Free Governing Passion by Don Gutteridge Page B

sir.”
    Clough looked up, his sharp features shadowed
with anxiety. “How?”
    “Sarie was here last night.”
    Clough nodded.
    “She was a regular visitor?”
    “Yes. Every week or so. Whenever my wife was
away.”
    “We found her in a strange costume.”
    A brief smile passed over Clough’s face. “Ah,
yes. She was playing Madame de Pompadour for me. She came and went
in costume.”
    “What time did she leave?”
    “Just before midnight, as usual.”
    “Right. That confirms the time of death at
about twelve-fifteen. Thank you for that.” Cobb paused and then
said, “You and Sarie had – ah, cordial relations?”
    Clough was startled by the abruptness of the
question. “Of course. She was a sweet girl. I’ll – I’ll miss her
very much.”
    “Did she know who you were?”
    “Of course not. She knew me only as
Lancelot.”
    “But she knew this house, where you live,
didn’t she?”
    “How else could she get here?”
    “She could easily figure out who lived
here.”
    “But she didn’t, did she?”
    Cobb wasn’t convinced by the vehemence of
this response. He sensed a touch of panic in it.
    “What are you driving at anyway?” Clough
said.
    “I was just thinkin’ that you might be
willin’ to pay a lot fer keepin’ yer secrets safe from yer
wife.”
    “You think Sarie was blackmailing me? That’s
preposterous!”
    “If she was, that is a good motive fer
murder, isn’t it?”
    “But she wasn’t! And I may be a fool, but I’m
no killer.”
    Cobb realized he had, in his zeal, gone too
far. “I’m sorry fer bringin’ it up, sir.”
    “I should think you would be!”
    “You been very helpful.”
    “Carswell will show you out.”
    Via the roundabout route, Cobb thought.
    ***
    Now that he had established the likely time of death
– twelve-fifteen – Cobb went back to the police quarters to seek
permission to use two or three constables to do a house-to-house
inquiry in the block around the alley where Sarie Hickson had been
murdered.
    “Good work, Cobb,” Bagshaw said when Cobb
told him he had discovered the time of the murder from Clough..
“And I trust you treated the gentleman properly?”
    “With kid gloves, sir.”
    “I’ll let you organize the house-to-house.
Now fill me in on what else you’ve found out about this second
murder.”
    “Well, sir, I’m convinced we’re lookin’ at
one killer and two crimes.”
    “What do you base this bizarre conclusion
on?”
    “Bartholomew Pugh was a witness to the first
crime, and he’s given us a clear description of Sally Butts’s
killer: a tall gentleman with a fur hat, dark overcoat and big
boots.”
    “That should prove helpful for finding the
killer of the first girl.”
    “Well, we may get lucky and find a witness
for the second crime, too. At least we’ll be able to compare
descriptions if we do.”
    “But what’s the evidence for one killer?”
    “The boots are the clearest link. I found
boot-tracks again – large boots with a star-shaped pattern on the
sole. And Pugh says he saw a man with big boots.”
    “Leading away from the scene?”
    “Leading to Jarvis Street this time. Where
they vanish.”
    “But I told you before you cannot know
whether these prints were made at the time of the murder. They
could be just some gentleman on his way home.”
    “But both girls were blond, sir. Sally had
her own hair and Sarie was wearin’ a blond wig. I’m sure that Sally
was taken fer a whore and Sarie was a known whore in Devil’s Acre.
Those boots belong to a gentleman. So we’ve got a gentleman killer
who’s got it in fer blond whores, or just whores. He’ll kill again,
I’m sure of it.”
    Bagshaw leaned forward, taut as a spring. His
tiny eyes shook in their sockets. “Now see here, Mr. Detective,
you’re jumping to several conclusions at once. What do you want to
do, spread panic through the city by saying we’ve got a maniac with
a knife on the loose? No woman will feel safe on the streets!”
    “But the