Minor Corruption Read Online Free Page B

Baldwin’s
birthday party, Constable Horatio Cobb found himself on an unusual
errand: he was walking north up Frederick Street in the “old town”
to visit his boss. The day had begun normally enough. He had
arrived at the police quarters in City Hall about seven o’clock to
check in and begin his day-patrol, had nodded to Gussie French, the
police clerk, and was surprised when that earnest fellow, who
rarely returned his nod, looked up, frowned, and shoved a note into
Cobb’s hand – before going back to his hen-scratching. “It’s from
the Chief, so you better read it,” Gussie had muttered without
pausing for a comma. And it was. Chief Constable Wilfrid Sturges
requested his presence as soon as convenient at his house on
Frederick Street above Newgate. Cobb knew the house – a
whitewashed, clapboard cottage ringed by the flower patches that
were Mrs. Sturges’s lifeline to the Old Country she had never
really left – but he had never been inside of it. Sturges, or Sarge
as he was affectionately called after his rank in Wellington’s
army, kept his private and professional lives separate. Cobb
admired him for it. Cobb admired him for everything. But why would
he be summoned to the man’s home? Sure, Sarge had been having a
rough time with arthritis and gout, and spent much less time in his
office than he used to. But he always made it to police quarters at
least three times a week, giving him lots of time to speak
privately with any of his constables, should he have need to. In
fact, he and Cobb had been alone for an hour yesterday when Gussie
had been called home over the noon hour to deal with his
obstreperous son.
    But a summons was a summons. And it was a
glorious Indian summer day in early October, perfect for a casual
stroll up Frederick Street. He had even spotted his friend and
sometime co-investigator, Marc Edwards, driving his buggy along
King Street with Beth at his side. He would have been heading for
the chambers of Baldwin and Sullivan and she for her shop farther
west on King. Both of them gave him a wave and a cheery “Good
morning!” and he had tipped his helmet like a proper gentleman,
knowing that the Major, as he called him, would appreciate the
irony of the gesture.
    Cobb came to Sturges’s cottage, ducked under
an arbour and its last frail roses, and rapped on the front
door.
    ***
    “I wanted to have an uninterrupted chat with you,
Cobb, well away from the rabbit ears of Gussie French and any
outside interruptions.”
    “You know I’ve never turned down a chat,”
Cobb quipped, hoping against the odds to lighten the atmosphere in
the room. They were seated cheek by jowl in the Chief’s den, which
was not much bigger than a water-closet. A warming sun through the
tiny southeast window provided the only heat and a single candle
the only additional light. Sturges was seated in a plush chair with
his right leg stretched out upon a leather hassock with horsehair
stuffing sticking out all over it. His swollen right foot was
thinly wrapped with gauze, but its red and painful puffiness could
be seen clearly – and felt. Some days the gout prevented Sturges
from walking altogether, and even on a good day he now got around
gingerly with the aid of a cane. It made Cobb shudder, not merely
at the undeserved suffering this man was being asked to bear but at
the sort of decrepitude and indignity that awaited everyone
unfortunate enough to live too far past middle age.
    “You don’t mind coffee in the
mornin’?” Sturges said solicitously.
    “Oh, no, not at all. Yer missus has been most
kind.” Cobb winced as he realized how much he sounded like Marc
Edwards, Esquire.
    “Good. Good.”
    Cobb sipped at his cooling coffee and
squirmed in his lumpy chair in a futile effort to get
comfortable.
    “You are happy with your work?” Sturges said
after an anxious pause.
    “’Course I am. Can’t think of anythin’ else
I’d like to do.” Are you happy with my work? was the
response Cobb