Night's Child

by Maureen Jennings

  “Do you fancy a pipe, Will?”

  “I do, thank you.”

  Seymour took out a clay pipe and a packet of tobacco from the drawer. “Badger suit you?”

  “It will.”

  Murdoch had his own utility French briar in his pocket and he stuffed it with the aromatic dark tobacco that Seymour offered. Neither of them spoke until their pipes were lit and drawn.

  “That’s a terrible story Reordan has to tell,” said Murdoch.

  “It is indeed and I doubt we’ll ever find out who did it, more’s the pity.”

  They smoked in silence for a while, each lost in his own thoughts. Murdoch had no doubt how he would have felt in those circumstances and how corrosive would be the desire for revenge. He sighed and brought himself back to the present.

  “So tell me a bit more about this organization you’re so enamoured of. I thought they were almost non-existent in Ontario now. Faded like hothouse flowers in winter.” He deliberately made his tone ironic to see Seymour’s reaction. He got one. The sergeant’s voice was sharp.

  “Not exactly. They’re smaller in numbers now, unfortunately, but still fighting for justice for every human soul.”

  “A noble aim indeed but unrealistic, don’t you think?”

  “I’m surprised to hear you, of all people, say that, Will. You’re a man who fights for justice too in your own way.”

  Murdoch puffed out a cloud of smoke. “I enforce the law, Charlie, that’s different.” This wasn’t the time to launch into a philosophical exploration of the problems of enforcing laws that seemed cruel or unfair. It was an issue Murdoch was constantly uneasy about and had not resolved in his own mind, except that on more than one occasion he had chosen to interpret the law morally rather than literally.

  Seymour placed his pipe carefully on the lamp table beside him. “Let me read you something, Will.” He went to his bookcase and took down a fat binder stuffed with newspapers. He untied the string, shuffled through the papers, and plucked one out. “Here we are. This was written by Mr. Kilt, editor of the Ottawa Citizen, in October of last year. Listen to this. ‘What hope is there for a society with such extremes of wealth and poverty as our civilization shows? At the bottom rotting, corroding want and squalor; at the top, enervating luxury, reckless extravagance, useless purposeless lives.’” Seymour paused and looked at Murdoch to see his reaction.

  “I wouldn’t mind a taste of ‘enervating luxury’ before my life is over,” said Murdoch with a grin.

  Seymour didn’t smile back. “It’s a taste people get addicted to. Let me continue…‘What hope of such a society except that it is susceptible of fundamental reform or radical change? Consider how fruitful it is of meanness, of over-reaching, of envy, jealousy and all uncharitableness.’” Again he paused but Murdoch didn’t risk a comment, just nodded to him to go on. Seymour’s normally calm voice was full of passion.

  “‘How can it be anything else? A society which in its industrial constitution is at war with honour, honesty and justice, is not likely to beget generosity. It inevitably generates the vices, not the virtues, the baser not the nobler qualities of the soul.’” He put down the paper as reverently as a priest might put down a piece of consecrated parchment. “You asked me if I believe in what The Noble and Holy Order of Knights stands for. That’s my answer, Will.”

  “That’s a radical view they hold. The only hope for society is fundamental reform? Smacks of anarchy to me.”

  “You’re wrong about that. They are no destroyers of order, they believe in order, but a fair and just order where workers are accorded respect and treated with dignity. Surely you must agree with that, Will?”

  “How can I not? But underneath the dazzling rhetoric that you just read to me, there is a bias. Meanness, envy, and lack of charity are not the exclusive prerogative of the rich.”

  Seymour frowned. “That is not the point. I am not green, Will. You can’t be a police officer as long as I’ve been and not see depravity and viciousness in all walks of life, but that is no different from saying that a diseased body shows all manner of ugliness on its skin. If society is a balanced and equitable one, it is healthy and manifests such. There is no place for crime where there is no want.”

  Murdoch thought Seymour was omitting a large proportion of crimes for which the motive was human passion. The envelope of photographs on the desk was a mute testimony to that.

  The sergeant went on. “Look at the charges that as police officers we lay. It is the poorer classes who are driven to steal or even murder each other. How many charges are ever laid against the rich culls? One in a hundred?”

  Murdoch drew some more on his pipe. “That doesn’t mean the rich don’t commit crimes, only that they aren’t ever charged.”

  Seymour’s normally impassive face was slightly flushed with the ardour of an acolyte. Their eyes met and to Murdoch’s relief the sergeant suddenly laughed out loud.

  “Will, you’re looking at me as if I’m a candidate for the loony bin. I don’t have a lance in my wardrobe nor a suit of armour. These are ideals I’m talking about. High ideals I know, but if we don’t dare to dream of what might be, what are we?”

  Murdoch jabbed at the air with his briar. “That I will concede.”

  The tension between them eased.

  “When did you join the order?” Murdoch asked.

  “September last year. But I should make it clear, the Knights don’t uphold strikes and walkouts. They believe in negotiating with the bosses in a reasonable way.”

  Again Murdoch was struck by what he thought was sentimental thinking on the part of a man whom up to now he’d considered as down to earth and as clear-eyed as a collector of night soil.

  “Do the Knights know you are a police sergeant, by the way?”

  “No, but the only occupations officially barred are bankers, lawyers, gamblers, and saloon keepers.”

  Murdoch laughed. “A motley group who deserve each other.”

  “Indeed.”

  “How big are the meetings? Would somebody have recognized you?”

  “Oh I can’t believe it’s one of the members who’s doing the dirt. First, we take a solemn oath of loyalty to defend and protect each other and, second, our meetings are quite small. There’s been nobody I knew attending. But each assembly has regular meetings. Perhaps by bad chance, the Judas saw me going into the meeting hall. Could have been an old nab of mine wanting to get his own back.”

  Experienced officer that Seymour was, Murdoch could tell he was falling into the old trap of blame-the-stranger. The truth might be too painful.

  “When did you ever know a lag to use such decorous language, not to mention that the letters are typewritten? And what puzzles me is why the man doesn’t just come right out and say what you’re up to? Why all the circumlocution?”

  There was thumping on the stairs and Seymour got up to open the door. Reordan came in carrying a tray with three mugs and a plate of bread and butter. Seymour didn’t offer to help him and Murdoch realized it must be a point of pride with the Irishman to manage by himself. He put the tray on the washstand. Unobtrusively, Seymour took over and passed one of the mugs to Murdoch.

  Reordan took the other and slurped down some tea. He was noisy about it, not from bad manners but because scar tissue around his mouth made it difficult for him to drink properly.

  “I heard the last bit. You two keep saying ‘man,’ but do you know for certain it’s a boyo? It could be a missus.”

  “That’s true, but it don’t feel like woman’s work? Wouldn’t you say, Will?”

  Murdoch blew on his mug of tea. He’d already discovered it was scalding hot. “We can’t totally dismiss that as a possibility.” He took a bite of a piece of bread.

  “Sorry we don’t have no jam,” said Reordan. “But the bread’s fresh-baked this morning.”

  “It’s delicious,” replied Murdoch, and it was. He was suddenly ravenous and munched through the thick, crusty slice. Reordan watched him, as
proud as any cook summoned to the dining room while the mistress sampled the baking.

  “What would help is if we had a list of the members of your local assembly,” Murdoch said to Seymour.

  “I don’t have anything like that. We keep all names secret to protect each other. It’s not so long ago that men lost their jobs if they were suspected of organizing the workers.”

  Reordan winked at Murdoch. “I’ve got one. I earn my stipend from the Knights by keeping track of the dues. I’ve got a list. Shall I show it to him, Charlie?”

  Seymour didn’t hesitate. “Thanks, John. A list would be helpful, can you bring it to us?”

  Suddenly the Irishman cackled. He fished in his pocket. “I’ve got it here. Call yourselves police officers. It seems obvious to me that the person doing the letters has to be a member of the Knights or knows somebody that is.” So much for Seymour’s affirmation of unshakeable loyalty, thought Murdoch. Reordan handed over the paper. “I brought up the membership list of Excelsior. That’s the name of his local assembly,” he added for Murdoch’s benefit.

  Seymour stood up and leaned over the chair back so he could read the list with Murdoch. There were twenty-five names, neatly printed.

  “Course, the person could be registered under a false name,” said Reordan. “It’s happened before. The bosses want to keep an eye on their wicked workers, so they send in a spy.”

  Suddenly, Murdoch stabbed the paper with his forefinger. “No! There it is. Or rather I should say, ‘There she is.’ Do you know this woman, Charlie?”

  “Florence Gripe? Why yes, I’ve met her. But surely you’re not suggesting…?”

  “Miss Gripe is presently engaged, and she eventually will become Mrs. Liam Callahan.”

  “What! The station stenographer?”

  “One and the same. I was introduced to her only last night at a typewriting competition. There’s your link right there.”

  “Are you sure, Will?”

  “It’s a very unusual name. I can’t believe there are two of them.”

  “She seems such a fine young woman, I find it difficult to believe she would betray me.” Seymour looked acutely uncomfortable and Murdoch remembered the impression Florence’s admiring eyes had made on he himself.

  Reordan wagged his finger at them. “There you go again. Overlooking the obvious. Her fiancée might have flushed you out without her intentionally revealing anything. This Callahan, he could have escorted her to a meeting, for instance, and ‘Lo, my goodness. Can I believe my eyes. There’s our esteemed sergeant filing in with the other plebs.’”

  “You said something like that yourself, Charlie,” added Murdoch, “and it certainly answers the question of all the beating about the bush. Callahan probably doesn’t want his sweetheart to know what he’s doing.”

  “All right. But why has he got it in for me?”

  Reordan did the finger-wagging gesture again. “Don’t you police officers always ask who stands to gain by this crime? I’ve heard you talk about that lots of times, Charlie. My guess is that Callahan stands to benefit by you getting the shoot. My guess is that he wants your job.”

  Murdoch smiled at the Irishman. “You’re putting us to shame, John. It makes sense. It’s impossible to climb up the ranks of the police force except when a spot opens up ahead of you. We’re not expanding at all this year, nor next in all probability. You can stay stuck in the same rank until your hair turns white and your teeth fall out.”

  “And especially if you’re a Papist, which William here is.”

  Murdoch grimaced. “Especially if you’re a Papist.”

  “I’m one too,” Reordan jumped in. “It ain’t easy. That’s another reason I respect the Knights of Labour, they don’t care who you bow to, or bend the knee to, or whatever the Protestants do.”

  “Hold on, you two. Let’s get back on track here. You’re saying that Callahan wants my job? But he’s only a constable, second class. It wouldn’t go to him.”

  “Not directly,” said Murdoch. “The choice would be one of the two first-class constables, Fyfer or Crabtree. Let’s say for the sake of argument that you left and George was moved up to sergeant. His position then would need filling. There are several constables, second class, who could take it. In jumps the hardworking Mr. Callahan. Better wages, better conditions.”

  “Not much better.”

  “But enough if you want to get married, and he surely does. I thought he was decidedly under Miss Gripe’s spell. And my guess is she would be a rather expensive wife. Not to mention that she makes eyes at every man she comes across. Perhaps she trilled on about you to him, and he didn’t like it. Come on, Charlie, did you flirt with the girl?”

  The sergeant actually blushed. “Not flirt exactly, but she is a very sweet young woman. I didn’t know she was engaged to be married. She never spoke of it.”

  “There you go then. I’d say Callahan got jealous and wanted you out of the way. Or at least disgraced and less eligible.”

  Seymour was shaking his head. “It’s hard to believe, Will. He seems like such a pleasant young fellow.”

  “Too pleasant for me. He’s an arse crawler. No wonder he and our inspector get along so famously. Besides, he’s a liar. He told me a lie, a small one to be sure, but it makes me question what else he might be hiding.” Briefly he related the story of the typewriting competition and Callahan’s unexpected appearance. “He pretended he isn’t accomplished when he is, but why not tell the truth? I saw him on that platform and he wanted to win, probably at all costs. Ambition to burn in that young man. One of his jobs at the station is to sort the daily post, so he could easily slip in a letter or two. And he is a stenographer. I haven’t had a chance to check his typewriting machine against the letters, but Mrs. Jones, er, a woman I know, says they were typed on a Remington, and that is the machine used in most offices these days. When I asked him about typing, he covered his trouser seat by pretending he didn’t know how, not realizing I had a friend who was in the same contest. No wonder he was shocked to see me. It’s him all right, Charlie.”

  “But what do we do now? Even if we unmask him, I’ll have to admit my involvement with the Knights and that’s it for the police force. He’ll probably only get a reprimand.”

  Murdoch thought Seymour was sitting on the fence. He would have to make a choice sooner or later. But he couldn’t abide blackmailers, which was what Callahan was.

  “I’ll think of something.”

  The worry left Seymour’s face and he laughed. “If I know you at all, William Murdoch, you will most certainly think of something and it will be highly moral but probably quite illegal.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” said Reordan and he lifted his mug of tea in a salute.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Shortly afterwards, Reordan said he had work to do and left them. All this while, the envelope with the other photographs had sat unopened on the desk. Seymour got up and went over and picked it up.

  “I’d better have a look at these.”

  “I warn you, it’s ugly,” said Murdoch.

  The sergeant sat in the cane chair opposite and slid the photographs out. He snorted in derision at the Newly-wed photographs, but when he saw the picture of Agnes, his jaw clenched.

  “My God, Will, surely this isn’t Amy’s pupil? She never told me it was this kind of thing she was concerned about.”

  “Miss Slade said she discovered them in the girl’s desk, but the child would offer no explanation. She wants me to find out who the photographer is and is hoping that I can keep the police out of it officially until we know what’s happened. Frankly, I don’t know if I can do that and conduct a proper investigation, but I said I’d try.”

  Seymour, in an unconscious imitation of the schoolteacher’s reaction, inverted the photograph.

  “You must have thought my little speech about an unhealthy society somewhat naive. I find this kind of thing incomprehensible. Poor Amy to ever have had to see it.”

 
“And poor Agnes.”

  “Quite. Is she the one who wrote the obscenities on the mourning card?”

  “Probably. Miss Slade was fairly certain it was the girl’s hand.”

  Seymour gazed at the photograph of the dead baby. “It’s hard to believe that a young girl would deface a picture such as this. Where would she have learned such words?”

  “Miss Slade says the girl’s father is a complete ne’er-do-well. I met him and I’d concur with that. The mother is dead and there has been no mitigating influence, if there was indeed a maternal one, except for the classroom and Miss Slade.”

  “And if ever a woman would provide a mitigating influence, as you put it, she would.”

  Seymour’s expression was fond but Murdoch thought it revealed a fraternal fondness and once again he was annoyed with himself for caring about that.

  “Do you think Agnes was coerced into posing for the stereoscopic picture? Or was she paid?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t been able to question her myself. She hasn’t returned to school. I spoke to her brother, but other than saying she might be with an older sister who is in service he wasn’t helpful. And now that Leonard Sims has been found dead, I’m very worried about the girl’s involvement.”

  Seymour picked up the other photograph. “Have you covered up his parts because he’s naked?”

  “Yes. I might have to show that picture around.”

  “The black border and the scratching out of the two faces look as if they have been done with the same pen and ink, so I assume it’s Agnes’s work too.” The sergeant replaced the picture in the envelope. “What have you done so far?”

  Quickly Murdoch related his visits to Gregory’s Emporium and the other two studios.

  “Gregory’s is the closest to the Sackville Street School and Agnes’s house. I didn’t like the fellow who owns the place, but I couldn’t find anything to link him to the stereoscopic pictures or the mourning card.”

  “I can understand your rationale for starting there, but the child could have met them anywhere. We should check every studio in the city.”