Let Loose the Dogs

by Maureen Jennings

  He couldn’t resist a short pause before his denouement. Murdoch did not accommodate him and kept his expression indifferent.

  Pugh continued. “In a word, James Craig contributed five bills and his father three. All were counterfeit. As you may know, the Craigs make their living publishing pamphlets and broadsheets. They therefore had access to a printing press. I kept them under close observation from that time on and soon determined that the appearance of queer money seemed to coincide with father and son working late hours in their printing shed. Yes, Mr. Murdoch, I know what you are going to say. Not proof enough by any means. I needed to catch them red-handed with the engraving plates in their possession. Then I could make an arrest. A big feather in my cap, as I’m sure you can understand. However, before I could proceed any further, they were scared off. Poof! Gone! Miss Craig will not or cannot give any indication of their whereabouts.”

  He returned to his seat. “I discovered that you, sir, were neither a reporter nor another private detective but an officer from this station. My guess is that the Craigs also got wind that you were a police detective and went into hiding because they assumed you were onto them.”

  “What the hell have you been doing, Murdoch?” interjected Brackenreid. “You are supposed to be on compassionate leave, not chasing around the country, poaching.”

  “I was not poaching, as you call it, sir. I have had no inkling of what Mr. Pugh is pursuing. I did accidentally encounter the Craig lad, however. He has been up before the magistrate before. He called himself Carey then and he was in court on a charge of seduction. I was in the courtroom that day. I didn’t think he recognised me, but he must have.”

  “How unfortunate. Actually, Murdoch, Mr. Pugh here is offering to do us, this station, a favour. He feels he is not ready to make an arrest, and he does not want to reveal his incognito.” He turned to Pugh. “You believe that Miss Craig is becoming quite attached to you, and you wish to cultivate that friendship, isn’t that so?”

  Pugh nodded, rather shamefaced.

  “He has done all the hard work, and we can just capitalise on it. Suit both of us. We’ll get some much-needed public approval, and Mr. Pugh here will receive his just wages.”

  “I am not sure what you are implying, sir,” said Murdoch.

  “Quite simple. Mr. Pugh is proposing we search the Craig house. If we find the engraving plates, we take credit. If we don’t, Mr. Pugh is still not unmasked and can go on with his investigation.”

  Brackenreid opened his drawer and took out some notepaper. “I’m going to draw up an order. The sooner you get on to it the better.”

  He started to scrawl on the page. Pugh remained at the window.

  “By the way, Murdoch,” said the inspector, “if you weren’t barging in where you shouldn’t, what were you doing? Why did you give out a false name? Mr. Pugh said you were pretending to be some kind of reporter.”

  Before Murdoch could answer, Pugh jumped in. The mood between them had changed quite suddenly. Pugh was no longer behaving as if they were competitors in the race for the golden apples thrown down by the Dominion Bank. In fact, he now seemed anxious to end the interview.

  “Inspector Brackenreid, I am quite satisfied that Mr. Murdoch was not following the same trail after all. I can quite understand his circumstances. We can let it rest.”

  Murdoch sensed how fidgety the other man had become, and with a sense of shock, he realised why. He actually took a step in Pugh’s direction.

  “You took money off Delaney’s body, didn’t you?”

  “I beg pardon, sir.”

  “There was money missing, part of his winnings: twenty-two dollars. You took them when you found his body.”

  “Murdoch, what’s the matter with you? What are you blethering about?” spluttered Brackenreid.

  Murdoch whirled around. “You asked what I was up to, sir. Well, I was conducting an investigation of my own. I wanted to make absolutely sure that my father was guilty of the crime he is to hang for.”

  “Good Lord, Murdoch. Have you lost your mind? What are you talking about?”

  “Didn’t Mr. Pugh tell you? My father, Harry Murdoch, was convicted of killing John Delaney directly after the betting match Pugh referred to. He is due to be hung in two days’ time.” He turned round to face Pugh, who backed off a few steps. “The fact that money was missing was used to support the guilty charge against Harry. It was assumed he had stolen it. Yet another nail in his coffin. Why didn’t you come forward and say that was not the case? That you had taken it?”

  Pugh looked down at his boots. “It wasn’t relevant.”

  “I’m tired of people saying that. Isn’t a jury supposed to decide what is or is not relevant? Isn’t that what our bloody justice system is all about?”

  “Now, now, Murdoch,” said Brackenreid, “calm yourself. Please realise this is the first time I have heard of your situation. It is most unusual to say the least.”

  “I realise that, sir. But this man here actually withheld information that might have made a difference to the outcome of the trial.”

  Brackenreid could be an irascible Napoleon of a man, but he retained some pride in his job as a police officer. He frowned now at Pugh.

  “Is this true, sir? What Mr. Murdoch is accusing you of?”

  “I assure you, I answered honestly the questions put to me at the trial.” Pugh tried to meet Murdoch’s eyes with only partial success. “I am sorry for your situation, but your father bashed Delaney and that’s the truth.”

  “Is it? Are you God, Mr. Pugh, as well as a magician? Can you see into his heart with such certainty?”

  “Please contain yourself, Murdoch. Mr. Pugh, is it true that you removed money from the body of this Mr. Delaney?”

  Pugh shrugged and, for the first time, his jovial entertainer’s mask slipped. “Inspector, I have been pursuing this investigation for more than a year. I have spent untold hours on this case. I needed to check on those bills. I had no idea that it would come up at the trial.”

  “But when it did, you said nothing.”

  “Mr. Murdoch is understandably overwrought, but I tell you sincerely the matter of the missing money was small compared to the rest of the evidence, which was quite conclusive.”

  “Nevertheless, we must in conscience bring this to the attention of the court.”

  “If you do, we stand to lose every advantage we have.”

  Brackenreid leaned back in his chair. “I believe you mean that you yourself will lose the advantage.”

  “Will you deny me the search then?”

  “Counterfeiting is a serious crime. I have every intention of following up on the information you have given me. However, this other matter must take precedence.”

  Murdoch could hardly believe what he was hearing. If he’d had a different relationship with his inspector, he would have jumped forward at that moment and shaken his hand.

  Brackenreid actually gave him a kind look. “Mr. Murdoch, I suggest you go at once and apprise the warden of this meeting. I will myself come over directly and speak to him in person. Mr. Pugh, if you would be so good as to remain here, I would like to hear from you the events of that evening. I will write it down.”

  Pugh looked as if he were contemplating doing a bunk, but he thought better of it. He reached into his pocket and casually brought out a silver dollar and began to twist it through his fingers.

  “Of course, Inspector.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Murdoch, and not trusting himself to stay near Pugh any longer, he left and hurried down to the station hall.

  Seymour saw the expression on his face. “Will, what happened? You’re white as a ghost.”

  Murdoch could hear himself panting as if he’d run a long distance. “I can’t tell you right now.”

  He started to head for the door when the sergeant called to him.

  “Hold on a minute. You’ve forgotten your package.”

  He hurried around the desk and handed it over to Murd
och.

  “Will …,” he started to say, but Murdoch took the parcel, grabbed his coat from the rack, and practically ran. With a desperation he could hardly bear, he knew he needed to speak to his father.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  JESSICA PUT HER TWO COPPER POTS in the wooden crate; then she took the top one out again. She’d need it to heat up milk for Sally. The child loved to have her “possy,” a mug of hot milk sweetened with honey. Jessica glanced over to the hearth where the child was seated on the floor. She had placed her favourite doll, Min-min, in a box for her bed. She was talking quietly to herself, but Jessica heard her say, “Go to sleep like a good girl. Don’t bother Momma. Momma has a heartache.”

  Last week Sally had asked her mother what was wrong, why she lay in bed sleeping all the time. “Momma has a heartache,” Jess had replied, and now Sally said that all the time. She had bound a piece of cloth about the doll’s head, confusing head and heartaches. Jessica wanted to go to her and hug her tightly, but she felt as if she could hardly move, as if her limbs were too heavy. She simply stood and watched for a moment; then she went back to her task. She had packed the three valises, which was all Walter would allow.

  “Only what we can carry, Jess. Put everything else you’ll need later in the trunks. I’ll get some crates, and you can put the dishes and your pots in them.”

  She blinked. She had been standing at the sink staring through the window but seeing nothing. How long? There was a plate in her hand that she had been in the process of wrapping in the strips of Holland cloth that Walter had cut for her. These dishes had come to her from her own mother when she’d died. Her older sister, Catherine, had been angry at that, considering it was more her right as she had nursed their mother in the last days of her illness. “You can have them,” Jessica had said, but her sister had pouted and retreated into martyrdom. “No, if that was her wish, you must have them,” but after that the feelings between them were even less cordial than they had been. Jessica knew that she had been her mother’s favourite child, the last born, the youngest daughter. She hadn’t wanted to move away, but Walter was always restless and, she suspected, all too anxious to move her far from her family, where he’d have her all to himself. So they had moved to Ontario and taken this cottage in which she had once taken such delight.

  She couldn’t return to Alberta, not with Catherine’s coldness and constant reproach, and yesterday, when Walter had suggested they move further east, she had agreed. Not with enthusiasm or even fear; she had no strong feelings anymore. They were soaked up like ink on blotting paper by her prevailing lethargy, her indifference to any event around her, even her own child.

  The door opened and Walter came in, bringing a waft of cold air. He couldn’t hide his dismay when he saw her.

  “Jess! Not done yet? We don’t have much more time.”

  She looked around, saw the half-empty crate, the pots on the floor. The stack of dishes, already wrapped, were still on the table.

  “Here, I can help now,” he said.

  Sally jumped up and ran over to him. She was sucking her thumb, the doll tucked under her arm.

  “Arh. That’s dirty,” he said, and pulled the thumb away from her mouth. She started to whine.

  “Leave her alone, Walter. She’ll just get upset again, and she’s been playing nicely.”

  Sally was winding up for a full crying jag. Jessica picked up a dish where a honeycomb sat in a sticky mess. Flies never completely died off, and one or two were crawling around the dish. Jessica knocked them away, broke off a piece of the comb, and handed it to Sally. The child quieted immediately, stuffing the sweet morsel into her mouth.

  “Go and play with Min-min for a bit longer, there’s my girl.”

  Sally cast a sullen look mixed with some triumph at her father, and he sighed in exasperation.

  He began to place the dishes in the crate, where he’d put wood shavings.

  “Maria has agreed to keep an eye on things until I have a chance to come back for our belongings.”

  “Did she have anything to say?”

  “No, not really.” He hesitated for a moment. “I told her your sister had invited you to come and live with her for a while until you felt more like yourself.”

  “Catherine has virtually disowned me.”

  “Maria doesn’t know that, Jess.” He tried to keep the impatience out of his voice, but she felt it and turned away from him. She looked out of the window.

  “It’s starting to snow,” she said.

  “Yes, it’s gone very cold. It will be warmer where we’re going,” he answered, struggling to inject jollity into his tone.

  She didn’t turn around, and her voice was so low he almost didn’t catch what she said.

  “Are you certain we are doing the right thing, Walter?”

  He stood up and came over to her and put his arms around her, burying his head in her shoulder. “Of course we are, my chuck. We’ll have a new start. No bad memories. You’ll see. Before you know it you’ll be feeling right as rain.”

  Briefly she rested her cheek against the top of his head. “Will I? Sometimes I feel as if I will never be happy again. Not as long as I live.”

  “Jess, come on. You have Sally. We’ll have sons, seven of them if I have anything to do with it.”

  He moved his hands to her breasts, caressing them through her gown. She flinched and he could feel her body stiffen. He let her go and stepped back.

  “I’d better get on with this packing. Are you going to help or not?”

  Without looking at him, she walked over to the door and reached for her shawl. “I’m feeling so tired. I think some air will wake me up.”

  “Jess …”

  “Watch Sally, will you. I won’t be long.”

  “Momma!” Seeing what her mother was doing, Sally let out a wail and ran toward her. Walter caught hold of her.

  “Sally, stop it. Momma will be back. She’s going for a walk. You can help me.”

  “No! I want to go, too. Me, too.”

  Jessica closed the door behind her, almost running toward the gate. She could hear the frightened screams of her little daughter, but she pulled the shawl tighter about her head to shut out the sound. She didn’t know where she was going, only that she couldn’t bear to be in his presence. The pretence between them was like acid in her gut. It wasn’t only the loss of her unborn son that was destroying her life energy, it was the circumstances that had caused the miscarriage, circumstances they had never referred to again so that she thought she would go mad, as if she had swallowed poison that she must vomit up if she were to live.

  She was sliding down the hill now, the snow and mud over her boots cold against her bare legs. She came to a halt by catching hold of one of the trees. She clung to it, pressing her cheek against the rough bark. She began to cry out over and over. “You lied to me. I know you did. You lied.”

  The skin on her face began to bleed.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  THE GUARD UNLOCKED THE DOOR and let him into the hall.

  “Is the warden available? I need to talk to him on a matter of some urgency.”

  “He’s not here. He’s gone over to Central Prison to talk to the warden there, see if he can get some tips on how to run a jail.”

  He grinned, inviting Murdoch to share the joke. However, he was in no mood for humour.

  “When will he be back?”

  “Shouldn’t be much more than an hour.” He regarded Murdoch with curiosity. “Do you want to see the prisoner today?”

  Murdoch nodded.

  “He’s with the priest, confessing or whatever it is they do. Be about half an hour. Do you want me to fetch him anyway?”

  “No, that’s all right. I’ll wait.”

  He followed the guard into the waiting room.

  “Here you go. Make yourself comfortable. Warden Massie’s given orders you can stay as long as you like, seeing it’s …”

  His voice tailed off. He meant seeing it
might be the last time Murdoch would see his father alive.

  Tyler went out through the opposite door that led to the cells, and Murdoch sat down at the table. The clock on the wall gave an asthmatic whirr. It wasn’t yet eleven o’clock. He propped his elbows on the table and leaned his head in his hands. He was almost surprised to find his forehead was cool. When he was about ten years old, Murdoch had come down with scarlet fever. He had a vivid memory of being sent home from school and how odd everything round him had seemed; colours were stronger, sounds louder. There had been a bad storm the day before, and as he walked along the shore to his house, he saw that the landscape had altered. A dock had been knocked askew and sand had buried some rocks and been blown away from others. In his feverish state, he tried to make himself understand this, but he couldn’t. All he knew was a feeling of dislocation and strangeness.

  Even though he had no actual physical illness right at this moment, he had the same peculiar sense of abnormality. The words “relevant” and “irrelevant” were buzzing in his brain like flies in a jar. It wasn’t that good men didn’t get murdered, they did. However, Newcombe’s revelations about John Delaney’s character could change the picture. Murdoch grimaced. Suddenly the circle of suspects had widened. There was really quite a queue if he looked at it like that. What if Delaney’s wife had taken exception to his behaviour? Or his son or his daughter? Or Mrs. Bowling? Or somebody he didn’t even know about yet who had been affected by Delaney’s lasciviousness. The news about the Craigs and their sideline also muddied the pond considerably. What if Delaney had found out and was trying a spot of blackmail or even righteously was about to report them? Easy to get a daughter to lie in court, and give them an alibi, especially as she, too, would be affected by the discovery. Relevant? Irrelevant? Buzz, buzz.

  The problem was one of time. He needed much more time to pursue these possibilities, and he had no certainty he would get it. For Massie to postpone the execution, he would have to be convinced there was sufficient doubt concerning Harry’s culpability now being raised. Was there?