Let Loose the Dogs

by Maureen Jennings

  “Fillet of venison,” he murmured reverentially.

  They tucked in, but this course was not as delicious.

  “Needs onions, that’s the problem,” said Newcombe.

  “Those damn peasants must have been chasing it too long. It’s tough,” added Murdoch.

  The entire meal must have lasted close to an hour. By an unspoken but mutual agreement, they didn’t talk about the meeting with Blackstock. They needed more privacy and the waiter was never too far away. They ate their way through to the turkey and parsnips …

  At this point Newcombe discreetly undid the buttons of his waistcoat.

  “I don’t think I can eat another morsel,” he said to Murdoch.

  “You’ve got to. The entire meal comes with puddings and pastry, and my friend would never forgive me if I didn’t sample one of his cakes.”

  At that moment the waiter returned wheeling a trolley on which was an exotic selection of sweets. Boiled tapioca with wine sauce; lemon cream pie, Christmas plum pudding with brandy sauce, and three varieties of fruit tarts.

  Murdoch chose the raspberry tart, which was the lightest one he could see. Newcombe decided he had to taste the Christmas pudding as Maria’s was the best in the county and he wanted to be able to tell her so.

  “The problem is that after this I’m going to want to have a cigar,” he said to Murdoch.

  The waiter overheard. “We do have a gentlemen’s smoking room just off the dining hall, sir. I would be more than happy to bring you a cigar and a dark sherry if you desire.”

  Murdoch knew the man’s deference was purchased, but the waiter was far too well trained to show any signs of discrimination at what were so obviously less-than-affluent customers. And there was a glint of selfirony that he liked, well hidden as it was.

  “Shall we go and be gentlemen, Newcombe?”

  “Indeed.”

  Slightly staggering, they followed the waiter out of the dining hall. Murdoch noticed many pairs of eyes followed them, several women in wide, bedecked hats and expensive-looking walking suits were dining together. No men in sight, so he assumed it was some kind of delegation.

  The smoking lounge was empty, and they were able to take armchairs by the fire. As promised their waiter brought them a box of choice Cuban cigars, assisted them to snip and light up, then withdrew.

  Murdoch waited until they had luxuriously savoured the fragrant smoke.

  “I was wondering what you thought of Blackstock’s story,” he asked.

  “To tell the truth it was much as I expected. The man was scared witless that he’d be found out for a gambler. I suppose he could have turned back and followed Delaney, but I don’t think he did.”

  Murdoch agreed. It was hard to believe that the loss of a few wagers would provoke Blackstock to murder. Men of his type let money run through their fingers like fine sand. They always had confidence there was plenty more. And it did seem that the young barrister had made an attempt to appease his conscience by paying for his partner, Clement, to defend Harry.

  —

  “I suppose, by the same token, one or both of the Craigs could have doubled back into the ravine. Perhaps young James was upset that Delaney had forbidden his courtship of Kate.”

  Newcombe shook his head. “Craig’s daughter testified under oath that they were in the house by a quarter past eight.”

  Murdoch didn’t want to disabuse the innkeeper of his faith in the female half of the population, so he made no comment. Besides, he was making smoke rings.

  “What do you intend to do now?” Newcombe asked.

  Murdoch shrugged. “I’ll come back with you and have another gander around the ravine. You never know if something new will strike me.”

  He actually wanted to talk to Mrs. Bowling, but he thought it wiser not to reveal everything even to a man as apparently honourable as Newcombe.

  He had been staring into the dancing flames in the wide hearth while he was ruminating.

  Newcombe looked over at him. “I hope you don’t mind my bringing this up, Will, but I think it’s better said than not said. You have been weaving me a bit of a story, haven’t you? You’re not investigating on behalf of the family. You are the family, aren’t you. You’re Harry Murdoch’s son.”

  His broad, ruddy face was gleaming with a light patina of sweat from the warmth of the room and the rich food they had eaten. Murdoch realised how much he had come to like Newcombe. He smiled ruefully.

  “Yes, I am. Sorry I told you a tale, but I thought it might be easier to get answers that way.”

  “Absolutely. People would have shut up like clams if they knew who you really were. But I must say, you’ve been doing a bloody good job so far. Wish it had better results.”

  “I should do a good job, I’m a detective, well actually an acting detective, Number Four Station.”

  Vincent slapped his own knee in delight. “I knew it! Must say, you’re one of the pleasantest frogs I’ve met to date.”

  He held out his hand, and they shook on it. Both of them, Murdoch realised, were feeling the effects of the rich port they had been drinking for the past half hour.

  Newcombe leaned closer. “How could I have missed it? It was nagging at the back of my mind, but I just couldn’t place you. Now that I look, you do resemble your father. Here, around the eyes, and maybe the mouth a bit. Yes, there’s Harry in there all right.”

  Murdoch looked away. He wasn’t sure if he was happy to know that or not.

  There was a polite tap on the door, and Joseph came in with a fresh decanter of port.

  “Another glass, gentlemen?”

  Murdoch waved him away. “Not for me. I’ll never leave here upright.”

  “I’ll take one more splash, if that’s all right with you, Will.”

  “Of course.” But Murdoch was starting to feel a little worried about how big a bill he was going to have. Before he had left the house, he had taken money from the tin where he kept his cash. Not quite a week’s wages but almost.

  Joseph slipped a piece of paper on the side table. “Mr. Quinn sends his compliments, sir. He is sorry he cannot come out to see you, but he is rushed off his feet at the moment.”

  “Please tell him the tart was extraordinary.”

  “I will. And I do hope your companion will feel better soon.”

  Both Murdoch and Newcombe stared at the waiter who, still with solemn face, winked so quickly they could have imagined it.

  “He quite lost his appetite, I see.”

  Murdoch grinned, blessing Quinn. “That is true.”

  Joseph left and Murdoch peeked at the bill. Even being charged for just one person was four dollars and fifty cents. Add a gratuity and it came to almost as much as he earned in four days.

  “Savour every drop, Vincent.”

  “I intend to lick the glass, old chap,” said the innkeeper, and he did.

  Chapter Forty

  NEWCOMBE DECIDED TO STAY A LITTLE LONGER in the city and take the opportunity to buy a Christmas present for Maria. Promising to meet him later at the tavern, Murdoch headed back to Shaftesbury Avenue.

  He was really not too sanguine about unearthing new evidence, but in spite of that he was curiously happy. He didn’t know if his father had, in fact, killed Delaney in a drunken rage or even if it would ever be known for certain one way or the other. Nevertheless, there had been affection between them. He had long given up hope of ever having what he considered to be normal filial feelings. To know that he might be capable of loving his father was an increasing source of joy. Added to that was the anticipation of being with Enid Jones in a few short hours.

  When he was on the streetcar, however, lurching and clanking up the gradual incline towards St. Clair, his mood changed again. Harry’s predicament was serious indeed. Go over it again, Murdoch said to himself, but this time think as if Harry was telling the truth. That everything had happened the way he said it did. Possibly, a quarrel with Delaney, a blow, and him crawling into the bushes wher
e he lay until Pugh found him. By the time Dr. Semple conducted his examination, Delaney had been dead for some time. The best he could determine from the progress of rigor mortis was that the man had died somewhere between eight-thirty and nine-thirty. It was possible he had died very shortly before his body was discovered, although Semple admitted it was difficult to pin the time down because Delaney was in the water. Logically there were two possibilities. One, that somebody had been right at his heels and killed him directly after he had the short bout with Harry. Two, that Delaney had continued on his way, wherever he was going, and met his murderer on the way back. Had he followed the path as far as Yonge Street? To what purpose? Convinced they had the right man, the police at Number Seven Station had not pursued an extensive enquiry except for advertising in the newspaper. If Delaney had an assignation, no one was admitting it. And even if he had, it didn’t mean there was anything nefarious about it, or that it had anything to do with his death. But here again, assuming Harry had told the absolute truth, how could money have disappeared? The fact that only part of his winnings had gone suggested a payment of some kind. On the other hand, Murdoch was even starting to wonder if the hideout he’d discovered on the way to the Lacey cottage was one used by Delaney. He had assumed a young person, but the hole itself was big enough to accommodate an adult. Had John Delaney been lovesick? Casting spells with frogs? If so, about whom? Jessica Lacey had made no acknowledgement of seeing Delaney that night, so Murdoch assumed the man had not gone as far as the cottage, unless he was a Peeping Tom and had gone to spy on her. That couldn’t totally be ruled out. However, for the sake of argument, say he did go to the hideout. On the way back, he could have met somebody who hated him enough to bash him on the head. And that person had been behind him because either Delaney didn’t see him coming and was taken unawares or he had turned his back not expecting to be hit, which meant he did not fear his assailant. Murdoch sighed. He didn’t feel any clearer.

  “You shouldn’t sigh like that, young man.”

  Startled, he looked over at the seat opposite, where an elderly woman in the demure black bonnet of a widow was regarding him with some concern.

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am?”

  “Every time a person sighs, they lose a drop of blood. You’ve sighed more than once while you’ve been sitting there.”

  “Oh dear, I wasn’t aware of that.”

  Unexpectedly, she smiled at him, a sweet smile that crinkled the fine skin around her eyes. “Are you having problems with your wife?”

  “Er, no. I have not had the good fortune to be married.”

  She actually leaned forward a little to scrutinise him more closely. “I must say, I cannot understand that. You certainly have most agreeable features.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “But then that’s not important really in a gentleman, is it? Not so much as with we ladies. With the gentlemen, it’s character that counts.”

  He didn’t quite know how to reply to that and was afraid his bachelor state might indicate a serious flaw in his personality.

  “Character and money in the bank, don’t you think, ma’am?”

  She shook her head. “No, I don’t. My late husband was as poor as a church mouse when we first married, but he was very hard-working and when the good Lord saw fit to take him, I was left comfortably off.”

  There was a glisten of tears in her pale blue eyes, and Murdoch felt a twinge of guilt that he had been guying her on with his comment.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” he said with sincerity, and was rewarded by the sweet smile.

  At that moment the conductor called out, “St. Clair Avenue next stop. End of the line. All out.”

  The old lady stood up, swaying slightly at the movement of the streetcar. Murdoch jumped to his feet to steady her. As they came to a halt, he escorted her down to the rear of the car where she could alight. He got off first and helped her down.

  “Thank you very much, young man. Promise me no more sighing.” She patted his cheek lightly with her hand. She was wearing pale fawn kid gloves, but they looked a little on the worn side. Perhaps her claim to being comfortably off was exaggerated, thought Murdoch. Or perhaps it was a matter of degree.

  “I’ll try not to.” He watched as she walked slowly away, almost wanting to run after her and continue the acquaintance. He had never met any of his grandparents, who had died long before he was born. His father had no living relatives, and his mother’s only sister, Aunt Weldon, had never married. There were no cousins. Now his brother and sister were gone and only his father left. In spite of the old lady’s warning, he sighed so deeply, he must have lost half a pint of blood.

  He quickened his pace. The short winter evening was closing in fast, and he was concerned that it would get too dark to go into the ravine.

  The path leading down to the creek wasn’t as icy as he’d feared, and he was able to move at a good trot to the bridge. Here the air was damper and thin shreds of mist were drifting over the path. To the west, silhouetting the treetops, the sky was flushed salmon pink against the darkening night.

  He continued on along the right-hand path and once again started to climb the steps to the Lacey cottage. Halfway up, he stopped to examine the hideout. The box containing the frog skeleton was no longer there.

  The final flight of steps was the steepest, and he was panting when he reached the top of the hill. Here there was a low wooden fence built close to the edge of the ravine in order to squeeze out as much space as possible for the cottage property. He pushed open the gate and walked through. The vegetable garden was bare now but showed evidence of being well-tended. From where he stood, he could see into the cottage. A lamp was lit and the curtains weren’t drawn. A young woman he presumed to be Jessica Lacey was clearly visible in the kitchen. He paused, not wanting to spy on an unsuspecting woman but curious about her. She had not herself testified at the trial. A physician had stated she was in too fragile a state of health, but he had presented her testimony which was uncomplicated. Mrs. Lacey had neither heard nor seen anything on the night of the murder. Her child was taken ill, and she had taken her down to Maria Newcombe. She had remained at the Manchester until next morning, given that the police were coming and going in the ravine.

  Jessica was moving slowly like a woman in pain. She took a pot from a hook on the wall, pumped in some water, and placed it on the stove. Murdoch didn’t quite know how to warn her of his presence, but he couldn’t just stand here at the gate and have her catch him. That would really frighten her. He called out, “Hello, Mrs. Lacey, hello,” and proceeded to walk down the path, waving his hand in as friendly a manner as he could. She heard him and turned and stared out of the window. There was still sufficient light for her to make him out, and he continued to smile and wave at her. Her fear was palpable, but there wasn’t anything he could do to mitigate it other than what he was doing.

  “Do you mind if I come in?” he shouted, not sure if she could hear him but not wanting to move out of sight of her. She came over to the window and pushed it open a crack. Close up, he could see even more clearly the terror in her face. She was young and probably, in usual circumstances, a bonny woman with abundant dark hair and rather refined features. Her eyes were blue, and he could see how shadowed they were with ill health.

  He smiled as reassuringly as he could and tipped his hat. “Mrs. Lacey, my name is Williams. I’m sorry if I startled you, but I wonder if I could have a word?”

  “What about?”

  “I met your husband, Walter, yesterday at the Manchester. And your daughter, whom I must say takes after you for prettiness.”

  The flattery was blatant, but he was doing everything he could to calm her. He was not succeeding.

  “Did he mention me?” he asked. “No.”

  “I am conducting an investigation into the Delaney case. I was hoping I could talk to you for a moment or two.”

  If anything she looked even more afraid.

  “What sort o
f investigation?”

  Murdoch was beginning to feel ridiculous talking to the woman through the window, but he knew she was not going to let him in.

  “I’ve been, er, hired by the family of the man who is accused of the crime. They want to make sure that there is no miscarriage of justice, that he is guilty as charged.”

  “He has been tried and convicted.”

  “That is true. I am simply trying to put everybody’s mind at rest once and for all.”

  “How can I be of help? I already gave a statement to the constable.”

  “I know, ma’am, and I do apologise again for disturbing you. Do you mind if I ask you one or two questions?”

  “What are they?”

  “I understand you and your husband rent this cottage from Mr. Delaney, that is, I should say now, from Mrs. Delaney.”

  “Yes, we do.”

  “Have you lived here long?”

  “Since March.”

  “Before that?”

  “In Alberta, but I fail to see the relevance of the question.”

  In fact, Murdoch was circling, trying to get her to reveal more about herself.

  “Did you know Mr. Delaney well?”

  “No, I dealt with Mrs. Delaney.”

  “In your opinion, ma’am, was he a man who might make enemies?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I am trying to determine if there was, in fact, any person other than the man now convicted who might be motivated to kill Mr. Delaney.”

  She was steadier now, more sure of herself. “I cannot say. He had an enormous funeral by all accounts. He must have been well liked.”

  “You yourself did not attend the funeral?”

  Even in the gloom he could see the flush that swept into her face and neck.

  “I was not able to. I was unwell.”

  He remembered that she had miscarried a child shortly after the time of the murder, and he regretted his question.

  “I am getting cold, sir.”

  “One more question then, Mrs. Lacey. Did you hear anything at all on that night? A cry? A dog barking? Anything?”