Except the Dying

by Maureen Jennings

  He thrust out his broad hand and, rather puzzled, Murdoch shook it. When he let go he caught an expression of disappointment in Vose’s eyes and it dawned on him that there must be a secret Masonic handshake the butcher was testing on him. He had no idea what it was.

  Vose went back to fiddling with his pipe.

  “Did Foy leave the room at any time?” Murdoch asked him.

  “Had to, didn’t he? Twice. To let go his water.”

  “Did he go alone?”

  “Nope. Him and me both went. But I can vouch he didn’t go anywhere beyond the laneway.”

  “Drinks a lot, does he?”

  Vose’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Not more than any other fellow.”

  “How would you say he holds his liquor? Like a man or a red Indian?”

  Vose puffed on his pipe again, letting out a cloud of aromatic smoke that made Murdoch want to take out his own Powhattan.

  “Most men gets jolly when we’ve mashed a few,” said Vose. “Foy’s no different, that I can recall.”

  “Has he ever had quarrels or rows with the brothers?”

  “Nope. If anything he’s the peacekeeper. Bobbie Reynolds and Tim Winter have butted heads a couple of times and John just honey-talked them right out of it.”

  Murdoch switched tack. “Have you ever met a woman named Alice Black?”

  “Never.”

  “Did Foy ever mention the name?”

  Again Vose shook his head emphatically. “Nope. Who is she?”

  “Was is more like it. She was found murdered early this morning.”

  Vose whistled. “Great Thor, you’re not suggesting John is mixed up in that?”

  “Let’s hope not.”

  “Sorry I can’t help you, Captain. I’ve never heard tell of her. How’d she die?”

  “She was strangled. Her body was found not far from the distillery on the lake.”

  “Lordy, Lordy. Was she a jade, then?”

  “She was.”

  Vose was silent, concentrating on his pipe. There seemed nothing more forthcoming. Murdoch started to rewrap his muffler.

  “Thank you, Mr. Vose. I won’t keep you any longer.”

  “No hurry. To speak square, this is the most excitement I’ve had all week. I haven’t always been a butcher, you see. I used to own a smithy up near the old tollgate on Yonge Street, and I tell you, Captain, I miss it something fierce. I got to shoe the travellers’ horses and you wouldn’t believe what a grand variety of folks came by my door. They told me such stories. You know, where they’d been, different people they’d met. One man had even saw the Queen herself, right up close. He said she was a little bit of a thing. Pretty as a picture then. This was before the tragedy, of course.” The bowl shone red as he sucked hard on the stem. “Not only that, I miss the horses. Beautiful animals, horses are. Some folks say as how they’re stupid but that ain’t the case. They have a different intelligence from us is all. They’d always know who they could trust. And I never came across a skittish horse that I couldn’t calm. D’you want to hear how I did it?”

  The butcher looked so wistful Murdoch couldn’t say no. He nodded.

  “I whistle to them soft like this.” Vose started a low trill through his teeth. The tone was sweet and birdlike and Murdoch could imagine it calming the savage beast.

  “I did a stint at a lumber camp near Huntsville when I was younger,” Murdoch said. “There was a fellow there had charge of two Percherons and he treated them like they was his sons. Combing and brushing them with a silk cloth ’til their coats shone like show horses. And those manes! You’d think you was touching a woman’s hair.”

  He didn’t add that Farqueson had whipped his horses quick enough when a load had been about to come crashing down on him. But that was only human nature.

  Vose beamed. “Yeah. I understands that. I wouldn’t’ve sold up ’cept I ruined my back from too much bending and lifting. I had to stop. Besides which the wife found the forge awful far up. This shop was her idea. Not that the work’s so much easier. Those beeves’d challenge Hercules himself.” He waved his pipe for emphasis. “Of course, I don’t sell no horsemeat even though there’s some as do. Would be like having a pal hanging there.”

  Murdoch started to edge towards the door. “I’d better be off. I’ve got other places to check out.”

  “Hold on a minute,” said Vose. He put down his pipe and in a flash wrapped up a rasher of bacon in some brown paper.

  “Here you go, on the house.”

  Murdoch thanked him.

  “Come back anytime. I’ll have some fresh chickens next week. Raise them myself out back.” He followed Murdoch to the threshold. “There is one thing might be worth telling you, Captain, though I probably shouldn’t.”

  Murdoch paused.

  “At one of our lodge meetings Foy lets drop as how he was having some trouble at home. What sort of trouble, I asks. ‘The wife’s been acting awful jealous these days,’ he says. ‘Does she have any cause, John?’ I asks, and he gives me a wink. ‘Maybe,’ he says. ‘That’s not good, John,’ I says. ‘Come on,’ he says, ‘who’s gonna resist a taste of fresh meat when all he’s had for years is salt pork?’”

  “What was he meaning by that, d’you think?”

  “I have the suspicion he was dipping his wick in some soft tallow where he shouldn’t.”

  “The maid?”

  “More than likely.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Vose. If anything else occurs, come round to the station. Number four on Wilton. You know where it is, don’t you?”

  “I do. You’ve got a couple of fine horses over there, but that bay gelding is favouring his rear leg. You should get him looked at.”

  “I’ll pass that along to the livery constable.”

  The snow was heavier now, sticking to the ground in a fluffy layer. He walked back to Gerrard Street and turned east towards the medical school.

  He wasn’t surprised at what Vose had said but he felt angry again. He doubted Therese had responded willingly to Foy. He’d probably forced himself on her, and even if it was the cold that had directly killed her, Foy was still accountable. He’d have to have another talk with the unctuous butler. See how conversant he was with opium.

  A footman ushered Owen Rhodes downstairs to the billiard room. The smoke from Hugh McDonough’s innumerable cigarettes hung like an autumn fog over the smooth green baize and a fresh cheroot was balanced precariously on the leather corner pocket. He was in the midst of lining up his next shot but when Owen came in he straightened and dipped his cue in a mock military salute.

  “Roddy, what brings you out in such miserable weather? God, you look half-frozen. Let me get you some cheer.”

  “No, not right now. I have to talk to you. Is it private here?”

  “Absolutely. What’s up?”

  Owen explained as succinctly as he could what had been happening, the visit from Murdoch earlier that afternoon and the reason for it.

  “He wanted to know where I was on Wednesday night.”

  Hugh stiffened. “And what did you tell him?”

  “That I was in the lab ’til all hours.”

  “Good thinking.”

  “Even if he checks, old Grant is such a muddlehead, he wouldn’t know for sure if Prince Bertie himself came in.”

  “What if he’s positive, though, what then? What will you tell the police fellow?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t considered that far ahead.”

  Hugh rubbed chalk on his billiard cue with great concentration. “Perhaps you’d better, Roddy.” He poked Owen not too gently in the ribs with the end of his cue. “You’re not considering a big confession or anything like that, are you, Roddy?”

  Owen frowned. “Do you think I’m insane? Of course I’m not.”

  “That’s good.” Hugh smiled. “Come on. Cheer up, you look like a scared rabbit.”

  “To tell you the truth I feel like one. The fox is sniffing at the door.”

  “Bosh
. He won’t find out. And even if he did, what’s the worst can happen?”

  Owen stared at him. “I take it that is not a serious question.”

  Murdoch was almost past the hospital grounds before he noticed the man huddled just inside the gate. The man was slumped forward with his head on his knees. For a moment he didn’t know if he was alive. Then he looked up and Murdoch saw he was young, barely twenty. He stepped closer.

  “You can’t stay here.”

  The young man began to struggle to his feet. “Ja, yust resting.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “No place, zur.”

  “You’re German?”

  “Ja.”

  “How long have you been in Toronto?”

  “I yust arrive two weeks since.”

  “Do you have work?”

  “Not yet.” He managed a pained smile. “There are many other men to choose. Nobody want foreign fellow.”

  Like so many immigrants he was hopelessly unprepared for the inhospitable climate. He’d found some sacking to wrap around his shoulders but he had no gloves or hat and he was shaking with the cold.

  “You’ll freeze to death if you stay here,” said Murdoch. He reached in his pocket and pulled out his notebook. The snow immediately began to settle on the page as he wrote.

  “Take this note to the police station and ask for Sergeant Seymour. You can stay there for the night. Tomorrow we’ll see if we can find you some work.”

  He tore out the leaf and handed it to the youth, then took him by the arm and faced him in the direction of Sackville Street.

  “Go down there and when you get to Wilton, turn right. That way.” He indicated the direction. “Keep going until you see the police station. There’s a green light over the door. Do you understand me?”

  “Ja. Danke schön, danke schön.”

  Murdoch watched to make sure he was going in the right direction, until he was obscured by the swirling snow. Ahead of Murdoch a lamplighter was reaching up with his pole to light the gas lamp on the corner. It didn’t make much difference to the darkness of the street; along Gerrard the lights were widely spaced. Murdoch wished he’d thought to bring his own lantern. Huddled into his coat, hat jammed down on his forehead, he trudged on.

  Seymour would be good to the German lad, he thought. He wasn’t a perpetual vagrant, that was obvious, and he’d be viewed more favourably. It was the chronic paupers that the city despised and caused the city council to be emphatic about forbidding begging on the streets. The police had instructions to charge anybody found doing so. Recently members of the Ratepayers Association had suggested sectioning off fifty acres of High Park as a poor farm where the paupers and vagrants could live and work. Murdoch thought the idea was highly impractical. You couldn’t just dump everybody into one huge stew. There would have to be separate accommodations for those with children, for instance. To subject children to the influence of the desperate and destitute was to ensure they’d follow in those footsteps. Besides, he personally was not in favour of the out-of-sight, out-of-mind philosophy. He never forgot that there but for the grace of God went he.

  By the time he reached the medical school, the street had emptied as people hurried home for their tea. Only one sleigh, bells jingling, had gone by, driven by a young man almost buried underneath the fur wraps, going too fast for the conditions. He was probably on his way to a sleigh party. The horse was blowing hard, its neck pulled in too tightly, its feet high-stepping. Murdoch hated to see animals treated like that.

  The school was surrounded by a wrought-iron fence and the buildings were well set back, approached by a wide circular driveway that was rapidly filling with snow. Murdoch could make out the silhouette of the central spire. It didn’t soar as high to heaven as the one at St. James’s Cathedral, the tallest in the Dominion, but it was a reminder that this place of learning was not godless. There was an appropriate turret at each end of the main block for the studious to retire to, and one or two lights winked through the whirling snow.

  To the right of the high gate was a brick lodge. Murdoch could see a soft gleam of candlelight coming through the window. The gate was not locked and Murdoch pushed it open, walked over, brushed away the snow and peered through the glass.

  The room within was sparsely furnished, an oil stove in the corner, a wooden chair close to it and a table in the centre. On the rear wall was a board festooned with brass bells. A uniformed man was seated at the table, fast asleep and drooping in his chair. Even as Murdoch watched, he swayed to the side but, without waking, righted himself with a little jerk.

  Murdoch went in. The porter was a grey-haired man, thin and worn looking. He could have been old or middle-aged, it was hard to tell. His jaw was slack and Murdoch could see he was virtually toothless. His navy jacket was unbuttoned at the neck and stained down the front. A cap was pushed back on his head. There was a tin tankard beside him and the sweet smell of ale hung in the air.

  “Mr. Grant?”

  He snorted and his eyes opened. “’Oo are you?”

  “Detective William Murdoch, Toronto Police Force.”

  Alarm shot across Grant’s face. “Sorry, I … I was just catching a catnap. Never happens usually but, well, I’ve been a long stretch without sleep.”

  Quickly, he straightened his cap and fumbled with his buttons.

  “I’m on a case right now,” said Murdoch. “I want to ask you a few questions concerning one of the students at the college.”

  Grant blew out his breath with a whistle of relief. “Thank goodness. For a minute there I thought I was getting the gate. Silly of me. They’d hardly send the police to do that, would they?”

  “Not unless you were breaking the law.”

  “What? No, no. I do me job like a soldier. Just got a bit tired, that’s all.”

  They both knew he could be fired if he was reported for taking a tipple, but Murdoch guessed that Grant was on call twenty-four hours a day with one day off a month if he was lucky. In his opinion, that issue was between the porter and his employer, and if the man could sneak a bit of pleasure for himself, good luck to him.

  “You said it was concerning one of the students. What have they been up to now?” Grant asked.

  “What d’you think?” asked Murdoch, genuinely curious.

  “Pranks, no doubt. Don’t tell me they’ve gone and built another snowman?”

  “Is that so bad?”

  “The last one was. Just afore Christmas some of them sneaked over to the Baptist Seminary on Jarvis Street there. Built a ten-foot-high snowman that looked just like the minister. I have to say it was right clever. He’s got red whiskers and they dyed some sheep’s wool, stuck a pair of spectacles on his nose, the whole bit.”

  “That seems innocent enough.”

  The porter snickered. “Oh, yes, that was, but then they added a large pink rubber hose. Put it you know where. Shocking it was. I mean young ladies were walking by every day.”

  Murdoch tut-tutted in sympathy.

  “This student you’re enquiring about, broke the law, has he?”

  Murdoch knew how destructive rumour could be, and he wanted to be fair to Owen Rhodes.

  “Let’s just say I need to verify his whereabouts at a certain time.”

  Grant looked uneasy, and Murdoch remembered what Owen had said about his being unreliable.

  “Are the students allowed to use the laboratories after class hours?” he asked.

  “They are, but not a lot avail themselves. Unfortunately, some of the young gentlemen see their education as a lark. Pity their poor patients, I say. But then that’s youth for you. No harm, really. High spirits is all.”

  Murdoch guessed that the young gentlemen in question made Grant’s life miserable. There were at least six bells on the wall and he could imagine the man answering summons after trivial summons.

  “You know most of them, do you?”

  “Oh yes. See them coming in and out all year.”

  “But they
don’t have to sign in after hours.”

  “They’re supposed to, but lookit, they’re young. Lot on the mind, as it were. If you gave me a nickel for every Tom and Dick that didn’t, I’d be a rich man.”

  “Can I see the register?”

  “Certainly.”

  He pulled a ledger out of the drawer and opened it, turning it towards Murdoch. Grant was right about the diligence of the medical students. There were no more than four entries on Thursday night and only two on Wednesday. Neither name was Owen’s.

  “Do you know Mr. Owen Rhodes?”

  “Ah yes, sir. I do.”

  “He says he was here in the laboratory all Wednesday night. Is that so?”

  “Certainly is. He’s a study, that one. He’s here now, as a matter of fact. Came this morning. Been here all day.”

  “I see. What’s he look like?”

  “Short, stout fellow, black hair and whiskers. Wears spectacles.”

  “You’re sure that’s Mr. Rhodes?”

  “Positive. Know him like my own son. That’s my job, to know them all. What’s he done? Seems like a good sort to me. Doesn’t tease like some of the young fellows. But then they’re young and –”

  Murdoch cut him off. “The Owen Rhodes I’m concerned with is of medium height, slim with copper-coloured hair, no sidewhiskers, small moustache. Favours gaudy waistcoats.”

  “Ha, don’t they all. Quite the fashion these days with the young gentlemen. Those that have the balsam, that is. And most of them do, of course, here.” He tapped the bridge of his nose. “Doting fathers. Or mothers, more like. But anyway you was saying this fellow is a carrot-top. Maybe you’re thinking of Mr. Beresford. He’s a redhead. Quite tall, though, and beefy. Likes his grub.”

  “Mr. Grant, tell me the truth. I wager these young colts lead you a merry chase when they’re in the mood.”

  “That they do.”

  “You see a lot of them going back and forth. Must be hard to tell one from the other at times?”

  Grant looked as ambivalent as a mouse contemplating the piece of cheese in the trap.

  “Oh, no, sir. I’m supposed to know who they are. Keep track and so on. I might make the occasional mistake but no, sir, I know them all.”