv. Me an’ Mr. Cobb saw her last night: she was warblin’ like a robin after a good rain.”

“Missus Cobb’s the one fer curin’ any ailment that’s female,” Cobb boasted.

“Just to make sure, though,” Dora said, “I did sneak that bottle outta her pocket before she left.”

“Well, Major, we now know there was two vials of that stuff,” Cobb said as he fingered the bottle of laudanum that Dora had taken from Thea. The children had gone out to play, and Dora was getting herself “prettied up” for the theatre later on.

“And the only person with any motive for drugging Tessa’s sherry is Merriwether. I figure he put it there in the afternoon and hid the bottle in the spittoon when he came out of Tessa’s room, expecting to dispose of it permanently at a more auspicious time. But, damn it, Cobb, that vial had Michaels’s name on it, just like this one. I’m convinced that Merriwether bought the drug here in Toronto, on Saturday or perhaps Monday morning.”

“But I showed that picture of Merriwether’s head in every place that might peddle the stuff.”

“And you saw the names on Michaels’s ledger that neither he nor his staff nor you recognized?”

“I did. Besides Thea Clarkson, there was only three of ’em, mind you, ’cause we was only lookin’ at Saturd’y an’ Monday, right?”

“That’s right.”

“And I even took them names along with the picture inta the dives where my snitches hang about.”

“You have the list of names Michaels gave you?”

“Right here, Major.” Cobb got up, went over to his greatcoat on a nearby chair, rummaged through one of the deep pockets, and fished out a crumpled piece of paper. He handed it skeptically to Marc, who scanned its contents:

Chas. Meredith

Martin Acorn

Claude Kingsley

“What is it, Major?”

“Merriwether was at Michaels, all right. In disguise.”

“How do ya figure that?” Cobb was amazed, as a child is before a magician.

“Claude Kingsley is King Claudius-Merriwether’s little joke.”

“But Ezra never forgets a face.”

“True, but he didn’t see the face in the sketch you showed him. He saw the one on the playbill: Claudius with his black wig, bushy eyebrows, and beard. I’ll bet Merriwether even hunched over to lessen the effect of his height.” Marc looked at Cobb. “You did mention his height, didn’t you?”

Cobb took offense. “I said he was a big bugger about so high, but I didn’t think I needed to go on an’ on about the body parts when Michaels had a picture of the fella’s mug starin’ up at him!”

“It’s still two hours till the show starts at eight-thirty,” Marc said. “That should give you time to fetch that portrait of Claudius from Merriwether’s dressing-room and show it to Ezra. But I have absolutely no doubt that we’ve traced the drug to the villain who violated Tessa.”

“I can do that, Major. Dora’ll be some time gettin’ herself harnessed up.”

“Don’t you see what this means, Cobb? We have incontrovertible proof that Rick Hilliard is not a rapist.”

Cobb grimaced. “That oughta make his mama feel a whole lot better.”

The third evening of performances by the distinguished Bowery Touring Company began much as the first two had. Carriages ferrying the self-proclaimed gentry from their august domiciles to the distinction of a theatre-box with padded seat and unobstructed view started to arrive shortly after eight o’clock. By eight-fifteen there was a crush of tardier arrivals along the north side of Colborne Street and, on the south side, a similar crush of gawkers offering gratuitous comment. Under the false façade of the balcony, Ogden Frank, rotund and obsequious, greeted friend and stranger alike and passed them along to Madge, who checked their bona fides with steely-eyed precision.

The air of normality was deliberate. Marc was certain that those seeking to make contact with the gunrunning tragedian would be scrutinizing the situation from within and without. Spooner’s scouts and spies had, so far, kept a discreet distance. By 8:25 the box seats, the gallery, and the pit were full. The Regency was abuzz with anticipation. An evening of the Bard’s best comic and tragic bits performed by seasoned actors from New York City was an experience not to be missed in colonial Toronto, one you might wish to tell your grandchildren about, should they be so polite as to listen. For the next two hours or so, the rumours of rebellion and rumblings of discontent could be forgotten.

Marc was with his fellow actors in the dressing-room area to the left of the stage. On a rack next to his mirror hung the two costumes he would need after his initial role as Hamlet: Antony’s imperial Roman togs and Macbeth’s royal robes, the latter complete with wig, chin-beard, and ersatz eyebrows. Thea Clarkson graciously assisted him with his makeup for Hamlet. There was no wig or full beard, but his own sandy hair and eyebrows were powdered to look as blond as a Viking’s, and a small goatee of similar hue depended from his chin. He hoped that these changes and the costume would be enough to deceive whoever might be watching for reasons unconnected with the stage. At least he would be tested early on. And if his cover were blown, his assumption was that the rebels would merely vanish, smarting but unlikely to risk exposure by exacting any revenge. Just how the contact would be made was still anyone’s guess, as Merriwether was supposed to know its nature and Marc did not. Nevertheless, he felt he had to try to anticipate it. His intuition told him that the most obvious opportunity for receiving instructions for a rendezvous would be during that fifteen-minute period after the performance ended when well-wishers pushed onto the stage to meet the stars and press gifts upon them. One such gift could easily contain the clandestine message. But just in case a surreptitious entry to the dressing rooms was attempted, Marc had Wilkie placed where he could keep an eye on them as well as upon the door that led to the Franks’ quarters. On the other side of the stage, Chief Constable Sturges stood guard over the tavern-entrance and the stairway to the upper rooms.