“So did I, Mrs. K.”
She stood by while he divested himself of his coat and hat.
“I can see the young man proved very difficult.”
For a moment he didn’t know what she was referring to. It seemed a lifetime ago that he had set out for the jail, thinking he was going to have a heart-to-heart talk with a pickpocket.
“Adam Blake wasn’t the reason for my summons. I’d like to sit down with both you and Arthur and tell you what has happened.”
“I put up a cold meat plate for you. Will you have that first?”
“I’m not hungry, thank you. Just a cup of tea would be excellent. Weak, if you don’t mind.”
“Go and see Arthur and I’ll bring it.” She was about to go to the kitchen when she paused. “You clearly have unhappy news, so perhaps I can tell you something to cheer you up.”
He smiled. “I would certainly like that.”
“Mrs. Jones dropped by earlier this afternoon. I took the liberty of telling her about your sister, and she asked that I express the most sincere condolences.”
His heart had given a lurch, but he wasn’t about to reveal too much.
“That was kind.”
“I told her you were off from the station on leave. She said that if you were not engaged tonight, she is at home and would be most pleased to see you.”
“Is that so?”
Mrs. Kitchen patted his arm. “She is a good woman, most sincere. A visit might lift your spirits.”
And what then? thought Murdoch. Was there any point in contemplating a courtship that couldn’t be consummated.
“It’s getting late, I –”
“She asked me particularly to tell you that she hoped you wouldn’t mind a later hour. Half past eight would be convenient.”
Murdoch thought that a less respectable woman would have winked. “Mrs. K., why do I get the feeling I’m being pushed out like a fledgling bird?”
She looked flustered. “Of course not. It’s just that she seemed particularly anxious to see you.”
“All right. I will call on her.”
“Good. Please go in. Arthur was worried, too.”
She went off to the kitchen. Murdoch took a moment to change from boots to slippers. She was right. In spite of everything, the news that Enid wanted to see him had lifted his spirits.
For a long time now Murdoch had got into the way of sharing the vicissitudes of his daily life with both Beatrice and Arthur Kitchen. It meant a lot to Arthur, who was housebound with his illness, to discuss cases Murdoch was dealing with. If he was well enough, their conversations often became far ranging, from the current political situation, dismal, to the finer points of Catholic theology, even more dismal. The latter point of view was never expressed in front of his wife. Murdoch waited until tea had been poured and sipped; Arthur’s final egg-and-cream tonic swallowed; the fire poked and set to a blaze. He felt he should have done a drum roll first. And the big news of the day is … I met my long-lost father today, and what a surprise: he is convicted of murder.
He told them in as matter-of-fact a way as possible. After the inevitable exclamations, he settled down to tell everything that had transpired and what he knew about the case.
“So what do you think about all that? Any immediate opinions?”
Arthur eyed him ruefully. “Very difficult, isn’t it? As you say, if not him, then who?”
“It couldn’t be your father,” added Beatrice, “not a murderer.”
Murdoch reached over and patted her hand. He was touched by her irrational loyalty. He knew that what she meant was nobody with Murdoch blood in their veins could be a criminal.
“It would be reassuring if Mr. Quinn tracked down the mysterious Mr. White. You don’t want any loopholes to fret over.”
“Exactly. First thing tomorrow I’m going to visit the doctor who performed the post mortem examination. His report was very thorough, but I’d like to talk to him face to face. And after that …” His voice trailed off. After that he had no more options that he could see. Neither of the Kitchens had asked him directly if he considered his father to be guilty, and he was grateful for their tact. When he had left the jail, so stirred by this unexpected reunion, he had entertained the possibility that Harry was innocent. However, as the day went on and he had talked to the people who had been involved, he was reverting to his first opinion: Harry had killed a man in a fit of rage and conveniently didn’t remember doing so. Justice would be served.
He thought of all the times he had fantasised about justice in connection with Harry. Often, he himself administered it; sometimes God did. The end was the same. Harry suffered for his sins. The knowledge that he might very well receive the ultimate punishment was not nearly as satisfying as he had thought it would be. In fact, it brought but little pleasure.
Chapter Twenty-six
WITH A GROAN SHE COULD NOT SUPPRESS, Mother St. Raphael got up from her knees. Her breath was a white smoke in the air, and she was so stiff she stood swaying for a moment as she gained her balance. Dr. Corneille had stated categorically that more warmth in her cell would alleviate the pain from her arthritis, but she refused to ask for it. Each nun had an allotment of coal and wood for her fireplace, and she was expected to only make use of it when the weather was bitter. The prioress deeply believed she must be an example to those whose spiritual life she directed. A few of the weaker sisters, in their secret hearts, wished that she might, on occasion, be less rigorous.
Mother St. Raphael had been praying for a long time, but the Lord’s will was not yet clear to her. She knew that it was her own pride that was holding her back. She took great care when she selected the nuns who came as postulants. No matter what the professed ardour, she accepted only those young women whom she felt could withstand the hardship and purity of their rule. Never again to see the outside world, to live a life of prayer to which the needs of the body were subjugated, often at great cost. Only a few women were truly suitable. Sister Philomena had entered the order when she was very young. In spite of herself and the rule that forbad special friendships, Sister St. Raphael, as she was then, had become very fond of the new postulant. She saw her own struggle for perfection mirrored in the girl, and she understood the perpetual self-recrimination when that impossible struggle failed time and again.
Sister Philomena flagellated her body and her spirit but was rarely at peace with her own conscience. The prioress more than once had been forced to admonish her, albeit gently, for her scrupulosity. However, the young nun was generous with the older sisters, who became so demanding as their bodies succumbed to age and discomfort. She never complained at the most menial chores. In spite of these manifestations of her goodness, she only seemed to taste happiness when she had occasion to amuse the other sisters during the recreation hour. In the summer, like several of the other diligent nuns, she used the hour before the Grand Silence to tend to the garden they depended on. But it was throughout the dark winter months when little work could be done that Sister Philomena entertained them all with stories of the sea that she claimed to have heard in her native province of Nova Scotia. She was a compelling storyteller and spun out the tales, doling out one episode at a time, leaving them all in suspense until the following day. Nobody ever questioned the veracity of these tales even though her store seemed endless. Occasionally, the prioress worried about the decidedly secular nature of the yarns, but she couldn’t bear to deprive the little community of this small pleasure or quench the brightness in Sister Philomena’s face as she addressed her rapt audience.
Mother St. Raphael walked over to her desk. She was not at all a worldly woman. She had entered the order when she was eighteen, the shy, youngest daughter of a genteel Montreal family. Her mother’s piety was constantly besieged by the need for her daughters to marry well. The postulants whispered among themselves that Mother had become a nun when her heart was broken by the death of her fiancée. She was aware of this rumour but did nothing to dispel it. The truth wa
s not nearly as romantic. Her mother had put great pressure on her to marry the son of a wealthy banker. She had loathed the sickly young man on sight and was certain his antipathy was the equal of hers. He had died suddenly from a lung haemorrhage, and Hermione had fled to the convent where she might be safe from the admonishments of her mother and older sisters.
She had been elected prioress six years ago, and under her direction life was orderly and placid. Nothing like this had ever fallen on her shoulders before. As prioress, Mother St. Raphael was responsible for monitoring all correspondence that came and went in the convent. Although the nuns were permitted to write their own letters, the envelopes were never sealed. It would have been against the rule of their order to maintain the privacy they had experienced in the outer world. Letters that were addressed to any one of the nuns were opened and read. This was not a burdensome task as communication with the outside world was restricted. At Christmas, letters could be exchanged with immediate family members to share in the joy of Our Lord’s birth. On the anniversary of the nun’s marriage to Christ her Saviour, the same families were expected to mark that special day both with a novena and a suitable letter. All the correspondence and small personal effects relinquished at the time of the first vows were kept in individual cardboard boxes in a special cupboard in the prioress’s room. They were forwarded to the next of kin in the event of the nun’s death.
Sister Philomena’s box contained a child’s diary, a small number of cards and letters, a garnet ring and matching ear bobs. Mother St. Raphael had been about to wrap everything and send them to William Murdoch when she found the letter. It was this that was causing her such distress.
On the eve of taking her final vows, Sister Philomena had written to her brother. The envelope was still sealed, indicating that the prioress at that time had not read it. Mother St. Raphael had simply followed the rule and opened the letter.
She took it up again.
Dear Will: I do not know if you will ever read this letter or if what I am about to relate will ever be made known to you. I am leaving that in the hands of Our Lord. It is His will that be done. However, if you are reading this letter, it means I have been gathered into the arms of our beloved Saviour. I ask you to accept this with joy and not sorrow.
It is so long since we met face to face that in my mind you are forever my older brother, tall and strong but not yet a grown man, with your dark hair that you could never keep smooth, your brown eyes that would gaze on me so seriously, a smile that when it was bestowed on me gladdened my sad heart. I know you did not approve of my accepting my vocation, but being a nun has brought me as much peace of mind as I am allowed by God’s mercy. Perhaps I am wrong to unburden myself in this way, but I believe that the truth shall make you free, and I long for freedom.
On the day our mother died, I was witness to a quarrel between her and our father. To say quarrel is not accurate because she never argued or defended herself, as you know. He was angry about some small and insignificant thing, and he hit her. Perhaps he did not mean to hit so hard, but she was knocked backwards and struck her head on the sharp corner of the kitchen cupboard, the one by the east window. She had to sit down and said she felt dizzy, but he was impatient and would not allow it. She got up and set off for the beach to gather shellfish. As you know, she was found drowned in one of the pools among the rocks. The coroner concluded that she had slipped and struck her head. However, I am convinced she would not have fallen if it were not for the blow she had received from Father.
All of my life, dearest brother, I have lived with the shame of doing nothing. I know that you will say I was a child and therefore absolved of responsibility, but I have never believed that. Sometimes he listened to me in particular. I could appeal to his conscience. That day, unfortunately, he was particularly vile tempered. He had run out of beer, and you know all too well what that did to him. I was sitting at the table when all this occurred, and I was so afraid I did nothing. Nothing. Perhaps she would not have died if I had begged him to let her rest. But I was silent, saving my own skin. When Mr. Markham came with the news that she had been discovered on the beach, Father behaved as if he were a grieving husband. He said nothing to me, and I truly believe that he was not aware of what I had witnessed. I dared not tell you, Will, because you were already so fiery. I knew you would challenge Father, and I feared for your safety. Dear brother, you were all we had, Bertie and I. I wrestle with my conscience every day, and perhaps by the time I pass from this life I will have cleansed the anger from my heart. I pray for this.
I don’t know what you will do with the information I have imparted. I am sure it will cause you great sorrow, and I pray that you will ask the Lord to guide you. I do not know if Father is alive or dead, but I hope there will come a time when I can wholeheartedly pray for his soul. You, dearest Will, are always in my prayers. May we meet in the arms of Our Lord at the judgement day.
Susanna.
For the dozenth time in the past hour, Mother St. Raphael crossed herself and asked for guidance. What good would be served if Sister Philomena’s brother were to know what had happened? It was a long time ago now. According to the extern nun, Mr. Murdoch had been angry at not being allowed to see his sister’s face. These past events had nothing to do with the Order, but one could never be sure with families. She had no desire to bring shameful public attention to the convent, nor would Sister Philomena have wished that.
She replaced the letter in the box and retied the black ribbon that fastened the lid.
Chapter Twenty-seven
MURDOCH HAD WALKED PAST ENID’S boardinghouse once already. He had arrived at least twenty minutes before the appointed time and not wishing to appear overly eager had gone on by. The wind was biting and a sleety snow was falling, every good reason to go and knock on the door, but he forced himself to trudge on. As he went by the corner of Queen and Parliament Streets for a second time, he passed young Constable Burley on his beat, who gave him a puzzled greeting.
“Cold night to be out, sir.”
Murdoch realised he had been walking as slowly as if he were enjoying a summer stroll in Allan Gardens. He raised his head and quickened his pace purposefully.
“Brisk, Constable. Good for the lungs!”
He inadvertently took in a gulp of air so cold he started to cough. Burley suppressed a grin, gave him a salute, and continued on his rounds. Murdoch walked back as far as Sackville Street where he turned, leaving the constable to his lonely job of checking the empty houses along the street to make sure no vagrants had broken in to shelter there. A few houses from where Enid was now boarding, Murdoch paused and fished out his watch from his inner pocket. Damnation, he was still ten minutes early. He didn’t want to encounter the constable again, so he stayed where he was, stamping his feet and blowing into his gloves to warm his hands. He’d forgotten his muffler, and his nose started to drip from the cold air. Damnation again, he didn’t have a handkerchief. He wiped the back of his hand across his nose and sniffed hard. To be visiting at this hour was quite unorthodox, and in spite of himself he was touched that Enid had issued her invitation. He’d better get inside, early or not.
The house was one half of a double and looked reasonably well cared for. There was a gaslight in the small front porch, and even though the blinds were all pulled down, bright cracks of light showed around the edges.
Murdoch walked up the flight of steps to the door. There were stained-glass panels on each side, and a soft amber light came from the hall. He gave the shiny brass bellpull a good tug and peered through the glass side panel. Almost immediately he saw Enid Jones coming down the stairs, and he jumped back and started to scrape his boots on the scraper fastened to the boards of the porch. She opened the door.
“Mr. Murdoch, how wonderfully punctual you are. Please to come in out of the chill.”
He took off his hat, knocked some more slush from his boots, and stepped into the hall.
“I’ll take your coat from you.”
“This is a grand house,” he said, rubbing his hands together to warm them.
“So it is. I am lucky to have found such accommodations. Mrs. Barrett is a widow, and she wanted a companion more than anything.” She held out her hand. “I was so sorry to hear of your sister’s death, Will. It must be a great loss to you.”
He shrugged. “Frankly, I felt as if she died when she was professed as a nun sixteen years ago. That was the last time I saw her, and I mourned her then.”
Enid’s hand was warm in his, and as he looked at her, he felt his stomach turn into something fluid. Whatever it was he communicated, she lowered her eyes quickly.
“You’re quite chilled. Come and get warm. My sitting room is upstairs.”
There was gaslight in the sconces, and all the way up to the landing were hung large and sober oil paintings that, as far as he could tell, were biblical in nature. Mrs. Barrett was clearly a woman of great piety. Baptist piety for certain. Enid ushered him into a room off the right of the landing. There was a cheerful fire burning in the hearth, and the lamps were turned up high. The Turkish couch and matching chairs were of rich green-and-red plush; the dark mahogany furniture gleamed. It was markedly different from the relatively simple room that she had rented from Mrs. Kitchen. He was also conscious of the fact they were alone.
She had been observing his reaction, and she smiled with pleasure. “As you can see, this is a larger room than I had before, and I have been able to add some of my own furniture. That is my table and sideboard. I brought them all the way from Wales, but when we moved into Mrs. Kitchen’s house, I had to store them away.”
Let Loose the Dogs Page 16
