Beatrice had found a hole and was busy darning across it. “Have you recovered all of the clothes?”
“There was no, er, undergarment.”
“Drawers or chemise?”
“No drawers.”
“Hmm. Those are easy things to hide. You just wear ’em.”
Murdoch knew for certain that Alice didn’t have them. Perhaps Ettie did.
He sneezed. He’d started to feel under the weather, feverish and runny-nosed. Beatrice regarded him over her glasses like a bird contemplating a tasty morsel.
“My oh my. You look as if you’re coming down with a cold.”
He sneezed again. “’Fraid so.”
She got up. “You just sit right there. We’ll have you right as rain.”
“Don’t bother yourself, Mrs. K. I’m off to bed soon.”
“No bother. I’ve got to tend to Father, anyway.”
She left him and Murdoch grimaced. He was already familiar with Mrs. Kitchen’s home remedies, and some of them were worse than the illness they were curing.
Arthur noticed the expression on Murdoch’s face and started to laugh. Immediately the laughter turned into a violent attack of coughing that left him panting and weak in his chair. He spat bloody froth into the cup. Murdoch thought the smell was worse daily.
“Can I get you anything?” he asked.
“New pair of lungs is about the only thing that’d do me any good, and I doubt you’ve got a set of them in your pocket.”
“Wish I had.”
Kitchen waved his hand in the general direction of the door. “Forgot to tell you, Mother’s trying a new cure on me.”
The door opened at that and Mrs. Kitchen returned carrying an enamel bowl of steaming water. Murdoch jumped up to help her.
“Here, let me.” He took the bowl out of her hands.
“Put it down there close to the fire. Arthur, we’ll have to build up the coals a bit. Mr. Murdoch should be warm.”
Murdoch started to protest but she cut him short.
“Take off your slippers and socks. Come on.”
She sprinkled some mustard powder into the hot water.
“Now put your feet in. Careful, it’s hot.” He eased his feet into the bowl, watching the skin immediately turn pink.
“Sit back,” she said and pulled the mohair shawl up around his shoulders.
He grinned. “I feel like I’m a boy again.”
She patted his shoulder. “Good. You could do with a bit of mothering now and again.”
She went back to her own chair, unobtrusively moving the tin cup from her husband’s side table and putting a fresh one down.
“Arthur said you’re trying a new cure.”
She nodded. “I was out at the market this morning and there was a new egg-seller at Mr. Howard’s table. Apparently he’s getting too old to come down from the farm now, so this woman is selling the eggs and chicken for him. Odd thing she was, brown as a berry. Probably got gypsy blood. Anyway, we got to talking and I told her about Arthur here and his sickness. ‘That’s easy fixed,’ she says. ‘Make him take twelve raw eggs a day in some heavy cream. Keep him cold at night and don’t let up ’til he’s cured.’ Well, I thinks to myself, it’s all very well for you to say that, seeing as how you’re in the business of selling eggs. She must have read my mind. ‘Cured my father and my own sister,’ she says. ‘And tell you what, I’ll sell you a dozen for the price of ten. How’s that?’”
“Course Mother agreed,” interjected Arthur. “Even though we can’t afford it.”
“We’ll manage. I’m going to advertise for another boarder. Should be all right if they keep to themselves, don’t you think?”
“Anybody who stays here is lucky,” said Murdoch. He stirred his feet in the mustard water, making a tidal wave in the bowl. He grinned at the other two. “I used to do this when I was a boy in Nova Scotia with the pools of seawater left behind at low tide. I’d sit on the rocks, put my feet into the pool and pretend I was God sending a storm.”
As he watched the water slap in the enamel bowl he remembered his old game vividly. In the middle of the pool he floated a piece of driftwood to represent the Bluebell, which was the unlikely name of the fishing trawler his father sailed on. Gradually he stirred the water higher and higher until the waves overwhelmed the flimsy boat and it capsized with all hands on board. He played this over and over, each time with a mixture of Catholic guilt and a pagan delight that he had destroyed his hated father.
“… dear child, God rest her soul.”
Mrs. K. was saying something. He caught the last bit. Ever since Beatrice had heard that Therese was of the faith, her attitude had changed. The girl had risen from one of doubtful character to a child rapidly approaching sainthood.
“Beg pardon, Mrs. K.?”
“You really were off in a brown study, weren’t you. I was just asking if there’s anything else missing. If she was running away she’d take all her belongings with her, I’d think.”
“You’re quite right. The housekeeper is sure she had a canvas valise and some extra clothes. Probably a skirt and a waist at least. Her jacket and gloves are also missing. Apparently she had a rosary and a Bible but I searched her room and they weren’t there.”
Beatrice hastily crossed herself. “What wicked person would steal such holy things?”
“I’m sending Crabtree off to check the pawnshops.”
“Will she be getting a Christian burial?” Beatrice asked.
“Eventually, but we haven’t been able to contact the family yet. They’re all snowed in.”
“Pity poor them when they hear, losing a pure child like that.”
Murdoch had told the Kitchens about the postmortem evidence, but Beatrice hadn’t seemed to quite comprehend the full import. Then she surprised him, as she often did. She stopped her darning for a moment and looked at him.
“There’ll be folks who’ll say she was a sinner, her in the family way like that, but I don’t. It’s my view that somebody forced connections on her and made her take that opium. Whoever they are, God will punish them. And if in his wisdom He doesn’t see fit to do it in this lifetime, I sincerely hope the law will.”
Chapter Ten
He looked up at the whore standing above him. Her bare foot was raised and he could see the dirt beneath the ragged toenails. She had splashed on copious amounts of cologne and as always the combination of stale sweat, rank perfume and self-disgust made him want to retch. He’d fought against his need to visit her but finally had capitulated. The defeat, even though it was of his own making, made him angry.
She tapped his nose lightly with her toe. “You don’t have to worry about names here. It don’t matter to me what you call yourself. You could be the Prince himself for all I care.”
He sat back on his heels and took her foot in both his hands. “I’m glad about that. It could hurt both of us very much if anyone found out. Do you understand?”
Grimacing with pain, she nodded.
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 13
ALL WEDNESDAY, SNOW FLOATED DOWN in fat, slow flakes that children caught on their tongues, pretending it was ice cream. When night came the manure-dotted streets lay beneath a blanket of clean, fresh snow that sparkled in the light of the gas lamps. By eight o’clock most of the city’s residents were indoors, and even along Queen Street the smooth surface was unmarred by footprints. Only outside the doors of the John O’Neil was the snow heavily dinted.
Samuel Quinn, with Princess at his heels, pushed open the big door of the taproom, and the din and the smoke rushed out together. At the far end a hunchback was thumping out popular music-hall songs on the battered, out-of-tune piano, and a group of men and women, arms linked, stood around him, bellowing out the words.
“And lo it was her father,
Rum ti-iddle ey oh,
And lo it was her father…”
One of the women was Bernadette Weston. She was singing at top voice, head thrust back, mouth wide open. The
brim of her hat had tilted under such strenuous efforts and settled at an angle across her right eyebrow, and a scrawny green feather bobbed and danced in time to the music. She noticed Quinn and winked at him but didn’t break rhythm for a moment.
He waved, then, tugging at the piece of twine attached to his dog’s collar, dived into the crowd, heading for one of the long plank tables by the far wall where he could see Alice was sitting. Princess tried to lap at some sticky mess on the floor but he pulled her away. Cuspidors were provided but few used them, and the freshly strewn sawdust was churned into clumps by the mixture of tobacco juice, melting snow and phlegm.
“Heads up!”
A sweating waiter in shirtsleeves, his leather apron stained and wet from splashes, squeezed by Quinn, his laden tray held high. The beer that was brewed at the John O’Neil tended to be sour and weak but it didn’t seem to matter. The customers came for the company, not the brew.
“Comin’ through. ’Cuse me.” Quinn used his elbows for emphasis and the bodies reluctantly yielded. He was known here, and a couple of the men slapped him on the shoulder. There were only a few women and one of them, jammed in the side bench, smiled and beckoned, but he moved on. His eyes were already smarting from the thick pall of smoke from innumerable pipes and cheap cigars.
Alice hadn’t seen him yet; she was intent on her companion, a man Quinn didn’t recognize. He was burly, clean-shaven with his hair cropped very short. There was a flattened appearance to his face that made Samuel think of prizefighters.
He slid in beside Alice on the bench, wrapped the twine around the leg of the table and pushed Princess underneath. She sniffed with interest at the other man’s boots.
“Oi, look what the cat dragged in,” said Alice. “Where’ve you been keepin’ yourself?”
“Busy working. Not like some as I know of.” He gave her a friendly poke in the ribs and she squealed. Her sense of humour was already enhanced by hot gin.
“You’re forgetting your manners, Alice. Aren’t you going to introduce me?”
“This here’s Jack,” she said, indicating the man beside her. “He’s just passing through. His name’s Jack and he’s a Jack Tar.”
“How’d you do,” said Samuel. He called to the beleaguered waiter. “What’ll you have?” he asked the other two. “It’s on me.”
“Oi, come into money, have you? Lucky for you. How’d that happen?”
“Never mind. Do you want a drink or not?”
“Another hot jackey’d go down nice,” she said.
The man nodded. “Same. Thanks.” His voice was husky and strained as if he had laryngitis.
Samuel gave the order to the waiter, taking a pint of beer for himself. He took a folded newspaper out of his pocket and put it on the table.
“Look at this, Alice. It’s concerning that young girl the police were asking us about yesterday –”
“I don’t want to hear one more word about that sodding mort. You’d think she was the Queen’s daughter, all the fuss that’s being made.”
“What’s the story? I don’t know nothing about it,” her companion said.
Alice sniffed. “You don’t want to. Bloody coppers, they’re always on at a girl. Ettie and me wasted all yesterday afternoon at the shicey station just because they thought we’d nimmed the girl’s clothes.”
She stayed her indignation while the waiter banged down two glasses of gin, a pitcher of hot water and a pint of ale. Then she added a couple of splashes of water to the gin and took a deep gulp. “As if we’d do anything like that. What do they take us for? Couldn’t prove nothing, we was asleep –”
“If you’ll rein in a minute, Alice, I’ll tell you what it says in here,” said Quinn. “They’re offering a reward for information.”
He sipped at his beer, wiped the foam from his moustache and prepared to read. At that moment an arm reached over his shoulder.
“Give us a swallow, will you, Sam. I’m fair parched.”
Bernadette didn’t wait for his answer but seized the glass and drank some beer.
“He’s buying tonight, Ettie,” said Alice. “Why don’t you order one?”
“Won’t say no.”
Good-naturedly, Quinn flagged down the waiter again and a foaming mug of beer splashed on the table.
“Ettie, sit down and listen to this,” said Alice. “There’s somethin’ else in the paper about that dead girl.”
Bernadette glanced quickly at Alice and pulled out the chair. She removed her hat and fanned at her hot face.
“Hard work, all that singing.” Princess popped her head up from under the table and pawed at Bernadette’s knee. “Hey, lookit who’s here.” She rubbed the dog’s ears affectionately. Then she reached down and offered her mug of beer. The hound lapped at the drink thirstily. Quinn watched.
“That’s enough now. Don’t want to get her soused.”
“First time I’ve ever seen a dog drink brew,” said Jack.
Bernadette took back the glass and finished off the beer. “Ain’t seen much, then, have you?”
“Ettie, don’t be cheeky. Jack here is a well-travelled man.”
“That so? Like where? Where have you been?”
He smiled, a smile that didn’t come close to touching his eyes. “Britain, France, China twice. You name it.”
“What are you, a sailor?”
“That’s right, a saucer and plate.”
“What?”
“First mate.”
“He’s speaking rhyming slang,” said Alice. “The cockneys do it in London.”
“Sounds like barmy talk to me.”
“Ettie,” protested Alice. “Jack’s a stranger here. You’re not being very neighbourly.”
“Do you want to see my how-d’you-do?” the sailor asked.
“No.”
“I mean my tattoo.”
“Yeah. Come on, Jack, let’s see,” said Alice.
He pulled off his right glove and pushed up his sleeve.
“Lord love us, look at that,” gasped Alice.
A red snake curled around his forearm and wrist. The mouth was open and the fangs, which ran along the edge of his thumb and forefinger, were gripping a woman, stark naked and bleeding. He spread his fingers and the woman’s legs opened.
“Cheeky,” said Alice.
“What d’you think?” the sailor asked.
Ettie shrugged. “Not much. I’ve seen better.” She turned to Quinn and indicated the little white ribbon that was pinned to her velvet jacket. “How do you like me bow, Sam?”
He grinned. “Don’t tell me you’ve joined the Temperance League?”
“That’s it. I’m taking the Pledge next week. They stand you to a swell tea, cakes and sandwiches, all you can eat. I’ve been practising.”
She pouted like a little girl, putting her finger to her mouth. “I pledge that lips that touch liquor will never touch my … lips.”
The sailor grinned. “You make me want to be an abstainer this minute.”
Quinn rattled the newspaper. “Do you want to hear this news or not?”
Jack smiled again. “Let’s get another round of blinks first, on me.”
Ettie shook her head. “I’m going back to sing in a minute. Sam, get on with it, for Christ’s sake.”
Quinn swallowed the rest of his beer so he could take advantage of the stranger’s offer. He was glad Ettie was being surly with the man. He was too cool a customer by far. But she was like that. Formed strong likes and dislikes right away. God help the man she took a scunner to. She could freeze hell over with one look when she wanted to.
He picked up the paper and read aloud.
Information sought: The investigation continues into the death of Therese Laporte, the lovely young woman who died so tragically last Saturday night. Anyone who saw this young woman on Saturday night between the hours of five o’clock and midnight is asked to report to Detective Murdoch at number-four station immediately. She was known to be wearing –
&nb
sp; “Bloody hell, Sam, don’t go on with that. We’ve heard it already, haven’t we, Ettie? Get to the bit about the reward.”
In the public interest, the owner of the Signal is offering a reward of fifty dollars for any honest information that our officers will deem useful in clearing up the mysteries of this tragic episode.
“Fifty dollars!” exclaimed Alice.
Ettie frowned. “nothin’ for us. We didn’t see her. Too bad.”
Quinn continued.
We must ensure that our streets remain safe for our loved ones and for those who cannot fend for themselves. If we do not eliminate the riffraff that are pouring into our city on a daily basis, we are condemning the fairer sex to a life of perpetual fear.
“What’s it mean?” asked Alice in bewilderment. “Who’s the riffraff? Do they mean lumberjacks?”
The sailor shook his head. “Haven’t you heard of those immigrants coming in from Moldavia?”
Alice laughed. “Where in God’s name is that? Oh, never mind. I doubt if I’ll be going there in the near future. My carriage has got a wheel missing.” She pursed her lips again. “Read that bit once more, Sam. About the reward. Fifty dollars …”
Bernadette caught her friend’s sleeve. “Alice! Why don’t you come and sing with me.”
Alice pulled away. “I don’t want to, Ettie. Jack and me was having a good chin. Weren’t we, Jack?”
She leaned toward him so that her breast was brushing against his arm.
“Why’re you so interested in that money? Do you have some information about the girl?” he asked.
“No, she doesn’t,” said Ettie. “She’s just dreaming, aren’t you, Alice?”
“No, I –”
“You heard me.”
Alice stared sullenly at her friend. “Yeah. I don’t know anything. Never have,” she muttered.
Bernadette stood up abruptly. “That’s my song he’s playing. Sam, thanks for the beer. See you, Captain. ’Bye, lovey.”
This was addressed to the bitch under the table. Ettie gave her an affectionate caress and returned to the piano, where the hunchback was beginning a plaintive series of chords. Resignedly, Quinn folded up the paper and sat back in his chair to watch.
Except the Dying Page 11
