Murdoch frowned.
“Tell you what,” said Quinn. “How’d you like me to hold on to him and treat him myself? You can pick him up tomorrow.”
“That would be a big relief. Thank you.”
He shook hands.
“I’ll show you out,” said Quinn. He picked up the candlestick and opened the door.
“Does Ettie still live here?” Murdoch asked.
“She does. But she moved upstairs.” He grinned. “She’s got a new job, too. She works at Mr. Eaton’s store in the sewing department. Very respectable. She doesn’t do any of that old stuff.”
He meant selling her sexual favours, which was how Ettie had earned most of her money when Murdoch had last known her.
“I’m happy to hear that, too. Give her my regards.”
“I will. She’ll be pleased to know you were by.”
Murdoch nodded in the direction of the hound, who had watched all the proceedings with bright, curious eyes. “Evening, Miss Princess. Evening, Havoc.”
He followed Quinn down the hall and out into the welcome cool air.
Chapter Twenty-four
ON CERTAIN OCCASIONS ALGERNON BLACKSTOCK JR. thought it prudent to use a name other than his real one. He’d called himself Green, Redman, and more recently White. His own family name was too well known in the city, and the last thing he wanted was for his father to get wind of his little “flutters,” as he called them. Supposedly women were the ones who cared about their standing in society, but in the Blackstock household it was Algernon Sr., Q.C., to whom it mattered.
At the moment, Blackstock Senior was in his element. He was defence counsel in a well-publicised case, which he was sure to win, and he had a large audience ready to admire him. Actually, Algie felt sorry for the plaintiff, a small woman almost lost from sight in the witness box. His father was about to conduct his cross-examination. Blackstock Senior was not a tall man, but he made up for his lack of height by his commanding presence, a presence carefully cultivated. His iron grey hair and beard were neatly trimmed; his black suit and starched white collar and tabs startlingly white. He was vain about his appearance, and a barber visited him in his chambers once a week. Blackstock never lost a case. This was partly due to the fact that he only took on cases that were certainties and partly because he had a way with juries. He was able to address the men in a manner they understood and respected, even though his tone and demeanour were patrician and bespoke privilege and money. His denigration of opposing witnesses was so subtle that he never elicited sympathy on their behalf but left them lacerated with his wit and smarting from a mockery they barely understood and could not combat. Other lawyers feared him and communicated this to their witnesses so that they usually presented themselves incoherently or with belligerence. Neither attitude went over well with a jury.
To Algie’s surprise, however, the plaintiff was holding her own. Perhaps because she was such an unsophisticated woman, her bewilderment was influencing the men of the jury against the defendant. He could see it. His father was aware of it too, and he began to pace in front of the witness box, a sure sign he was searching for an opening, a vulnerable spot on which to pounce.
“Mrs. Willfong, am I to understand then, that you, a married woman for more than three years, were not aware that the good doctor, the defendant, was having connections with you?”
“No, sir. I was tilted backwards in the examining chair so I could not see.”
The courthouse was packed with spectators, mostly men, who listened with prurient attention as Mrs. Willfong whispered her testimony. The smell of winter clothes, permeated with stale tobacco smoke, was thick in the air. It was an odour Algie hated, just as he hated being a lawyer.
Judge Falconbridge scowled at the witness. “I beg you once again, madam, to please speak up. I realise this subject is most embarrassing, but it is you who have brought charges and therefore we must ensure the accused has a fair trial.”
“Thank you, Your Honour,” said Blackstock Senior. “I have myself no wish to press Mrs. Willfong, but this is a very serious matter before us, and my client is only too anxious to clear his good name.”
He indicated Dr. Atkins, who was sitting stony faced in the prisoner’s box. Blackstock had asked him to cut his usually bushy side-whiskers and trim his hair so that he was now the epitome of respectability. Mrs. Willfong, although in her best brown silk, looked plain, rather shabby. She was still a young woman, but she had no bloom of beauty to sway the hearts of the jurymen. Algie would have considered the case a foregone conclusion if it wasn’t for the clear soft voice and her air of utter sincerity. His father was going to have a difficult time discrediting her.
“Madam, as I understand from your statement, you were consulting Dr. Atkins because you wished to conceive a child and so far you were barren. Is that so?”
“Yes, sir.”
The expression of pain on her face was unmistakable.
“Given this situation, it is only natural and professional for a doctor to have to conduct an intimate examination. Would you agree?”
“Yes, sir, but this was not a normal examination.”
“Please answer only the questions I ask, Mrs. Willfong. It is for the jury to determine that. Try to refrain from slipping in statements that are prejudicial.”
“Objection, Your Honour.”
Mrs. Willfong’s lawyer was a large, greasy-haired man, who looked and smelled as if he could do with a bath. Blackstock had been pleased when he saw who was representing her. “Larkins’ very presence will almost take our case for us, Algie,” he’d said.
Judge Falconbridge shook his head. “Objection overruled.”
Blackstock continued, his voice a little more stern. “Mrs. Willfong, in accordance with normal procedure, Dr. Atkins introduced a medical instrument into your, er, vagina with the purpose of determining whether or not there was a blockage. Can you say whether this instrument was stationary or not?”
“It moved backwards and forwards.”
The lawyer clasped his fingers together and briefly raised his eyes to the ceiling as if in prayer.
“This next question, madam, is one of great delicacy. I do appreciate that most of the fairer sex would find it shameful to have to answer. However, it is a necessary and vital question, and I must remind you, madam, that you are under oath. You have sworn before your Maker that you will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”
Algie expected that Larkins would object at any minute, but he didn’t. He just sat picking at the sheaf of papers in front of him as if he had lost one of them. Mrs. Willfong braced herself. She looked over at her husband, a man also in his best clothes but with the weathered skin of a labourer. Blackstock saw the pleading look and shifted so that his body obstructed her view.
“Madam, when you felt this medical instrument inside you, moving backwards and forwards, were your passions excited?”
Unable to see her husband, she looked at Judge Falconbridge for help. There was none forthcoming.
“Answer the question, madam.”
“You do understand my meaning, don’t you, Mrs. Willfong?” asked Blackstock. “I am referring to the sensations that some women experience during connection.”
He placed a slight emphasis on the “some.”
The courtroom was utterly quiet, and Algie shifted uneasily in his chair. He had to admit the old man was good. He was only thankful it wasn’t him in the box. Mrs. Willfong was on the verge of tears.
“What is your answer, madam? Under oath, would you say that during these examinations, which were repeated several times over the weeks, you became excited?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“You invariably spent?”
“Yes.”
“Was this excitation something that you share with your husband during normal and legal marital connections?”
“No, I er …” This time Blackstock moved so that she could see her husband. Algie had never seen such ab
ject shame on a man’s face.
“Let me make this clear then, Mrs. Willfong. You returned time and again to Dr. Atkins while he treated you, as he should have, for your problem. After a three-month period, he said he could do no more and discharged you as his patient. You then turned around and brought a suit against him for medical malpractice, claiming he had forced connections on you all those several times without your being aware of it.”
“That’s right…. I didn’t know what he was doing.”
“Didn’t you, Mrs. Willfong? How strange. I suppose you returned to his office again and again, like a female detective, in the attempt to determine exactly what he was doing.”
“No, that is not true. He lay on top of me, over the chair; he was using an instrument …”
She was weeping uncontrollably now, her shaky composure gone. Algie studied the jury as he was supposed to do. There were thirteen men, and most of them were now regarding the woman with a mixture of contempt and pity. He knew that the most telling comment that his father had slipped in was the one about the husband. Never had her passions been excited by him, but she admitted to being spent several times with the doctor. What did it matter if he had used an instrument or his own tool, which was more likely. The case was won.
Judge Falconbridge was banging with his gavel.
“The court will be adjourned for one hour. Men of the jury, you will remain in your quarters until called for. Mrs. Willfong, you may step down. Mr. Larkins, will you kindly see to your client.”
He stood up, gathered his robe about him, and left the room. Reluctantly, Larkins helped the sobbing Mrs. Willfong out of the witness box. Her husband shoved through the row of people on the bench, but turned on his heel at the aisle and left the courtroom. Blackstock beckoned to his son, and they left by the lawyer’s door to the private chambers reserved for them at the back. Dr. Atkins looked pleased, but Algie didn’t meet his eye.
Blackstock threw his arm around Algie’s shoulders. “We’ve won, wouldn’t you say?”
“Let’s not count our chickens just yet, Father. You can never tell with juries.”
“Pessimist. They’re in the palm of my hand. They all see her as a randy tart.”
“She’s not though, is she? Seems a good sort to me.”
“Never underestimate the appetite of a woman once it’s awakened, my good fellow. Believe me, I know.”
He didn’t elaborate, and at the door of the chamber he went into the senior counsel’s room. Algie went into the room for junior counsel and walked straight over to the cupboard where the lawyers kept their special bags. Quickly he fished in the bottom of his and took out a silver flask. Every day Algie filled this flask with Peruvian wine of Coco. This was supposed to be a tonic for those suffering with consumption or other blood diseases, but he found a good cap or two gave him a surge of energy and such a lift of his spirits he couldn’t do without it. He took a quick gulp, then a second. His initials were engraved on the side of the flask with an inscription: FROM YOUR DEVOTED WIFE, EMMELINE. If she had ever had her passions excited during lovemaking, he was not aware of it.
“Damnation.” He had dribbled some of the liquid down his white tabs. He pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed at the stain but only seemed to make matters worse. There was a tap at the door.
“Just a minute.”
Hurriedly he put the flask back into the bag and took out a vial of essence of peppermint. He shook a couple of drops on his tongue, then called, “Enter!”
His clerk, Lavery, came in.
“There’s somebody who wants to talk to you, Mr. Blackstock.”
“Not now, I’m in the middle of a case.”
“I told him that of course, sir, but he won’t take no for an answer. He says he’s an old chum of yours from previous days.”
The clerk’s eyes were bright with curiosity.
Algie scowled. “Did this old chum have his card perchance?”
“As a matter of fact, he didn’t. Said he’d just run out. But he said to give you this riddle.”
“What riddle? What kind of nonsense are you talking?”
“I beg your pardon, sir, I was getting to it. I am just reporting what was said to me. He is something of a joker, this fellow. ‘Just for a lark,’ he said. ‘I’ve got no card,’ says he, ‘but Mr. Algie Blackstock likes a joke, I know he does, so let him guess who I am. The riddle is as follows. My first is the opposite of woman, my second is the reverse of the back, my whole is a dog of a town.’ Shall I repeat it, sir.”
“No, I heard you the first time. I don’t know if I like silly jokes like that, Lavery. What kind of fellow is he?”
“Clean enough; speaks well. He’s sober, but he’s a touch on the flashy side.” Lavery paused, savouring the moment in his otherwise dull day. “If I may be so bold, sir, I do think I have solved his riddle. The opposite of woman is man; the reverse of back is front or the chest. My whole is a dog of a town.” He paused to see the effect his words were having. “That is to say, Manchester. There are terriers so named, and of course there is the English town, city and dog. My brother-in-law owned one years ago. Ergo, the man’s name is Manchester.”
Algie stared at him. “What does he look like, this cove?”
“Medium height. Maybe thirty years or so. He’s got a streak of white hair in front like a horse’s blaze.”
Algie laughed, but even in his own ears it sounded false.
“Ah yes, now I remember. He’s just an old school pal playing some joke on me.”
“Shall I show him in then?”
“Yes, yes. Of course.”
“Will you be wanting some tea or coffee served?”
“No. I’ll ring if I need you.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lavery withdrew and Algie stood up and went to the window. He leaned his forehead against the pane, and the glass felt wonderfully cool to his skin. This room was always too hot, the fire blazing in the hearth as if it was a lord’s banquet.
“Damnation. Blast and damnation.”
The door opened and Lavery ushered in the visitor, who went immediately to where Algie was standing.
“Hello, old chum. Good to see you again. I’ve had a merry dance to find you.”
The clerk closed the door, and Algie turned around. He ignored the proffered hand.
“What the hell do you want?”
The man who had called himself Manchester shrugged.
“Not very much, old chum. Just a little chat really, a chin wag between friends. Why don’t we sit down and make ourselves comfortable.”
Algie remained where he was. “I have to be back in court shortly. Spit it out. What do you want?”
“You’re looking at me like a man with a guilty conscience, Mr. White. Oh, I beg your pardon, that is your nom de plume, isn’t it? I forgot.”
“There’s no law against using a different name as long as you’re not signing any contracts or pretending to be somebody else.”
“Ah, yes. And I’m certain you are most familiar with the law. You must have had to rationalise to yourself disappearing like that. You do know John Delaney was murdered, don’t you?”
Algie was chewing on his moustache. “I read about it. It was such an open-and-shut case I felt nothing useful would be gained by my coming forward.”
“Quite so. And people are so quick to cast judgement, aren’t they? They would see harm in a lawyer gentleman like yourself participating in an illegal gambling match, wouldn’t they? Live and let live is my motto.”
“I tell you, nothing I had to say would have been useful.”
“No, I suppose not. The Craigs said the three of you left together, and you went on your way along Summerhill Avenue. You couldn’t be guilty of the crime of murder, could you?”
“Why are you dinning me like this? Who the hell are you?”
“The name’s Pugh, Patrick Pugh, and it is my name of baptism. However, if you’d be so good as to take a seat, I would appreciate it. I become nervous
when a strapping gentleman like yourself starts to turn red and is standing over me, snorting.”
Reluctantly, Algie perched on the chair behind the desk. “I told you I have to go back to court shortly.”
“I see that your father is senior counsel. A fine upstanding man. Values his reputation and that of his family, I am sure.”
Algie pulled open a drawer and took out a banker’s chit. “So that’s it. You want to be paid off, do you? Money for silence.”
Pugh frowned in mock offence. “Not at all, Mr. White. Forgive me for distressing you with my comments. You obviously have reached an erroneous conclusion that I am a blackmailer. Rather the reverse. I am coming to you for help. I am the one prepared to pay.”
Chapter Twenty-five
USUALLY MURDOCH WAS HAPPY TO COME HOME. In the winter Mrs. Kitchen, his landlady, always made sure a lamp was burning in the front parlour; and no matter what the hour, she would have his dinner ready for him. Not that it was always a delight to eat what she had prepared. Beatrice was an energetic and inventive woman when it came to caring for those she loved, but the art of cooking had somehow eluded her. Even if Murdoch was on time, he was often presented with dried, overcooked meat and soggy potatoes and vegetables. He didn’t really mind. The friendship and mutual respect that had developed between him and the Kitchens more than compensated for unappetising meals.
Tonight, as he approached the house, however, he felt utterly glum. His mood wasn’t helped by the conspicuous darkness of the second-floor room. Perhaps because of his talk with Newcombe about ardent young women, he was thinking about Mrs. Enid Jones. Since she’d abruptly packed her belongings and moved to another lodging, he’d made no attempt to get in touch with her.
“I don’t want us to mistake proximity for true affection, Will,” was what she’d said.
Albeit reluctantly, he had to admit there was truth in that, but he was still smarting.
Mrs. Kitchen came to meet him as soon as he entered the house. “Mr. Murdoch, I was starting to worry. I expected you would be gone for one or two hours at the most.”
Let Loose the Dogs Page 15
