Ruby concentrated on tidying up her corn-cutting implements.
“Come on, Hannah,” said Georgina. “Let’s be Christians after all. Suffer little children. Go and give the poor gypsy child some pittance.”
“Very well, Miss Georgina.”
She left and Georgina walked over to Ruby and put her arm around her shoulders.
“Don’t look so worried, little sprat. It’s better to err on the side of caution. Such things as you described are not unknown. The girl could quite easily have been a little thief.”
“Yes, ma’am. She could have been, couldn’t she?”
CHAPTER FIVE
The snow had stopped, but the winter afternoon was growing rapidly darker and the chill air burned Murdoch’s face. He quickened his pace, huddling into his muffler for warmth. He wasn’t much looking forward to questioning Agnes Fisher, especially if she were going to be as uncooperative as Miss Slade had said she was. He turned on to Sydenham Street. Lamps were lit in a few houses, but they were all meagre. On this street few people could afford the luxury of unnecessary candles or lamp oil. The street gaslights were already turned on and they flickered, sickly yellow, making little dint in the gloom. They were widely spaced, perhaps simply because the street was old, perhaps because nobody of any importance lived there.
Number seventy-six was situated in deep shadow between two street lamps. As Murdoch came up the path, he noticed that the upstairs window was clumsily draped with a blanket and a light showed through. He could hear the sound of a baby crying.
Nobody had answered his first knock and he banged the door again, louder. He was about to knock a third time when a voice called from the other side of the door.
“Who is it?”
“My name is Murdoch. I would like to speak to Agnes Fisher.”
The door opened and the face of a young woman appeared in the crack. She was not what Murdoch expected, hardly more than eighteen or nineteen and from what he could see, she was pretty, with light brown hair, loosely pinned up. He tipped his hat.
“Good afternoon, ma’am. Sorry to disturb you, but I am looking for Agnes Fisher.”
She scrutinized him. “Just a minute, I’ll fetch a light.”
The door closed with a snap and he wondered if he was going to have to use his police authority to get in. However, in a moment the woman reappeared carrying a lamp.
“Come in out of the cold,” she said and stepped back so he had room in the narrow hallway. “Did the school send you?”
He nodded, glad he wouldn’t have to go into an explanation. “I assume I am not speaking to a member of the family. You are not Mrs. Fisher, surely?”
The young woman smiled. “No, of course not. I’m Kate…I mean, I’m Mrs. Ralph Tibbett.”
Behind her, the baby’s wail grew louder and she glanced over her shoulder anxiously. Mrs. Tibbett had the full, lush figure of a woman recently confined.
“I’m sorry if I wakened the baby,” said Murdoch. He listened. “Or am I mistaken? Are there two?”
She sighed. “I have twin boys. I had better tend to them.” She nodded in the direction of the stairs. “Aggie lives upstairs. She’s a good girl,” she added, her voice sharp. “Her father is often ill and she stays home to take care of him. If that’s what you’ve come about.”
“Did you see her today?”
“No, I didn’t, but then the twins have been so mardy all day, I wouldn’t have heard Her Majesty herself if she came calling.”
The wailing of the two infants was unabated and Mrs. Tibbett hurried toward the parlour door. Murdoch thought he was going to have to find his way upstairs in the dark but suddenly she realized that and swivelled around.
“Do you have matches?”
“Yes, I do.”
“There is a sconce directly at the bottom of the stairs. You can light the candle.”
She went into the front room, leaving him alone. He fished out his box of matches, struck one, and lit the candle. There was barely enough light to see by but it would do. The stairs were uncarpeted and the wall covering was a dingy brown flock. As it turned out, he didn’t need the candle to guide him. From above, a man’s voice erupted with all the obscene vigour of the very drunk.
Murdoch felt the muscles at the back of his neck tighten. As a child he had been only too familiar with the violence of a drunken man. Even though he had run away when he was twelve years old, the memory was like a perpetual sore that never quite healed. What he had to hold in check now wasn’t fear but his anger.
The Tibbett babies had stopped crying and the man was suddenly quiet and in the unexpected silence the only sound was the creak of the stairs. Murdoch halted at the landing. A light shone from under the door to the front room. He gave a short knock on this door and, not waiting for an answer, turned the knob and stepped inside. The air was chilly but pungent with the odour of unwashed linens and spilled ale. A weak fire gave off acrid smoke.
A man was lying on a bed pushed against one wall. He seemed to be asleep, the drunken ranting over. A boy about eleven or twelve years old was seated on a stool drawn as close to the hearth as he could get. He had the gaunt, pasty look of the malnourished, and his hair had been cut so short, he was almost bald. As Murdoch entered, the boy turned around and jumped to his feet. If there had been anywhere to run, he would have made a bolt for it.
Murdoch smiled at him. “Hello, you must be Benjamin. Your teacher, Miss Slade, sent me. I would like to have a word with your sister, Agnes.”
The boy might have been deaf for all the response he gave. Murdoch walked a little closer but made sure he was still blocking the door.
“Do you mind if I warm my hands? It’s nippy outside and I forgot to wear my gloves.”
Ben shrank away from his spot in front of the fire. There was a grunt from the direction of the bed. Murdoch pointed. “That’s your poppa, is it?”
Again, no answer, just the merest of nods. Both father and son were wearing dirty overcoats. Mr. Fisher’s neck was wrapped in a red-and-black-striped muffler and his only blanket was a motheaten woman’s fur coat. His bed took up most of the space, leaving room for only the small table and a wooden chair in the corner. Along the opposite wall was a narrow cot, neatly made up with a quilt that looked new and clean.
“Is Agnes at home?”
Benjamin shook his head. Murdoch was at a loss. The boy was like a feral dog, so frightened he would fly away at the slightest provocation. Or bite.
“I understand from your teacher you are a very bright boy.”
Miss Slade had of course said no such thing, but Murdoch considered all children had that potential. Ben blinked in surprise.
“Did the teacher tell you that?” his voice was almost inaudible.
Murdoch approximated a nod. “Miss Slade seems like a very kind person.”
Ben lost some of his wariness. “She gives us sweeties if we get things right. I had two yesterday.”
“Butterscotch? That’s my favourite.”
“No. Barley sugar.”
Murdoch sat down on the stool. Ben had backed off to the table.
“I didn’t mean to alarm you, son. But I do need to speak to your sister about something important. Do you know where she is?”
“She fainted at school.”
“Miss Slade told me that.”
“Is she in trouble because she did that?”
“No, not at all. We can’t help fainting.”
Suddenly, there was a growl from behind him for all the world like a bear woken from hibernation.
“Who the frig are you when you’re at home?”
“Good afternoon, sir. My name is Murdoch. Miss Slade, your children’s teacher, asked me to come. I was hoping to have a word with Agnes.”
Fisher was still so in the grip of drunkenness that Murdoch could see the man try to catch the words as they went by. He repeated what he had said.
“Are you a truant officer?” Fisher asked finally. “I’m always telling that gi
rl…got to get education but she won’t listen. Does exactly what she wants. Has she been missing school again? I’ll give her what for.”
Given what Miss Slade had told him, Murdoch had already decided to wait before he showed the photograph to Mr. Fisher. The man’s reaction supported this decision.
“No, I’m not here about her school attendance. It’s another matter. She fainted in class yesterday and her teacher is concerned about her.”
That was too much for Fisher to comprehend and he lay back on his pillow.
“Wouldn’t like to do a man a favour, would you? I’m fair parched. There’s some hair of the dog in the cupboard…next room.”
Murdoch glanced over at the boy. “Can you fetch it for him?”
Ben scurried away at once, leaving a swirl of smoky air in his wake. Fisher started to cough and he was forced to sit upright. He aimed a gob of phlegm at the hearth but missed. However, the activity had brought him more into consciousness. Murdoch saw there was a teapot on the table with a couple of mugs. He went over to it and lifted the lid. There seemed to be some tea left in the pot. He poured some into the mug and brought it over to Fisher.
“Have a sip of this. It’ll wet your whistle.”
Fisher accepted the mug, took a gulp, and pulled a face as if it were bad-tasting medicine.
“It’s gone cold.”
He handed it back to Murdoch, as if to a servant. His hand was shaking. This close to him, Murdoch could smell his rank breath. He couldn’t have been much older than Murdoch himself and might at one time have been considered a handsome man. His hair and moustache were brown and his eyes dark. However, his bloated face and puffy eyes and cheeks told their own tale.
Ben came back into the room with a bottle in his hand.
“There’s only this, Poppa,” he said and gave it to Fisher. Murdoch noticed the boy positioned himself to one side, out of reach of a sudden blow.
Fisher put the bottle to his lips and swallowed down whatever it was. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and belched. Murdoch actually wondered if this gross display was put on for his benefit.
“Thas better,” said Fisher. “I’m a Christian again.”
And indeed some intelligence had returned to his eyes. He looked at Murdoch shrewdly.
“If her teacher’s so worried about Aggie, why have you come and not her?”
“Let’s say, Miss Slade thought it better if I investigated.” He glanced around the shabby room. “Do you know where Agnes might be, Mr. Fisher?”
“I don’t. I haven’t clapped eyes on her since this morning. Ben, where’s your sister?”
The boy took an involuntary step back. “I don’t know, Poppa. Maybe she went to see if she could find Martha.”
Fisher took another long pull from the bottle. “That’s my eldest. She’s in service somewhere, but the little minx hasn’t told us where.” He actually grinned. “Makes you wonder if she’s ashamed of us, don’t it? If Aggie has gone to find her sister, she won’t be back for hours. No point in you waiting, Mr….?”
Murdoch didn’t answer him. He was only too happy to leave. To remain any longer in this stinking, cold, smoke-filled room was out of the question even though he suspected that Ben would have welcomed it.
“You look like you could do with a bite to eat, Mr. Fisher. Why don’t I stand you and Ben to some hot pies for your supper? There’s an eating house not to far from here on Queen Street. Allow me to buy you some grub.”
“Much appreciated, good sir.” Fisher winked. “Couldn’t see yourself to stretching to a spot of gravy, could you, mate? Makes the pies nice and moist, and you can hear how dry my throat is.”
“I can indeed.” Murdoch beckoned to the boy. “Why don’t you come out now with me and fetch them. Get your hat.”
Ben hurried to do as he said and took an old man’s felt hat from a hook on the door. He didn’t seem to possess any gloves.
“Shall I tell Aggie you was asking for her?” Fisher asked.
Murdoch shrugged. He knew it didn’t matter what he said. Fisher would frighten his daughter or not as he wanted.
“She doesn’t know my name,” he said. “Just tell her Miss Slade was concerned about her.”
“I’ll do that.”
A unspoken question had hovered round the edges of the conversation Murdoch had had with Miss Slade: Did Fisher know of the photograph or, worse, had he something to do with it? His lack of alarm seemed to indicate no, but Murdoch wasn’t going to completely dismiss the possibility, appalling as it was. Men like Fisher had long ago lost all acquaintance with conscience and, without it, could act the innocent convincingly.
Ben was standing at the door watching him anxiously.
“Come on, lad,” said Murdoch. “Let’s get those pies.”
He put his hand lightly on the boy’s thin shoulder and led him out of the room. He was gratified the boy tolerated his touch.
CHAPTER SIX
For the past two months, Murdoch had been shamelessly trying to buy the affections of Mrs. Enid Jones’s son, Alwyn. Every couple of weeks, he brought him a small gift, another lead soldier for his collection, a bag of his favourite toffees, a new board game. Tonight he was going to give him a sled. He thought this would serve two purposes, gain him more good feelings and, secondly, give him a chance to get the boy outside so they could spend some time together. His motives weren’t all self-seeking; he was becoming genuinely much fonder of the boy. He felt more tolerant of Alwyn’s resentment and jealousy and he was careful to include him in conversations between himself and Enid. The boy was definitely thawing, Murdoch thought. It was he who opened the door.
“Please to come in. Mamma’s upstairs.” He eyed the sled, but Enid had instilled him with good manners and he didn’t ask about it.
Murdoch didn’t tantalize him. “This is for you. One of the constables gave it to me. It used to belong to his son, but he’s outgrown it now. I know you wanted one.”
Alwyn crouched down to examine the sled. Murdoch had polished the steel runners and rubbed out some of the scratches on the maple struts. He thought it was almost as good as new, but he knew better than to demand a response from the boy until he was ready.
“How old is the other fellow?” Alwyn asked finally.
“Oh, I don’t know, eight or nine perhaps.”
“I’ll be eight next birthday.”
Murdoch stared down at the boy, trying to determine what he was getting at. Many of Alwyn’s proclamations to him came in some sort of code and he’d learned to be on the alert in order to get the real message.
“Well, I did wonder about that, whether it would be too small, but I thought we could give it a try and see.” In fact, the sled was the perfect size. Alwyn was small for his age and self-conscious about it. “Why don’t we go sledding this Sunday? We can try the riverbanks. They’ll give us a good run, I bet.”
Alwyn shook his head. “Not on Sunday. We’re not allowed to play on the Sabbath.”
Murdoch cursed to himself. Of course he knew that, and Enid’s strict observation of the Sabbath day often irked him. Papists were much more lenient. As long as the faithful went to mass that morning, they could do whatever they liked in the afternoons, especially such wholesome sports as skating and sledding. The priests themselves joined in all the time, tucking their soutanes up into their belts like peasant women.
Enid was coming down the stairs.
“What are you two doing with the door open like that? Do you want to heat the outdoors then?”
Murdoch had been standing on the threshold. “I’ll leave it on the porch,” he said to the boy. “We can decide when to go sledding later on.” He smiled at Enid. “Good evening, Mrs. Jones.”
“And a good evening to you, Mr. Murdoch.”
“He brought me a sled,” said Alwyn.
“And who might ‘he’ be you’re referring to?”
“Beg pardon. I mean, Mr. Murdoch brought me a present.”
“Did you
say thank you?”
“Yes.”
In fact, the words hadn’t fallen from his lips, but Murdoch wasn’t about to ruin his chances with the boy by mentioning that now.
Enid caught her son’s hand. “My goodness, Alwyn, you’re as cold as ice. You’ll catch your death. Get on upstairs and warm yourself this minute.”
“Yes, Mamma.” The boy raced up the stairs two at a time. Enid came over to Murdoch.
“Let me take your things.”
He touched his fingers to her neck and she flinched. “You’re freezing too.”
“I’ll be warmer for a kiss.”
She gave him a quick peck on the cheek. He would have liked much more, but he knew she wouldn’t while they were in the hallway where Alwyn might see them. Nevertheless, he put his arms around her and pulled her close to him.
“Is Mrs. Barrett at home, tonight?” he whispered into her hair.
“I’m afraid she is.”
On cue, the door leading to the rear opened and the landlady poked her head through the portieres. Enid moved away immediately and hung Murdoch’s coat on the hall tree. He straightened his necktie unnecessarily.
“Good evening, Mrs. Barrett. How are you keeping tonight?”
“Not well, Mr. Murdoch, not well. This cold weather is terrible hard on us old people.”
He didn’t think she was as old as Mrs. Kitchen, his landlady, but she acted as if she were an octogenarian. According to Enid, Mrs. Barrett had been widowed for more than six years but like Queen Victoria she elected to retain her widow’s weeds. Murdoch had never seen her without the black bonnet and long veil that trailed down her back. Her gown was of dull bombazine.
“Sorry to hear that, ma’am.”
She didn’t acknowledge him further. “I want to retire early tonight, Mrs. Jones. No later than nine o’clock. Will you let me know when Mr. Murdoch leaves so I can be sure the door is bolted behind him.”
“Of course, Mrs. Barrett.”
She sniffed, cast a baleful glance at Murdoch, and backed into her den.
Murdoch followed Enid upstairs to her sitting room. There were several sombre oil paintings hung on the walls, all depicting biblical scenes in which the Jews looked remarkably like modern English gentlemen. They had all been painted by the late Mr. Barrett, a keen amateur artist.
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