A Journeyman to Grief (6 page)

The search was soon completed, and Mrs. Cooke declared that as far as she knew nothing else had been taken. She returned to the safe and gave a cursory glance at the box of bills. She looked far worse now than she had when he first brought her the bad news. Even in her youth, Murdoch doubted she had ever been an attractive woman. Her chin and nose were too coarse for beauty, and a long-standing petulance had etched lines between her eyes.

She put the five-dollar bill in her reticule. “I’ll take this.”

“Do you have an objection if I take the box with me, ma’am?”

For a moment, she looked uneasy. “I cannot imagine it will be of any help. It just contains bills of sale.”

“Everything we can learn about your husband’s affairs might help,” said Murdoch, and not giving her much chance to protest further he picked up the cardboard box, scooped the papers off the spike on the desk, and put them inside.

“It is obvious a thief lured him away on some pretext,” she continued. “I assume he was shot?”

“As a matter of fact, ma’am, we are not sure at this moment what caused his death…he’d been tied up. I hate to have to tell you this, Mrs. Cooke, but he’d been whipped.”

She gaped at him. “Whipped? What on Earth do you mean?”

“His jacket and shirt were cut off and his assailant horse-whipped him.”

She sat down abruptly on the chair by the door. “Why would anybody do that?”

“I don’t know, ma’am. Did your husband have any enemies that you were aware of?”

“None. He was very well liked. You can ask his employees. They were very loyal. What a dreadful, dreadful thing. To take all of our money is bad enough, but to hurt him in that way…”

Murdoch wished he had insisted on Mrs. Cooke’s maid accompanying them, but she had refused, saying she didn’t want Nosy Parkers involved in her business. As Lucy was well within earshot, Murdoch thought Mrs. Cooke was being unduly rude.

“Let me accompany you home, ma’am. We will continue the investigation tomorrow. Is there a friend or relative you would like me to send for to stay with you?”

“No. My servants will take care of me. That’s what I pay them for, isn’t it?”

Murdoch had no answer to that so he offered her his arm and, pulling on it rather heavily, she got to her feet.

“I realize you must do your job, but I hope you don’t intend to close the stable for more than a morning. The cabbies need to go about their business. It is their livelihood, after all.”

“Yes, ma’am. I quite understand. And speaking of that, I need a list of their names and addresses.”

She pointed at the filing cabinet. “There’s a ledger in the bottom drawer. They’re in there.”

“Thank you, ma’am. And I promise you, we will do our best to move quickly.”

“I would expect as much,” she said.

CHAPTER
SEVEN

AUGUST
1858

I
n the month since she had been abducted, she had learned to keep her eyes averted and her head slightly inclined, and she did that now as she and her captors approached the porch.

“Here she is, ma’am.”

The woman was lying on a lounge chair, covered with a shawl even though it was a hot, muggy afternoon. Her untidily pinned hair was quite grey, and her skin seemed deadly white, her eyes deeply shadowed. A girl with dark skin was standing behind her, cooling her with a large palm fan.

“What’s her name?” the woman asked.

She spoke in a quiet, enervated voice that had an unusual twang.

“She was last called Lena, ma’am. She’s been a lady’s maid before and can sew beautifully, dress hair in the best style, and is quiet and docile as a kitten.”

“Kittens scratch.” This remark came from another woman who was seated near the door. Lena managed a quick glance in her direction. She was younger with a thin, pinched face. Her
brown hair was pulled down smooth and tight from a straight centre parting in the current fashion, and the severity of it did not enhance her looks.

“A figure of speech only, ma’am,” Prescott gave Lena a poke in the ribs. “Come on, girl. Tell Mrs. Dickie that you’re a good girl.”

She curtsied. “I’m a good girl, ma’am. I won’t be any trouble.”

The younger woman snorted. “My, aren’t we la-di-da. Where
did
she come from, Prescott?”

“She belonged to an English lady, ma’am. Over in Ohio. Must’ve picked up the way of talking from her. Her missus’d never have sold her ’cept she was going back to the homeland.”

“I think you should reconsider, mother. You know what trouble these high-yaller girls are. They think they’re better than anybody else and the others get fussed and come complaining all the time. It’s so tiresome.”

Prescott addressed Mrs. Dickie. “What’s it to be then, ma’am? I can get a good price for her anywhere if you don’t want her.”

The older woman gave a weak wave. “Come over here, girl. Let me look at you.” Lena walked over to the couch. “Kneel down, you’re so tall you’re making my neck crick by looking up at you…that’s better. Now let me see your hands.”

Lena held her hands out, palms up.

“Yes, they are soft. You’re not lying about that Prescott. No, don’t protest. You know perfectly well you’d pass off a mule as an Arabian if you could get away with it. Now, girl, let’s see you smile. You’re much too solemn. I can’t have gloomy faces around me, only sunny ones. Isn’t that right, Fidelia?”

The coloured girl beamed a dazzling white smile, marred only by a partly chipped front tooth.

“Yes, missus.”

Lena forced herself to smile, and the woman looked at her critically.

“Much better. You’re quite pretty with a happy expression. What do you think, Leigh? Caddie? Turn around, child, and show them how you can smile.”

Lena did so. A man spoke.

“I think she’ll do as well as any other, mamma. You are in need of a maid.”

Lena hadn’t noticed him at first, as he was standing at the far end of the porch. He was short, running to fat, with thinning hair, although he was probably still in his twenties.

The young woman who’d been addressed as Caddie frowned. “I tell you she’ll cause trouble.”

The man shrugged indifferently. “I don’t give a fig either way. It is up to mamma.”

Mrs. Dickie waved her hand in Prescott’s direction. “I like her. It’s settled then. Fidelia, you can take her to the cabin and show her where she’ll sleep.” She touched Lena’s cheek with her dry finger. “Are you hungry, child?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Beulah will fix you something. Come back in here in about an hour. Can you tell the time?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Now, Mr. Prescott, come around to the back and my son will settle up with you. Leigh, deduct at least twenty dollars from what he asks. He’s a rogue through and through.”

The slave trader tipped his hat. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Lena felt a pang of fear. How bizarre that she should feel afraid seeing him go, but she did. He was the only link to her real life. He was the only one who knew who she was and where she came from. But even as she saw him bowing, grinning, ignoring her, she knew how foolish it was even to suppose for a moment he would tell the truth. She’d tried that on the steamer, she’d tried to talk to the captain, but Prescott had pulled her away. Later,
he’d punched her so hard in the ribs that she couldn’t breathe. He said if she did that again, he’d have her taken off to the loony bin and she could scream and carry on there until she went grey and they would never believe her because everybody in that place said they were somebody else. “You’ll be chained up and starved and beaten, and if you think your husband will find you, he might as well look for a needle in a whole barn of straw because he never will.”

That kept her silent even more than fear of the pain he could inflict. If she was at least visible to normal people, to civilized people, she might eventually be found.

CHAPTER
EIGHT

M
urdoch entered the house as quietly as he could. An oil lamp was burning low on the hall table, but there were no lights showing underneath the doors leading from the hallway. It was past one o’clock in the morning and everybody was sensibly asleep. He hung up his hat and coat, yawning enough to dislocate his own jaw. He stood still for a moment. He was so used to coming into the house and listening for Arthur Kitchen, his former landlord, it had become a habit. This time he was making sure no wail of a babe woken prematurely tore the air. Katie, one of his fellow boarders, had warned him that her twins were coming down with the sniffles.

He reached for the lamp and noticed there was a letter beside it. It was one he’d received from Beatrice Kitchen that morning and he must have left it in the kitchen. He put it in his pocket and started up the stairs, stepping carefully over the second step from the top, which always creaked badly. He should see to it. He was nominally the landlord now. When the Kitchens had moved to Muskoka in a desperate search for a cure for Arthur’s consumption,
Murdoch had agreed to stay on in the house, rent-free, and look after the new tenants. Murdoch smiled to himself. Mrs. Kitchen, bless her heart, would probably be saying a dozen novenas if she knew what had developed in the household. In the front parlour were Katie and her twin boys. She had considered herself married and then, abruptly, a widow, but it transpired the marriage was a bigamous one, making her children bastards. Not that anybody in his house was going to bruit that abroad. Charlie Seymour, a fellow officer at number four station, was renting one of the upstairs rooms, and Murdoch was sure the once-confirmed bachelor was smitten by the young woman. She was a sweet-natured girl who also happened to be an excellent cook, so Murdoch wasn’t surprised Charlie was feeling the way he did. What would distress dear Mrs. Kitchen more than anything else, however, was the presence of the third boarder, Miss Amy Slade, schoolteacher, ardent and unapologetic New Woman, atheist, and the object of Murdoch’s affections.

At the top of the landing, he could see that the door to his little sitting room was open and the soft glow of a candle spilled out. He walked quietly down the landing and went in.

Amy was sitting in the armchair fast asleep. She was in her dressing gown, her hair in a night braid. He stood for a moment, still at the stage of love when it is a delight to study the sleeping face of your beloved and marvel at its mystery. Even in the shadowy candlelight, the softness of her well-shaped lips were visible and stirred him.

Suddenly she opened her eyes with a gasp. “Will, you startled me. What are you doing standing there?”

“Looking at you.”

“For how long?”

“Only a moment.”

“Thank goodness for that, I was probably sleeping with my mouth open.”

“No, you weren’t. And even if you had been I would still consider you a sight for sore eyes.”

She made a sort of harrumph sound and picked up the book that was lying in her lap. “I was intending just to wait for you and read a book, but I fell asleep. What time is it?”

“Almost half past one.”

“Why are you so late? Surely the lecture didn’t go this long? Don’t tell me you were called to a case.” She scrutinized his face for a moment. “You were. You’re wearing your detective look.”

“I’m not even going to ask what you mean by that, but yes, you’re right. Crabtree came to the lecture hall and fetched me.”

“A murder?”

“We don’t know yet, but it was very nasty.”

“If it’s all right with you then, you can tell me that part in the morning. I don’t want nightmares.”

He bent over and touched his finger to her chin tenderly. “Nightmares? I can’t imagine my brave Amy having nightmares.”

“But I do. You haven’t known me long enough yet.”

“I shall be glad to ensure that at any time, as you know.”

She smiled. “Speaking of beds, which you were about to, I had better get to my own. I believe the school inspector might pay me a visit tomorrow and I should have all my wits about me.”

“Was there a particular reason you were sitting up for me?”

“There was, but it can wait.” She gave him a quick kiss. “Good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

In spite of his jangling alarm clock, Murdoch found it hard to wake up, and Amy had left by the time he went down to the kitchen. When he arrived at the station it was well after eight and later than he’d wanted. Gardiner was the sergeant on duty, Seymour having the luxury after a twenty-four-hour shift of a long sleep-in.

“Morning, Will. Crabtree has given me the report on last night’s incident and I took the liberty of sending him and Fyfer to start the search of the stable.”

“Thanks, John. Is there any tea brewed? I need a large cuppa before I join them.”

“I just mashed a pot half an hour ago. It’ll be good and fresh.”

The front door opened and a man entered. He was middle-aged, with a neatly trimmed beard and soberly dressed in a grey fedora and long tweed coat. Murdoch couldn’t quite place his occupation. Not a doctor, nor a minister, but with an air of calm authority about him that men in those professions often have. The man lifted his hat to Murdoch.

“Good morning, do I have the privilege of addressing Detective William Murdoch?”

“I’m Murdoch.”

The man extended his hand. “My name is Cherry, Earl Cherry, and I am actually conveying a message from Inspector Brackenreid.” He held out an envelope.

Murdoch opened it, bewildered. Brackenreid had been away from the station for the past few days, supposedly suffering from a bad cold, which had become code for a severe hangover.

Dear Murdoch. I know we have had our differences, but when it comes to the wall, you are a man whose discretion I trust. I am sending a friend of mine with this letter. I am temporarily incapacitated with the aftermath of what was probably an attack of gastritis and I am staying at a lodge to recuperate. With some time on my hands, I have need of something to read and what better opportunity than to make a thorough study of the minutes of the city council. I’ll settle for the ones for 1894. They are bound in a volume on the second shelf from the top in the bookcase
by the window. As it includes the report of the chief constable, it would be better if it were kept private. I would like you to wrap it securely and give it to Mr. Cherry, who will bring it to me. Your help in this matter is much appreciated and will not be forgotten.