Night's Child

by Maureen Jennings

  He was gratified by her laugh, which did agreeable things to her face.

  “I would still like that tea you mentioned,” he added.

  “Of course, come this way.”

  Murdoch followed her, trying not to stare at her legs. The damp woollen pantaloons were clinging to her calves.

  “Please have a seat,” she said, ushering him into the kitchen. “I’ll stir up the fire.”

  The kitchen seemed to be the gathering place for the lodgers, not unusual for a boarding house. Murdoch was struck once again by the austerity of the furnishings. There was a small, scrubbed pine table in the middle of the floor, with four bare chairs around it. Two cushioned chairs were underneath the window. A large cupboard took up most of the space next to the door, across the room from a cooking range. There was the same scrupulous cleanliness he’d noted in the hallway. No plates or cups sat unwashed at the sink. The range was nicely blacked, and the large pot on one of the burners looked quite new. Something that smelled delicious was cooking in it. Amy lifted the lid and took a sniff.

  “Potato soup, John’s speciality.”

  “His Irish heritage, I suppose.”

  She nodded. “I believe that also accounts for his antipathy toward police officers.”

  “Surely, he’s not as disagreeable to Seymour.”

  “Oh no. They are the best of friends.” She smoothed back some stray strands of wavy hair, unnecessarily, he thought. Not much had escaped the tightness of her severely drawn bun. She was an attractive woman in spite of a tendency to be too solemn, and he’d noticed something in Reordan’s eyes when he’d looked at her. Murdoch thought the rudeness he displayed toward him, the visitor, might be more personal than historical.

  “Is Mr. Reordan your landlord?”

  She gave him an odd look. “No, he’s not.”

  “Somebody takes good care of the house.”

  “We all live here so we all try to be considerate of each other.”

  For the life of him, Murdoch couldn’t understand why the conversation, banal as it was, was making her so uncomfortable, but that was the case. Perhaps it was because she was an unmarried woman sharing lodgings with single men and no landlady to chaperone her.

  “Are there other lodgers?”

  “Yes. We are four all together. Mr. Timothy Wilkinson also lives here.”

  Amy was busying herself with tea making. She took down a teapot from a shelf in the cupboard and scooped three spoonfuls of tea leaves out of a caddy. Murdoch knew Mrs. Kitchen, his landlady, would not have approved of such poor tea making as Amy hadn’t warmed the pot first, but he of course made no comment. She brought two cups and saucers to the table. The china was patterned with delicate flowers, gold rimmed and light as eggshells. They looked out of place on the scrubbed surface of the table.

  “I think we have some cake if I’m not mistaken,” she said, prying off the lid of a cake tin on the table. She frowned. “I’m afraid not. Somebody has already eaten it.”

  So much for mutual consideration, thought Murdoch.

  She poured out two cups and he helped himself to milk and sugar lumps. The milk jug and matching sugar bowl were silver.

  “I assume it was Seymour who referred you to me,” he said. “I was wondering why you asked for me.”

  “Yes, Charlie has a lot of respect for you. I, er, I need somebody with integrity. I was most grateful he could recommend you.”

  “So you showed him the photograph?”

  Amy sipped daintily at her tea, saucer in one hand, cup in the other, in the manner of the well-brought up.

  “No, I did not. It is my opinion that every time somebody looks at that hideous photograph, no matter if their intention is benign, the child is violated again. It was necessary for you to see it, but other than you I would prefer no one else views it.”

  Murdoch knew that if the case came to court, which it must if he found the perpetrators, the photograph would be handled and ogled over by many men. He said nothing.

  “I simply told him I had a difficult and legal matter to deal with concerning one of my pupils,” continued Amy. “He suggested I speak to you.”

  There was an awkward silence. Murdoch was trying to determine how to proceed without betraying Seymour’s predicament. She rescued him.

  “He has told me about the anonymous letters and, as you know, he is currently under a cloud of suspicion. Not of his own making and dreadfully unfair.” She placed her cup and saucer on the table. “I think it’s shameful that some scurrilous person would stoop to such a thing.”

  Murdoch liked the word scurrilous, which he hadn’t heard before. He’d add it to his vocabulary.

  “I agree. If a man in his position is in fact involved in illegal activities, then his accuser should come right out and say what they are.”

  To his surprise, he saw Miss Slade turn rather pink. “What constitutes an illegal act is sometimes debatable, don’t you think?”

  Murdoch was about to reply that, no, he didn’t think there was any doubt about what was on the statutes and what wasn’t, but before he could wade into that murky water, he heard the sound of the front door opening and people entering.

  “That’s probably Charlie now,” said Miss Slade and she stood up and went to the door. Murdoch watched her, curious to see what kind of welcome she was going to give the sergeant. He was a good few years older than she, but he was unmarried after all. And quite eligible as long as he didn’t lose his job.

  She poked her head out. “Charlie, we’re in here. Mr. Murdoch’s come to see you.”

  Was she giving Seymour warning, thought Murdoch. Was he being overly suspicious?

  The sergeant came into the kitchen. He wasn’t a man given to overt expression of feeling, but Murdoch’s quick assessment was that Seymour was glad to see Miss Slade, platonically not romantically, and that his reaction to Murdoch was ambivalent, a mix of pleasure and apprehension.

  “Will, good afternoon to you. Chilly weather, isn’t it?” He stretched out his hand. He was wearing a tweed jacket and trousers with a brown muffler around his neck. The homely clothing made him seem younger, less dour than the police uniform.

  Right at his heels was a young man, tall and shambling and extraordinarily hirsute. His untrimmed brown beard covered his face from his cheekbones to the top button of his coat. His hair was thick and wiry and shot out sideward from his head, making him look as if he was standing in a perpetual wind.

  “This is Tim Wilkinson. Tim, I’d like you to meet Will Murdoch, one of my colleagues.”

  Murdoch hesitated, wondering if this lodger was going to be as rude as Reordan had been. Wilkinson made the same hand-wiping gesture that Reordan had made and immediately offered his hand. In the thicket of his beard, his teeth gleamed in a wide smile.

  “Glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Murdoch. Our friend here has spoken highly of you.”

  Murdoch smiled modestly.

  “Would you two like some tea? It’s freshly made.” Amy removed the cozy from the teapot. It was cups of tea all round, and Seymour and Wilkinson sat themselves at the table, forcing everybody into a sudden intimacy. Once again, Amy took the initiative.

  “Just as you came in, Charlie, Mr. Murdoch and I were talking about the letters.”

  “Disgusting,” muttered Wilkinson somewhat ambiguously.

  Seymour drank some of his tea. “Indeed. Has anything new come up, Will?”

  As this seemed to be a household with no secrets, Murdoch didn’t see any point in being unforthcoming.

  “Not so far. That’s why I came to see you. I thought we could go over every possibility. Anybody you know who might be carrying a grudge.” He took a sip of tea. “Anything you might be doing that could possibly be construed as illegal.”

  His companions reacted as if a shadow had gone across a summer sun, fleeting enough, but sufficient to cause them to stiffen and, ever so slightly, move closer to each other for warmth.

  “I think it would behove you t
o define the term ‘illegal,’” said Wilkinson, his tone belligerent.

  Seymour smiled. “You have to forgive my friend here, Will. He is in his second year at Osgood law school. He can’t help himself.”

  Murdoch was struck by how much Wilkinson’s words had echoed Miss Slade’s. He was about to launch into a definition, but Seymour got to his feet. He went over to the sink and rinsed out his teacup. When he spoke his back was toward Murdoch.

  “Tell you what, Will. I appreciate you have a job to do but I don’t want to take up your time. Obviously somebody has got it in for me and is trying to make mischief, but I don’t know who that would be.” He returned to the table. “And despite what Tim says, I’m quite aware of what constitutes illegal activity.” He picked up the other empty cups. “I promise you, my conscience is clear.”

  Murdoch could see a barely discernible nod from both Miss Slade and the young lawyer-to-be. They hadn’t uttered the word Amen, but they may as well have.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  For the past few days, Murdoch had had the impression that Mrs. Kitchen wanted to tell him something. With hovering guilt about his unsanctified relationship with Enid Jones, he rather expected his landlady was going to give him a little homily about the teachings of the Catholic Church and the dangers of involvement with those who weren’t of the true faith. He was braced, therefore, when he joined her and Arthur for one of their regular after-dinner visits. Because Murdoch had to get to the typewriting competition, Beatrice had made an early dinner, going to more care than usual with his meal, an excellent roast, for once cooked to perfection. She’d even prepared his favourite sweet, a rich layered trifle. He was sated, round of belly when they sat down with hot tea in front of the parlour fire. Arthur seemed tired and somewhat withdrawn, but that wasn’t unusual as his health fluctuated. Murdoch found himself searching for a topic they could discuss. He often mentioned the cases he was working on as Arthur said it kept him in touch with a world he was no longer part of. This wasn’t pure altruism on Murdoch’s part. He valued their observations; Arthur with a shrewd analytic mind and Beatrice always practical. However, out of consideration for his landlady, he didn’t mention the photographs and Agnes Fisher. The poison pen letters were much safer territory, and both Mr. and Mrs. listened intently while he’d described Reardon and Wilkinson and what had transpired at the boarding house. He didn’t tell them that the fourth lodger was a New Woman. He knew Beatrice was having enough trouble accepting that a schoolteacher was boarding with men, and he felt rather protective of Miss Slade.

  “There’s a difference between having a clear conscience and being a criminal,” said Arthur. “According to the law, I’m a thief if I steal my neighbour’s horse. But what if I know that horse is being mistreated and the only way to rescue it is to take it away from its owner? In that case I would say my conscience is clear.”

  “Your point is well taken, Arthur. All three of them were evasive when I asked directly if Seymour had been doing something illegal. But what that might be, I have no idea.”

  “Is it possible he is a bigamist?” asked Mrs. Kitchen. “You assumed he is a widower, but what if he’s not? What if in his own mind he had excellent reasons for leaving his wife, she was immoral or licentious, for instance? Then he meets this schoolteacher and falls in love with her. Makes an offer of marriage, although he knows he is not legally free.”

  Both her husband and Murdoch gaped at her.

  “Why, Mrs. K., that is an ingenious notion. And who then would be sending the letters?”

  “Perhaps his real wife.”

  “She’s got something there, Will. What do you think?” Arthur grinned.

  “I must say I didn’t detect any hint of romantic feeling between Miss Slade and Mr. Seymour.”

  “Ah but they wouldn’t want you to know, would they?”

  “So you think she would be aware of the other wife and marry him anyway?”

  “Why not?” said Arthur. “Women can be very foolish if they become besotted with a man.”

  “And so can men,” added his wife.

  “It’s not the same,” said Arthur.

  Mrs. Kitchen looked as if she could argue the point but she didn’t. “Well, obviously something isn’t right and I have every faith that Mr. Murdoch will discover what that is.”

  Her tone made it clear she didn’t want to go on with the discussion. She glanced over at the clock on the mantelpiece, which was just starting to chime six o’clock.

  “My, time is getting on. We don’t want you to be late. Have you finished with your tea, Mr. Murdoch?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Here it comes, he thought and braced himself, although he wasn’t sure for what.

  Beatrice glanced over at her husband. “Shall I tell him, Arthur?”

  “Better you.”

  “Tell me what?”

  Beatrice clasped her hands in her lap. No, it wasn’t going to be a lecture about Enid. She appeared too upset for that.

  “Mr. Murdoch, you have become a dear friend to Arthur and me over the past three years, a dear friend indeed…Oh Arthur, you have to tell him.”

  Murdoch waited while Arthur tugged at the nightcap he habitually wore. Finally, he blurted out, “We’re going to have to leave, Will.”

  “Leave? The house, you mean?”

  “Yes,” Beatrice jumped in. “You know how some doctors believe pure fresh air and rest can bring about a cure of the consumption. By sheer chance, I saw an advertisement in the newspaper that there was a hotel in Muskoka in need of a housekeeper. Apparently, it is rather like a hospital and the guests are all people with the illness. It’s right on one of the big lakes and the air is as fresh as if it’s just blown in from Heaven. They boast that most of the guests leave there completely cured.”

  She paused, the unspoken question in the minds of all three of them hovered. Would this apply to Arthur?

  “I wrote to them and I heard back a few days ago. They have offered me the position. In lieu of regular wages, they are willing to give us room and board, and Arthur can take the treatment, such as it is.” She looked at Murdoch, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “How could I not accept if it means Arthur gets better? But I’m worried about leaving you in the house.”

  Murdoch jumped up and planted a big kiss on her cheek. “Why this is wonderful news. And don’t you dare give a second thought to me. There are other boarding houses, none a jot as good as this one of course.”

  Beatrice, still discomfited from his display of affection, but smiling now, nodded at her husband.

  “Tell him the rest of it, Arthur.”

  “What we’re wondering about is if you’d consider staying on here and sort of managing it for us. With mother working at the hotel, we won’t have any large expenses to speak of and we’d like to hold on to this house until such time as we see how I do. We’d both rest easy if we knew you were in charge of the place.” He grinned. “You don’t have to cook for anybody of course. They can find their own meals or Mrs. O’Brien next door could do for them. If we let out the two rooms, this one and the one next to you that Mrs. Jones had, the income could cover any extra costs quite nicely.”

  “And we would give you a reduction in the rent for your services.”

  They were both watching Murdoch’s face. He beamed at them. “That sounds like the best offer since I can remember. Of course I’ll do it. And forget that nonsense about reduced rent, I’ll pay my proper share.”

  Beatrice frowned at him. “There is no agreement unless you accept the conditions as specified.”

  He threw up his hands in histrionic resignation. “Very well. I agree. And when, may I ask, are you planning to leave?”

  “They will send us a telegram as soon as a room is available, but according to the letter it could be any day now.”

  Arthur had been trying to hold back a cough, but it got the better of him and for a few moments, Beatrice and Murdoch were forced to watch him fight for breath. She
passed him a handkerchief and he spat out bloody phlegm, then dropped the linen immediately into the bucket of carbolic by the side of his chair. He lay back for a moment. The coughing spells exhausted him.

  “Oh Will,” he said softly. “I have almost forgotten what it is like to live a normal life. I hear you bounding up and down stairs and I try to imagine the time when I could do the same. I pray, make bargains with God, for just one more moment of that freedom.” He tried to smile. “The best the Lord can do is send me a dream. I had one last night, as a matter of fact. I’m on my old wheel again, the Ideal I told you about. And I’m pedalling along Front Street, the wind from the lake is in my face, my legs are strong as a horse’s. I’m breathing as deep and easily as I ever used to, not coughing up my own flesh. Oh it was such a sweet dream, I didn’t like waking up, I can tell you.”

  He appeared on the verge of tears and Murdoch felt an ache in his own throat. Ever since he’d moved in with the Kitchens, Arthur had been ill, progressively worse in spite of all his wife’s ministrations. Murdoch knew he’d once been an active man because they’d talked about it, but he never complained even when his physical discomfort seemed unendurable. This was the first time Murdoch had ever heard him express such feelings of sorrow and loss for the life he no longer had.

  He reached over and patted Arthur’s arm. “You’ll be back on that bicycle and challenging yours truly here to a race before we know it.”

  Arthur smiled but the sadness didn’t lift from his eyes. “I hope so, Will. I’d even let you win one or two if we could do that.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  By the time Murdoch slipped into his seat, the Mechanics Institute was jammed with people alive with excitement, and the air was thick with the smells of cigar-tainted clothes, pomade, and perfume. The audience had come as well dressed as if they were attending a concert instead of a typewriting competition. Alwyn and Mrs. Barrett had saved a seat for him beside theirs. The boy was in new finery, a navy worsted suit with a red spotted waistcoat. His hair was slicked down and he smelled like soap. He glanced over at Murdoch and frowned.