A Journeyman to Grief (20 page)

Oatley frowned. “Oh dear, you’re talking about Mrs. Dittman. She arrived last week from New York. She does have a coloured servant with her. She’s the only one of our guests who answers to that description. Mrs. Dittman herself is not well and regrettably she has seldom been out since she got here. Is she in, er, is she in difficulties?”

“I don’t believe so, but I would like to speak to her.”

Oatley looked nervous and his voice squeaked even more. “Is it absolutely necessary, detective? We rely on our unblemished reputation for catering to a good class of people.”

“I shall be most discreet, I assure you. But, yes, it is quite necessary.” Murdoch was tempted to ruffle the clerk’s smooth feathers by telling him he was working on a case of assault and suspicious death, but he was afraid the clerk might have hysterics.

Oatley stood on his tiptoes, leaned over the counter, and pointed with the tip of his gold-nibbed pen. “She is in the dining room for her luncheon. The waiter will take you to her.”

“And her maid?”

“She is eating in the servants’ hall downstairs.”

For a moment, the young man’s eyes showed a spark of avid curiosity. “Am I to know the nature of the case, detective?”

“Not at this moment, sir. I cannot disclose details.”

With a nod, Murdoch headed for the dining room. Another liveried servant opened the door for him.

There was only a smattering of guests present, which gave the pristine white tablecloths and silver cutlery the opportunity to shine in the sunlight pouring in from the deep windows. The wall covering was flowered burgundy, the thick carpet was also lush with flowers. The room spoke of money. Lots of it.

“May I show you to your table, sir?” A waiter, as formally dressed as a clergyman, stepped toward him. He was holding a velvet-covered menu in his hand.

“I’m not eating, thank you. I’m looking for a Mrs. Dittman. Mr. Oatley said I would find her here.”

With the merest of sighs, the waiter returned the menu to the podium by the door. “Mrs. Dittman is the lady seated by the window. Come this way.”

“No, don’t bother. You have another guest to deal with.”

A portly man had entered the dining room. The waiter greeted him warmly and led him away. Murdoch stood for a moment, wanting to get a look at the woman in question, but either by choice or because she had been assigned that particular spot, she was partly obscured by a large potted fern. All Murdoch could see was the back of a thin woman, soberly dressed in grey. She was wearing a widow’s bonnet, but she had lifted the short veil while she ate. Her clothes signified she was no longer in deepest mourning, but it was anybody’s guess, with Her Majesty Queen Victoria as a model, how long she had been widowed.

Murdoch walked over to the table, his footsteps completely muffled by the carpet.

“Excuse me, ma’am.”

He hadn’t intended to startle her, but she jumped and twisted around to look at him. Murdoch removed his hat. “Mrs. Dittman?”

“Yes. Who are you?”

“Detective William Murdoch, ma’am. I wonder if I might have a few words with you?”

“What about?”

She had the abrupt, straightforward manner of speaking that he tended to associate with American ladies. Murdoch hesitated.

“It’s a rather private matter, ma’am. Do you mind if I sit down?”

“Not as long as you don’t mind if I finish my meal. I have paid enough for it and I don’t like cold bacon, even if you Canadians do.”

“Of course, ma’am. Please continue. I wouldn’t interrupt you in this way if it weren’t a matter of some urgency.”

“Pull up that chair, then.”

Mrs. Dittman must have been well into middle age, but she was still a strikingly handsome woman with strong, chiselled features and well-shaped hazel eyes. She would have been more so except for the gauntness of her cheeks and eyes that were too deeply shadowed. Her dark hair, drawn back into a knot at the nape of her neck, was liberally streaked with grey but was still thick and abundant.

He sat down, and she went back to her meal.

“I understand you have a maid, a negress?”

“That’s right, Faith. The best there is. Why? Surely there’s no problem with her staying with me. I’m not well. I need her. She’s not eating in here. She’s in the servants’ kitchen, but Mr. Hirsh said he had no objection to her sleeping in my suite. It costs enough.”

Murdoch was a little taken aback by the rush of words. “I’m not here to question your personal arrangements, ma’am. The
reason I asked about your maid is because I am investigating a suspicious death and I have to track down anybody who might be considered a witness to the case.”

Mrs. Dittman dabbed at her mouth with the napkin. “You are being most mysterious, sir. What suspicious death are you referring to and how could Faith possibly be a witness? We are visitors here.”

“Did your maid go to Cooke’s Livery last week, to try to hire you a cab for the evening?”

“What day are you referring to?”

“A week ago, Tuesday last.”

“Ah yes. I did not know that was the name of the place but, yes, I sent her to find a cab. I wanted to attend a special lecture by a visiting professor of physiology, but as it turned out I was not well enough to go out. Why is it of import?”

“The stable hand said a woman of her description was inquiring at the livery on that particular night, and I need to confirm his statement.”

“I see.” Again she wiped the corners of her mouth with the napkin. “I do hope you’re not going to tell me he is the one who has suffered an unnatural death?”

“No, ma’am. It is the owner who has died. His name was Daniel Cooke. You don’t know him by any chance, do you?”

She frowned. “How could I know of him? As I just said, I am a stranger here.”

She pushed her plate forward and a waiter who had not been in Murdoch’s view suddenly appeared and whisked it away.

“May I bring over the sweet trolley, ma’am?”

“No, thank you. I have had more than enough.”

In spite of her insistence on continuing to eat and the price of the meal, Murdoch saw she had left most of the food on her plate.

“I do beg your pardon if I spoiled your luncheon, ma’am.”

“You didn’t. I lose my appetite very quickly these days, but that’s neither here nor there. Is there anything else you want to ask me?”

“I don’t think so, but I would like to have a word with your maid.”

“Faith? She won’t add anything to what I’ve just said.”

“I’d just like to hear from her personally, if you don’t mind, ma’am. It won’t take long.”

“Very well. They probably won’t let her in here and you probably don’t want to go to the servants’ hall. We’ll have to go to my room. I’ll have Oatley ring for her.”

She stood up, pulled the veil down across her face, and walked to the door. Her stride was steady enough, but Murdoch had the impression that it cost her something to move like that.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX

M
rs. Dittman’s room was on the ground floor at the rear of the hotel. She didn’t wait for Murdoch but led the way down the hall, unlocked her door and went in, leaving him to follow. It was an airy room, elegantly furnished, and by the look of it one of the more expensive apartments in the hotel.

“Please take a seat, Mr., er, what was your name again?”

“Murdoch, ma’am. Detective William Murdoch.”

She went over to the windows and began to draw the curtains.

“I find the sunlight hard on my eyes. I hope you don’t mind,” she said.

He made a noncommittal nod, noting as the curtains closed that the French doors opened onto a small patio and a wide lawn. Easy to come and go unseen.

“Do you have other servants, ma’am?”

“Not travelling with me, if that’s what you mean. I have a housekeeper and a groom back in New York. Don’t tell me you want to question them as well?”

Murdoch smiled benignly. “Not at all, ma’am. I was only inquiring because Mrs. Cooke reported a strange visitor the night her husband died. Her butler hadn’t seen him before but thought the man was a negro.”

“Really? Surely Toronto isn’t so devoid of coloured people that every negro is related to every other? Just because I employ a negress doesn’t mean I am responsible for all the darkies in the city. Both my housekeeper and groom are of Irish stock, by the way. I took in Faith when she was a young woman, and she has been as reliable as her name. Ah, here she is.”

The door opened and a coloured woman entered. She was neatly dressed, middle-aged, medium height, and rather stout. She was carrying a tray with a silver coffee pot and china on it.

“I thought you’d like your coffee. Mr. Oatley mentioned that you didn’t take any in the dining room.”

She had a rather harsh accent that Murdoch had heard before from New Yorkers. She glanced over at Murdoch. “I didn’t know you had a visitor, madam. Shall I fetch an extra cup?”

“No, thank you, please don’t bother,” Murdoch said quickly.

“This is Mr. Murdoch, Faith. He’s a local detective and he wants to ask you some questions.”

“Really, madam? Concerning what?”

“Last week you tried to hire a carriage for me from one of the local stables.”

“Ah, yes, I remember, madam. Tuesday it was. We wanted one for the next day, but they weren’t available. Is there something wrong?”

Murdoch answered. “The proprietor of that particular livery has died under suspicious circumstances and I am investigating the case, Miss…?” He waited for one of them to fill in the maid’s surname but neither did. “I understand that you had
a conversation with the stable hand who was in the barn at the time? His name is Green.”

Faith studied him with her dark eyes, but she didn’t answer immediately. She poured out some coffee for her mistress first and handed it to her.

“Bring my medicine, will you, Faith? I hope you don’t mind, Mr. Murdoch. I am supposed to take it at a regular time. Go on talking, though, you have our attention.”

He might have their attention, thought Murdoch, but he didn’t have control of the situation. Mrs. Dittman was very much in command. He waited while the maid went to the table at the side of the bed and returned with a brown bottle. She poured some of the contents into her mistress’s coffee. Murdoch thought the drink looked like brandy, but that could be considered medicine, he supposed.

“Do you recall the man I am referring to?”

Faith addressed him without looking at him.

“It is rather vague in my mind, but I believe I do. I never knew his name, but if you’re talking about a coloured man, big build, soft spoke, it must be this Green cove.”

“It was a wet night on Tuesday. I wonder why you didn’t make use of the hotel telephone for your inquiry.”

Mrs. Dittman answered, “Faith is frequently confined indoors because of my state of health. She needed some fresh air.”

“It wasn’t raining hard when I went,” added the maid. “I ain’t, pardon me, I isn’t made of sugar.”

“According to Mr. Green, you also asked after one of the local ministers. A Reverend Archer. Is he an acquaintance of yours?”

“I have never met the man. But somebody at my own church told me about him. I hear he’s a powerful good preacher. I likes a lively sermon so I thought I’d introduce myself.”

“Faith is quite a devout Baptist, aren’t you, dear?”

“I am.”

“Just one more question then, ma’am. Did you notice anybody else on the street near the livery? Anybody at all?”

Faith pursed her lips, thinking. “No, can’t say I did. There might have been somebody, but I didn’t pay no mind.”

Murdoch closed his notebook. “Thank you so much for your help.”

He stood up.

“Show the gentleman out, will you, Faith? Thank you, Mr. Murdoch. You have livened up a rather dreary day.”

“I’m glad to hear it. It must be disappointing to visit a strange city and not be able to get around as you must have hoped.”

He was being deliberately disingenuous, but she wasn’t in the least put out.

“Yes, it is. But we are planning to hire a Bath chair and Faith will wheel me. I am eager to see the cathedrals, in particular. After all, Toronto is the city of spires, is it not? Unfortunately, the weather has been against us, until now.”

The maid was standing at the door, holding it open for Murdoch.

“Good afternoon to you then, ma’am.”

Mrs. Dittman bowed her head graciously while Faith stared straight ahead.

She’d answered readily enough, but he thought it odd that she’d shown no curiosity about his questions. Usually people were agog to hear lurid details of deaths. It might be because she was a servant and didn’t feel she had the right to ask. On the other hand, her mistress hadn’t inquired either.

Inside the room, Mrs. Dittman added some more brandy from the brown bottle into her coffee cup.

“Do you want some, Fiddie?”

“I won’t say no to that. My nerves are fair frayed. I didn’t expect no detective to be sitting here jawing with you.”

“I had no way to warn you but you were quite superb. Bernhardt herself couldn’t have done better.”

She poured them each a full glass of brandy.

“
Oh be joyful
,” said Mrs. Dittman.

Faith laughed. “You got me out of an awkward spot there when he asked why we hadn’t used the telephone. But butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth.” She imitated Mrs. Dittman’s softer voice. “Toronto
is
the city of spires, is it not? Where’d you hear that?”

“I read it in the guidebook. Do you know there are one hundred and seventy-two churches in Toronto now.”

“And most of them dull as dishwater, I’ll wager.”

Mrs. Dittman smiled. “Seriously, Fiddie, the detective struck me as a shrewd man.”

“Not if he’s a policeman, he ain’t.”

“He did have nice manners.”

“Phony. Besides he didn’t have nice manners to me.”

“I thought he treated us the same.”

Faith hooted. “You might think so, but I can tell the difference. ‘Yes, ma’am, no ma’am, to you, yes, miss, no miss to me.’”

“I don’t think so…Oh never mind, it’s not worth arguing about.”

“If he’s as clever as you say, shall we fly the coop then?”