“Why are you picking on us?” snapped Ettie. “There are half a dozen other houses as back onto the bleeding alley. Frigging coppers.”
“I said to watch your language,” said Murdoch. “One more remark like that and you’ll be in for the night.”
Alice put her hand on Ettie’s arm. “Don’t go on so, Ettie. They’re only doing their duty. Can’t help themselves. Gents never can.”
Her voice was suddenly arch, and she leaned forward in her chair so that the placket of her gown opened, revealing a flaccid breast and pink nipple. Ettie laughed and began to pull at the forefinger of one of the wooden forms on the mantel, which they used to hold the gloves when they were cleaning them. The constable abruptly concentrated on the upended box that served as their dresser. Triumphantly he held up a piece of pasteboard.
“Been visiting F. and J.’s, have you?”
He handed the card to Murdoch. It was a pawn ticket from Farrance and Jenkinson, a well-frequented shop on Queen Street.
Ettie scowled. “No crime, is it?”
“What did you pawn?” Murdoch asked.
Alice snorted. “My best drawers.” She leered at them. “I can get on without them. See?”
Crabtree ran his finger around his tight collar. He was a young man and the needling of the two prostitutes was getting to him. Murdoch refused to give them that satisfaction. There was also a date on the back of the pasteboard from two weeks previous, which meant it couldn’t be Therese’s belongings that had been pawned.
The few spare clothes the women had were hung on hooks on the far wall. Under the bed, as well as the chamber pot, which was full, were two pairs of boots, one of newish black leather with needle toes. The ends were well scuffed and a button was missing, but the soles were not worn and the leather still stiff.
“I’ll need to commandeer these.”
“No you don’t. They’re mine,” Alice said.
“Where’d you get them?”
“From Mr. Eaton’s.”
“How much did they cost?” asked Murdoch.
“Three dollars. I saved up.”
“I didn’t notice them before.”
“That’s you being nocky, isn’t it. They were there.”
“I’ll have to check them out.”
Alice wailed. “And what am I supposed to do without my boots? Some of us have to work, you know. I don’t have no others.”
Murdoch frowned, then took out his tape and measured the boots, making a careful note of the length and the appearance.
“All right. I’ll let you keep them. Think yourself lucky.”
“Father Christmas now, is it,” said Alice sullenly.
Murdoch looked around the room again but there wasn’t anywhere else they hadn’t checked. In spite of poverty there had been some attempt at prettifying. A piece of flowered cotton served as a curtain at the only window, and the candle stub sat in a tin lid in the middle of a handmade paper doily. Another piece of cheap bright cloth was draped across the box.
“Nice picture,” said Murdoch, pointing to a page from a popular ladies’ magazine that was pinned on the wall. The illustration depicted a golden-haired child leaning against her mother’s knee as she listened to a story. The woman’s hand rested on the child’s curls and her expression was full of tenderness.
“Ettie found it,” said Alice with a touch of pride. “She’s very artistic.” She coughed, glancing about for somewhere to spit.
Ettie perched on the bed. “Are we at a bleeding exhibition or what? Why are you dunning us like this?” she asked. “The girl’s shoving off had nothin’ to do with us.”
“We hope not. She didn’t die naturally, you see. She’d taken a drug just before she died which caused her to go unconscious. After that she froze to death. We’re talking manslaughter at the least.”
“What’s he mean, a drug?” Alice asked Ettie. She seemed genuinely bewildered.
“Ask His Highness, he’ll tell you.”
“She’d taken, or been given, opium,” said Murdoch.
“Oi, well, she died happy, then, didn’t she?”
“Alice!” said her friend. “That’s not respectful.”
Murdoch spoke to Crabtree. “Let’s check the kitchen.”
He felt rather than saw the sigh of relief from Bernadette Weston. It was like playing the child’s game of seek: “Warm … warmer; no, cold … very cold.” He knew at that moment they wouldn’t find anything incriminating in the kitchen. Wherever the plunder was hidden, that place was “cold.” He was sure it was these two who’d stripped the dead body, but he thought that was probably the extent of their involvement. Jackey and hot pots was for their sort, not opium.
Ettie said sharply, “Don’t forget to put this room back in order.”
Crabtree pulled the stained mattress back onto the bedsprings. There was only one greasy blanket and a quilt that was once pretty but was so tattered now the stuffing had almost gone. A tiny feather drifted on the air.
Murdoch nodded at the constable. “We’ll be getting on, then. Don’t forget, we’re dealing with a very serious matter here, Alice Black. If there’s anything you can help us with, it’s your duty to do so.”
“Certainly,” said Alice. She moved her legs into a provocatively lewd position. Crabtree blushed and bumped into the doorjamb in his hurry to get out of the room. As they walked down the hall they could hear Alice’s laughter.
As Murdoch expected, the search of the kitchen yielded nothing. Next, they investigated Samuel Quinn’s room, but except for a bag of smelly, rotting meat that was inexplicably tucked in the back of his washstand, they found nothing untoward. Neither Quinn nor the dogs were anywhere to be seen.
The two out-of-work brothers upstairs protested the search with such aggression and anxiety that Murdoch decided to send out a bill on them to Muskoka. Find out if they had guilty consciences. But he found no women’s clothes in the untidy, sweat-saturated room the two big men lived in. By two o’clock, he had to declare the search finished. When they came downstairs, both Ettie and Alice were sitting in the kitchen drinking tea, and they followed the officers to the front door. Alice was singing nonchalantly, a song that turned Crabtree’s ears crimson and made even Murdoch uncomfortable. Ettie was quieter, but the wariness never left her eyes. The trail was cold but not totally so.
In the summer, sugar maples lined both sides of St. Luke’s and the lush foliage hid the dilapidation of the houses, but the trees were bare now, the branches dark against the dull winter sky. A wagon, drawn by four massive Percherons, lumbered along laden with barrels for the Dominion Brewery, but otherwise the street was deserted.
Murdoch wrapped his muffler tightly to cover his chin, and Constable Crabtree shrugged the collar of his cape higher around his neck.
“That’s it, then, sir. I thought for certain we’d find something. Disappointing, isn’t it?”
“To be expected, really. Those two women are a shrewd pair. At least that Ettie is. They haven’t really had time to get the clothes to the Jews and they’re too clever to be using them as yet. Alice slipped up on the boots, which sure as shooting are stolen.”
“Could they have an accomplice, sir?”
“Maybe, but it’s nobody in the house. We’d better check out the neighbours, but somehow I don’t think anybody’d help these doxies. I got the impression when we went around before that Miss Weston and Miss Black aren’t too popular.”
“Women like that are a disgrace to their sex, if you ask me.”
Murdoch didn’t comment. He knew many of his fellow officers had similar opinions about prostitutes.
“Shall we start on the next house, then?” asked Crabtree.
Murdoch hesitated. “Let’s go back to the laneway for a minute.”
They walked down Sumach. The police ropes were still intact, but the curiosity of the locals must have been sated as there was nobody lingering there exchanging misinformation. And it was, after all, a working day.
They d
ucked under the barricade and walked to the place where the girl had died. Murdoch looked towards the backyard of the lodging house that was directly opposite. A soft glimmer of light shone through a crack in the curtain of the backroom. If he didn’t know better, he would have considered it warm and inviting.
“Put yourself in their boots, Crabtree. You’re frightened of being seen, you know there will be a search, where would you hide a few clothes?”
Before the constable had a chance to reply, Murdoch exclaimed, “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I wonder –” He held out his hand to Crabtree. “Lend me your lamp, will you? And I want you to stand guard. Over there where you’re out of sight of their room. If anyone leaves the house, detain them.”
“What are you thinking of, sir?”
“I’m going to the privy.”
“I wouldn’t recommend it, sir.”
Murdoch laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m going to give it another look.”
“I did check it before, sir.”
Crabtree’s face was disapproving. They’d done their job. However, he did as he was told and took up a position where he was shielded by the adjoining privy. Murdoch went back through the gate and quickly slipped inside the outhouse. There was only one aperture and the inside was gloomy and so noisome he was afraid to breathe too deeply.
Striking a match, he lit the wick of the lantern and a warm light flared in the cramped space. The rough wooden structure seemed completely bare, just a plank across the rear wall with two holes, one covered by a lid. He bent over the open hole and lowered the lantern into the space. All he could see was human waste not far below. Fortunately most of it was frozen, which cut down on the stench. A fat, black spider scuttled along a thread turned to silver by the light. Its meal waited, neatly wrapped in the centre of the web.
Murdoch straightened, moved the lid over from the second hole. Nothing! Bugger. He had convinced himself he had the right hiding place. He leaned down even deeper into the hole with the lantern.
Bull’s-eye!
Beneath the neck of the plank he could see the edge of a piece of tartan cloth. He took off his hat, unwrapped his scarf so that it was out of danger and reached in with his gloved hand. The cloth was part of a bundle that had been hooked over a nail. He tugged and, cursing softly, finally managed to pull it back up through the hole. It was a tight fit and picked up some unpleasant smears as he did so but he didn’t care.
The bundle proved to be a woollen shawl that was knotted together. He took off his gloves and undid it.
Wrapped inside were clothes: a grey serge skirt, a cotton chemise and petticoat, a black sateen waist. In the centre of the bundle, pathetically squashed, was a black felt hat appliquéd with pink silk flowers.
He replaced everything, tied the ends of the shawl again and went outside, gulping in the fresh air. Constable Crabtree loomed out of the shadows and came towards him.
“I’ve found them, Crabtree. They’re her clothes, all right.”
The light behind him suddenly winked as somebody lifted the curtain. The shape was in silhouette but he knew Bernadette Weston was standing there watching him.
Mrs. Letitia Wright and Mrs. Mathilda Kleiser placed their cards on the silver salver in the hall.
“Please give Mrs. Rhodes my condolences. I’m sorry she is indisposed,” said Mrs. Wright.
“Likewise,” said Mrs. Kleiser.
“She wished to express her appreciation to both of you for your kind sympathy,” said Foy. “She hopes to be receiving callers next week at the latest.”
He had a little trouble getting his tongue around the last few words, and the difficulty was not lost on Mrs. Wright. She knew a tippling servant when she saw one.
“My, that long? Well, Mrs. Kleiser and I will certainly return at a more convenient time. I suppose she has already had a number of callers?”
“Yes, madam. People have been most kind.”
Foy opened the door, but the woman hesitated on the threshold.
“Such a tragedy. The entire household must be in a state of shock.”
“Yes, we all are, madam.”
“Do you know what happened to the poor girl?” asked Mrs. Wright.
“No, I’m afraid not.”
Letitia would dearly have liked to winkle more information out of him, but the butler was gazing purposefully somewhere at a point over their heads. Gathering their skirts, clutching their reticules, they allowed him to usher them out. As they walked down the path another carriage was drawing up to the door. The coachman jumped down and helped out a young woman. All three women hovered for a moment, then bowed to each other.
“Good afternoon, Miss Shepcote.”
“Good afternoon,” said Harriet. She proceeded selfconsciously to the front door. The older women continued on.
“That poor motherless child is quite the most clumsy girl, although I do regret saying that. And her hat? Wherever have you seen such a fright! A greengrocer could sell it and make a fortune.”
Mathilda nodded. “To be utterly frank I cannot imagine what Owen Rhodes sees in her. Donalda has been hinting they are to be engaged in the spring. She would push for it, of course. Harriet is a malleable little thing.”
They linked arms, their wide hats almost touching.
“Shall we hire a carriage?” asked Mrs. Wright.
“No, do let’s walk a little. It’s not as bitter for once.”
“That garland on the door was somewhat excessive, wouldn’t you say? She was a servant, after all.”
“Yes and no.”
“What do you mean, Mathilda?”
“I wasn’t sure if I should repeat this … and you must swear not to tell.”
“Naturally. I never do.”
“Our nursemaid, Mabel, heard from the Felkins’ cook that the dead girl was Cyril Rhodes’s love child.”
“No!”
“That’s what I heard. How else can you explain such a fuss?”
“But surely Donalda wouldn’t have accepted her?”
“You and I wouldn’t have, but she’s an odd sort of person, don’t you find? Englishwomen often are …”
They passed by a tall, dark-haired man who raised his hat politely. He was dressed in a sealskin coat and carrying a brown paper bag under his arm. If they had known it was Acting Detective William Murdoch going to Birchlea to confirm the identification of Therese Laporte’s garments, the ladies would no doubt have devised some excuse to return.
Chapter Nine
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 12
AS MURDOCH ENTERED TEMPERANCE HALL, the newsboys were in the middle of singing “We Shall Gather at the River,” with gusto if not accuracy. Some of them were stamping their hobnailed boots on the wooden floor; others clapped. He squeezed himself onto one of the benches at the back. All around him were boys dressed in the most amazing motley of clothes Murdoch had ever seen in one place: oversized cloth caps with loud checks, felt crushers, fur forage hats and coats and trousers that had all known previous owners. Legally, newsboys were supposed to be at least fourteen to get a licence to sell papers, but many of them were younger. Forced by necessity to hurry through childhood, their faces revealed a premature cynicism that was softened only occasionally with childlike simplicity. The hall was hazy with smoke from their clay pipes and dense with the smell of dirty clothes and bodies.
Murdoch took out his own briar pipe and lit it. Immediately, there was a nudge in his arm.
“Got some clippings to spare, mister?”
The boy next to him on the bench was still so small and young his boots barely touched the floor. His cloth cap was too big, and stringy fair hair almost obscured his eyes. Murdoch handed him a pinch but right away two or three other grimy hands thrust out at him.
“Some for me, mister?” “Hey, what about me?”
He distributed the last of the tobacco from his pouch and was grateful when there was a drum roll from the direction of the stage, indicating the meeting was ready to start. The boys nearby lit their
pipes, first borrowing a match from him, and the row was in danger of disappearing into a fug of smoke.
“’Oo are you?” asked his neighbour as he puffed contentedly on a stubby, blackened pipe. Before Murdoch could answer, the master of ceremonies, a rotund man whose bald head shone white in the gas light, trotted onto the stage.
Murdoch had come to the newsboys’ meeting in the hope of getting their help. They were denizens of the streets, sharp and ruthless, honed to survive like cubs. If anyone would pay attention to a young girl out on the street on a winter’s night, they would. The master of ceremonies had agreed to let him talk from the platform after the guest speaker. No point in stealing his thunder with exciting talk of missing young girls. That suited Murdoch. The speaker was Godfrey Shepcote, and he wanted the chance to study him.
Shepcote was waiting in the wings. The hubbub from the boys excited him, and his round cheeks were even more flushed than usual. His valet, Canning, was beside him and he gave his master a quick brush-down across the shoulders. Shepcote had chosen his wardrobe carefully, a tweed jacket over a fawn waistcoat, beige knickerbockers, brown high boots that his servant had polished to a mirrorlike shine. The impression was of a man of affluence but insouciance. The rewards of the world sat visibly but lightly on his wide shoulders.
In fact, the annual newsboys’ meeting at Temperance Hall was one of the bright spots of Shepcote’s year. After him on the programme came a fiddler, a juggler and a mind reader, but this was his moment of glory and he knew the boys were waiting eagerly.
The master of ceremonies finally managed to get the audience sufficiently quieted down to make himself heard.
“Thank you, gentlemen, thank you. And a braver bunch of choristers I never did hear …”
This elicited cheers and ear-splitting whistles. “All right, then, I know you’re all on pins and needles waiting for our next speaker. At least I assume that’s why you’re fidgeting in your seats like that …”
There was great laughter at this remark. Newsboys, plagued by worms and lice, were notoriously itchy.
“Seriously, our man needs no introduction. You heard him last year and loved him; you heard him the year before that and loved him; you begged him to come back this year. So here he is, gentlemen. I give you Mr. Godfrey Shepcote.”
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