There was a low railing around the pool, presumably for the safety of the public and no doubt the goldfish. There were masses of small cresses growing around the rocks, and he thought some of them near the lip looked crushed. If you wanted to clean off your boots and trousers, this was the easiest place to reach the water. He wished he’d brought his magnifying glass. He examined the spot as closely as he could but couldn’t really see an imprint of a boot or shoe. A slate slab overhang was chipped at the end, but that could have happened a long time ago. Not yet what could be considered hard evidence. He straightened up and continued to move slowly along the path.
He had only gone a little way when he was struck by a sweet scent drifting on the air. He halted. Surely not! But there they were, a mass of purple hyacinths in the flowerbed. He always thought of them as Liza’s flowers now. “Oh my dear,” he said softly.
“Mr. Murdoch, sir. Over here.”
Crabtree was calling to him, his voice excited. Murdoch ran around to the other side, where he saw his constable kneeling by the edge of the path. Here there was another small pond and on its far bank were a shed and a small water wheel that was revolving slowly. Crabtree, his sleeve rolled up, had his arm thrust deep into the water.
“I think I’ve got something, sir.”
He bent even closer to the water and with a tug, like little Tom Horner, he pulled out the plum. One black boot, soles split, dirty. He repeated the action and fished out a second boot.
He beamed at Murdoch. “That wheel was making a funny noise. It was hitting something as it went around. I thought it was a good idea to see what was the trouble.”
“Well done, George. Well done. Is there anything else in there?”
Crabtree fished around. “I don’t think so.”
Murdoch knotted the shoelaces together so he could carry the boots. “Let’s continue the search, but I think we’ve got as much as we’re going to get.”
They stayed in the greenhouse for another half an hour but found nothing more that could be remotely seen as significant. There was no sign of a cake tin, with or without peacocks.
Chapter Twenty-Three
LOUISA HOWARD AND REVEREND SWANZEY had been sitting in silence for several minutes. Louisa was sewing her initials in black thread on new black-bordered handkerchiefs. She was glad of the lack of conversation, happy not to have to respond to the endless comments, mostly from the ladies, who had been calling on her. Such a good man, so kind and generous. They all said variations of the same theme. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe Charles to have been a good man, she did, but first of all, each remark made her weep afresh and second an insidious snake of resentment was stirring underneath her grief and shock. It was she who was left to raise their children, she who had to deliver his fatherless baby. She would have to move from this house now, and she had enjoyed her brief reign as pastor’s wife with the prestige it accorded her. Oh there’d be pity and apologies from the committee of elders, but another pastor had to be found. Where would she go now? She had sent a telegram to her parents who lived in Buffalo and she knew they were coming to visit her. But in the meantime, there was so much to see to. Both children were coming down with colds, which didn’t help matters. Charles had been an affectionate father, spending time with his children as often as he could and she could see how much they missed him. Louisa shifted her position as best she could. Her pregnancy wasn’t yet that advanced, but she was uncomfortable in the mourning dress Miss Smith had sat up through the night making for her. The crepe at the throat was stiff and scratchy and even with her corset, which she wasn’t ready to abandon, the waist was too tight.
“Is there anything I can get for you, Mrs. Howard?” Swanzey asked. She shook her head and he returned to his ruminations. He was probably thinking about when he’ll be offered the position of pastor, she thought with a puff of spite. There was little doubt he would get it. When Reverend Cameron had died, Swanzey and Charles had both been candidates for the position. The decision process had taken many months and even though there were countless prayers for God’s guidance, when the final vote was taken and Charles Howard, an American, was called from Buffalo, a few of the ladies of the congregation had let slip to Louisa that the final appointment had caused much acrimony. Well they’ll be happy now, she thought. Swanzey would take over. The elders were unlikely to go to the bother of finding somebody else. Swanzey wasn’t married, so perhaps he wouldn’t want to live in this house. It would be large for a bachelor. But then if he was offered the position, he would soon be looking around for a wife, she was sure of that. She glanced at him covertly. He was sitting across from her, staring into the fire. He was more handsome in profile, she thought, with his strong nose and lean jaw. Face to face, his eyes were unattractive and his lips ill defined. He suffered from a chronic eye irritation and his lids were reddened, the eyelashes often crusty. The lips he attempted to hide with a full moustache. His conversation was virtually non-existent as far as she was concerned, and she never felt comfortable in his presence, suspecting he found her wanting in seriousness. Nevertheless, if he became the pastor of Chalmers, which was supported by a large and wealthy congregation, she was sure he would find some young woman willing to marry him.
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed the quarter hour. He’d been here at least twenty minutes.
“I’m sure you have a lot of matters to attend to, Mr. Swanzey. I shall be quite all right by myself for a little while.”
He started and turned toward her. “Nothing is as pressing as your well-being, Mrs. Howard. I wonder … would you like me to say a prayer?”
“Thank you, that would be a great comfort.” Louisa put aside her sewing. One of Reverend Swanzey’s greatest attributes was a facility with extemporaneous prayers.
He perched on the edge of the couch and covered her hands with his.
“Let us pray.”
Louisa closed her eyes, but she was conscious of the dryness of his hands and the heat they generated.
“The Lord said to Cain, ‘What has thou done? The voice of thy brother’s blood crieth unto me from the ground. And now art thou cursed from the earth, which hath opened her mouth to receive thy brother’s blood from thy hand …’”
Louisa felt a fine spray of spittle on her cheek, but she couldn’t remove her hand from his to wipe it off. He was gripping her tightly. His voice had become louder and more resonant.
“And no less shall the Lord mete out his punishment to the wrongdoer yeah even more mightily when the innocent is struck down just as Abel was slain by his own brother as he walked in the field. Lord, we pray to you this …”
At that moment, there was a knock on the door and Doris entered. Swanzey stopped in mid-sentence. The maid curtseyed quickly.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I have the afternoon post. Would you like to see it now?”
Swanzey released Louisa’s hands, but his mouth was pinched with disapproval at the interruption.
“I beg your pardon, but I am anxious for word from my parents,” she said placatingly.
“Of course. That is quite understandable. I’m sure the Lord will wait for us.”
He seemed to grimace, but Louisa realized this was his way of signalling he had made a joke. She nodded at the maid.
“You can put it here.”
Doris deposited the silver letter tray on the lamp table beside her mistress, curtseyed again and left.
“Will you excuse me, while I see if they have replied, Reverend Swanzey?”
“Most certainly.” But he made no attempt to leave.
Louisa picked up the letters, leafing through them first. None bore her mother’s familiar handwriting, but one still caught her eye. The envelope was small and rather grubby and the writing ill formed.
“Who is this from, I wonder?” She glanced over at Swanzey, who had returned to the chair by the fire. “Would you be so kind as to hand me the letter opener? I believe it is on the mantelpiece.”
He handed it to he
r. She slit open the envelope and took out a piece of lined paper, also grubby, and began to read. Her hand flew to her mouth and she drew in her breath sharply.
“Mrs. Howard, what is the matter?” asked Swanzey.
She closed her eyes as if she could efface what she had just seen.
“Mrs. Howard?” he said again, but she didn’t answer and for a moment she swayed as if she would faint. Swanzey came over to her. The letter was in her lap and he picked it up.
“Read it, oh my dear God, please read it.”
March 6.
Dear Madam. You must know that yore husband, Charles Howard is not what he seemed. He was a wicked man and I can prove it. It was because of him that my daughter lost her innocence. We are willing to keep silent on this matter because of yore conditioin which as a mother I can understand. But we will want rekcompence. You can send the sum of 200 dollars or we will go to the newspapers. You can send it to the following address, who is a friend.
Mrs. Esther Tugwell
343 Sherbourne Street.
Yours faithfully,
One who has been wronged.
P.S. you must act immediately. Don’t forget I can prove what I say.
“What does it mean, Matthew?” Louisa could barely speak.
Swanzey’s hand was shaking. “Alas, it means that there are evil people in the world who will take advantage of another’s tragedy in the most despicable manner.”
“But why would she say Charles was not what he seemed and she can prove it?”
“Do you know this person, Esther Tugwell?”
“Not at all. Who can she be?”
Swanzey folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope. He took her hand again.
“Your husband’s death has been reported by every newspaper in the city. I’ve heard before of vultures who scour the death columns and concoct such letters to see if they can take advantage of the bereaved family.”
Louisa started to weep. “Oh what is going to become of me?”
Swanzey patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. “Try not to upset yourself, madam.”
“But she says that Charles violated her daughter. That couldn’t possibly be true, could it?”
He patted some more. “Come now, Mrs. Howard. Do you yourself believe it?”
She dabbed at her eyes with one of the handkerchiefs. “Frankly, sir, I feel as if I am standing on quicksand. If you were to tell me the moon is truly made of green cheese, I would be inclined to believe you.”
She could see her response shocked him. “My dear Mrs. Howard, take a good look at the letter. It has obviously come from the lowest class of person. This woman has seized on an opportunity to extort money from you. Nothing more.”
“Perhaps I should notify the detective who was here.”
Swanzey pursed his lips. “Frankly, I would not recommend that. I don’t believe our police force is entirely comprised of the better elements of society and it would not be advisable for this news to be bruited abroad.”
“So you do believe it to be true?”
“No. Absolutely not. But vile gossip sticks no matter how pure the object.”
His words frightened her. “But what shall I do then?”
“What you must do is to put the matter completely out of your mind.” He tucked the letter into his pocket. “I shall deal with it myself. We have a name and an address. I shall call on this Mrs. Tugwell. ‘A friend’ indeed! Well I will put the fear of God into this friend, I promise you.”
Swanzey stood up. “I shall see myself out. Please get some rest.”
Louisa leaned back against the sofa cushions. She felt exhausted, as if she had been fighting a fierce tide for a long time.
Chapter Twenty-Four
THIS STRETCH OF ONTARIO STREET, below Wilton, was inhabited mostly by working-class people. The houses were well tended, but they were small and close together; no grand gardens here. Mrs. O’Brien was sitting at her front window, nursing the latest arrival, a girl, Beattie, whom she’d named after her former neighbour, Mrs. Kitchen. Her three other little ones were kipping in the backroom so she was enjoying a rare moment of peace and quiet. The afternoon was drawing in and she’d have to stir soon and light the lamps before the rest of the brood came home from school. Mrs. O’Brien was normally a cheerful-enough soul. She had to be, with eight children to take care of and a husband more often away than not. He said it was hard bloody work being a fisherman and having to deal with all the different kinds of weather that God sent. Why don’t you stay home and take care of the other things that God sends, all eight of them, and I’ll be a fisherman, she’d said to him once, jokingly of course.
She sighed. Perhaps it was the dreary grey afternoon that was making her blue, sitting here watching the wind stir the bare branches of the trees and blow thin plumes of snow from the rooftops. A bit of green would be a balm for her eyes. Mostly, though, she missed Mrs. Kitchen. They had managed to get in a good chin at least once a day, even though Beatrice had a lot on her hands taking care of Arthur. But she had always managed to slip Mary a bit of the roast that they didn’t finish or some tarts she’d made. O’Brien made good wages, but the money didn’t always reach her regularly and eight growing children would eat you out of house and home given half a chance. They’d all of them been upset when Beatrice said she and Arthur were moving to Muskoka so he could get fresh air. She couldn’t blame her, of course, it might be his only chance to get better but she did miss her. The new tenants were friendly enough, but the young one with the twin boys hardly stuck her nose out of the door and the schoolteacher never came round. Mr. Murdoch dropped in last week to see how she was, but a man just wasn’t the same. She couldn’t have a good gab with him, could she?
The baby had fallen asleep and she was about to lay her down when she saw a man coming up the street. He looked well off in his black fedora and long fur coat, but she didn’t recognize him and she had the impression he was looking for an address. Sure enough, at the Kitchens’ house, he paused, checked a piece of paper in his hand, and walked up the short path to the door. He made no attempt to knock but bent down and slipped something underneath the door. Then, quickly, he turned around and walked away briskly the way he had come.
And who are you when you’re at home? she wondered. I hope that’s not bad news you’re delivering. He was far too well dressed to be a mere messenger, so who the devil was he? She’d stood up to get a better look and disturbed Beattie, who scrunched her face preparatory to a good wail. At the same time, one of the boys called out to her from the backroom. Hoisting the infant over her shoulder, Mrs. O’Brien shuffled off to tend to him.
Murdoch put the wet boots on a piece of newspaper on top of his desk and began to make notes. The boots were black, badly scuffed, and the soles on both toes were parting company with the uppers. The heels were worn down and the lace in the right boot was broken and reknotted in three places, the left was laced with string. Typical footwear for tramps. He looked at the string under his magnifying glass, but there was nothing unusual about it. The boots measured twelve and one-quarter inches in length and four and a quarter inches wide, which meant the original owner was about Murdoch’s height of six feet. That didn’t mean that the last wearer was that tall, of course, he could have used them regardless of the fit. Murdoch thrust his hand into the right boot and sure enough his fingers touched something soggy. Carefully, he pulled out the newspaper that was stuffed into the toe and placed it on the desk. The paper was too sodden to make anything of it, he’d have to let it dry.
He upended the boots and examined the soles with his glass. There were several small seeds and bits of straw wedged into the grooves around the nails and he pried them out with his knife onto a piece of fresh paper. Under the glass, the seeds looked like wheat. The boots hadn’t been in the water long enough to eliminate the stink from unwashed sweaty feet, but he thought he could detect a whiff of manure mingling in there like a tenor note in a requiem. Toronto streets were perpetually dott
ed with horse plop of course and as he knew to his cost, it was all too easy to walk in it. However, this smell had survived at least two days of immersion in water so he thought the manure was more ingrained. He stared at the bits of straw, wishing he had a way of determining if they’d come from a stable or a cow barn. He’d make a tentative guess then that the boots had belonged to a man who’d been on a farm fairly recently.
He turned the boots over and studied them again, but there wasn’t anything else he could deduce. If blood had been splattered on them, it had washed off in the pond water. He pushed them to the edge of his desk and took a piece of notepaper from his desk.
Callahan: send this to all the newspapers right away:
Detective Murdoch of number four station is interested in speaking to anyone who noticed or was in contact with a man who meets the following description. Between five feet eight and six feet tall. Of middle age with full black beard, wearing a long black coat and black fedora and carrying a sack across his back. It is possible this man is a tramp and/or a farm labourer.
Murdoch hesitated, wondering whether to add that the man might be dangerous. He had often complained that the police were all too ready to jump on somebody from the lower classes when a crime was committed, “guilty until proved innocent,” but a solid case seemed to be building up that Reverend Howard’s murderer was a wayfarer and Murdoch’s stubborn refusal to put all his eggs in that basket might be prejudice in reverse.
He added to the note:
This man is wanted for questioning in the murder of the Reverend Charles Howard. He should be considered dangerous.
The response from newspaper advertisements was limited. Not everybody could read and especially in the wayfaring class. He wrote another note to Callahan to be telegraphed to the city’s other police stations, in which he added a description of Howard’s stolen boots and the silver watch. Not that there was any guarantee the man was still be around. He could easily have caught a train and be miles away by now. It wasn’t going to be easy to find him. He’d better send Dewhurst to the station and see if anybody fitting the tramp’s description had boarded a train in the last two days. He wrote a third note for Callahan to send to police stations in the small towns and villages in the surrounding area. Responses from them would be much slower, as few of them had a telegram line.
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