“I know. Unfortunately, there’s nothing to say the photographs have even come from a studio. What do they need? A camera and a set? Not much more.”
He took his cabinet pictures from his pocket and handed them to Seymour. “I had my portrait taken at the Emporium.”
Seymour grinned. “You look very prosperous, Will.”
“I was imagining I was Inspector Brackenreid. But, as you can see, the backdrops aren’t like anything in either of the cards. I managed to have a look inside the cupboard in the studio but there was nothing that corresponded.” He knocked out the tobacco from his pipe. “Really, the only two leads I have at the moment are, first, the baby’s mourning card and the place where the older sister is working. The baby’s picture looks as if it was taken by a different photographer, but it was in Agnes’s possession so it might lead us somewhere. Her brother thinks she got them from Martha, the older girl, which is a second reason to find her.”
Seymour echoed his gravity. “I agree. What do you want me to do?”
“I’d like you to go to the library and check the death columns in the newspapers for the past six months. Make a list of all the children about three or four months of age who have died. We’ll divide up the numbers and go and see if they had mourning cards made and if so what photographer they used. At the same time, I’d like to check the Help Wanted columns and see if anybody was advertising for a servant girl before and including June of last year.”
Seymour chuckled. “You’d be surprised at how easy that might be. I don’t even have to go outside.” He stood up. “Come on.”
Murdoch put the envelope in his pocket and followed Seymour downstairs. The sergeant knocked on Reordan’s door. “John, it’s me again. Can we have a word?”
The Irishman opened the door promptly and a wave of stale air came out of his room.
“Will here needs to search through some newspapers and we were wondering if you could give us a hand.”
Reordan’s eyes brightened. “My pleasure. Come in to the library.”
The Irishman stepped aside and gestured them into his room. Murdoch had never seen anything quite like it. There were stacks of newspapers on every inch of the floor and little else in the room except a filing cabinet and a narrow bed. Pathways wound in and out of the stacks. The three of them were crowded awkwardly in the tiny space left to let the door open.
“John is the Knights record keeper,” said Seymour. “He keeps track of any publicity that the Knights receive in all of the newspapers in the country as well as any news events that might be of concern to us.”
Reordan beamed. “I keep a record of everything. This might look like a maze but it ain’t. I know where everything is.” He was clearly very proud of his accomplishment, but Murdoch was in danger of suffocating from the lack of fresh air in the room and the amount of newspaper there was.
“What are you looking for exactly?”
“We need names and addresses of all families who suffered the bereavement of a male infant over the past six months.”
“Right you are.”
“I’d also like names and addresses of any people advertising for a servant girl during the month of June last year. And if you can tell me which of those stopped advertising in July, I’ll be forever in your debt.”
“Done.”
“How long do think it will take?”
“I’ll help,” interjected Seymour.
“In that case, an hour, an hour and a half at the most.” Reordan looked at him. “Am I to know what for?”
Murdoch hesitated. “With regard to the bereaved families we’re trying to find out if they have had any dealings with a particular photographer we want to question. The servant girl is somebody we’d like to talk to.”
“Good enough.”
He shuffled off toward the wooden filing cabinet and Murdoch beckoned Seymour into the hall.
“While you’re doing that, I’m going to go see if I can shake some information from Agnes’s father.”
Seymour grimaced. “Be careful, Will.”
“Don’t worry. I’m the soul of tact.”
“Ha!”
Seymour let him out and, once on the street, Murdoch breathed in deep drafts of the chill air as if he could clean out both Reordan’s story and Agnes’s plight. He couldn’t. He only succeeded in making himself cough.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Fisher wasn’t at home, so as much as he wanted to get his hands on the man, Murdoch couldn’t. Once again, young Mrs. Tibbett answered the door and smiled shyly at him. She didn’t know where Fisher had gone, she said, but probably to one of the local taverns. Ben wasn’t in the house either. Still posing as a truant officer, Murdoch repeated that Agnes’s teacher was anxious about her, but, when pressed, Kate could give no further information as to where the girl might be. Murdoch thought she was troubled about something, but one of the twins set up a wail in the background and she hurried away.
He left, briefly contemplated trying to find Fisher’s rookery but decided against it. He wasn’t likely to get much information out of him if he was drunk and he was still acting on the premise that the man wasn’t aware of what his daughter was up to. Murdoch didn’t know how long he could keep the situation quiet, but he could understand why Amy Slade hadn’t wanted to report the girl to the police. A couple of years ago, the inspector had received a letter from a woman who claimed that her next-door neighbour was trying to force connections on his own daughter, a girl of ten. She said the girl herself had told her so. Murdoch had been sent to investigate and he found a situation of appalling poverty and misery. The child’s mother was a hopeless drunk, as was the father. At that time, the girl, younger even than Agnes Fisher, had, with great fear, whispered it was true what she’d confided to the neighbour. A charge of rape had been brought against her father. However, when the case came to court, the girl, like Aggie, was unable to speak or confirm what she had said. The judge, an arrogant irascible old man, couldn’t or wouldn’t understand that she was terrified and he’d sentenced her to three months for contempt of court. She was sent to the Mimico Girl’s Industrial School. And that was the end of her. Murdoch tried to keep track of her after the sentence was served, but the family left the city and she disappeared with them.
He pulled his muffler tighter against the damp, cold air and began to walk in the direction of the Smithers house on Church Street, near Gerrard. At least he could report back to Brackenreid that he had done something.
The house was large but not in a state of good repair. An elderly butler ushered him into a musty-smelling and cold drawing room festooned everywhere in black crepe. Here, Mrs. Smithers, a woman who must have been well over seventy, was sitting hunched over a meagre fire. She was in mourning dress. Opposite her was another woman in the plain grey gown of a servant. She, too, was elderly and bent with age. She got to her feet when Murdoch was announced and came over to him. Her face was haggard and her eyes were red from weeping. The butler remained in the room.
“Oh, Mr. Murdoch. Thank goodness you’re here. Perhaps the mistress will listen to you.”
The mistress, in fact, showed no indication that this would be the case. She hadn’t even turned around but sat staring into the fire and muttering. Murdoch went closer.
“Mrs. Smithers, I’m Detective Murdoch. Inspector Brackenreid sent me to talk to you. You are missing a brooch, I believe.”
The old lady looked up at him. “After all these years, and all I’ve done for, to turn against me like this.”
“Who is that, ma’am?”
Mrs. Smithers jerked her head in the direction of her maid-servant. “Her, of course, Carlyle.”
Murdoch could see the other woman’s body tremble as if she had been struck and he threw a sympathetic glance over at her.
“My mother-in-law gave that brooch to me when I was married,” continued Mrs. Smithers. She looked up at a sombre painting that was hung over the fireplace. The frame was also draped in black crepe and
the subject, a short, plump woman, bore a strong resemblance to Queen Victoria. A cherub smiled down from the right corner. “It can never be replaced, never,” sniffed Mrs. Smithers.
Tears were running down her face and mucus from her nose that she didn’t bother to wipe away. Carlyle came over to her and offered her a handkerchief, but Mrs. Smithers slapped her hand away like a petulant child.
“Don’t try to make up to me, you thief. I know you’ve taken it to the Jews.”
The maid turned to Murdoch. “Oh, sir. I never touched it, I swear to you. She says she’s going to turn me out without a reference. What will I do? How can she believe I would ever rob her? I have been a true servant to this family since I was a girl.”
“I can vouch for that, sir,” said the butler, casting an anxious glance at Mrs. Smithers.
Murdoch crouched down, closer to the old woman, so he could get her attention. He took out his notebook and pencil. “And when was the last time you saw the brooch, ma’am?”
“It was on my dressing table the night before Mother Smithers passed away. I know that without the shadow of a doubt because I picked it up and showed it to her. She recognized it, I know she did, and she smiled.”
Murdoch stood up. “Has the house been searched?” he asked the butler.
“Turned upside down three times, sir. It is nowhere to be found. We only keep three servants. Miss Carlyle and myself and a cook, Mrs. Walden. She too has been with the family for many years and she is above reproach.” He lowered his voice. “If I may say, sir, the piece of jewellery in itself is not of particular value. It is what it means to Mrs. Smithers.”
She, however, heard that. “It is priceless. A silver circlet with five garnets. I know that Mother Smithers would only have given me a brooch of great value.” Her vacuous pale blue eyes stared into Murdoch’s. “They are in it together. Both Carlyle and Hunter are in cahoots. They think that I will die soon and they can live off the proceeds. Well, they have another think coming. I have left them provided for in my will but not any more. I’m calling for my solicitor right away to change all that. And I will never give either of them good characters.”
Murdoch stood up and beckoned to the butler to move away with him out of earshot. Miss Carlyle was literally wringing her hands and Mrs. Smithers was back to talking into the fire.
“Is there another family member who might help here?”
“Only a nephew who lives in America. I have written to him, to beg him to intervene, but he is not on good terms with his aunt and even if he believed Miss Carlyle and myself, I don’t know if he would have any influence with our mistress.”
Hunter was a slim, white-haired man of great dignity. Murdoch had the impression that all his working life he had strived to be the perfect butler, loyal, unobtrusive, and efficient, probably a great snob. But now, his world was torn apart and looked bleak indeed.
“Do you have any idea what might have happened to the brooch?”
“I’ve racked my brains, sir. Mrs. Smithers in the past few years has become increasingly forgetful and we have often found articles that were not in their correct places. But as I say, we have searched the house from top to bottom and not come across anything. We were all quite upset because Mrs. Smithers senior had passed on so I assume in the confusion, madam misplaced the brooch somewhere in the house.”
Murdoch gave the butler a warning nod and went back to the old woman. “Mrs. Smithers, Inspector Brackenreid is taking your case very seriously. We have received reports that there are gypsies in the area and we are sure it is there we will find our culprits. I think you can put your mind at rest about your servants, ma’am. I for one believe them to be totally trustworthy and I am a police officer.”
She glanced up at the dour portrait and clasped her hands together as if in prayer. She started to rock slightly. “Oh, Mother Smithers would never forgive me.”
“I’m sure she will understand it is not your fault, ma’am. She will not hold you accountable.”
He’d been shooting in the dark but his words seemed to hit a bull’s eye. Mrs. Smithers’s face flooded with delight.
“Do you not think so, sir? Oh I do hope you are right.”
“I’m sure I am. Now can I have your solemn promise that you will not blame Miss Carlyle any more? You need somebody to take care of you after all you’ve been through. You don’t want to drive her away now, do you?”
She shook her head and sniffed. “I promise. How dreadful of those wretched gypsies to cast suspicions like that. They must be punished.”
“Indeed they will be, ma’am.”
She caught his hand with her dust-dry fingers. “You will find the brooch though, won’t you?”
“We’ll do our best, ma’am.”
He stepped away and the maid slipped in closer to her mistress, picked up the discarded handkerchief, and handed it to her. This time it was accepted and Mrs. Smithers patted Carlyle’s hand.
“May I show you out, sir?” Hunter asked.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Smithers. I will come back to see you next week.”
“Good afternoon. My compliments to Inspector Brackenreid.”
Murdoch followed the butler into the hall.
“Should we have concerns about gypsies, sir?”
“I don’t think so. Let’s say I was stretching the truth a little. Your mistress needs the attention of a physician, Mr. Hunter.”
“We are aware of that, sir, but she has been most resistant. And all this dreadful fuss for a trinket. Miss Carlyle has given her lifeblood to the Smithers family, as have I, myself.” His polite mask dropped briefly. “My mistress tells anybody who will listen that the brooch was silver with garnets, but in fact it was silver-coated and stones are missing. It is hardly worth two dollars and for this she would cast out her faithful servants.”
Murdoch nodded with some sympathy. At the door, the butler paused. “Excuse me, sir. I know this is most unorthodox, but may I shake you by the hand? Both Miss Carlyle and I have been at our wit’s end. You seem to have calmed her down.”
His voice cracked for a moment. They both knew that the calm was probably temporary and before long the delusions would reassert themselves in a different form. If Mrs. Smithers insisted on dismissing them, there wasn’t much they could do to prevent her. Murdoch shook his hand.
Murdoch hadn’t walked far when he heard the sound of horse’s hooves behind him and, on the spur of the moment, decided he’d take the luxury of a cab ride. It felt as if it had been a long day.
He turned around. The side flag was up, signifying the cabbie was free for hire and Murdoch waved at him. The coachman was heavy with his greatcoat, thick muffler, and fur hat, only his eyes visible. He flicked his whip in acknowledgement of Murdoch’s signal and pulled his horse over to the curb.
“Hop in, sir.”
“Actually I want to ask you some questions. I’ll ride up there with you.”
“Suit yourself, sir. Come to the North Pole.”
Murdoch climbed up beside him and gave him the address on River Street.
“Walk on,” the cabbie called to his horse and off they went. “What you want to know? Don’t tell me, you’re going to rag on me about Ned, here? He’s a miserly looking wretch, but I treat him good. He’s always looked that way.”
“It’s nothing like that. I’m trying to trace the movements of certain men who may have hired a cab to go down to the lake within the past two weeks. They would have been carrying a heavy piece of luggage, possibly at night.”
“Wasn’t no fare of mine. I’d remember that.”
“Did you hear any of the other cabbies talking about it?”
The cabbie’s eyebrows were bushy, greying, and eloquent. “Are we referring to smugglers or has somebody absconded with your wife?”
“No, no. Sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Acting Detective Murdoch from Number Four Station. I’m pursuing an investigation.”
“And I’m Mr. Frobisher practising surviva
l in the North Pole.”
Murdoch pulled off his glove so he could remove a calling card from his pocket. He handed it to the cabbie, who looked it over carefully, then handed it back.
“All right. I believe you.”
He tugged off his glove. “The name’s McCrae, Tom McCrae.”
Murdoch shook hands, then took out the photograph of Sims.
“Have you ever seen this fellow?”
The cabbie shook his head. “And I’d remember, believe me, if a tarted-up nancy boy in a state of undress got into the cab.” He grinned. “Trying to nab him, are you?”
“As a matter of fact, he’s dead. He’s been murdered. I’m after the killer.”
McCrae didn’t actually say serves him right, but it was obvious from his expression that he felt that way.
“The fellow’s name was Leonard Sims and he was involved in the taking and probable sale of obscene photographs.”
McCrae frowned. “There you go then.”
“Has anybody ever approached you to buy or sell obscene photographs? Where would they find pictures like that?”
“I’ve had all sorts of human kind in my cab, Mr. Murdoch, and I’ve been asked that before and worse, but the answer is no. I make it a point not to know. To tell you the truth, riff-raff like that I usually turf out. I stop the cab and open the door.”
“Do you think any of the other cabbies would know where to find those kind of photographers?”
“If they did, they ain’t likely to tell you. Not all of them are good, hard-working lads like me.”
Murdoch thought it was an avenue he’d pursue later if the other search didn’t pan out. McCrae seemed to have retreated into his greatcoat and Murdoch was afraid that, in spite of the official calling card, the cabbie thought he was inquiring to satisfy a personal lust. The life of a cabbie!
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Murdoch jumped down from the cab just as Amy Slade was walking up the path to the front door. She turned and Murdoch felt a rush of pleasure at seeing her.
Night's Child Page 17
