Rebecca Temple Mysteries 3-Book Bundle

by Warsh, Sylvia Maultash

  Germany is constantly in the news. Tell me how things are for you and whether there is still violence in the streets.

  Your friend,

  Mohammed

  Berlin, April 1937

  Dearest Mohammed,

  It pains me that you are so upset by the conditions in your city. Though it shows you have a generous heart, I must say I agree with what your father would say, once you tell him, that your time would be more usefully spent on other things. Establishing yourself in a practice, for one. The snake venom idea, for another.

  Ministering to the poor is very idealistic, I’m sure, but best left to the religious orders. I’m afraid I feel the effort is fruitless for someone in your position. Before you call me heartless, hear me out. The poor, as people say, will always be with us. You can relieve their suffering for the moment, but if their living conditions are rife with disease, they will not stay well for long. It is like trying to make water run uphill. You may succeed for an instant, but then gravity takes over and all the effort is wasted. You have too much talent for such folly. You must be more selfish and look at the broader picture.

  I hope this doesn’t offend you — I consider you one of my few friends and am only concerned for your future. What happened to your snake venom proposal? I am personally very interested in the idea of researching the venom. Perhaps we could collaborate in some way. I find seeing patients all day rather tedious. An old classmate of mine works in a laboratory at the university and has offered me space. Would the venom withstand shipping? I would, of course, pay for all costs. Please think about it.

  My country has grown strong in the years since Hitler became führer. We have recently won back, without force, the Rhineland, a strip of land along the Rhine, which was demilitarized at Versailles at France’s insistence. We are not children, to be told where we can and cannot go! And by those self-righteous fops, the French!

  Fondest regards,

  Hans

  Cairo, January 1938

  Dearest friend,

  I’m sorry for not writing sooner, but I must lie low. Since I started working with the Muslim Brotherhood, the police are after me — the government kowtows to the English (known here as a government of pimps). They fear us because we provide services they should but don’t. We’re winning the hearts of the people so the English worry about insurrection. As well they should. All these years they’ve lorded it over us and expect our gratitude for the “superior” culture they’ve thrust upon us. But they’ve taken from us more than they’ve given. Most of the people are starving and disease-ridden. You would not believe how many children die because they are malnourished. Inshallah, God willing, our efforts will help to save some.

  In the meantime I have started raising a kind of viper that the Bedouins have shown me, since it is native to the desert. The work itself — milking venom from the vipers’ fangs — is painstaking and results in but a tiny amount of clear liquid. Only a tiny amount can be used at any rate, if we intend not to kill the animal subjects. I pay people for cats and dogs from the street and we inject them with minute quantities of venom. It’s hard to adjust the dose not to kill them. I have begun to mix the venom with saline for better control. We have given the snakes English names — Edward, Victoria, and George after the most recent monarchs, though I feel more affection for the snakes.

  May Allah grant you health and strength.

  Your friend,

  Mohammed

  chapter seventeen

  By four o’clock on Friday, Rebecca had finished with her last patient. Every few weeks Iris persuaded her that they both needed some time off before the Sabbath. Though neither of them actually observed the Sabbath, they closed the office early and Iris invited her two grown children home for dinner on those Fridays. She intended to harangue them, she said, about their exasperating single status. When was she going to be a grandmother?

  She had already said goodbye and hurried out the door. While putting on her coat, Rebecca stood at the window overlooking Beverley Street. She had never paid attention before, but she could see the front of the Sentry house from there. Her stomach turned at the memory of the other night.

  She flicked out the lights in the office and locked the door. On her way down the stairs she remembered that Ben would be back in Montreal by now. This morning, newly shaven but haggard, he had stiffly touched his cheek to hers before leaving to drive back. A perfunctory embrace. He was angry that she wouldn’t tell him where Susan was. Rebecca could hardly blame him. She insisted she didn’t know. Technically speaking, that was true.

  Downstairs, Rebecca glanced at the closed door of the first-floor office. Lila Arons, the other physician who practised in the building, stopped work at two on Fridays. All these women who had to take care of their families, thought Rebecca, envy squeezing her heart.

  She wasn’t due at her parents’ house until seven. Lots of time to go visit Miriam at the hospital.

  She opened the front door of the building and stepped outside into the chilly air. A weak sun had struggled to brighten the sky earlier but now gave in to November and receded into late afternoon clouds. Her father had said he would visit Miriam in the hospital while Flo was cooking, so she wouldn’t be alone.

  Rebecca crossed Beverley Street and walked toward the Sentry house on the opposite corner of D’Arcy. It was odd, being familiar now with a house she used to pass so often before without thinking. Like a loss of innocence — she’d never be able to walk past it again without feeling heartsick about Birdie.

  Yellow police tape still flapped across the entry to the backyard where the hedge opened. She stopped to gaze into the yard, now stripped of the old woman’s things. No wagon, no chair, no shopping bags. The police must have removed everything for investigation.

  As she walked on, she peered through the tangle of hedge, remembering that night, the body drowning in shadow and blood. Nearly past the hedge, she stopped. What was that? Something wedged in the intricate branches just above the ground. She bent down to have a look. It was the cover of a small children’s book. A cheerful little mouse in green breeches and red jacket jumped over a candlestick. The police must have missed it when they searched the yard. Or they didn’t think it was important. It probably wasn’t. She prodded the thick cardboard cover gently through its nest of branches and held it in her hand. Mother Goose Nursery Rhymes. In one corner of the cover, a sticker read, “Toronto Public Library,” then below, “City Hall.” This wasn’t the book Rebecca had put Birdie’s sandwich on that day in the yard. That was Aesop’s Fables. Would the library lend out books to a woman who could barely give out basic information like her name?

  Maybe she just took it. Or maybe it wasn’t hers at all. What had the homeless man said before disappearing into the yard? He had a surprise for her: some mousies. A few pages still clung to the cardboard cover. Only one nursery rhyme had survived:

  Wee Willy Winkie runs through the town,

  Upstairs and downstairs, in his nightgown;

  Rapping at the window, crying through the lock,

  “Are the children all in bed, for now it’s eight o’clock?”

  A little mouse wearing a red gown and striped blue cap ran through the square of an old town, shaking his lantern high over his head. The ancient buildings threw blue shadows on the civic-minded mouse as he leaped to his duty, one beady eye and pink-edged ear in profile, thin brown tail curved behind him.

  So this was the mouse. She pulled a tissue from her purse and wrapped the remains of the book in it, depositing it gingerly in her bag.

  Instead of heading to the hospital, Rebecca turned south when she got to University Avenue. City Hall was less than a fifteen-minute walk away. She could satisfy her curiosity and get some exercise at the same time. She walked east along Queen Street, ogling the Osgoode Hall courthouse, a rambling nineteenth-century structure in the Palladian style (she had read in her book on Toronto history) surrounded by large grounds and set well back from the street. Separating th
e grounds from the sidewalk, an ornate black iron fence stretched the entire block of the property from University Avenue to City Hall. She had read the narrow iron gates were designed to keep livestock out of the grounds, since it had been common practice to herd cattle down Queen Street during the nineteenth century.

  Passing the old gates, she stepped out of one century and into the next. In front of her, the extensive square rolled on and on, a carpet of concrete named after Nathan Phillips, the mayor who had thrown open the design for the new city hall to an international contest. A Finnish architect had won with a design that some people compared to a flying saucer. Rebecca found it quite beautiful in a futuristic way: the saucer-like building in the centre seemed to float between two office towers that soared skyward and, at the same time, curved toward it like wings.

  Up close it was a building fronted by lots of glass. She pulled open one of the heavy wooden front doors. Just inside, a tour group stood obediently around a guide pointing out some aspect of the building. The library entrance was down a short hall to the right.

  She stepped past the counter where librarians were checking out books for people waiting in a short queue. Busy place for a Friday afternoon, she thought.

  She strode down one aisle of books after another. Past the children’s section. Past the reference section. The light drew her to the back of the library, where a ceiling-high wall of glass looked onto the square. A popular spot, judging from all the occupied chairs set behind a ledge facing the glass. Since the building was round, the glass curved around the bend, but the straight wall of the library bisected it, leaving an oddly shaped bit of extra space. This was where she found him, the last chair in the row.

  His distinctive profile gave him away, the crooked nose, the weathered skin. Wisps of white hair stood straight up from his head — probably static electricity from the wool hat, which lay at his feet along with the maroon jacket. He looked much older with his white hair exposed. The trundle buggy stood nearby, a reminder, in this shelter, of the outside, where there was little. He sat staring out at the square, a newspaper in his lap.

  He must have sensed her standing there, because he turned and watched her with rheumy eyes. She wanted to ask him about Birdie, but what if he became violent? What if he ran? She could outrun him, but could she hold him before the police were called?

  “Pretty soon they’ll put up the skating rink out there.” He pointed to the square. “For Christmas. It’ll be real pretty, with lots of lights.”

  She nodded absently, then retreated to the front of the library.

  “There’s a man here who’s wanted by the police,” she said quietly to one of the librarians behind the counter.

  The middle-aged woman observed her skeptically, her brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. “Oh? Who is it?” she asked, her eyes blank, as if Rebecca were making it up.

  “The homeless man in the corner. The police called him Stanley.”

  The librarian blinked with a flutter of recognition. “What’s he done?”

  “He may’ve killed someone.”

  She shook her head. “He wouldn’t have done that.”

  “I need to use your phone.”

  She looked at Rebecca as if she had just demanded some esoteric information, like the population of Tanzania.

  “He’s just a poor old guy who wants out of the cold.” With an officious, stiff posture, she led Rebecca behind the counter into the office.

  Detective Fitzroy was unavailable. A Sergeant Morelli asked Rebecca question after question about the incident in the backyard until she worried the old man might leave in the meantime. Finally the sergeant agreed to send some officers to check out her story.

  With the police on the way, Rebecca knew it might be her only chance to talk to the man. His dented nose turned to her again as she approached.

  “I know you?” he said.

  “Is your name Stanley?”

  He screwed up his rheumy eyes as if trying to remember her.

  “I was a friend of Birdie’s too.”

  He looked away again, his face contorted. “Oh, Christ.”

  “Have you seen this before?” She pulled the book cover from her bag, removing the tissue. The mouse in the green breeches still hung in the air over the candle stick.

  The old man smiled wistfully. “She really liked them mice.” Then a thought floated over his face like a shadow. “That there’s a libary discard. They was gettin’ rid of it ’cause it was in piss-poor shape. Libarian give it to me. I didn’t steal it.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting you did.” She paused a moment. “She liked mice?”

  “Couldn’t get enough of ’em. Only time she smiled.”

  “You were there when she died, weren’t you?”

  He closed his eyes, shaking his head. “All my fault. You know she was difficult.”

  “Did something happen when you saw her last?”

  “My hearing ain’t so good no more and she didn’t make no sense. I told her to slow down, talk sensible, but she wouldn’t. Got me mad as hell.”

  He looked like he could deliver a good blow, armed with a rock.

  “What did you do, when you got mad?”

  He shrugged. “I got real mad. When I get mad, I’m bad. I can take on five big guys. They’ll be sorry.”

  “Did you hurt her?”

  He shook his head. “It’s all my fault. I didn’t believe her. She’s dead, you know.”

  “Believe her about what?”

  He screwed up his eyes again, recognition falling away. “I know you?”

  In less than ten minutes, two constables walked into the library. Rebecca identified herself as the caller and led them to the wall of glass. The librarian followed, her arms crossed firmly over her chest. Patrons of the library began to look up as the police uniforms passed by. The old man had turned toward them as well. The two cops stopped beside him.

  “Hello, Stanley,” one of the young constables said. “Got yourself into real trouble this time, eh?”

  The old man grimaced, his mouth caving in at the gums in front. “I didn’t do nothing. What d’you guys want?”

  “Come down to the station. We’ll talk about it.”

  “Oh well, the libary’ll be closing soon anyhow. You got donuts?” he asked. “You cops always got donuts.”

  “Sure, down at the station. Coffee and donuts. Come on, Stanley. Car’s waiting.”

  The other constable held handcuffs at the ready.

  “No! Don’t go!” a young man bleated from the next chair.

  A companion? Certainly another denizen of the streets, betrayed by the torn sweatshirt and deep tan. His blond hair shot up from his head in unruly corkscrew curls. Anxiety in his otherwise blank blue eyes.

  “Leave him alone!” he said. “He’s just an old guy.” The constable, not much older than the heckler, chewed the inside of his mouth. “You don’t want to get into trouble, do you?”

  “You threatening me?” The boy sat up tall, ready to roll. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen.

  “Shut up, Nigel,” said the old man.

  “It’s police brutality. Don’t let them take you, Stan. Please stay here. Please!”

  “You don’t know when to shut up, Nigel. Get you into trouble one day.”

  “Excuse me,” Rebecca said, trying to distract them. “I don’t think you need the handcuffs, officer.”

  Stanley was clumsily gathering the trundle buggy and putting on his jacket. The cop shrugged and returned the handcuffs to his belt. The young companion backed off, but his eyes smouldered.

  “You better treat him right, man. Stan’s a friend of mine, see. Nothing better happen to him.” The boy raised his voice to make sure everyone could hear.

  “Stanley!” the old guy said, throwing the boy a belligerent look. “Don’t call me nothing but Stanley.”

  “Sure, sure. Stanley. Okay.” Then a light went on in his eyes. “No, look, guys. You know, I’m gonna come with him since he don�
��t feel so well. Do you, Stanley?” He stared into his face, willing the old man to agree. “You feel sick, don’tcha, Stanley? Need me to come with you.”

  “He’s fine,” the cop said. “You’re staying here. But Dr. Temple,” the cop turned to her, “Detective Fitzroy asked if you could come to the station too. It’s just around the corner.”

  chapter eighteen

  December 1936

  The euphoria of the Olympics dissolves when the signs forbidding Jews reappear in the windows of shops, groceries, hotels, restaurants, and theatres. Any notions that the government will soften its stand wither with the re-posting of the inflammatory pages of Der Stürmer on information pillars throughout Berlin. Frieda passes by the assembly of people standing in front of the kiosks, their heads lifted, chuckling at the grotesque drawings of fat, hook-nosed Jews who the propaganda minister, Goebbels, insists have grown rich by stealing from good Germans.

  The Nazis have attached a sign to the storefront window of Eisenbaum’s, identifying it as a Jewish shop. Nevertheless, at the beginning of December people start shopping for Christmas, and some old customers come in to buy presents. People remember that Eisenbaum’s underwear is the best in Berlin. And it doesn’t hurt that Vati has drastically reduced his prices.

  Though Oma and Vati must work harder than before, Frieda notices at dinner that they are in better spirits with the increase in business.

  Then one evening, Frieda comes home from the hospital to find Vati sitting on the living room sofa, his arm around Oma’s shoulder while she weeps quietly into a handkerchief. Frieda doesn’t remember ever seeing Oma cry before. It frightens her.

  “What’s happened?” she asks.

  Vati purses his lips with distaste. “That lout, the husband of Frau Rheinhardt — she used to work for me, remember? — he came into the store today wearing a Nazi uniform and demanded money. He just went to the till and helped himself. There must’ve been fifty marks. He just took it.”