GREENE: You are sure those were his exact words?
PUGH: To the letter. “He got what he deserved.”
GREENE: Did you reply?
PUGH: I did. I realise my words were not charitable or Christian, but I was shocked by how callous he was. I said, “Then I hope you, too, get what you deserve, Harry Murdoch.”
END OF WITNESS STATEMENT.
Chapter Three
ALTHOUGH HE COULDN’T QUITE ADMIT to himself that he was actually hiding the book from his landlady, William Murdoch had tucked it discreetly to the back of his small bookcase in his tiny sitting room. Mrs. Kitchen cleaned in here once a week, and although he knew her interest in him came from affection and concern, he felt too shy about certain matters to reveal them even to her. He’d found the little book titled Our Bodily Dwelling in Caversham’s bookshop and bought it hoping he could gain some knowledge. So far it had yielded little. The female author had used the metaphor of a house to describe the various bodily functions. He’d turned straight to the chapter called “Plumbing,” hoping it was what he needed, but it turned out to be only about the bowels and nothing so far about private parts, although he thought they could be considered a kind of plumbing. He skimmed through to “Questionable Guests,” but this turned out to be a long diatribe against alcohol. Murdoch sighed and flipped the pages to the next chapter. He by no means espoused temperance and saw nothing wrong with moderate imbibing. In the summer, after he’d pushed his body to the limit on one of his long bicycle rides, he liked nothing better than a pint or two of cool beer or cider. The authoress was vehemently against nicotine and smoking, so that was of no interest either. He was enjoying his pipe before retiring for the night. Frustrated, he tossed the book to the floor. He was so woefully ignorant about almost everything pertaining to intimate connections, but he really didn’t know where to turn. What he’d heard from the rough-and-ready lumberjacks when he was at the camp he didn’t think applied to decent women. In their all too short time together, he and Liza hadn’t really talked much about it either, although he considered she was bolder than he was.
He yawned and pulled his flannel dressing gown tighter. Shortly after he’d come to live with the Kitchens, he’d asked if he could rent this room as his sitting room. He couldn’t really afford to, his wages were modest to say the least, but he liked having the extra space and he knew it helped his landlady out. Because he insisted on paying for his own coal, a fire in a second grate meant still more cost, so he often didn’t bother to light it. Tonight he had wanted the comfort of a fire, but it had died down and he wasn’t about to build it up this close to bedtime. He knocked the ashes out of his pipe on the grate, gave the embers a quick rake with the poker, and picking up his candlestick went over to the window.
The street below was moonlit, quiet, and peaceful as a painting in a Christmas card. Yesterday there had been a light snowfall. Not heavy or with staying power but a warning of what was ahead, and some snow remained on the rooftops and in the clefts of the tree branches. This was going to be his second Christmas without Liza, and he felt such a pang of loneliness he had to move to keep the pain at bay. Forget about sleep right now. He knew he’d just be tossing around for the next two or three hours. He walked over to the brass box by the fire. It was supposed to be used for firewood, but he kept his dancing shoes in it. They were fancy, two-toned black and white, with an elasticised sidepiece and soft, flexible soles. He took them out, kicked off his slippers, and pushed his bare feet into the shoes. Whenever he put them on he felt different. He fancied his back straightened, his steps got smoother, and his shyness disappeared.
Last evening when he had sat with the Kitchens in the front parlour, Mrs. Kitchen had reminded him about his dancing lessons. “You should take them up again, Mr. Murdoch. You were doing so well.”
Earlier in the year, he had enrolled in dance classes at the studio of one Professor Otranto. The name was far too exotic for the vain, portly little man from Liverpool, but he was a competent teacher and Murdoch had begun to enjoy himself. His waltz was coming along nicely, and he’d learned a two-step and something called the Palais Glide. However, he hadn’t taken a lesson for a while.
Mrs. Kitchen wouldn’t let the matter rest. “It’s such a pleasant way to spend an evening. Better than staying here with us old pair night after night.” What she meant was that it was time to get on with things. Liza had been dead for more than a year now. It was time to find himself a suitable sweetheart and stop moping. Murdoch sighed. She was right of course. Until recently, his thoughts had been definitely moving in that direction. He’d found himself strongly attracted to Mrs. Enid Jones, a young widow from Wales who was also a boarder in the house. Unfortunately, she was Baptist and he was Roman Catholic, and therein was a huge problem. He was willing to continue, but she wasn’t and she had moved out.
Murdoch straightened up. The clock on the mantelpiece began to strike eleven. He’d better get a move on. He rolled back the rag rug, pushed his armchair to the wall, and took up a position in the centre of the small space he’d created. Right arm up, shoulder level, bend the elbow, turn the palm in, placed at the midline of the lady’s back. Firm but gentle command. Now, left arm raised, thumb spread out, ready to receive her gloved, dainty hand. Whose hand? Never mind, keep going.
“All right. Mrs. Jones, may I have the honour of this dance?”
With a slight dip, he slid his right foot forward. Immediately, he could hear Professor Otranto’s voice. “Chin up, Mr. Murdoch! This is not a boxing match!” His dance teacher was fond of declamatory expressions. “Glide! Don’t stamp. You are not destroying cockroaches. Chin up, shoulders back. You are a proud soldier! Think of being a soldier!”
Forward, two, three. Back, two, three. Murdoch managed three pivots in a row. As long as his partner’s skirt didn’t get underfoot as it so easily could, the reverse turn was an elegant manoeuvre.
He came too close to the fender and he stumbled on a forward dip, aware he would have just tromped on his partner’s slippers.
He stopped. There was somebody knocking on the front door. Who on earth could it be at this time of night? Before he could take action, he heard the sound of Mrs. Kitchen going to answer. A male voice spoke briefly, but he couldn’t make out the words. Then Mrs. Kitchen started up the stairs. There was an urgency in her steps that made him hurry.
“I’m in here, Mrs. K.,” he called and opened the door, taking care to keep his bare shanks out of sight.
Beatrice Kitchen came onto the landing, her candle held aloft. She had a dressing robe on over her nightgown, and her fine grey hair was in a long braid down her back.
“Oh, Mr. Murdoch, a constable has just come from the station.” She handed him a piece of paper. “He brought this telegram for you.”
Murdoch unfolded the paper, and she brought the candle closer so he could see.
To: Acting Detective William Murdoch.
Message: We regret to inform you that our beloved sister, Philomena of the Sacred Heart, has become gravely ill. We recommend that you attend her as soon as possible.
The telegram operator’s handwriting wasn’t very legible, and on the line that indicated the sender, he’d written something indecipherable so that, in a moment of confusion, Murdoch read only the word “Mother.” It was so long since he had heard Susanna referred to by her religious name, he didn’t realise at first to whom they were referring. Then he did.
“Oh dear, is it bad news, Mr. Murdoch?” Mrs. Kitchen was regarding him anxiously.
“I’m afraid it is. It seems that my sister is dying.”
All three of them were in the front parlour. Mrs. Kitchen had insisted on making Murdoch a mug of warm milk and brandy, and he was sipping it gratefully. Arthur was beside him in his invalid’s bath chair, drinking the scalding hot water that was one more in the long list of recommended treatments for consumption that his wife was always finding.
Murdoch had sent the constable back with an answering telegraph m
essage that he would take the nine o’clock train to Montreal the next morning. There was nothing else he could do until then, but he was glad for the company of his friends. Beatrice, who never stopped working at something, was making chains of coloured tissue paper for Christmas decorations. Arthur seemed a little better than usual tonight, and it was he who had particularly drawn Murdoch out, inviting him to talk about Susanna. The hot brandy loosened his tongue, and he found himself babbling on without reservation.
“I still remember the day she was born. In fact, her birthday is only three days from now, December twelfth. She will be thirty-one years old.” He paused, conscious of all their thoughts. She might not reach that age.
“Go on,” prompted Arthur. “You remember …”
“I was little more than three years old. My father woke me up. I still had a cot in their bedroom. He said I was going to spend the night at Mrs. Swann’s house, the neighbour at the end of the lane. He picked me up, wrapped me in a shawl, and carried me downstairs. Momma was walking up and down by the window. She was making a funny gasping sound. She hardly looked at me, just said, ‘Don’t fuss. Be a good boy, Willie.’ I was frightened out of my skin. Something was dreadfully wrong. My father was stern as usual, but I risked asking him what was the matter with Momma. ‘Nothing’s wrong. A little brother or sister is coming tonight.’”
Murdoch chuckled. “‘Where from?’ I asked him. Charlie Swann had a little brother, and Joshua Rupp had two young sisters. Was it them who were coming over?”
“What did your father answer?” asked Arthur. His wife glanced at him. This was not quite a proper conversation to be having.
“I don’t remember if he said anything. He handed me over to Mrs. Swann and left. I gave that good woman a hard time as I recall. I refused to go to bed and stood at the window waiting for Poppa to come back. I was sure I saw black plumed horses coming down the lane the way they had for Mr. Tauton’s funeral. I was convinced my mother would die.”
Mrs. Kitchen clucked sympathetically. “Poor mite. Children do get such fancies in their heads.”
“In spite of everything, I must have fallen asleep because the next I knew it was daylight, and there was my father again. He seemed happy and excited. ‘Come on, we’ve got a surprise for you.’ He picked me up again and rushed me down the lane back to our house.”
Murdoch paused. His cheek had been pressed against his father’s chest. Harry was wearing his thick fisherman’s sweater, and the smell was strong: tobacco, fish, something sweaty and masculine. The jolting was uncomfortable, and he was unused to being carried by his father. But there was a comfort in the strength of his arms that he had never forgotten. The rare mood of happiness was sweet.
“My momma was lying in bed. One of the women from the shore was standing beside her. They were both staring down at a funny little creature in a cradle next to the bed. To me it looked like a bundle of cloth wrapped around a red face. The eyes were squeezed shut, but the mouth was moving. My mother smiled at me. ‘This is your new little sister, Willie. Come and give her a kiss.’ Momma seemed so happy, and I was stabbed by a terrible pang of jealousy. Right here.” He indicated his solar plexus. “‘Where did she come from?’ I asked. ‘From up above,’ said my mother. She raised her eyes heavenward, and I thought she was indicating the corner of the ceiling. I couldn’t understand how the newcomer had managed that and thought Momma must have meant she had come down the chimney. ‘When’s she going back?’ I asked. They all laughed, even my father. Nobody understood how sincere I was.”
“That’s only natural,” said Beatrice. “If the first child is a boy, he always considers himself a little prince.”
There was a wistful expression on her face, and Murdoch remembered that she’d told him she had lost three children, two infants but the one boy had lived until he was two. He hesitated, not sure whether or not he should change the subject. Beatrice nodded at him. “Do go on.”
“As Susanna grew up, we became the best of friends. I suppose we had our squabbles, but mostly she was my steadfast companion. I’m afraid it’s true what you say, Mrs. K. She was always willing to be the ship’s crew, while I was the captain.”
Suddenly he felt uneasy. Was it true she had always been willing, or had he, in fact, bullied her into complying?
“She has been a nun for a long time. I believe you mentioned that.”
Murdoch nodded. “She was a postulant when she was just sixteen.”
He didn’t want to upset Mrs. Kitchen by revealing how angry he’d been when Susanna told him what she intended to do. She had chosen a cloistered order, and he knew he would never see her again except from behind a curtained grille. No priest could talk him out of his bitterness at her being lost to him and all normal life forever.
“It is unfortunate the prioress didn’t tell you the nature of your sister’s illness,” said Arthur. “It is not out of the question that she will recover.”
Murdoch didn’t reply. “Gravely ill,” were the same words that the doctor had used about Liza. She had been taken ill so suddenly. He didn’t know, wasn’t expecting to see her until Sunday. On Friday her father had sent a message to the station. “You should come at once; Elizabeth has typhoid fever.” She had died that night, without good-byes or consciousness. He did not have much hope for Susanna. He sipped the warm drink, hoping his friends hadn’t noticed his eyes had filled with tears.
Chapter Four
JEREMIAH BARKER LIKED THIS PERIOD of his turn of duty. The majority of prisoners were in the shops working. The few who had to remain in their cells were usually easy enough to keep an eye on. This afternoon he only had three charges. One was an old, destitute man who was too infirm to work at all. Lost in a world where time had disappeared, he lay on his cot all day, waiting to be transferred to the House of Providence. He was so scrofulous, Barker knew the cell would have to be completely disinfected when he went. More work. The other two prisoners were both on the second level. Lawson, the younger one, had received ten stripes two days ago, and he was excused from work. Barker had scant sympathy for him. He was a sly fellow with a look about him that made you never want to turn your back.
The third man was in the cell at the end of the row. He was a convicted murderer. He had been sentenced to hang; and as that was about to happen in a week’s time, there seemed no point in training him in any of the prison workshops. For him, Barker had some compassion. He never gave any trouble and spent his days doing his sketches or just lying on his cot, staring at the ceiling. When asked what he was contemplating, he’d replied, “Just my life, sir. Nothing else but that.” Usually the prisoners facing death were kept isolated in a special section of the jail that overlooked the exercise yard, but he was here because the last inhabitant of the death cell had died from typhoid and they didn’t want another convict to cheat justice. The guards were not supposed to talk to the prisoners, but often loneliness on both sides overrode that rule. Since August Barker had had many a quiet chat with his charge. Initially, he’d suffered from withdrawal from liquor, but the longer his sobriety, the more he expressed regret at his previous way of life. Not that he admitted to his crime of murder. Innocent of that he was. They all said that though. Prior to his conviction, he had apparently been a lapsed Roman Catholic, but the shock of the death sentence had sent him back full speed to the fold. The priest, Fr. Healy, visited him twice a week and was happy with his progress. Jeremiah was a pious man himself, although of the Methodist persuasion, and he was always glad to see a man turn to God, even if it was the papist heresy the penitent embraced.
This afternoon Barker had managed to get a bit of a sit down at the table by the entrance door. His legs weren’t as young as they used to be, and the constant patrolling along the iron walks, up and down the staircase, had taken its toll. He yawned and scratched a varicose vein on the back of his leg. It was a dreary afternoon, and the gloom of the cell block was deepening. The light filtering down through the central skylight was grey and sombre, thre
atening snow. It was only on Sundays when there was no work and the men were in their cells that the warden allowed the gas sconces to be fully lit. Otherwise, on weekdays they stayed off until after the evening meal.
Right now Jeremiah could hardly see the third-floor cells above him. He shivered and hunkered down into the collar of his thick serge tunic. There were two big woodstoves in the centre of the cell block, but like the sconces, they were kept at a low burn during the afternoon. It was all very well to say that those who had broken the law should not be coddled; nobody seemed to consider that their keepers had to suffer as well. He would be glad to finish and get back to his own room in the guards’ quarters.
There was the sound of a key clanking in the lock, and Barker stood up as quickly as he could, grunting a little at the stiffness in his back and legs. Mr. Massie himself entered. He rarely came to inspect the cells at this time of day, and Barker felt a wiffle of alarm in his stomach. He hoped he wasn’t in trouble. The warden, however, smiled benignly.
“Afternoon, Mr. Barker. Everything correct?”
Let Loose the Dogs Page 2
