Poor Tom Is Cold

by Maureen Jennings

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  HE DECIDED TO GO STRAIGHT OVER to the lending library, which was situated on Toronto Street, to the rear of St James’ Cathedral. He wanted to see if he could find at least one definite confirmation of Isobel’s story. Needing exercise, he walked briskly down Sackville to King Street where he could catch a streetcar. This far east, the stores were smaller, not as classy. There wasn’t a line of carriages waiting outside any of them the way there always was nearer to the fancy stores on Church and Jarvis streets.

  A streetcar was clanking toward him and he signalled to the driver to stop. He stepped on board into an almost empty car. The oil heater at the rear had been lit and inside was warm, smelling of the straw that was scattered on the floorboards to soak up the mud. In the middle of winter, the snow made everything a brown stew, but today the straw was still relatively fresh. Murdoch took a seat near the front and the ticket collector was on him at once, rattling his box.

  “Fare please, sir.”

  He dropped in his ticket and the collector moved on. For a moment Murdoch almost envied him. His job seemed so clear-cut and defined. His only challenge was to keep a sharp lookout for cheaters, men who only went a couple of blocks, then, when he was busy, got off without paying. He was a young fellow, good-looking in a bold way. Destined to go far up the ranks of the Toronto Street Railway Corporation. He looked like the kind of man who would push for Sunday service. Murdoch thought the fuss about this issue was an utter waste of time. Some councillors were adamant that to have the streetcar running on the Sabbath was to propagate the work of the devil himself. Logically, this applied only to the streetcar workers, as all taverns and hotels and places of entertainment were closed on Sunday. Murdoch himself would like to have seen the cars running, taking people out to Sunnyside on hot summer days, for instance, or church even, if that’s what they wanted. He sighed at the thought. He had long hated the dead space of Sunday when the entire city went into a kind of slumber.

  “Church street. Who wants Church Street?” the conductor bellowed out. Murdoch got to his feet, the conductor pulled on the bell rope to alert the driver, and the streetcar halted at the corner.

  On the northeast side of King and Church was St James’ Cathedral. Murdoch had passed by many times without paying much attention, but now he actually looked at it. The slender copper spire, gleaming from the recent rain, soared into the pewter sky. The buff-coloured brick was warm and inviting even on this dull day. From the outside, it looked like a Roman Catholic church. The same cruciform design, the same dignity. If he had more time, he could go in and see what the inside was like. For one reason or another, not the least being a primitive superstition, he had never disobeyed the Catholic Church’s teaching about the dangers inherent in the abodes of the nonbelievers. As he walked up to the library, he chided himself. It wouldn’t hurt if he started exploring.

  It was so quiet in the library that entering it was not unlike stepping into a place of worship. He almost looked for the holy water font.

  The newspaper reading room was to the right and he decided to start there. At the far end was a high counter, and behind it, a young woman waited patiently for requests. She was wearing a white waist with a stiff high collar and a rather masculine tie. Her fair hair was pulled up into a severe knot and she was wearing gold pince-nez. She looked highly efficient. Nonetheless, her smile was friendly as she acknowledged him.

  “Today’s Globe is the only one available at the moment, sir. Would you like that?”

  Murdoch assumed the rush on the daily papers was because of the shipping disaster everybody was caught up in.

  “I’m not a customer, I’m afraid. I’m a detective with the police force, number four station.” He handed her his card and she took it gingerly. “I’m trying to trace the movements of one of our constables. I have reason to believe he was here on Saturday last, in the afternoon. Were you on duty at that time, Miss, er …” He checked the brass nameplate that was on the counter. “… Miss Morse?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “Perhaps you remember him? A tall fellow, about twenty-four years of age, with a blond moustache, fresh complexion.”

  “Does he have a name?” she asked, reaching for a small file box in front of her.

  “Oliver Wicken.”

  Surprisingly, she looked a little flustered. “Yes, I do remember the name. He was here about three o’clock. He took the Huntsville Forester. It isn’t often I get a request for that newspaper, so we had a little chat about it … that’s why I remember him so particularly.”

  Murdoch felt bad. Wicken was an attractive young man and probably not above a little harmless flirting. At least Murdoch hoped it was harmless and he wasn’t going to unearth yet another fiancée.

  The librarian looked at him with curiosity. “May I ask why you wish to know? He isn’t in any trouble surely?”

  They had both been speaking in hushed tones, but even so, an elderly gentleman wearing check knickerbockers, who was at one of the nearby stands, hissed at them.

  Murdoch sidestepped her question. “Was Mr. Wicken alone?”

  “Yes, he was.”

  Murdoch sighed. Did this mean Isobel Brewster had lied? A man came up to the counter. His clothes were shabby and he smelled stale. Murdoch knew he had come in because the library was warm and dry.

  “The Globe, if you please,” he said to Miss Morse.

  She took the rolled-up newspaper from one of the cubbyholes behind her, where they were stashed, and handed it to him.

  “There’s a free space in the far aisle at the back,” she said.

  Murdoch liked her for not discriminating against the man, who more than likely couldn’t read a word.

  From where she was sitting, the librarian had a good view of the entire room and who came and went. Murdoch turned back to her.

  “Did you notice if Mr. Wicken spoke to anybody while he was here?”

  She frowned. “I believe he did. He must have met an acquaintance. They did talk briefly, as I recall.”

  “Could you describe the gentleman?”

  “As a matter of fact it was a lady.”

  Several men were standing in front of the long easels where the newspapers were hung, but as far as he could see there were no women. He didn’t expect anything else. Most women were still doubtful about the propriety of being in a man’s domain.

  He leaned forward. “Miss Morse, you have been very helpful and I’m sorry that at the moment I am not at liberty to tell you why I am making these enquiries. However, it is very important. Can you describe this woman?”

  “I barely paid her any attention.”

  “Anything at all that you remember would be helpful. Her age, her colouring, her costume.”

  “Very well.” She wrinkled her forehead in concentration but he knew she was pretending. She had paid a lot of attention to Wicken’s acquaintance but didn’t want to admit to it.

  “I believe she was quite dark, with an olive complexion, and tall. Almost as tall as Mr. Wicken himself. Perhaps a few years older than myself … I am twenty-two. She was wearing a long waterproof, a rather smart scarlet hat with a white feather and navy ribbons.”

  Murdoch dragged at his moustache, relieved. Sorry, Miss Brewster, for doubting you.

  “Did they leave together?”

  “Yes, now that you mention it, I believe they did.”

  “Did Mr. Wicken seem distressed in any way?”

  “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “Was their exchange amicable, would you say?”

  “It appeared to be.” Unconsciously the young woman sighed. “He looked quite happy to see her.”

  Murdoch could almost read her thoughts, the doubts that his questions were raising, but he still couldn’t stomach telling her what had happened. Perhaps he could come back at a later time near the end of the day. He suspected Miss Morse might be harbouring more passion in her breast than her white starched shirtwaist might indicate. Fortunate
ly, the knickerbockered man intervened as he returned his newspaper. Murdoch whispered a quick good-bye and left. It was time to get back to Isobel Brewster. At least one part of her testimony seemed to be true.

  Isobel herself answered the door and he knew she had been waiting, jumping at every knock. He asked her to get the exact clothes she was wearing on Monday night, which she did at once. He could hear a fretful child in the background and the rather sharp hushing of a woman’s voice. Isobel joined him quickly. She had put on her long waterproof and a sensible black felt hat, which had only a single piece of blue ribbon for trimming. They set off up Parliament Street and he told her that the librarian had confirmed that she was with Wicken last Saturday. She made no comment but he could see how relieved she was.

  At the corner of Queen Street, he stopped and took the piece of muslin from his notebook.

  “Is this your hair, Miss Brewster?”

  She hardly looked at it, but he could see she was affected. “Yes. I gave it to Ollie at Christmastime as a memento. At his request. He snipped off a piece himself when we were walking in the park.”

  Unasked, she took the curl and placed it close to her own hair. It was an exact match. Another point on her side.

  They soon reached Sam Lee’s laundry and Murdoch asked her to stand where she had been on Monday night. She did, taking up a spot close to the curb.

  Murdoch pushed open the door and entered. Almost at the same time, the door at the rear opened and Foon Lee emerged.

  “Can I be of assistance, sir?”

  “Detective Murdoch, again, Mr. Lee. I wonder if I might speak to your father for a moment?”

  The young man stared at him, not recognising him at first. Then he gave a slight bow of recognition.

  “Certainly. I will fetch him simultaneously.”

  Murdoch was about to correct his English usage, but thought it might seem rude and he let it go. Foon went back through the rear door.

  He heard a murmured conversation and Mr. Lee came out, his son close at his heels.

  He put his hands together and bowed in the Chinese greeting.

  “Mr. Murdoch?” He pronounced it “Mulldot.”

  Murdoch addressed Foon. “Will you tell your father that I am still concerned about the death of the constable. Some new evidence has come to light that I am investigating. I have a witness outside and I would like to see if he can identify her.”

  Foon translated. Lee nodded.

  Murdoch went to the door. “I am going to stand here, the way the constable did that night. Will your father come close to me? If he looks out over my shoulder he will see a young woman. I would like to know if he has ever seen her before.”

  Lee moved forward before his son was in mid-translation. They stood in the threshold of the laundry, the door partially open behind them. Lee was considerably shorter than Murdoch but he peered around the detective’s arm and looked at Isobel.

  The Chinaman shook his head and spoke to his son. Murdoch thought he was agitated.

  “My father says not. He has never clapped his eyes to this woman before in her life.”

  “Is he positive she was not the one walking with Wicken on Monday night?”

  “He is certain of that. He has made a positive identification of that woman during the inquest … He wonder why you are asking him to retract his statement. A statement he made under oath.”

  Murdoch sighed. “Please tell him that’s not it at all. I just wanted to make absolutely sure.”

  “I do not know this person,” interjected Lee. “I have never seen her before.”

  Murdoch could not tell if he was speaking the truth or not. Both of them were watching him. He was disappointed. He had put a lot of stock in this meeting.

  He thanked them and went outside.

  Isobel stared at him anxiously as he approached her.

  “Well?”

  “I’m afraid he denied it. Says you are not the woman he saw.”

  “Damnation. How is that possible? Of course I was. He saw me, I know he did. I’ll talk to him …”

  Murdoch caught her by the arm. “No, Miss Brewster. It won’t do any good. He’s adamant.”

  She looked as if she were about to burst into tears.

  “Then you don’t believe me?”

  “Of course I do. I think he was too afraid to change his sworn testimony.” He let her go and she stood in front of him, her shoulders slumped.

  “What are you going to do now?” she asked.

  “I am going to talk to Miss Mary Ann Trowbridge.”

  He thought she was going to grasp his hand again, but she didn’t, and they headed back to her house.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  JARIUS GIBB WAS NOT AT WORK. He had sent Janet with a message to say he was ill and would not be in for a few days. In a way, it was true. He felt as hot and restless as if he had a fever. He had been this way since dinner on Wednesday and nothing calmed him. Finally, he forced himself to sit at his desk, his ledger open in front of him. Janet had brought him a mug of strong coffee, milky and sweet, which he laced with a good dose of brandy. He made himself drink it slowly and deliberately before he took up his pen.

  I want to fill up this page with obscenities and blasphemy, to pour out the vilest and crudest words I have ever heard, but it will not help me. He says, “You are not my own flesh and blood but you will get a bequest.” As if I should be grateful, should rejoice in the pew over his generosity. He has betrayed his promise to my mother which he made in my presence. “I will treat him as my own son, my own flesh and blood. I will give him my name.” And he has never. Not when he first married her, swelling with lust, he said it then. “The boy will be like my own.” LIAR. And he said it at her most solemn deathbed. “He shall have my name.” LIAR AGAIN. He could never love a son who did not reflect his own face back to him. He will bypass me because of the accident of blood. No son of his flesh would have behaved better than I. How many hours did I listen to him weep and complain at the loss of his wife, as if she had died on purpose to thwart him. He cared nothing that she was also my mother. And then to marry again without any consultation! It serves him right. He married weak blood and he threw weak blood. And now he would set up for more spawn. And with such a woman.

  He stopped writing. He was pressing so hard he was in danger of bending his nib. He got up, went over to the fireplace, and picked up the poker. He prodded one of the lumps of coal that wasn’t burning.

  Fortunately, Nathaniel had agreed to have the woman spayed. Presumably that would occur soon. He hit a piece of coal hard, splitting it in two. Flames jumped up to lick at the new fuel. He pounded another piece and another until the coal was completely fractured.

  Miss Trowbridge had given her address as 106 Jarvis Street. Murdoch took his second streetcar of the day and set out to talk to her. He was certain now that Mr. Lee was mistaken in his identification but afraid to admit it. However, he thought it was odd Miss Trowbridge had made no attempt to negate Lee’s statement. On the other hand, witnesses often had blinkers on about matters other than their own. She must have met up with Wicken after Isobel had left.

  As he headed back down Parliament toward Queen Street, he probed the hole in his gum with his tongue. His jaw was practically back to normal, as long he didn’t let in too much cold air and chewed on the other side. Mrs. Kitchen had resumed her duties and sent him off with a couple of hard-boiled eggs and a jar of milk sops for his luncheon. It didn’t come close to the rabbit stew that Enid had made for him, the memory of which made his mouth water. He hadn’t seen her this morning but he could hear her at the typewriter quite early. Perhaps tonight they could continue the interrupted talk she so obviously wanted. Not that he was any closer to coming up with an answer, but he didn’t just want to spout the church’s doctrine without thinking about it.

  There was a woman walking ahead of him. She halted at the corner and he saw her lift her skirt decorously to avoid a puddle as she stepped off the curb. Nevertheless, her
hem dragged through the water and he suddenly had a vivid memory of himself and Liza, sitting one evening in her kitchen. She took care of her widowed father, and when he went off to bed, they had some rare and precious privacy. On this particular occasion, she was trying to clean the skirt of her best walking suit. The hem was covered with mud. “Wretched thing. It is always dirty.” If she had lived, he knew she would have become an agitator for many reforms for women, including the adoption of what was currently called Rational Dress. “Why shouldn’t I be able to wear a sensible shorter skirt without being leered at, or insulted?” she’d demanded. He’d stupidly tried to make light of the issue with a lewd joke and she was angry with him. “How can you be so clever about some things and so nocky about others? I wish you’d open up your mind.”

  They’d eventually worked their way to a reasonable talk about her point of view, but her words had stung and he still thought about them.

  He was checking the house numbers now. One hundred and six was a big house of yellow brick, gables painted in the popular hunter green. Shrubs filled the large front yard, held in by a very fancy wrought-iron fence. The gate squeaked when he opened it and, on closer inspection, he could see the shrubs were shapeless and too bushy. There were weeds in the cracks of the flagstone path. The house might be grand but it looked neglected. He tugged at the bell-pull, hearing it clang inside the house. The bay windows to his right showed more care than the grounds. They were curtained with white lace, hung halfway up the window in the fashionable style. So far, nobody had answered, and he was about to ring again when the door creaked open. An elderly woman stood at the threshold, scrutinising him with a distinctly unfriendly expression. She wore a black silk dress and a white mobcap. There was a chatelaine at her waist which jingled slightly. He was somewhat surprised that the housekeeper had answered the door, but he gave her a polite smile and tipped his hat.