“Good thing you’ve come, Mr. Murdoch,” said Beatrice. “He always overdoes it and he won’t listen to me. We’ve done quite enough for one night.”
Arthur had dressed himself in trousers and a flannel shirt for the occasion. In the candlelight, with a brighter energy in his face, he looked almost healthy. Murdoch felt a rush of affection for him and would have embraced him if he hadn’t known it would embarrass everybody. He tapped his foot on the floor. They had rolled up the hall rug to make walking a bit easier.
“This is perfect for doing a schottische. Mrs. K., we can practise whenever you’re ready.”
“I’ve forgotten how. Here, let me take your things,” said Mrs. Kitchen, abandoning her husband. “It’s been so miserable all day. I’ve got your dinner warming.”
“Thank you. As usual, I’m famished. Will you join me, Arthur?”
“Why don’t you eat first. I’ll have a rest to satisfy my wife and then we can have tea.”
“You can go right into the parlour,” said Beatrice. “I’ll just see to Father.”
“No, you won’t,” said Arthur and he flexed his arm to make a muscle. “I am strong as the Borneo Wild Man. I will go myself and sit in my chair until called.”
He was speaking jokingly but his frustration was evident. Before he became ill, Arthur Kitchen had been highly active, a keen bicyclist and walker. According to his wife, he was an excellent dancer, specialty the polka, something Murdoch was still aspiring to.
Beatrice went on down to the kitchen and Arthur into the middle room. Murdoch stood for a moment, blowing on his cold hands, but really trying to listen for sounds from upstairs – the typewriting machine, or Enid talking to her son. He was just about to go into the parlour when he heard the stairs creak. Mrs. Jones herself came down the stairs. She was holding her son’s hand and they were both dressed for the outdoors in long rubber waterproof coats. There was something in her expression that he couldn’t quite read. Guarded, not altogether happy to see him. He felt a rush of disappointment. Back to that again, were they?
“Mrs. Jones, Alwyn. Where are you off to on such a dreary night?”
“There is a special meeting at the church. A speaker has come up from Wisconsin. He is just returned from our mission in Nigeria. Apparently, he is most inspirational.” Her voice was full of enthusiasm and Murdoch felt jealous. It made him sharp.
“I sincerely hope he is worth braving the rain.”
She was aware of his tone and her face clouded. “He will be, I am sure. He has worked for Our Lord for many years.”
Murdoch stepped back so she could pass him. He tapped the boy playfully on his cap but the child shrank away as if he had dealt him a blow. That irritated Murdoch as well. The boy was a mardy tit most of the time. At the door, Enid hesitated and turned back to him.
“I really don’t expect us to be late, Mr. Murdoch. Perhaps you and I could have a word together if you’re still up?”
“For that I’ll wait till midnight.”
He’d meant to be gallant but the words came out angry.
“Good evening, then.”
She opened the door, letting in a surge of cold, wet air. Murdoch went into the front room, chastising himself for being such a boor. Mrs. Jones seemed highly devout to him. Not likely to change her religion. He caught himself. If it came to that, what about him? Could he denounce his faith, which is what he supposed he would have to do if … Again he stopped. Look at him, racing ahead of himself like a fanciful girl. Marriage on his mind and they didn’t even use each other’s first names! He went over to the table and sat down at the place set for him. Does any of it really matter? Our Lord didn’t declare himself a Baptist or a Catholic for that matter. He’d started out his life as a Jew. Who was he anyway? Murdoch had asked that question once when he was being taught his catechism. The priest had slapped him with the holy book on the side of the head. “Those sorts of heathen questions sound too close to blasphemy, young man. Go kneel down in that corner and say your Paternosters until I tell you to move.”
Murdoch had stayed there until his knees screamed with pain but he had not begged for release.
He rubbed at his face hard. This seemed to be his day for chewing over old grudges. Father O’Malley was one. A big, tough priest, he had both a brogue and brain as thick as an Irish bog.
Murdoch knew his mother would have liked to have seen him enter the priesthood, but he couldn’t imagine it. However, his sister Susanna had gone into a convent school and took her final vows at the age of eighteen. She lived as a cloistered nun in a convent in Montreal and he hadn’t seen her for a long time. He was allowed to write and received one letter a year. Hers was impersonal, full of devout phrases. The playmate he had loved, argued with, and ultimately protected had vanished behind a veil of platitudes.
“My, you are looking very fierce, Mr. Murdoch.”
Mrs. Kitchen came in carrying a tray.
He grinned at her, glad to be brought out of his thoughts. “You’re right. I was thinking about the Church.”
She gave him a shrewd glance. “The Church or people in the Church?”
He helped unload the dinner plate. Tonight she had cooked his favourite dish, sausages and mashed potato and baked rutabaga.
“Your sweet is an egg custard. Mrs. Jones made it. She insisted. She said your gum was probably still sore. Arthur even tried some. Very tasty too.”
“Can I start with that?”
“Don’t you dare.” She smiled at him. “I find Mrs. Jones is a woman who grows on me. Quiet. I thought she was standoffish at first but she’s just reserved. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Murdoch?”
“I do indeed.”
“I particularly like the fact that she teaches her boy proper manners. She won’t take any nonsense.”
Murdoch nodded noncommittally.
“She’s a good mother, I’d say. Not one of these flighty women who’d stuff their children into whatever purse suits them.”
He looked at her but she wasn’t giving anything away.
She removed the tray to the sideboard. “I’ll leave you in peace then. Ring when you’re done.”
When she’d closed the door, Murdoch slowed down on the gusto with which he’d approached his meal. The potatoes were cold and lumpy, the rutabaga bitter, and the sausage had turned hard as a rock. But he didn’t live here on account of the food and he would never want Mrs. Kitchen to know what a dreadful cook she was.
He must have been asleep for more than an hour. The last he remembered was sitting in the armchair by the fire and putting his head back. He had the hazy impression of Beatrice covering him with a quilt, but he couldn’t let go of the sleep that was pulling him down. What finally woke him was the sound of the front door opening. He sat up, groggy, trying to grab awareness. The candle had burned low in the holder and the fire was down to embers. The clock showed eleven.
He heard footsteps on the stairs and, yawning, he got up and went into the hall. Enid Jones was struggling to negotiate the hall furniture. She was carrying Alwyn, who was fast asleep.
“Here, let me.” He held out his arms for the boy. At first he thought she was going to refuse but her only other choice was to put Alwyn down.
“Thank you.”
Awkwardly, she passed him over, heavy with the relaxation of sleep. His head dropped against Murdoch’s shoulder and he tucked him in under his chin.
“I’ll hold the door,” said Enid, and she whisked up the stairs ahead of him.
At the entrance to her room, he paused for her to light a lamp and pull back the coverlet from the bed. How warm and solid the boy felt in his arms, his breathing deep and regular. Murdoch gently kissed his cheek, still cool from the outdoors.
“Let me take off his waterproof.” She manoeuvred the boy’s arms out of the sleeves while Murdoch held him up. She was so close, he could see the shape of her mouth, a faint down on her upper lip.
“Lay him here, if you please.”
He did so and Alwy
n immediately rolled onto his stomach, knee bent.
“I’ll have to take off his boots, but I don’t have the heart to disturb him now. I’ll wait.”
“Surely you didn’t carry him all the way from Jarvis Street?” asked Murdoch in a whisper.
“No, just from the top of the street, but by the time we got here, he felt heavier than a sack of potatoes. I would never have managed the stairs. Thank you so much, Mr. Murdoch.”
“Not at all. It was my pleasure.” And he meant it.
She hesitated. “I was hoping we could talk for a few moments. If you’re not too tired, that is.”
“I’m wide awake. We can go down to the parlour if you like. I don’t hear anything from the Kitchens so I’m assuming they are asleep.”
“I am much later than I expected.”
“The speaker had a lot to say then?”
“Yes. He was quite wonderful and people had many questions for him.”
She took off her waterproof, unpinned her hat, put it on the dresser, and quickly smoothed back her hair.
“Shall we go downstairs?”
Nathaniel could not understand why Jarius was not answering him. He had told him twice that he wanted to get up. He had vomited on his bed, on the pillow, and the sour smell was in his nostrils. He wanted to move his face away but he couldn’t. He tried to talk again but the words he heard coming out were garbled, not what he wanted to say. He could see Jarius frown uncomprehendingly. My arm has gone to sleep, help me roll over on my back. Somebody must have put the rug over him because he could feel the weight. It was far too heavy. He was cold though, the fire must have gone out. Had he tripped when he was going to put on another piece of coal? He wanted to turn his head to see but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t. He could hear somebody talking gibberish. What idiot is that? he wondered.
“Father? Father?” Jarius was kneeling beside him, and he slipped an arm under Nathaniel’s shoulders to hoist him into a sitting position. Nathaniel made an anguished effort to tell him what was happening but all that came out were grunts.
“Augusta!” yelled Jarius. “Augusta, come here quick!”
Chapter Thirty-Two
MURDOCH HEARD FOOTSTEPS coming down the corridor toward the cell. The heavy tread could belong only to Constable Crabtree. The tiny panel in the cell door was pushed aside and he could see the constable’s eyes peering in. They looked amused.
“You can come in, George, I’m awake.”
Crabtree entered. He was carrying a mug of something, presumably tea.
“Thought you’d like this, sir.”
Murdoch scratched his leg under his trouser leg. “Who was in here last?”
“Old Joe Baxter, I think.”
“He left a lot behind.”
He took the mug and drank some of the tea. It was strong and tasted as if a cup of sugar had been dumped into it. It was also scalding hot and he winced.
“Did you get any sleep at all, sir?”
“No. But at least it made me more sympathetic toward our guests. I’m going to requisition a new pallet. Some rocks have wandered into this one.”
He yawned and looked around the small cell. There was a narrow bed, which had a straw mattress and an iron-hard blanket, a stool, and a bucket “What do you say to a couple of pictures on the walls, George? Tasteful. I’ll donate my portrait of Colonel Grasett. Cheer the place up a bit.”
“The prisoners might want to stay on if we do that.”
Murdoch scratched again. “Highly unlikely, even with decorations.”
He twisted his head, trying to get the kink out of his neck. “I’d better get out of here before the others start wondering what the hell I’m doing.”
“You’re not the first officer to doss down in one of the cells and you probably won’t be the last.”
“I should have gone to the Avonmore but this was the first place I thought of.”
Crabtree nodded. Ever tactful, he hadn’t yet inquired why Murdoch had come to the station in the middle of the night looking for a bed to sleep in.
“George, how did you and Ellen meet each other?”
If the constable was surprised by the question, he didn’t show it. “We’ve known each other since we were kids. Our parents were good friends. We played in each other’s back yards.”
“So, when did you know you were in love with each other?”
“In love? I can’t say exactly. We just sort of took it for granted that we would get married.”
“And you’re both Methodists, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you believe in mixed marriages, George?”
“You mean if the parties are of different religions?”
“Yes. What if one was, say, Roman Catholic, and the other was, say, Baptist? Do you think such a marriage would work?”
“That would depend, wouldn’t it?”
“On what?” Murdoch almost shouted out the question.
“I suppose on how important religion was to each person and how much they were prepared to compromise.”
Murdoch groaned. He felt as if he’d been drinking for two days, with his thick tongue and head. Enid and he had gone downstairs to the parlour but he knew, he could tell, he was not going to like what she had to say. And he hadn’t.
“I’ve been thinking and thinking, and difficult as it is for me to come to my conclusion, I have done so.”
“Yes?” His heart sinking.
“You would want me to convert to Catholicism and I could not do that. I would be disloyal to my husband’s memory and the solemn promise I made to him to rear Alwyn with Jesus as his Saviour. Therefore, I’m leaving. I’ve found another boarding house closer to the church.”
“And further away from St Paul’s, I suppose?”
He had to admire her – she’d shown more honesty than he had. Then, for the first time, she called him by his Christian name and the sweetness of it was almost obliterated by the hurt of what she was saying.
“Will, I must admit, I am growing very fond of you, but for both our sakes, it is better that these feelings do not continue.”
Murdoch fingered his bristly jaw. He needed a shave.
“I have been turned down, George.”
“By Mrs. Jones, sir? The Welsh lady?”
“That’s the one. She doesn’t think she can overcome the obstacle of our different religions. She also said, and I quote, ‘We have both suffered loss of a loved one. It is lonely we are. We must not mistake these feelings for real love. They may have been created by mere proximity.’ As if it would have happened with any man.”
Crabtree cleared his throat. “Forgive me, Mr. Murdoch, but she does have a point. Perhaps when she is living somewhere else, you can determine if you have found true love or not.”
Murdoch had to laugh at the solemnity with which his constable delivered this speech. “You’re in the wrong line of work, George. You should have been a minister.”
“I did consider that at one time, sir. But Ellen didn’t fancy being a minister’s wife. Too much scrutiny on you. I am assuming, by the way, sir, that you do intend to see Mrs. Jones when she is not under the same roof?”
“I don’t know. I hadn’t got that far.”
They heard steps outside and one of the young constables came to the door.
“There’s somebody here to see you, Mr. Murdoch. A Scotch lassie.”
“Who?”
“The boy with the braid down his back.”
“The Chinaman’s son?”
“That’s the one.”
“Did he say what he wanted?”
“Och, no.” He gave a dreadful imitation of Foon Lee’s accent.
“Give me a few minutes, then bring him down to my office.”
“Yes, sir.” He looked around the cell curiously. “Are you doing an inspection, Mr. Murdoch?”
“Something like that.”
He stood up and felt a sharp twinge in his lower back. “George, remind me from
time to time, will you, that I am a grown man and I do not have to behave like a child in a temper.”
He’d yelled out at her, “If you consider I am too proximate, as you put it, I will go somewhere else.”
Crabtree grinned. “Why don’t I see if I can dig out a razor for you? Nothing like scraping at your face to make you realise you’ve grown up.”
Lifting the strands of reeds, Crabtree ushered Foon Lee into the cubicle. The young man bowed. Murdoch didn’t quite know how to respond but he sort of bobbed his head.
“Have a seat, Mr. Lee.”
Foon took the chair in front of the desk and immediately put his hands in the wide sleeves of his tunic. He was in his working clothes today, blue linen tunic and black wide trousers. Murdoch thought he seemed ill at ease, and was trying hard not to show it. Probably it was the first time he had ever been inside a police station. Murdoch suddenly had the sense of how it might look to the young Chinaman. Strange people, strange ways. He smiled, trying to put him at ease, then got self-conscious. Perhaps in China it wasn’t considered good manners to smile.
“You wanted to talk to me, Mr. Lee?”
The young man nodded or bowed, Murdoch couldn’t tell which it was. Maybe both.
There was an uncomfortable silence while they both looked at each other; Murdoch tried to appear encouraging.
“I have come concerning the matter of the constable who recently met with his death. On later reflection, my father has decided he is not utterly positive in his identification of the young woman accompanying the constable on that fateful night. In fact, on later reflection he has determined that the woman you, yourself, presented was more likely to be the one he had first seen standing behind the officer.” He paused to await Murdoch’s response, who, sensing there was more to come, didn’t say anything. Foon looked away and addressed the rest of his remarks to the wall behind Murdoch’s shoulder. “In the interests of helping the police officers in their quest, my father is, however, able to offer some information concerning the other woman. The ladyship who appeared at the inquest and said she was betrothed to Mr. Wicken.”
Poor Tom Is Cold Page 22
