A Journeyman to Grief (12 page)

“Is the livery operational, then?”

“According to Mrs. Cooke it is.”

“You’ve talked to her, have you?”

Musgrave went still. His cold blue eyes were wary. “Yes, she was good enough to come over to my lodgings this morning. Even in the depths of her grief she is a considerate woman. She wanted to tell me what had happened.”

“I’ve heard that there is a special relationship between you and she. Is that true?”

Musgrave’s slapped his hands on his knees in anger. “Who’s been gossiping behind my back, and the poor woman a new-made widow. Who said that?”

“It doesn’t matter who said it, Mr. Musgrave. Is it true?”

“So help me God, it is not. At least not in the sense you’re implying. She’s got a good heart, has Adelaide Cooke, and to tell
you the truth, her husband neglected her pitifully. You can’t do that to a woman and expect her not to get real lonesome. She liked to go to concerts and so do I, and what’s the harm in a man accompanying a lady to a concert once in a while, for God’s sake?”

“I see no harm, Mr. Musgrave, no harm at all. Unfortunately others seemed to have, er, misconstrued the situation.”

Musgrave was still fuming, but Murdoch thought it had the hue of a man who’d been found out rather than one innocent of wrongdoing.

The cabbie got to his feet. “I’m going to miss the afternoon calls if I don’t go soon. Is that all you want to ask me?”

“Not quite. We found a whip that belongs to the carriage you use. Did you know it was missing?”

“It wasn’t when I checked in last night. Cabbies are always borrowing from one another, a whip, a lantern, whatever it is they need at the time and are too lazy to replace. Why does it matter?”

“Let’s say it’s part of our investigation. But before you go, there is one more question. Can you give an account of your whereabouts between eight o’clock and half past nine on Wednesday night?”

Musgrave showed his teeth in what might pass for a smile. “That’s easy. After I signed out at about half past seven, I decided to wet my whistle at the John O’Neil on Queen Street. I was there till closing time at ten. You can ask them.”

“I will. That’s it for now, but I will probably have to talk to you again.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but I don’t see why. I’ve given you the best information you’re likely to get. It’s Elijah Green you should be talking to, not honest, decent men like me.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Mr. Musgrave. Constable Crabtree will escort you downstairs.”

CHAPTER
SIXTEEN

M
urdoch swivelled in the chair. “George, did you ever play blind man’s bluff when you were a titch?”

“Yes, I did, sir.”

“Well, I feel as Mr. Musgrave was having just such a game with us, trying to turn us round and round so that we don’t know where we are. Going on about what a good man Mr. Cooke was, while making sure he painted a picture of an avaricious, cold-hearted tyrant. And the same with Green. ‘A good fellow all round,’ but capable of killing somebody if he’s crossed. He quite made me dizzy, did Mr. Musgrave.”

“He was a slippery one all right, but there’s no reason to believe he wasn’t telling the truth about the negro having a quarrel with Cooke. I thought he was giving me a lot of gammon about how that blood got on the sacking. I’ll wager the boss gave him a stotter over something or other and that’s where he got his goose egg from.”

Murdoch frowned. “Maybe, but I’m putting my money on Musgrave. He’s got the soul of a rat if ever I saw one.”

“He did give us an alibi.”

“Come off it, George. You know what the O’Neil’s like. I’d as soon try to hold water in a sieve than catch the truth from the lot who frequent that place.”

“I suppose you could be right about that, sir,” said Crabtree reluctantly.

Murdoch whipped the chair around again. “There’s something that bothers me about this whole business. Cooke wasn’t blindfolded, so I have to assume his attacker didn’t mean for him to live, otherwise he would have been identified. Was the intention to whip him to death?”

“Perhaps his attacker meant to shoot him. The revolver has disappeared, after all.”

“Yes, I thought of that. Perhaps Cooke died too soon for his attacker to use it. Or he already knew Cooke had a weak heart. The disturbing thing, George, is that according to Dr. Ogden and her friend Professor Broske, some of the lashes were administered after Cooke was dead. That changes the picture quite a bit, I’d say. Did somebody hate Cooke that much? Or are we dealing with a lunatic?”

Crabtree shifted his feet. “I think that bears out what I’m saying about the darkie. You said yourself Cooke owed him back wages. Maybe he
was
intending to beat him to death.”

Murdoch shook his head. “I find that hard to believe, George. For one thing, surely it would take a long time to actually bring about death? You would have to be extraordinarily determined, not to mention callous, to do that.”

“Musgrave saw them have a barney.”

“If he’s to be believed, but even he didn’t describe it as a blazing row, just raised voices and a shove on Cooke’s part. That doesn’t sound too lethal to me.”

“You don’t know what will send a man over the edge though, do you, sir? Besides, we can’t forget about the mysterious messenger. Whatever it was he had to say, he got Cooke up from his supper pretty fast. And this cove was a coloured man, sir. He could have been an accomplice of Green’s.”

“Let’s go and ask the man in person, shall we, George?” Murdoch swung around in the chair once more. “I’ve quite enjoyed our little stay in the inspector’s crib. Rather more comfortable than my cubicle, wouldn’t you say?”

“I would indeed, sir. No offence. When is Mr. Brackenreid due to return? Is he recovered from his influenza?”

“I don’t know, George, but in the meantime, I see no reason why we shouldn’t avail ourselves of his generous offer and conduct all further interviews here.” He stood up. “Perhaps it will all be very simple and Green will confess on the spot.”

Murdoch and Crabtree retrieved their wheels from the shed and set off for Terauley Street. The afternoon sun was gilding the spires of both St. Michael’s Cathedral and the Metropolitan Church just below it, making no distinction between Catholic and Protestant, both equally blessed for once. They’d bicycled in silence for a while. Murdoch thought Crabtree was looking peaked.

“Are you feeling unwell, George?”

“Oh no, sir. I’m in the pink, just a little tired. Billy is getting the last of his teeth in so he’s mardy as all get out.”

“Katie rubbed her twins’ gums with oil of cloves and gave them stale crusts to chew. That seemed to give them relief.”

“Ellen’s thinking of having his gums lanced. We did it with George junior and he was all smiles within the hour.”

They biked on, both lost in the burdens of domesticity. Murdoch had come to dote on Katie Tibbett’s twins, and he found
himself more and more thinking about what it would be like to have his own family, even mardy children. Without realizing it, he sighed deeply and Crabtree glanced over at him.

“How’s the house working out, sir? Is Miss Slade as ever, er, that is, is Miss Slade…?”

Murdoch rescued him. “She is still a fierce advocate and representative of the New Woman, if that’s what you mean, George.”

“Ah, yes. You must have some lively chins about that.”

“We certainly do.”

Murdoch wasn’t going to unburden himself to his constable about the nature of those talks.

“Speaking of Ellen, how is your better half, George?”

An expression of unhappiness crossed the constable’s face. “As well as can be expected, sir, considering.” He looked embarrassed and his voice tailed off.

“Good heavens, don’t tell me she’s in the family way again?”

“As a matter of fact, she is.”

“Are you planning to start a colony or something, George? What’s this, number five?”

“Yes, sir. I mean, er, it’s our fifth, not that we’re starting a colony.”

For no reason that he could think of, Murdoch felt irritated. It was none of his business and he liked the constable, but there were many days lately when Crabtree seemed tired and out of sorts. Then he usually mumbled something about the baby keeping him awake. And now there’d be another one before this one was out of nappies.

He realized Crabtree had been saying something to him.

“…it’s hard to know what to do. We thought that because Ellen was still nursing we wouldn’t, er, I mean, er, there was less likelihood of getting a baby, but that proved not to be the case.”

Good heavens, George was confiding in him.

“To tell you the truth, sir, she had a very difficult time with the last one and she’s fair worn out. She’s at her wit’s end about what to do.”

Murdoch didn’t have the vaguest idea what to reply, so he just nodded sympathetically.

“Beg your pardon, sir. I shouldn’t be talking like this.”

“Not at all, George. I wish I could be of more help. Have you spoken to your physician?”

“Yes, sir. He just prescribed her a tonic.”

“That should help then.” Murdoch knew how lame that sounded.

Crabtree sighed, tucking the brief intimacy back inside his heart. “Yes, sir. I’m sure it will.”

Terauley Street was on the western side of Yonge Street, an area of the city that Murdoch didn’t often visit, as most of his working life was concentrated on the area covered by number four division. Yonge Street on the western perimeter to River Street in the east, Carlton in the north, and Front Street in the south. A diverse population lived within its boundaries from very rich to very poor, expansive private grounds standing next to dirty foundries belching black smoke all day.

They crossed Yonge Street as quickly as they could, dodging the carriages that were clogging the city’s main thoroughfare. Elijah Green’s house was the end one of a row of narrow two-storey houses. There was no front yard, and they leaned their wheels against the wall of the house. Murdoch knocked hard on the door, which had once been blue but now needed a new coat of paint. The curtains of the windows at 262 were whisked aside. Murdoch had a glimpse of a dark face, then the curtain was dropped immediately. Before he could knock a second time, the door opened and a woman with a child close at her side stood in the threshold. She was a negress perhaps thirty years of age. The
child, a curly haired boy, was six or seven. He shrank into his mother’s skirt when he saw Crabtree in his tall helmet towering in front of them.

“Mrs. Green?” Murdoch tipped his hat.

She nodded nervously.

“Good afternoon, ma’am. My name is Murdoch. I’m a detective at number four station. This is Constable Crabtree. I wonder if I might have a word with your husband?”

Her eyes flickered away. “He’s resting right now.”

“Would you mind fetching him? I’m sorry to have to disturb him, but it is important.”

She tapped the boy on the shoulder. “Donnie, go get your pa.” The boy scuttled away.

The woman didn’t move or make any attempt to bring them into the house, and there was an awkward silence while they all waited.

“It’s been a lovely day, hasn’t it?” said Murdoch. “I do believe spring has finally arrived.”

Her brown eyes met his. She revealed nothing, but suddenly Murdoch felt foolish. She was a frightened woman and him uttering such banalities was absurd.

“Do you mind if we come in?” he asked, his voice gentle. “We want to ask some questions and I don’t think we can do that standing in the street.”

Suddenly Green appeared, his son right behind him. He had heard these words.

“Of course you can come in, Mr. Murdoch.” He nodded at Crabtree. “I don’t know about you, constable. You might be bumping your head on the ceiling.”

He stepped back so he could usher them in. “This is my wife, Mary Ann. Donnie here, who is going to take his thumb out of his mouth, ’cause he’s a big boy now, is my middle sprout.”

The door opened directly into the living room, and Crabtree did have to bend his head to go through the low threshold. Opposite the door was a staircase partly curtained off at the bottom, but the family essentially occupied one room shaped like a L, in the foot of which Murdoch glimpsed a cooking range and a sink. Two girls were seated at a table near the fire, both of them had sewing on their laps. They, too, regarded Murdoch and Crabtree with considerable alarm.

Green spoke to them sharply. “Sophie and Alexandra, take your work upstairs. You too, Donnie.”

They didn’t utter a word but bundled the cloths they were working on and hurried up the staircase. Green pulled the curtain closed after them. “We can sit at the table,” he said. “My wife will brew us some tea.”

Murdoch was about to refuse, but she was already heading for the little kitchen alcove and he didn’t want to give offence. He sat down, Crabtree squeezing himself into the chair opposite. Green’s home was very different from Talbert’s. Not only was it much smaller, it was furnished with mismatched furniture. The plank floor was covered with multi-coloured rag rugs and the armchairs had cheery crocheted covers flung over them. It was like many another workmen’s cottage he’d been in. Green took the chair across from him and Crabtree. He sat quietly, waiting for them to start, but Murdoch could feel his tension. Was he capable of inflicting such violence on an older man? Physically yes, easily, but mentally Murdoch couldn’t believe it.

Green put his hands on the table. The knuckles were swollen and criss-crossed with small scars. He saw Murdoch looking at his hands and immediately removed them and placed them on this knees. Then his eyes met Murdoch’s.

“I suppose you’re going to arrest me,” he said, his voice dead.

CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN

S
uddenly the curtains across the bottom of the stairs were whisked aside and a man came through into the room.

“I heard that, you foolish brother, you. Of course they ain’t gonna charge you.” He was younger than Green, not as tall, and heavier and much darker-skinned. Whereas Green had given the impression of well-contained strength, Murdoch thought this man looked on the verge of explosive rage. On the other hand, that impression could have been created by the fact he was wearing only summer trousers and a white undervest that seemed too small for him and accentuated his muscular shoulders and arms. His feet were bare.