Marc climbed over a thick section of the treetrunk and slipped the rope under it. Billy Thomas caught it andflipped it back over the top of the trunk. They wound it aboutthree times and knotted it. By this time, Crawford and Gayle hadunhitched the horses and brought them over to the tree. Crawfordtied the loose end of the rope to the whiffletree and then took thereins. The horses weren’t draught size, but they were strong enoughto slowly pull the trunk aside far enough for the democrat to getthrough.
Crawford and Marc untied the rope, and Gaylerehitched the horses to the vehicle. They drove through thegap.
“Thanks a lot,” Crawford said to Marc.
“I’ll just ride a ways with you,” Marc said.“To Yonge Street.”
With Marc riding just ahead, the farmers madetheir way through the bush towards Yonge Street. They were almostthere when one of the horses developed a limp.
“Whoa back!” Crawford called.
Marc turned to see what the trouble was.
“Old Dan’s got a tender foot,” Crawford said.He jumped down a joined Marc beside Old Dan.
“He’s got two nails in his hoof,” Crawfordsaid.
“More funny business,” Marc said.
“I’ve got some pliers in the wagon,” Crawfordsaid.
He fetched them, and while Marc held thehorse’s left foreleg, Crawford pulled out the two nails. He urgedthe team forward a few steps.
“He’s all right, thank God,” Crawford said.“No permanent damage. But there could’ve been.”
“I’d better ride all the way to the poll withyou,” Marc said.
“Yeah,” Crawford said, “I think that’s abloody good idea.”
The rest of the trip to Danby’s Crossing wentby without incident. But it had been a close thing. D’ArcyRutherford and his henchmen had been very busy on the hustings.
The poll itself – in Danby’s Inn – wassurrounded by a dozen or so men, all milling about.
“Here comes a bunch of Reformers!” one ofthem yelled out.
“Afraid to come alone, are you?”
“Need an escort, do you?”
As Crawford and his neighbours made their waythrough the throng, they were greeted with cheers and jeers. Marcstayed on his horse beside Danby’s verandah. He had a pistol tuckedinto his belt – conspicuously visible.
“This’ll put LaFontaine ahead,” said oneenthusiast.
“By three votes!”
Marc had not realized the election was soclose. Rutherford’s various intimidation tactics were working well.There had also been a lot of negative reaction to news of thearrest of Gilles Gagnon for the vicious murder of theAttorney-General’s daughter.
Crawford, Gayle, Thomas and Baron marchedinto the polling area, where the returning officer sat with hispoll book open before him.
“How do you gentlemen vote?” he said.
One by one the farmers spoke La Fontaine’sname, and their votes were recorded under the sharp eye of thescrutineers for each party.
“Now let’s have some lunch,” Crawfordsaid.
***
Cobb spent a day tidying up the robbery case he hadbeen working on. The next day he decided to start his investigationof the murder – at Rosewood. He approached the front door and usedthe bell-pull. A half minute later, Carlton Diggs, the butler,opened the door. He gave Cobb a scrutinizing and puzzling look,puzzled because, although Cobb was wearing a suit, he was obviouslyno gentleman. The suit was wrinkled and too tight around Cobb’sbelly, and his shirt was frayed at the collar. Moreover, his hairwas askew, its several parts headed in contrary directions. On theother hand, he was not a tradesman Diggs recognized. He decided tofollow protocol, at least for the time being.
“I’d like to talk to Mr. Cardiff,” Cobbsaid.
“Who may I ask is calling?” Diggs saidcoldly.
“Detective-Constable Cobb, on policebusiness.”
“I’ll see if he’s available. Please waitinside.”
Cobb cooled his heels in the foyer whileDiggs went back down the hallway and disappeared. Cobb stood there,taking in the thick carpet and small but decorative chandelieroverhead. A few minutes later Diggs returned.
“The master will see you in the library,” hesaid, still puzzled. “Please, follow me.”
Cobb trailed after the butler down thehallway, past several doors, and came to a halt near the end.
“Just inside here,” Diggs said, and then tobe safe, added, “Sir.”
Cobb entered a book-lined room with two broadwindows that let in a wash of light. Humphrey Cardiff was standingbefore a long, mahogany table, a book lying open before him. Hewore a black arm-band. He looked up at Cobb blankly.
“You’re from the police, you say?” hesaid.
“Yes, sir. I’m Detective-Constable Cobb.”
“And what, pray tell, is a detective?”Cardiff’s fingers fiddled with the book.
“It’s someone who investigates crimes. I’m incharge of your daughter’s case.”
“But you have got the murderer, haven’tyou?”
“More or less, sir. I’m just gatheringevidence against him.”
“I see.”
“I’m sorry about yer daughter, sir.”
“Thank you. So am I. And I want her killer tohang high.”
“He will, sir.”
“Well, then, how can I help you?”
“We’re tryin’ to find a motive fer theacid-throwin’, sir. We need to know how well the murderer, GillesGagnon, knew yer daughter.”
“I only met the fellow once, at the Ball theother night,” Cardiff said. “As far as I know, he’s only been intown a week or so.”
“And yer daughter?”
“The same: she met the fellow for the firsttime when she danced with him near the end of the Ball.”
“Did they have a conversation?”
Cardiff was taken aback by the question, buthe answered readily enough. “They might have exchanged a few wordsafter the dance. Nothing more. We’re obviously dealing with someonewho’s deranged. He threw acid at a woman he barely knew.”
“Perhaps he mistook her fer someoneelse.”
“I doubt it. He did visit Rosewood oncebefore – on political business. He knew the house and who livedhere.”
“Who else danced with yer daughter at theBall?”
“What an absurd question!” Cardiff’s eyebrowsshot up.
“Well, sir, it’s possible Gagnon took a fancyto yer daughter. And so jealousy might be a motive.”
“Sounds far-fetched to me. But she did dancewith many men that night. The only ones I can recall are LionelTrueman, Horace Macy and – yes – Cecil Denfield. I remember himbecause his wife took a fainting spell shortly thereafter and hadto be helped from the room. I recall Trueman and Macy because bothof them have been paying suit, against my wishes, to Delores.”
Cobb made a mental note of the names.
“Is there anything else, Detective?”
“Did you see anythin’ the night yer daughterwas killed?”
“I last saw Delores at supper. I retired tomy den at seven. I heard some noise in the foyer about seven-thirtyor so that suggested Delores was going out. Where I do not know. Iwas then summoned hastily by Vera and found my daughter dead on thewalk.”
“Who’s Vera?”
“Delores’s personal maid. She would havehelped Delores get ready to go out.”
“Might I talk with her?”
“If you must. She’s in the kitchen at themoment, helping to clear up the breakfast dishes.”
“I’d like to see her right away. And thankyou fer your cooperation.”
“I’ll get Diggs to show you the way.”
***
Cobb followed Diggs to the kitchen. He could feelthe heat of a warm fire before he stepped in. He spotted the cookand a uniformed servant, who had to be Vera, over by the sink. Justas he came in, the back door opened, and another servant-girlappeared in the doorway for a split second before she saw Cobb andretreated in a hurry. But not before Cobb noted that she was verymuch pregnant. Well, such things happened in the households of therich: it was no business of his. He had more important matters totend to.