by Mel Bradshaw
“How old is the rector?” I heard Harry ask with amusement.
“Not young, but full of pep. Besides, news that he’d gone to bed with Nora would have been damaging enough, even if he was unable to do much when he got there.”
I was making good time back to Toronto when I was flagged down at the corner of Yonge Street and the Stouffville Road. The flaggers were two girls in bright slickers standing beside an open car larger than the one I was driving. Despite the overcast sky, the girls’ yellow raincoats, their sky-blue motor, their ruby lips, and round, unpowdered faces shone so brightly it was impossible to speed by.
When I pulled up, one of them dashed across the road in front of a northbound limousine to jump onto the running board beside me.
“We’re all turned round,” she said. “Can you tell us how to get to Gormley? We’re afraid it’s going to rain, and we’ll get soaked.”
The second girl crossed the road more cautiously, but sounded just as excited. “Which way is it to Gormley?”
I said I’d no idea, but that I’d help them put the roof up on their car if they liked. They weren’t having any of that. They were enjoying the air — only they had to get to Gormley. They said the name in unison, setting each other off in fits of giggles. Then they looked brightly at me as if my ignorance just wouldn’t do.
“I’ll see if there’s a map in the glove compartment,” I said.
There was. I tried to show it to them.
“Oh, just point us the way,” coaxed the first girl.
I asked why they wanted to go to Gormley. As suspected, they just loved the sound of the name, no other reason. I doubted if either of the shiny flapperettes was old enough to have a driver’s permit. I sent them off eastward down the Stouffville Road, to look — I suspected — for someone else they could ask.
I’d pulled the map from under sundry other items, which I now removed to get it back at the bottom of the glove compartment. There were two golf tees, a bag of humbug candies, a brochure from an art exhibit, a clipped newspaper advertisement for the quality papers manufactured by Chapleau Forest Industries, a 2B pencil with a broken point, a sharpened 2B pencil, a golf score card not filled out past the third hole, and a key ring with a single Yale key on it.
Elizabeth Street was not on the shortest route back to Choo-Choo Mansion, but I allowed myself the detour in case Carl Moretti had stopped by his shop after church. He had. He was picking up some Great War medals he’d managed to sell to one of his fellow congregants.
Moretti today was wearing the olive jacket that went with the trousers I’d seen him in yesterday, plus a whitish shirt and a Coldstream Guards regimental tie, which I assumed was part of his antiquarian inventory rather than a badge of his own affiliation. I observed that since yesterday morning he had boarded up the door to the staircase leading up to Nora’s studio.
“Darn right,” he snarled back. “No more people just walking in helping themselves to whatever they fancy.”
“Which people?” I asked.
“You yesterday morning, Koch yesterday afternoon.”
“Koch?”
“Shoved me aside when I tried to stop him. No consideration for a wounded veteran, but what can you expect from his kind?”
“Do you want to press charges?”
“I can look after myself.” An open clasp knife suddenly appeared in Moretti’s hand.
“Don’t take it too far,” I cautioned. “What did Koch take?”
“Some of the artist’s work. Claimed it was his right as a husband.”
I saw that the part of the door around the handle, which Lou Sweet had split with a crowbar, had been sawn away altogether and a sturdy plank screwed, not nailed, into the door frame.
“What did you do with the lock?” I asked.
Moretti pointed to a bin where a jumble of locks of various makes and sizes awaited the discerning shopper. It didn’t take long to find one I thought I recognized.
“Is this it, Mr. Moretti?”
“If it says Yale on it.”
The Yale key from Sir Joe’s glove compartment fit smoothly in and worked the mechanism.
“I’ll take it,” I said.
Moretti accepted the receipt I handed him without hiding the fact he’d have preferred a couple of dollar bills.
“How often has Sir Joseph Deane been in here?” I asked.
“How would I know?”
“Beats me, Mr. Moretti — apart from the fact that you’re members of the same church and that you attended a meeting where he stood in front of the congregation and defended Herman Koch’s design. That was the occasion on which you threatened to spit on the memorial mural if Koch were allowed to paint it. Ring any bells?”
“I haven’t seen Deane in here.” Moretti was tidying his shop’s cluttered counter when he said this, paying particular attention to a box of stereoscope slides. “I have photos of the ruins of Pompeii at twenty-five cents apiece. Ten free if you buy the viewer.”
“Is the shop ever open when you’re not here?”
“Pay an assistant to steal from me? Do I look like I’m made of money?”
“So no one could have gone through that door and upstairs without your knowledge?”
“Except for the artist woman and anyone she let in. I had to give her a key to my street door.”
“You work hard to make a living, Mr. Moretti, and I know you appreciate a deal. Did anyone ever pay you not to notice when he came through the shop?”
“Never.” Again Moretti wasn’t looking at me when he answered. He’d hobbled over to his shop’s front door, which he held open for me while staring out into the dusty street. “I’m locking up now,” he said. “It’s Sunday.”
I picked up a smoked salmon sandwich at United Bakers on Spadina Avenue and ate it while driving back to Jarvis Street. By the time I reached Deane’s place, the family had had their lunch and dispersed to different parts of the large house. The manservant that had handed me the car key in the morning welcomed its return when he again answered my knock. He looked less happy when I asked him to announce me to Sir Joseph. I had to produce my badge for inspection.
Deane came out to greet me in a gold dressing gown worn over shirt, tie, and dark trousers. He led me through to his study where he installed me in a comfortable leather chair and took a seat behind his paper-cluttered desk.
“I’m not a strict Sabbatarian, Shenstone. I’d rather you didn’t tell my sister, however. Mary-Maud may suspect I’m attending to business correspondence, but pretends I’m engaged behind my study door in Bible reading all Sunday afternoon. Did you manage to speak to the Brittons?”
“Uh-huh. Thanks for the use of your car.”
“Give you any trouble?”
“Only when I tried to hold it back. Speaking of your sister —”
“Having a nap.”
Just then raised female voices were heard in the foyer outside Sir Joe’s study door. The two of us went out to investigate. Mary-Maud Deane was not napping, as it turned out, but rather remonstrating with a woman some thirty years younger.
“It’s not as if I’m going dancing, Auntie,” the latter said. “Patients need attention seven days out of seven.”
“Nonetheless,” the older woman replied, “I don’t see that you have to race around in an open car on the Lord’s Day.”
“But since the car is back from wherever it was, why shouldn’t I take it? Women’s College Hospital is the other side of the city. Have you even heard of Rusholme Road? I had to look it up on a map. The streetcar on its ‘Lord’s Day’ schedule would take forever.”
Sir Joe jumped in before his sister could reply. “Mary-Maud, this is Detective Shenstone. He’d like a word with you.”
“Glad to know you, Miss Deane.” The angular woman before me reminded me somewhat of Alice Britton, in appearance as well as age, and I wondered if the same resemblance had struck Nora. “But if the younger Miss Deane is leaving,” I went on, “perhaps I could start with her.�
�
“Phyllis, Mr. Shenstone.” The girl stuck out her hand, and I shook it. She had a Varsity look, wearing a plain but well-cut maroon wool dress and a turban that appeared both fashionable and practical for keeping her hair up in a hospital setting. “Could we make our talk brief? I’m already late.”
“Use the dining room for your interviews, Shenstone,” Sir Joseph advised. “There won’t be anyone to disturb you till dinner time.”
“This way,” said Phyllis.
I ascertained that no one besides Deane’s daughter was planning on going out that afternoon. Only then did I follow her into the long room and take the chair she’d picked out for me.
“Phyllis, would you say you have an inquiring mind?”
“Sure.”
“Then you’ll want to ask me questions. It’ll save you time if you don’t ask and I don’t have to think up polite ways not to answer.”
Short and slight like her father, Phyllis had a rather severe, narrow face, clean of cosmetics. My suggestion, however, did get me a fleeting grin.
“Deal,” she said.
“Do you drive the cream roadster often?”
“No, I walk to university.”
“Do you recognize this key?” I held it out for her to look at.
“No.”
“How well did you know Nora Britton?”
“Not well. She ate here a few times. I might have seen her at church. We talked once about how strange it is that women are now permitted to study medicine, as I’m doing, and yet not all art academies allow them to do life drawing. Perhaps aspiring painters should take anatomy courses.”
“Did you ever prepare any food for Nora Britton or give her any food?”
“No. Cook and Aunt Mary-Maud are the only ones that have anything to do with food in this house.”
“Did you ever see Nora Britton eat fish?”
“Ye-es, but not much. That was a surprise. Cook served Winnipeg goldeye one night Nora was here, a great treat for all of us. Nora only had two small bites. I asked her afterwards if eating fish made her ill. She said no, she just didn’t like the taste or texture or anything about it.”
“Miss Britton was separated from her husband. Do you think she was romantically involved with anyone else?”
“No. I think she loved her husband. She spoke quite feelingly of the injustice of his not getting the mural commission. If she’d lived, I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if she’d gone back to live with him.”
“Did you ever meet Herman Koch?”
“No.”
“Do you think he was jealous of her success?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think there was any other man in her life?”
“Lots of men: she had to make her way in a man’s world, don’t forget. But they would have been like Poppa. Business friends — growing into good friends perhaps — nothing more.”
Phyllis was a bright girl, but I thought she might be reading Nora better than she read Sir Joe.
“Is there anyone you believe might have killed her?” I asked.
“No. Is this a murder investigation, Mr. Shenstone?”
“Have you forgotten you’re late?”
“No.”
“Run along then, Phyllis. And thanks for keeping us on track.”
The sound of the front door slamming behind Phyllis brought her aunt from a sitting room into the foyer. Mary-Maud Deane stifled a yawn, apologized, then yawned again.
“Please excuse me, Mr. Shenstone. I’m afraid I’ve become a creature of habit, and I usually nap at this time. I was going to invite you into a room where the seating is more comfortable, but perhaps the dining room chairs will do a better job of keeping me alert. I suppose a policeman’s calling is like Phyllis’s: Sunday is no day of rest for you.”
I saw I was not going to get through this interview as fast as the last one. The more I saw of Mary-Maud, the fainter the resemblance I’d noted to Alice Britton became. Like Sir Joe, his sister had springy white hair, blue eyes, and cleft chin. I took her to be in her fifties, like her brother, but both had youthful, unlined faces. Mary-Maud was perhaps the elder sibling, but her manner also made her seem older. Her high-collared Sunday dress in deep purple was of a cut that even I could recognize as some years behind the fashion.
I asked many of the same questions I’d put to Phyllis and got confirmation that Nora Britton didn’t eat fish and didn’t appear to be involved in any extramarital affairs. Mary-Maud didn’t drive and denied recognizing the key to Nora’s studio. She’d never met Herman Koch. She said she had no idea whether he or anyone else might have wanted to kill Nora Britton. The idea that Nora had been murdered alarmed her. I had to call a halt to my questioning while she composed herself, and I phoned down to ask Cook to bring her a cup of tea.
“We were all so fond of Nora,” she said after the first two sips. “I never heard her say a mean word about anyone. I’m not sure I understand her mural, but any of her portraits I’ve seen are lovely, very kind to the person she’s painting. Who could have wanted her dead?”
“Miss Deane, I ask the same question wherever I go. I haven’t had an answer yet.”
“Such a sweet young woman. Not so young, I suppose, really.”
“No,” I said. “Thirty-five.”
“You know, if my brother weren’t so much in love with Lady Deane, I think he could have fallen for Nora.”
“Some men love — or believe they love — more than one woman at a time.”
“A mistaken belief, depend on it. In any case, Sir Joseph isn’t that kind of man. He knows he has only one heart to give and he gives it whole.”
A soft, vague smile came over Mary-Maud’s face. I didn’t know whether romantic disappointments lay in her past, but I assumed that having a man wholeheartedly in love with her was the stuff of her daydreams. I changed the subject.
“Miss Deane, I understand you prepared a package of leftovers for Nora to take away after she ate lunch here on Saturday, October 8. Do you recall what was in that package?”
“That would be a week ago yesterday. I plan the menus and keep a record in my journal. I could check for you, but if memory serves I sent Nora home with a bowl of corn chowder and some fruit salad.”
“No baked goods?”
“Not on that occasion. Of that I’m sure: neither Cook nor I bake on Saturday morning.”
“Was that Saturday lunch the last time you saw Nora Britton?”
“Yes, it was. She was next due to eat with us this past Thursday, but … Her death still doesn’t seem real.”
“I understand,” I said, and waited a moment. “Did you send Nora anything to eat between lunch on the eighth and the evening of the tenth?”
“Oh, no. We were going to see her again so soon, and I knew other people gave her food — Myrtle Hutchinson at the church and quite a number of the parishioners.”
“Do you know who gave her food on Monday, October 10?”
“No, I didn’t hear anyone mention it. It sounds as if you think someone poisoned her. If I’m under suspicion, I don’t think I’d better answer any more questions.”
“Miss Deane, everyone says Nora Britton didn’t eat fish. Did she eat chocolate?”
“Don’t most people? I don’t remember her saying anything about it. Now that I think about it, though, we did serve her chocolate blancmange once. She ate that all right.”
“Did you or anyone in this house ever give her chocolate cookies?”
“No.”
Mary-Maud’s answer was unequivocal, but uncharacteristically brief. I thanked her for her time.
Rather than come down to the dining room, Lady Deane invited me to her own parlour upstairs where she could play her gramophone while we talked. She favoured the title song from Rose Marie and — incongruously in view of Sir Joseph’s enthusiasm for lemonade — a drinking song. She said it was from Sigmund Romberg’s operetta The Student Prince, and that made it all right.
Sir Jo
seph’s wife was more forthcoming than his sister on the subject of chocolate. She recalled Nora Britton’s eating chocolate brownies at the Deanes’ table and being given some to take away. On Saturday, October 8? She didn’t remember.
So saying, she helped herself from a bowl of candied cherries on a table at her elbow. Lady Deane was larger than her husband in every direction, a handsome woman now carrying more and looser flesh than looked healthy.
“Lady Deane, was your sister-in-law ever engaged?”
“Very nearly — to a promising young music student.”
“Killed in the war?” I remembered Eric Hutchinson’s mentioning that Mary-Maud had opposed acceptance of the mural design by the German-born Koch.
“Oh, no. By 1914, Mary-Maud’s Paganini was in New York with one of her sorority sisters.”
“He’s still there?”
“As far as I know — sawing his fiddle at the Shubert Theatre. He remains perfect in Mary-Maud’s eyes. She holds the minx that took him away from her entirely to blame.”
Lady Deane’s answers to my other questions were for the most part unremarkable. She told me she had only ridden once in Sir Joe’s roadster, which she found uncomfortable. She didn’t recognize the Yale key. She said she liked Nora Britton and her painting, although art was really more her husband’s province than hers. She thought Sir Joseph’s interest in painting quite sweet. She couldn’t imagine how he found the time and energy for it, considering he had a thriving company to run and a house full of women to keep happy.
There was one member of this joyous female band I hadn’t yet interviewed. Cook, a widow by the name of Grace Chadwick, had only every second Sunday off; I found her in the kitchen rolling out pastry for pies. She said chocolate brownies were one of Miss Mary-Maud Deane’s specialties. Mrs. Chadwick didn’t have the recipe and was not always present when they were being made.
It was time to speak to Sir Joe again. I knocked on, then opened, his study door. He was on the phone. He held up two fingers, tapped his chest, and pointed towards the dining room. I went there and didn’t have long to wait. He strode in tugging on the crimson cuffs of his gold dressing gown.
