Night's Child

by Maureen Jennings

  Enid ushered him into a room warm and bright with firelight and lamps. Alwyn was crouched on the rug in front of the fire playing one of his favourite board games, The Prince’s Quest. The object of the game was to rescue the sleeping princess in her bower and Alwyn liked nothing better than to play against Murdoch.

  “I just made a fresh pot of tea, Will. Would you care for a cup?”

  “There’s only one thing I’d like better.”

  He was treading close to the edge by such a remark, but he couldn’t help it. Alwyn piped up.

  “What is that, Mr. Murdoch? What would you like better than a cup of tea?”

  “Two cups of course.”

  The boy laughed and so did Enid, but then she frowned at him in warning. She was right, and Murdoch felt guilty. He didn’t really want the boy to feel on the outside of a secret adult world.

  While Enid poured the tea, he went over to the fire. “I was able to get quite a good sled for Alwyn. Maybe we can all go out soon and give it a try?”

  “That sounds quite splendid. Do you know I have never been sledding in my life?”

  “Ah. I’d be honoured to be the first to show you how.”

  He wished everything he said didn’t sound as if it had some sexual connotation.

  “It’s easy,” said Alwyn. “I’ve seen the boys at school. You just sit on the sled and go down the hill.”

  Murdoch accepted the cup of tea.

  Enid beckoned to her son. “Alwyn, come. It’s time to get ready for bed.”

  “Mamma, it’s too early.”

  Enid answered him in Welsh and Murdoch saw him swallow his protests. “Will you come and say goodnight to me, Mr. Murdoch?”

  “I certainly will.”

  The boy followed his mother out of the room. Murdoch finished the tea and put down his cup. There was notebook on the table, open at a page covered with pencil marks. Beside it a book, Isaac Pitman’s Shorthand. Enid made her living as a typewriter and was presently learning to be a stenographer. She seemed to have been practising, for on the first line she had written her name, Enid Jones, and some pencil strokes that Murdoch assumed was shorthand. She’d repeated that a few times, then Enid Llewellyn. That must be her maiden name; he’d never thought to ask her what it was. At the bottom of the page, she’d written Enid Murdoch. He straightened up in shock, certain he wasn’t supposed to see that and not at all sure what his own response was.

  He sat back just in time as Enid came into the room.

  “He’s actually very tired,” she said. “Will you give a good-night now?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  He went to the tiny box room at the end of the landing where Alwyn slept. He bent over, kissed the boy on the forehead, and said, “Nois da.” That was pretty much the extent of his Welsh, but Alwyn murmured something back to him.

  Suddenly, the boy reached up and put his arms around Murdoch’s neck and kissed him heartily on the lips.

  “Thank you for the present. I’d like to go sledding soon.”

  “And so we shall.”

  Murdoch pulled the quilt up, feeling suddenly fiercely protective. Alwyn was a highly strung boy who was shy and withdrawn much of the time. He went to the same school as Ben and Agnes Fisher and, for a moment, Murdoch considered asking if he knew them. But then Alwyn smiled and propped himself up on his elbow.

  “Mr. Murdoch, Mamma says I can go to watch the typewriting competition tomorrow. Can I sit beside you?”

  “The seat is yours,” Murdoch said. “Nois da.” He blew out the candle.

  When he returned to the sitting room, he noticed that the notebook had vanished. Enid was at her typewriter, the keys clacking.

  “Do you want me to time you?” Murdoch asked.

  “Later, perhaps.”

  “There’s only one more day to go. How do you feel? Are you nervous?”

  “Yes, indeed. I heard today that there’s a man come up from New York to compete. He won the state contest last year.”

  “I can’t imagine anybody typing faster than you do.”

  “It’s not just speed. I mustn’t make any errors.”

  He came over to her and put his arms around her. “Enid, you’re worse than me when I’m preparing for a bicycle race. All you can do is your best.”

  She frowned at him. “I don’t care about that. I want to win that fifty dollars and the cup. I don’t mind at all if I do my worst and win.”

  He laughed. “Mrs. Jones, the next thing I know you’ll be putting sand in your rivals’ machines.”

  He kissed the top of her head. Her hair smelled of the violet-scented pomade she had rubbed in it. She touched his cheek.

  “I’m sorry Mrs. Barrett is at home tonight, Will.”

  “So am I. Give me a kiss to comfort me.”

  She turned around and he held her tightly. What would it be like to be with her all the time? To not have to leave at the dictate of a bad-tempered landlady, he wondered. The notion was oddly disturbing. Liza had been dead for more than two years now and he’d thought he was ready to court another woman. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  Enid leaned back and looked into his face. “What is the matter, Will?” She touched his forehead between his eyebrows. “You’ve got your dark look on.”

  “Beg pardon, madam.”

  “Is it a case?”

  “That’s right,” he prevaricated.

  Murdoch often told her something about the case he was currently working on, but tonight he couldn’t bear to relate the story of the photograph and Agnes Fisher. It was bad enough that it existed. Enid couldn’t do anything about it and he knew she would only fret. As far as he was concerned, part of his job was to carry the burden of human wickedness. He wasn’t about to share the other personal thoughts either.

  She looked as if she were going to protest, but he stopped her with a kiss. Her response was rather cool and she was the first to break away. He didn’t insist. But there was something he could tell her.

  “Unfortunately, I do have work on my mind.” He rummaged in his coat pocket and took out the two sheets of paper that Brackenreid had handed to him. “Enid, I wonder if you would type a sentence for me on your machine. I want to compare something.”

  It was her turn to seem disappointed, but she made no comment except, “Certainly.”

  She went over to the typewriting machine.

  “Will you type, ‘I feel it is my duty as a citizen.’”

  She did so, almost as fast as he spoke the words.

  “Let me see.”

  She pulled out the paper and handed it to him. He compared it with the two pieces from Brackenreid. They looked exactly the same. He showed her the letter. “I’m trying to find out who might have written it. The type looks exactly the same as your machine, so that’s not much help. It’s not like handwriting.”

  “That’s not quite so. All typewriter operators have a different touch, which is fairly consistent.” She held the letter up to the light. “The typing is very even, no strikeovers at all, and the print is clean and sharp. I would say the operator is professional and is working from a fairly new machine or at least one that is kept in good condition. I’d wager it’s a Remington machine, which is what I have now. My old Caligraph had a different look to it.”

  Murdoch grinned at her in astonishment. “Well done, Mrs. Jones. Let me see.”

  He looked over her shoulder, leaning his chin lightly.

  “Who uses Remingtons?”

  “Most offices do these days.”

  “All right, madam detective, what else can you tell me about this letter?”

  “The paper is copy paper. Look.”

  She riffled through the tray of blank papers on her desk and picked out two sheets.

  “Invariably, good paper has a letterhead. This one is from Mr. Deacon, my last client, a lawyer. I would send that one out and keep a copy for him for his records. See, it’s slightly thinner paper that has no inscription on the top. Your letter writer, I would s
ay, therefore, is more likely to be a clerk than a private citizen who would not have much use for copy paper.”

  Murdoch put his arms around her waist. “How very clever.”

  She sighed. “I despise anonymous complainers. What do you think poor Sergeant Seymour has done?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh dear, let’s hope it’s not serious. He’s your friend, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  He released her and walked over to the fireplace, standing with his back to it, his feet astride, hands behind him.

  “Let’s forget police work…Mrs. Jones, will you be so good as to type a letter?”

  She smiled and took up her position at the machine, fingers poised over the keyboard.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Dear Mrs. Barrett…it has come to our attention that you are retiring early tonight…it is with deep regret that we have heard this news…”

  He dropped to his knees in histrionic fashion. “Dear Mrs. Jones, no don’t write it down. Dear Mrs. Jones, is there anything we can do for the next hour that is quiet enough not to disturb your landlady?”

  “We can talk to each other.”

  To his dismay, he saw she was serious. There was also no ignoring the feeling he was being punished.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Georgina flung off the black focusing cloth, tipped the camera slightly downward, then disappeared again underneath the cloth. She fiddled with one of the right-hand knobs.

  “Ruby, bring that lamp closer to her face. Good, that’s my girl.”

  She emerged again, took up the long shutter cable, and pressed the button. After a few seconds, she pulled out the photographic plate, dropped it into her box, removed a fresh plate, and slipped it into the camera.

  “I’ll take another one from the other side.”

  Ruby waited patiently. Mrs. Guest, the recently dear departed, was dressed for the coffin in a night bonnet of white cambric and her best nightgown. The yoke and collar of the gown were of cream-coloured Valenciennes lace threaded with pale yellow silk ribbons. If, in life, Mrs. Guest had looked becoming in this gown, she no longer did. Her illness had wasted her face to a skeletal thinness and her neck emerged stalklike from the lace collar; her skin had turned a greenish grey, which the pure white of the cambric only accentuated. She smelled dreadful.

  “Try the ringlets, there’s a pet,” called Georgina from under the camera cloth. “Let’s see how she must have looked.”

  Ruby put down the lamp and went over to the valise they had brought with them. She rummaged through the tools of Georgina’s trade: a pot of rouge, a card pinned with several hair pieces of different colours, two or three bunches of silk flowers. She unpinned the coil of brown ringlets and went over to the bed where the corpse lay. This was the part of her job she enjoyed the least. Rigor mortis had gone, so she was able to lift the head, take off the bonnet, and slip on the band that held the ringlets. The ravaged face suddenly surrounded by shining, luscious curls on top of the wispy, grey hair was grotesque.

  “Oh dear. Put the bonnet back on and pull the ringlets around her face. That’s better. Can you turn her this way a little.”

  Georgina had rolled the tripod to the other side of the bed. “Step back. Splendid.”

  She emerged once again and clicked the shutter.

  “That should do it.” She pulled out the plate, held it up to the light for a moment, then placed it with the other one in the box. She pinched her nostrils. “Phew. She’s getting a bit gamey, isn’t she? Do something about it, will you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Ruby took a vial of chloride of lime from the valise, unstoppered it, and splashed a generous amount onto two cotton pads, which she placed on the dead woman’s forehead. The sharp smell temporarily overrode the odour of decay. Georgina had pulled forward a chair and taken out her sketchbook.

  “Have they left her rings on, Ruby?”

  Ruby reached underneath the sheet that reached to the middle of the dead woman’s upper arm and gently pulled up the left hand. There was a narrow gold wedding band on the ring finger. Ruby tried not to touch the clammy skin at the wrist but she had no choice.

  “Just the wedding ring, ma’am.”

  “Hmm. My impression of Mr. Guest is that he would relish loading his wife with visible signs of his own prosperity, wouldn’t you agree, Ruby?”

  Ruby really didn’t know what Georgina meant, but she nodded as if she understood completely.

  “Have a look on her dresser. See if she has any rings.”

  The mirror had been draped with black crepe, and for a moment Ruby was startled at her own reflection, a ghostlike shadow in the room. All of the bedroom furnishings were of dark mahogany, and Mrs. Guest had favoured a crimson-and-green flock wall covering with matching curtains and fabric on the chairs. Against the opulence of the room, the bed seemed stark with its white sheets and colourless body. Ruby shivered, partly at the image of herself, partly because the room was very cold. The window was open wide to the frigid winter air and there was no fire in the grate, the better to preserve the corpse. Fortunately, Miss Georgina always worked quickly.

  The top of the dresser was neat and orderly, the hair ornaments, arranged on a tray lined with pink satin, were of sterling silver, as was the hairbrush and hand mirror. Both were monogrammed.

  “I don’t see a ring, ma’am, but there is lovely gold watch.”

  She held it up. It hung from a heavy gold chain and the front was set with pearls, emeralds, and three diamonds.

  “Very good, Ruby. Bring it to me.”

  She continued to sketch the room as she spoke. When they went to view the bodies, Miss Georgina left behind her strange, mannish clothes, and her navy blue taffeta gown, trimmed with jet, was the essence of propriety. She also insisted Ruby wear dark clothing. Like a little postulant preparing herself for her marriage to Christ were her words, which meant nothing to Ruby. She thought the dull grey woollen waist made her look sallow. She took the watch to her mistress.

  Georgina nodded. “Slip it over your neck for a moment. Let me see it against the grey.”

  Ruby did so. She was surprised at how heavy the watch was, pulling her neck forward. The lamp had been turned up high and the light winked on the jewels. Ruby knew what they were now although before she came to the Croftons’ she had never seen so much as a picture of a pearl or an emerald. She longed to look at her own reflection but she didn’t dare do so, afraid her mistress would think it vain.

  Georgina smiled at her. “I’d wager my life’s savings it was a present from Mr. Guest. Let me see.” She leaned forward, flicked open the front lid, and peered at it. “Yes. I was right. ‘To my dearest Margaret on the occasion of our golden anniversary.’” She snapped the case closed and let it rest against Ruby’s chest. “It is a vulgar piece, isn’t it?”

  Ruby thought she had never seen such a beautiful thing in her entire life but she nodded.

  “Yes, ma’am, it certainly is.”

  Georgina flipped over a page and made a quick drawing of the watch, with arrows pointing to each jewel with a letter to indicate what they were in case she forgot. Ruby believed she herself would remember the design until the day she died.

  Her mistress turned back to her original drawing. “What do you think? Is it a likeness?”

  Ruby examined the sketch carefully. She had learned that this was the one area where her true opinion was wanted. Georgina Crofton was quite short-sighted. Her portraits, even with the help of a photographic image, were often a little off.

  “She has been ill, ma’am. Perhaps in life her cheeks would be rounder and her nose less sharp.”

  “Quite right, as usual, Ruby.”

  Georgina made the adjustments. “Goodness I almost forgot. What colour were her eyes? Have a look, there’s a pet.”

  Ruby walked over to the body and carefully lifted one eyelid. “It’s rather difficult to tell at this stage, ma’am. But I would say they were br
own.”

  “I’d better ask Mister. People get upset if you have the wrong eye colour. You know how that young couple were with the baby. As if it mattered. I thought all babies had blue eyes.”

  She blew on her fingers. “It’s perishing cold in here. But I’m done. I’m going to give the painting a drawing-room setting so we had better go down there next.”

  “Perhaps they would like to have these photographs behind her.” Ruby indicated two photographs in carved silver frames that were on the mantelpiece.

  “As long as they weren’t taken by Mr. Notman. Why should I advertise for him?”

  William Notman was developing a reputation in Toronto for his photographs, and although he didn’t do the same kind of work Georgina did, she had a bee in her bonnet about him. “Uncouth, my pet. People want pretty pictures, not that nonsense.”

  “They are from Mr. Krieghoff’s studio, ma’am.” In one of the photographs, a much younger Mrs. Guest sat in a chair holding a baby in a long christening gown. Behind her was Mr. Guest, moustached, portly, obviously proprietal. The second portrait was more recent. Again Mrs. Guest was seated in the centre, but now there were six others behind her who looked as if they were further offspring. Three small children sat at their feet.

  “In that case I will include it. A very good suggestion, Ruby.” Georgina started to gather up her things. “We’ll leave the tripod. The butler can bring it down. But let’s take the box with us. I don’t trust anybody not to drop it.”

  She stuffed her sketchbook into the valise while Ruby went to get the box.

  At the door, Georgina turned. She laughed. “I think you had better return the watch to the dresser. You don’t want them sending a constable after us, do you?”

  Ruby turned bright red. She hadn’t forgotten about the watch around her neck. How could she? She had wanted to enjoy wearing it for a few more moments. Quickly she took it off and replaced it in its satin bed. Lugging the heavy box, she followed Georgina from the room.

  She’d noticed her mistress slip one of the silver-edged hair combs into her pocket, but she told herself it must be necessary for the portrait.