Vices of My Blood

by Maureen Jennings

  Murdoch grabbed the straw pillow that was on the bed, thinking to put it under the boy’s head. “Mrs. Bagley, please do something or tell me what to do.”

  She put down her teacup and came closer to the bed. Blood was coming from Tim’s mouth. She bent over the stricken child, then snapped her fingers.

  “Enough, Tim.”

  As if she had turned off an electric light switch, the jerking stopped. The boy opened his eyes, looked at Murdoch, and grinned. His teeth were red with blood.

  “What the deuce …?”

  All three plungers burst out laughing. “Fooled you, didn’t we?” exclaimed Olivia. “That’s another of his good turns. I taught him that one. I seen this boy in the orphanage where I grew up throwing fits so I knew what they looked like.”

  Murdoch didn’t know whether to laugh as well or be annoyed at the trick.

  “Tim, you’ve cut your lip or your tongue.”

  The boy smiled again with his bloodstained mouth. Then he stuck his finger inside and fished out a rubber nipple. “No, I ain’t. I popped this in my mouth when you weren’t looking. See.”

  Gingerly, Murdoch accepted the slimy teat. “How do you do it?”

  “It’s filled with cherry extract and tied at the end. I just have to bite down is all.”

  “We used to use real beef blood, but he didn’t like the taste,” said Olivia. “This does just as well if you aren’t too close. Usually I wipe his mouth off and he spits it into my hand. Or he can stow it at the back of his teeth if he has to.” She held out her hand and Murdoch gave over the nipple. “We can’t afford to waste it.” Olivia gave him a gummy smile. “I told you we was in the entertainment business. We took your mind off your troubles for a minute there, didn’t we?”

  Murdoch had had enough. “They’re not my troubles, Mrs. Bagley, they’re yours. I’m investigating a murder and you three seem to be implicated.”

  That certainly got a reaction and they gaped at him. “What you mean, a murder? We ain’t killed anybody.”

  Murdoch pointed at Parker’s boots. “Where did you get those?”

  Ed shifted uneasily. “I bought them.”

  “When?”

  “I dunno. Last year sometime. I got them at a Jew’s shop on Church Street.”

  He was sitting next to Olivia on the narrow bunk bed, Murdoch was on a stool in between the beds. He stood up. “They belonged to a man who was brutally killed. I’ll ask you again, where did you get them?”

  Olivia looked alarmed. “Hold on, mister. Ed ain’t killed nobody. What makes you think his boots belonged to the stiff?”

  “The dead man’s boots were taken off his feet and the right one had a brown lace instead of a black because the poor cove had broken his lace that morning and had to use a temporary replacement. That looks exactly like the boot we removed from your foot, Mr. Parker. And your boots don’t fit very well, do they? They’ve rubbed blisters on your heels. How did that happen with year-old boots?”

  Ed shrugged. “I dunno.”

  “He’s got a hole in his sock, that’s why,” said Olivia.

  “Let me see.”

  Ed reluctantly pulled his sock from his pocket. It had been darned at the toe and the heel but there was no hole.

  “What I meant to say is that he did have a hole but I darned it and the darn must have been rubbing.”

  “Mrs. Bagley, I am a detective at this station but I’m only one man. The other officers, such as Sergeant Gardiner, have their duties to do. I don’t feel as if we’re getting anywhere here so I’m thinking I should turn the three of you over to the sergeant and see if he is better at getting the truth out of you.”

  He could see Tim involuntarily shrink back against the wall and the worried glance he sent to his mother.

  “Don’t be silly,” she said briskly to Murdoch. “We’re willing to co-operate, aren’t we, Ed? But you’re not telling us anything. Who was this cove and how and where was he done for?”

  “If I tell you that, you can manufacture a story to protect yourselves.”

  Olivia shook her head. “We could do that if we had something to hide, but we don’t. You’ve been decent to us and maybe we could repay your kindness by helping you out if we can.”

  Murdoch knew exactly what she was getting at. “We’ll see about that. You tell me the truth with no little darns in it and I’ll consider dropping charges of public mischief against the three of you, Tim included. But I said consider, not promise. Agreed?”

  Nothing seemed to ruffle Olivia, but Murdoch had seen the fear in her eyes. She had been on the wrong side of the law too many times not to know where the real power lay. She nodded at Ed.

  “Tell him where you got them boots, Eddie.”

  “I picked them up in the workhouse on Tuesday night. We’d had a bad couple of days and we had nowhere to go. Livvy and Tim got into the nuns’ house, but the men’s side was full so I went down to the city workhouse.” He paused and looked at Olivia to get the go-ahead.

  “Well, I was coming in as a casual see, so I had to take a bath and get deloused. It’s a bugger, begging your pardon, because I was quite clean and the sulphur chokes up my lungs. But they won’t let you in unless you go through it. Anyway all the tramps have to get undressed and put their clothes and boots and hats on a shelf while they’re in the bath. There’s an attendant who’s supposed to watch, but this one was blind as a bat. I seen a good pair of boots that looked my size and mine had got a big hole in the sole. So I did a swap.”

  “And these were the boots you took?”

  “That’s right. They’re a bit on the small side, but they kept the water out.”

  “Did you see whose boots they were?”

  Ed shook his head. “No, like I said they was all on the shelf.”

  “And nobody kicked up a fuss?”

  “No, I expected them to, but they was quiet as priests who’ve lost their crosses in the brothel.”

  Murdoch frowned, not liking Ed’s simile. “Do you mean to say that the owner of the boots couldn’t afford to admit it?”

  “Well, I didn’t think that then, but now you’re saying they was taken off a stiff it makes sense the cove wouldn’t moan.”

  “And you’re sure you don’t know who that was?”

  “There was a lot of men milling about, the ones going into the bath and the ones getting out. He probably nabbed somebody else’s. Tramps are always doing a swap when they can get something better. It goes with the territory.”

  “There you go, he’s told you the truth,” said Olivia. “Are you going to live up to your end of the bargain?”

  “Let you go, you mean. Not likely. It would mean my job. The other officers know what you’ve been up to.”

  “Frig. I thought you might be a man of your word.”

  Olivia looked as if she might haul off and slug him so Murdoch smiled.

  “Let’s say I’m not releasing you just yet. But if you co-operate I will promise that not only will there be no charges, I might be able to get you a small honorarium for public service.”

  “What’s that?” asked Tim.

  “Money, lad.”

  Olivia stared at Murdoch. “What the hell do you want us to do, put on a show for the inspector?” She sucked in her cheeks. “I do a good imitation of Mary Queen of Scots, come back from the grave. Is that what you had in mind?”

  Murdoch laughed. “No. I don’t think history is quite up his alley. This is what I have in mind, listen up.” He explained his plan and both Olivia and Ed expressed their admiration.

  “We’ll turn you into a plunger yet,” said Olivia, “and I know just the place to go.”

  There was a tinge of sadistic pleasure in her expression that made Murdoch uneasy.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  OVER THEIR PROTESTS, MURDOCH left Ed and Tim in the cell and set out with Olivia. As they hurried along Wilton Street toward River Street, the widow’s veil rippled behind her, like an ominous black sail on a pirate ship. />
  The second-hand clothes shop Olivia took him to was run by a “sheeny man.” Shop was giving the place too dignified a name, as it was a derelict stable in a laneway off Sumach. Empty lots flanked it on either side and the house to which it had once belonged was boarded up. There was no sign and the door was closed, but Olivia didn’t hesitate. She opened the door just wide enough for them to enter and Murdoch followed her inside. The place was dark and reeked of old manure and old clothes. There was only one oil lamp and in its dim light, Murdoch could just make out the old trousers, shirts, socks that were piled on rickety tables or hung on hooks on the walls. There were so many, Murdoch wondered if half the poorer population of the city had sold their clothes. He hoped nobody he’d ever nabbed came in while he was here. They’d think he’d got the shoot and gloat.

  At the rear a man, wrapped in a shawl, was sitting on a high stool. He was hunched over an open brazier and barely made any acknowledgement of their presence. The rest of the shop was empty.

  Murdoch recognized him. He’d often seen him trudging the streets with his cart, ringing his bell and calling out for bones, bottles, and rags. He was small, thin, and wiry, probably younger than he first appeared with his long, dark hair and a full, ragged beard.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Gold,” said Olivia and she threw back her veil, gazed around, and like a swimmer embarking on a refreshing dip, she dived into the chaos, Murdoch following helplessly behind her. Within minutes, she pulled out a pair of worn corduroy trousers from one heap. “These should fit.”

  Gold said in his hoarse, accented voice. “Everything’s been fumigated, missus. No need worry.”

  Murdoch eyed the trousers doubtfully. “They look as if they belonged to a teamster.”

  Olivia snorted a friendly contempt. “You ain’t lived on charity before, have you? You takes what you can get and make ’em fit. If they’re too long, roll ’em up. Tighten them with your belt.” She shoved aside some greasy-looking trousers to make room on the table for her find, then moved on to a rack of jackets and suits. A quick sort and she held up a brown-and-white check jacket that must have been owned by a player in a summer vaudeville show. The beer stains down the front were visible even from two feet away. “Here’s a coat’ll go nice with that brown.”

  Murdoch was about to protest but thought better of it. He wasn’t outfitting himself to make a court appearance.

  “How much?” she asked Gold.

  “Take trousers and jacket both, yours for one dollar.”

  “One dollar! Don’t make me laugh. I could buy new ones for that.”

  “Feel coat cloth, missus. What’s wrong with you? That’s best worsted, only been worn once.”

  Perhaps he meant that the previous owner had never taken it off, thought Murdoch.

  “It’s not worth thirty cents,” said Olivia and she flung the jacket away in disgust. She scrutinized Murdoch. “Let’s see. Perhaps you don’t need a jacket. You could get away with wearing that old sealskin coat, it’s shabby enough.”

  Murdoch winced. That coat had stood him in good stead for a long time.

  “We should change the fedora,” added Olivia.

  “I’ve got excellent stock of hats. Very low prices,” Gold interjected. “I can’t make a living to sell at these prices but for you …”

  He got down from his stool and squeezed around one of the tables. There was hardly room to move in the small space. He lifted a black felt hat from a lopsided shelf and blew the dust off it. “Here, missus. This one English made. Best quality fur felt.”

  Olivia took the hat and inspected it. The trim around the crown had long gone and the inside sweatband was dark from use. Murdoch removed his fedora and tried on the new one. It was tight.

  “That’ll do,” Olivia said.

  Murdoch adjusted the hat slightly. It had an unpleasant sticky feel to it.

  “What have you got in the way of flannel shirts?” Olivia asked Mr. Gold.

  “Flannel shirts? Who ever sells me flannel shirts? I’ve got good linen from gentlemen. Hardly worn. Look here.” He poked at a pile of clothes on a nearby table.

  Olivia did a rapid and experienced sort of the shirts that were heaped together but none of them satisfied her. Then she picked up a heavy woollen jersey, the kind typically worn in outdoor athletics. Mr. Gold might have been telling the truth about fumigation but he certainly hadn’t bothered to clean the goods. This sweater was caked in dried mud, as if its previous owner had come directly off the soccer field.

  Olivia beamed. “We’ll take this one.”

  She added it to the pile she was building and continued her exploration, Murdoch trailing behind her feeling peculiarly childlike. Mr. Gold shuffled round the tables, sometimes swooping in to show her a very fine cravat, or a pair of kashimir socks. All the time the two of them wrangled with each other about the price, or the quality. Olivia was utterly unmoved by Gold’s moans.

  “Twenty cents for a pair of threadbare combinations like this! I’ll give you a dime and that’s being generous.”

  She took three pairs of socks and at Murdoch’s questioning, she whispered, “One pair for your feet, one for your hands, one pair for Ed. You don’t mind, do you? They’re only two cents each.”

  Finally, they were done and all that remained was to find a pair of boots. There were three shelves at the back of the shop displaying dozens of boots, all of which retained the shape of their previous owner’s feet so that Murdoch felt as if he were looking at the disembodied remains of a defeated army.

  Gold glanced at Murdoch’s shoes, then picked a pair of scuffed brown boots from the shelf. “These just came in today. Very fine, very fine. See leather lining, keep you warm all winter. For you, forty cents.”

  Olivia inverted the boots, which were bent up at the toe and worn at the heels.

  “Fifteen cents and not a penny more.”

  “You’re ruining me, missus. Twenty or nothing.”

  “Sold!”

  “Shouldn’t I make sure they fit first?” asked Murdoch.

  She shook her head. “Beggars can’t be choosers. You’ll have to get used to them.”

  She went back to the hook where she’d found the check jacket. “If you throw in this, I’ll give you a dollar thirty for the lot.”

  Gold frowned. “Missus, I have wife, five little children. How can I face their sweet hungry faces if I come home with only one dollar and thirty cents? When they say, Poppa, how much you earn today since six o’clock this morning? How I tell them that it was only one dollar and thirty cents? And my wife, she has such pain in her teeth. I must take her to dentist but on one dollar and thirty cents, I cannot do it.”

  “I thought you told me you had four children?”

  “Four, five, what’s difference? They all have to eat.”

  Olivia held up her hand. “One dollar and forty-one cents, for your children’s sake.”

  “Fifty-one cents for my wife’s teeth.”

  “All right. But that’s the limit.”

  Perhaps, Murdoch thought, teeth were her weak spot.

  The sale made, Gold gathered the goods to parcel them up.

  Murdoch gave the money to Olivia, who in turn handed it over. Murdoch hoped he’d be reimbursed by the inspector, who was apt to fuss about expenses he hadn’t authorized in advance.

  Gold handed him the brown paper parcel. “Good luck to you, mister, whatever you doing. I hope it’s legal.”

  Murdoch followed Olivia out of the shop into the laneway where the air felt blessedly fresh.

  “We have to hurry,” she said. “If you’re going to get into the workhouse, you’ve got to be there by five o’clock. If there are too many casuals they’ll turn you away.”

  “I’ll change at the police station,” said Murdoch. “You and Ed can go on ahead so nobody sees us together.

  I’ll arrange for the police matron to look after Tim.”

  “He can come with me, I won’t do a bunk.”

  “Olivia, I’m not g
oing to put temptation in your way. Tim stays.”

  “Mr. Murdoch, when you die and they cut you open, they’re going to find you don’t have a real heart of flesh and blood, they’ll find something all black and shrivelled up.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  THERE WAS A FULL-LENGTH MIRROR in the hall outside of the duty room where constables were expected to make sure their uniforms were in order. Murdoch surveyed himself. Crabtree stood behind him.

  “I’d arrest a man looking like this, George.”

  Everything about him appeared seedy; the baggy trousers, the loud check of the stained coat, the rough, high-necked muddy jersey that had a hole in the front, and the shabby black hat drooping low on his forehead.

  “You’re most convincing, sir, except for your skin colour and your eyes. I’m afraid you look too healthy.”

  “Not much I can do about it at this late date. I should have consulted Olivia and Parker. At least I didn’t trim my moustache yesterday, which I was going to do.” He rubbed at his chest. “Damn, I swear this jersey is as scratchy as a hair shirt.” He grinned wryly. “Good practice for Lent, I suppose.”

  He took his belt in another notch. He’d tied string around the trousers below the knees and he looked like a navvy.

  “You can have these when I’ve done, George. They’ll fit perfectly.”

  “My wife wouldn’t let me in the door, sir.”

  “The worst thing is these bloody boots. My toes feel as if they are in a vice. I can understand why our plunger friend seized the first opportunity to exchange his own boots for some that looked better. The feet set the tone for everything else.”

  “You believe his story, do you, sir?”

  Murdoch nodded. “I’m inclined to. I only hope he’s not as good a liar as he is a plunger. If we can find the man he stole the boots from, we might have our murderer.”

  “I hope the fellow hasn’t moved on, sir.”

  “He’d better not have or all my misery will have been in vain.”

  Murdoch knew that no tramp would talk freely to him as a police detective and he hoped that going to the workhouse in disguise would work. They might open up if they thought he was one of them.