Owen and Harriet skated past them.
“Your cold seems better,” said Owen.
“It is. Sometimes I think it’s better to ignore colds, don’t you?”
“Absolutely.”
In fact, when he had come to call on her late this morning, Harriet had been feeling wretched, but she wouldn’t dream of forgoing the chance to be with him and had quickly agreed to spend a couple of hours skating on the river.
“You’re an excellent skater, Harriet.”
“Oh, I’m not. You lead so well.” The exercise had whipped colour into her cheeks and her eyes glowed with pleasure. Owen felt a rush of affection for her. He squeezed her arm.
“Shall we waltz?”
“I’m a bit shaky still on the turns.”
“Don’t worry, I’m a master.”
It was true. His hold on her was firm and confident and his strokes effortless. She gazed up at him. Even though the closeness of his body made her almost breathless, she liked it. He made an easy half-turn and smiled at her.
“There, well done … Harriet, dear, I have a small favour to ask you. You must say at once if you can’t do it because it might mean telling a little fib.”
“Yes?”
She was thrilled that he wanted something from her. That she had something to offer.
“I’ve mentioned my friends Sprague and McDonough to you before. They are fine chappies. The best. And, well, you see, we’ve all developed quite the passion for billiards. A fellow needs some pleasure once in a while, don’t you think? Whoops!”
She almost stumbled but he pulled her around easily into a glide.
“I think billiards is a fine sport.”
“So do I. Anyway, what I wanted to ask you is this. After I left you on Saturday night I dropped in at Hugh’s house and we got into a few rounds. He gave me no quarter, nor I him. Before I knew it the clock was striking twelve. And like Cinderella I knew I had better be getting home … If anyone were to ask, could you bring yourself to say that you and I were together, chatting?”
Harriet looked bewildered. “Who would ask?”
“To tell you the truth, Mother entirely disapproves. She’s afraid I’ll be distracted from my studies, that sort of thing … Shall we have a breather?” He manoeuvred her towards a bench. “Would you do that for me, Harriet? Say I didn’t leave your house until midnight?”
“That would be very late, wouldn’t it?”
“We were in the parlour the entire time.”
She sat down on the bench, and a boy appeared at once at her elbow. His clothes were dirty and too big for him and he was shaking with cold. He had a bundle of newspapers under his arm.
“Latest news, miss. One cent.”
“No, no, she doesn’t want one. Shoo.”
“Exciting stories today … The Gascoyne’s come in to New York all safe –”
“No.”
“A lady’s been found dead as a doornail. Nobody knows who she is. There’s a big reward for news …”
“The young lady doesn’t want to hear any of that sordid nonsense. Go away.”
The newsboy kept his eyes fixed on Harriet.
“If I don’t sell nothin’ I won’t eat nothin’, kind missus.”
“What a story. You look well-fed to me,” jeered Owen.
That wasn’t true. The boy’s face was thin and pasty. Not even the wind could bring colour to his cheeks.
“Please, mister …” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I heard as the girl was naked as a jaybird –”
“Get out of here. We don’t want to hear about it.” Owen handed the boy a five-cent piece. “No, keep the newspaper. Sell it to somebody else.”
The boy grinned in delight. “Thanks, mister.” He trotted off to where the boys were skating, dropped his bag of papers and started to beg for a skate.
Harriet looked at Owen. “I wonder what that was about, the dead girl, I mean?”
“Some sensationalism, as usual. Those boys are clever little beggars when they want to pump up a story.”
He sat down close beside her on the bench and took her hand in his. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked what I did just now. It’s too –”
“No, it’s not at all. I quite understand. Father can be quite severe when he wants to. What you’re asking is such a small fib. It doesn’t matter at all.” She lowered her head and he could see the blush flood her neck and cheeks. “Besides, we were together in my thoughts.”
He leaned over and gave her a quick kiss on her cold cheek.
“And mine. Bless you. The subject mightn’t come up but if it does, don’t forget, Mother can winkle the truth out of an oyster if she sets her mind to it.”
She smiled. “I can actually be quite good at dissembling … I simply become very vague.”
She wrinkled her forehead and pursed her lips to show him and he burst out laughing. “That answer deserves a bag of chestnuts. Don’t move.”
On the other bank a man had set up his brazier and was calling his wares. “’Taties, chestnuts, get them hot.”
Harriet watched Owen as he skated off. He was wearing dark brown knickerbockers, a brown ribbed sailor’s jersey and a matching cap, and she thought he was easily the best-dressed and handsomest man on the rink. And by far the most accomplished skater. Of course she could tell a small lie for him. There was no question.
At four o’clock, Murdoch and Constable Crabtree were seated in Brackenreid’s office. The inspector claimed to have dragged himself in from his sickbed to attend to the matter at hand. True, his hands shook and there was a yellowish cast to his eyes, but Murdoch doubted his motives were so noble. He sensed the inspector was torn between ambition and nervousness about a case that touched so closely on a well-to-do family like the Rhodeses. Not unlike Murdoch himself.
Thomas Brackenreid’s father had emigrated from County Cork during the potato famine of ′51 and by luck and ruthlessness carved himself a living as a dry goods merchant. Young Thomas had known hardship from an early age and was determined to hoist himself up the social ladder, not much caring what heads he used as struts. He joined the police force as a young man and rose steadily up the ranks. Late in life he married the indulged daughter of a local lawyer, and gleeful gossip around the station claimed she led him a merry dance. Before his demons overtook him, he had been a shrewd, hard-working man with a certain meticulousness about detail that served him well. Now, those qualities were more and more obscured.
As inspector, Brackenreid wore a fine wool jacket with brocade epaulettes and frogs down the front. Murdoch could see stains on the brocade and even across the table he could smell the beery stink of the man’s breath.
There was a blazing fire in the hearth and the small room was uncomfortably hot. Brackenreid, however, hadn’t given the other men permission to undo their jackets. Sweat was running down Crabtree’s forehead and he had to keep wiping at his face, and Murdoch was feeling unpleasantly sticky. His stiff celluloid collar had started to chafe his neck. The inspector was also buttoned up but he seemed impervious. He took a noisy sip from the mug he was holding. His face relaxed a bit and Murdoch wondered what else was in there besides tea.
“Now, according to your report nobody laid eyes on the girl after five o’clock, and Mrs. Rhodes was the last to see her, when she was making sure the gal had set the table properly.”
He had rigorously tried to expunge his native brogue but it slipped out now and again, through the r’s particularly.
He turned a page. “You say you’re checking the dockets of the cabbies to see if she hired a cab.”
“Yes, sir. She’d travelled a goodly distance from Birchlea.”
“Don’t mean much. She looks like a bonnie gal to me. She could have walked easily.”
“True.” Murdoch eased into the sensitive area. “Or she could have been driven in a private carriage.”
Brackenreid frowned. “According to this, all the carriages at Birchlea are accounted for, and anyway they’
re all saying they never saw the kinchin.”
“If they’re telling the truth, sir.”
“For God’s sake, Murdoch, let’s not tread into that sort of muck. It won’t do us any good. I know for a fact Colonel Grasett and Shepcote are close as dilberries on a beggar’s arse. The colonel attends the alderman’s salons all the time.” He gulped on his tea. “Of course the fact that she had her apron up might not have anything to do with the opium thing.”
“I realize that, Inspector.”
“None of them have an idea who rogered her?”
“Apparently not. Mrs. Rhodes was shocked. She couldn’t believe the girl hadn’t confided in her.”
Brackenreid shook his head. “That’s a fanciful notion. Her mistress would be the last person a maid would get snug with. She’d be more likely to deny it ’til she popped out the little bastard.”
“Mrs. Rhodes said the girl had never had any callers. She was a Roman Catholic and was allowed to go to Mass on Sunday morning. They dropped her off at St. Michael’s while they went to St. James’s. They met her on the corner afterwards and brought her home. She didn’t have any other day off and according to Mrs. Rhodes she never reported meeting anyone or talked of any new acquaintances.”
Brackenreid chuckled. “Perhaps it was the Holy Ghost that did for the girl. Don’t the Catholics call it Immaculate Conception?”
“Yes, we do,” said Murdoch.
“Oh, beg pardon, Murdoch. No offence. I forgot for a moment.”
“No offence taken, sir.”
Brackenreid was perfectly aware of his detective’s faith but always tried to get in a jibe or two at Murdoch’s expense if he could. His own family had brought the politics of their country with them and he was a staunch Orangeman.
Crabtree shot a glance at Murdoch and wiped surreptitiously at his neck. He thought the detective skated close to the thin ice sometimes, and Brackenreid and he often eyed each other like two fighting dogs. Murdoch wiped a droplet of sweat from his nose.
“Can we unbutton our jackets, Inspector? It is very warm in here,” asked Murdoch.
“What? Oh yes. Take them off if you like. It is hot, now that you mention it.”
He unfastened the top button of his jacket.
Crabtree opened up his uniform, revealing a glimpse of red flannel underneath and an impression of redoubtable muscle development. He was the station’s prize athlete in the heavyweight division of shot put and tug-of-war, and even though the next police games weren’t until August, his chances were the subject of much speculation and interest among the other policemen. Murdoch could see the keen glance that Brackenreid sent that way, but he didn’t want to spend the next half hour discussing the possible condition of Sergeant Anstell, who was number-one station’s pride and joy. He unsnapped his collar studs and got back to the subject.
“I went to talk to the priest at St. Michael’s this afternoon, but he didn’t know the girl. It’s a big parish. However, he gave me his tithe list and tomorrow we can start calling on the parishioners.”
“Maybe she didn’t actually go there. She could have been lying. Taking that time to get up to mischief.”
“That’s possible, sir. But given that she was a Roman Catholic I think it’s more likely that she was reluctant to say much about her church at all in a family that was not of the same faith. People can be prejudiced.”
Brackenreid waved his fingers irritably at the detective. “And they don’t know anything about opium, I suppose?”
“Dr. Rhodes admits to using it in his medicines, which he makes up himself at the surgery.”
The inspector stared at Murdoch. “That don’t mean anything.”
“I didn’t make any implications. I’m stating the facts. The son, Owen, is a medical student and it’s quite likely he could acquire the drug if he wanted to.”
“It sounds to me like you’re trying to stick a pin on a donkey’s rear end, Murdoch. Just find out who seen the girl and we’ll have the answers. Why don’t you get out there and start asking some proper questions?”
“That’s what we’ve been doing for the past day and a half, Inspector.”
Crabtree wiped a damp spot from under his chin and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He knew only too well the extent of Brackenreid’s temper. His colour was rising, and it wasn’t only the heat and his “tea.”
“Have you gone to the Sheenies about the missing clothes?”
“Yes, sir. Two constables went to all the Jewish merchants on Queen and King but nobody has received anything resembling the goods. She left her uniform behind, but according to Mrs. Foy she would have been wearing a grey serge skirt, matching jacket with blue velvet trim –”
“I have no need to know all that. Can we get along? I’m still feeling poorly, I should remind you. Constable, what about you?”
“You’ve got my report there, too, sir,” Crabtree answered quickly. “I questioned the servants and it’s the same story. Nobody knows anything.”
“What about the stableboy? He’s a Barnardo Home boy, isn’t he? I’d say he’s a likely possibility.”
“He’s a timid little creature. Frightened of his own shadow. He never takes his eyes off you. Makes you think of a dog that’s been ill-treated.” Crabtree looked a bit embarrassed at his sortie into simile. “He’s only thirteen and small to boot.”
“That’s old enough. Boy in my father’s village had spawned two brats by the time he was eleven. Boys like that have no more Christianity in them than dogs.”
Murdoch was reminded of Alderman Shepcote’s words. Perhaps he and Brackenreid had had a good chin about it at one of the salon evenings for Miss Flo Wortley.
“By boys like that, do you mean orphan boys, sir, frightened boys, or boys from Ireland? As I understand, this one is English.”
Brackenreid stared at his detective for a moment, trying to determine whether or not to take offence. “Gutter boys, that’s who I mean.” He contemplated his mug, which was now empty. “Is that everything, Constable?”
“I’d say so, sir. The Foys claim they didn’t leave the house that evening and neither did the boy.”
The inspector fished a cigar out of a silver box on the desk and lit it. “Has anything come up with the Bertillon?”
“Not yet. The regular clerk is off sick and we don’t have anyone else who understands the system. By Friday, we should know if she has a file.”
Brackenreid blew a cloud of smoke towards the two officers. “I presume we are trying to get in touch with the family?”
“I sent a wire to the Windsor police and they’ll try to contact the local priest in Chatham. We don’t know exactly where the girl lived. It was a farm near there, but they’ve had a bad storm and the police don’t think they can get through until Thursday or Friday.”
Murdoch’s envelope was sitting on the table and Brackenreid took out the photograph and studied it for a moment.
“Perhaps she was a light-heeled gal, but she doesn’t look it. She’s got a sweet face.” He drew thoughtfully on his cigar. “Needless to say, I’d like to show that this station can work as well as any other, if not better. I want answers soon but I don’t want any feathers ruffled. Is that clear?”
Murdoch managed to bite his tongue. “Quite clear, sir.”
The inspector flicked some ash into a dish on the table. “Dismissed,” he said.
Murdoch and Crabtree went back to the orderly room downstairs, where Murdoch poured them both some tea. It had been steeping for a while and was as dark as molasses. Puss was cleaning herself diligently underneath the table. Crabtree added two spoonfuls of sugar and some milk to his mug and took a gulp of the tea.
“When I was there in the kitchen a-telling of the girl’s condition the air was so thick you could’ve cut it with a butter knife. The boy looked like he was about to flash his hash any minute and the housekeeper almost choked on the soup she was tasting.”
“I had a similar feeling with the Rhodes family. The son s
tammered and stopped like he was imitating his own father. Then he finally confessed that he had stayed visiting with Harriet Shepcote until midnight. They weren’t chaperoned, and maybe that’s why he was acting so guilty. His mother was furious. Not going to show it in front of me but she got very tight-laced, I can tell you.”
“Do you think the young master got into the maid’s drawers, sir?”
“Could be. He’s a handsome fellow. Wouldn’t be hard for him to steal the heart of a young country lass. Then again, she could’ve met some cove at church. It might take nine months to grow a babe but it only takes minutes to plant the seed. As you know,” he added.
The constable had four children and another on the way.
“You’re right there, sir,” he said and he looked so glum Murdoch was sorry for teasing him. He motioned to him to continue.
“There’s a back window. Faces onto the stable yard and opens into the passageway behind the kitchen. You could climb in there and be up those stairs like a bolt of lightning.”
Both men sipped on their tea in silence for a minute. Then Murdoch said solemnly, “We can’t totally overlook the other possibility.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“The Holy Ghost, of course.”
Crabtree smiled.
Chapter Seven
MONDAY, FEBRUARY II
OWEN WAS SPRAWLED at one end of the sofa, his foot tapping restlessly, watching his mother while she fastened bands of black crepe along the mantel of the sitting room fireplace. The pictures were similarly festooned, the mirrors covered and the curtains drawn all afternoon.
“Shall I light another lamp?” he asked.
“No, thank you, Owen. This is sufficient.”
Suddenly she stopped what she was doing and picked up one of the framed photographs from the mantel.
Except the Dying Page 7
