Except the Dying (7 page)

As Murdoch was pouring himself a mug, the ginger station cat rubbed against his legs, purring like a swarm of bees. He bent down and scratched her head.

“No, I’m not going to give you anything to eat, you slacker. See those mice droppings on the table? How come? There shouldn’t be a one around here.”

The cat smiled complacently and rubbed her gums harder against his leg.

“I mean it, Puss. Go find your own breakfast.”

He picked up his mug and walked on back to his office.

Barely more than a cubicle, there was room for a desk, scarred and chipped, a chair with the upholstery poking out of the seat and a wooden filing cabinet with two broken drawers. Facing him were last year’s posters from the annual police athletic tournament. Murdoch had
won the one-mile bicycle race against stiff opposition, and he enjoyed the memory every time he glanced at his poster. Behind the desk were hung two obligatory portraits. One was of Her Majesty Queen Victoria in ceremonial attire, the other of Chief Constable Grasett, whose patrician face lent authority to the proceedings and also covered a crack in the plaster.

He sat down and, as he did every day, pulled open the top drawer and took out the silver-framed photograph of Elizabeth. He’d taken it himself with his new Premo camera just after they were engaged. Unfortunately, she’d moved and her face was out of focus, but it was the only picture he had. He gazed at it, said his prayer, planted a kiss on the glass and returned the picture to the drawer.

Then with a sigh, he picked up the envelope and pulled out the photograph of the dead girl. Foster had propped open her eyes for better recognition and used tints to get a good approximation ofher natural colouring. There was a light dusting of freckles across the straight nose and the cheeks were pink. Foster was guessing there but Murdoch thought, given the girl’s strong body, it was likely she’d had a rosy complexion. Probably fresh from the country. He had to admit he was relieved he wasn’t the one who had to notify the family.

By nine-thirty, he’d interviewed four people and more kept arriving. It was only Seymour’s formidable presence
that prevented the front of the station from sounding like a music hall.

Murdoch knew the body was not that of Simon Poyner’s wife, who’d never returned from a visit to her aunt in Detroit and who’d now be about forty. When shown the photograph, however, Mr. Poyner had been caught in a timeless world and said it certainly could be Agnes with some meat on her. Likewise the girl was not Martha Stone, daughter of Ezekiel, who’d walked away from the household ten years ago. She would be fifty-five if she was living. One old woman, all agog with excitement, swore the portrait was that of a schoolteacher from Kingston who’d boarded with her last year. “Lovely young woman, lovely. So tragic.” Unfortunately, the old lady’s testimony kept changing according to what she thought he wanted to hear. One moment the schoolteacher had brown eyes, the next blue, yes, blue, of course. The age didn’t fit here either but he decided to send a wire to the Kingston police anyway. You never knew. There was an outside chance the dead girl might be related to the “lovely schoolteacher.”

He was considering going to make some more tea when there was a knock on the wall in the hallway. The office was too small to permit a regular door and Murdoch had to make do with a reed curtain. It was Constable Crabtree who pushed through. The curtain clacked and snapped behind him.

“There’s a gentleman out front, sir. Come about the
notice in the newspaper. He claims the girl was his housemaid. Says she disappeared on Saturday night. The description does fit.”

“Who is he?”

“Quite a swell. Dr. Cyril Rhodes. Lives up on Lowther Avenue.”

“Bring him in. I’ve not had much luck so far. How many more now?”

“A good dozen, I’d say. Constable Graham and me are sorting out the wheat from the chaff for you.”

The constable left, the reed strips swaying in his wake. Murdoch turned to a fresh leaf in his notebook and placed his pen at the ready.

In a minute there was another tap and Crabtree pulled aside the curtain.

“Dr. Rhodes, sir.”

Behind him hovered a short, middle-aged man. Murdoch stood up and reached across the desk.

“Detective William Murdoch here.”

They shook hands. The doctor’s grip was light. Murdoch indicated the chair and Rhodes sat in it quickly. He pulled off his gloves, removed his silk top hat and fumbled with his silver-headed walking stick as he tried to find somewhere to lean it. He obviously wasn’t accustomed to being interviewed by policemen in dingy cubicles where the sour smell of vomit wafted over from the holding cell, courtesy of last night’s resident. The stables adjoined and they added their own contribution.

“Can I get you a cup of tea, sir?” asked Murdoch.

The doctor shook his head and reached inside his coat, which was of fine sheared lamb.

“My card.”

Murdoch studied the piece of cardboard. Substantial, glossy white, plain black script.

D
R.
C
YRIL
R
HODES

(Specializing in nervous diseases)

387 Church Street

He took his time, allowing the doctor to settle down.

“I understand you can identify the dead girl we’re seeking information about?”

Rhodes nodded. “I do believe she is, er, was, our maid Therese.”

Murdoch held out the photograph. “Was this her?”

Rhodes swallowed nervously. “Yes. Regrettably it is.”

“Her full name?”

“Therese Laporte.”

“French-Canadian?”

“Yes. She was from somewhere near Chatham, I believe.” Rhodes tugged on his trim beard. “W-what happened?”

“We don’t know yet. One of our constables found her body in the early hours of Sunday morning. Over near Sumach Street. You live up in Yorkville Village, sir?”

“That’s right. Birchlea House on Lowther Avenue.”

Murdoch wrote that down. “She seems to have been a long way from home. What would she be doing over this way?”

“I can’t-t say. I heard on Sunday morning that she had left. Sort of run away, really. She’s been with us for the past six months but apparently she was home … er, home … homesick. Our housekeeper, Mrs. Foy, found a note she’d left. My wife will be very distressed when she finds out. She was fond of the … the girl. Spent a lot of time with her. Training and whatnot.”

His words trailed off and he gazed at Murdoch anxiously. Then he patted his coat. “Sorry, I can’t linger. I was at my office when I saw the notice. I had to postpone my appointments. Th-thought this was im-important. You’ll want me to make a formal identification, I presume?”

“Yes, I will.”

Rhodes was about to stand up but Murdoch frowned at him.

“I have to ask you a few more questions, sir.”

“I don’t know much more than I’ve already said.”

“What were the exact contents of the note?”

“What?”

“The note that your cook found – what did it say?”

“Didn’t look at it myself, but apparently it was about wanting to return home. She was from the country, you see. Got quite homesick. Often do these, these … they often do, these girls.”

“Indeed. Toronto must be a big change for them. When did you yourself last see Miss Laporte?”

“Hmm. I suppose it was shortly before the evening meal. Fiveish on Sat-Saturday. She was setting the table.”

“Did she seem herself?”

“How do you mean?”

“Did she seem ill in any way?”

“Not that I noticed, although she didn’t serve that night. Mrs. Foy said she was indisposed. Seems now as if that wasn’t true. She was probably planning her getaway. Dratted inconvenient. My wife spent considerable time training her. She seemed most suitable. Now we’ve got to start all over again.”

“So you do.”

Murdoch thought he’d kept his voice neutral, but the doctor glanced at him sharply and blushed suddenly like a boy. He was not quite so self-centred and impervious as he seemed.

“You d-do … you don’t understand,” he said.

“Understand what, sir?”

Rhodes waved his hand. “No m-matter. It is not relevant.”

He patted his coat again, which seemed to be a habitual nervous gesture. “I do have appointments to meet …”

“Of course. I will need to come to the house and talk to your servants afterwards.” Murdoch thought this was a good time to give out some more information, and he
explained about the body being naked. Rhodes seemed suitably shocked.

“We’ll need a description of her clothing,” added Murdoch. “I don’t suppose you could help us in that regard, could you, Doctor?”

“I’m afraid not. She was the, er, maid … after all.”

“She wore a uniform, didn’t she, sir?”

“Yes, of … of course. A dark skirt, or dress rather, white apron, white cap. The usual sort of thing.”

There was another knock from the hallway and Crabtree came in and handed Murdoch a cardboard box.

“The postmortem report, sir. Just delivered.”

Murdoch hesitated for a moment. “Do you mind if I take a quick look at this, Doctor?”

Rhodes pulled out his watch again and studied it. “If you must …”

Murdoch was already reading the report.

Murdoch finished reading while Rhodes fidgeted.

“Bad news, is it?” he asked finally. “She wasn’t, er, wasn’t attacked, I hope?”

Murdoch put down the paper. “No, she froze to death. However, as I’m sure you know, Doctor, a person doesn’t just lie down and take a nap in freezing weather.”

“Great heavens, she wasn’t inebriated, was she?”

“Apparently not. Did she have a history of drinking?”

“Not that I know of. Young g-girl, after all.”

“It’s not unusual. Anyway, that’s beside the point….” He looked Rhodes squarely in the eyes. “She was with child. About six weeks along.”

Rhodes recoiled. “Dear Lord!”

“I gather this is a surprise to you, sir?”

“Of c-c-course it is. I mean, she d-didn’t seem that sort of girl, not at all. Good gracious, my wife will be very upset.”

“Perhaps that was the real reason Miss Laporte left your house so abruptly.”

“I … well, I suppose it could be.”

“Did she have a sweetheart that you know of, sir?”

Rhodes blinked. “Mr. Murdoch, I am dreadfully sorry for the girl but she was only my maid. I do not concern myself with the private lives of my servants.”

“Did your wife ever mention it?”

“No, she did not.”

Murdoch picked up his pen. “Would you give me the names of the other members of the household?”

“Are you only interested in the males?” There was an unexpected note of sarcasm in Rhodes’s voice, but Murdoch liked him better for it.

“Everybody, if you please,” he said politely.

“There is my wife, Donalda, my son, Owen. The butler, John Foy, and his wife, Edith. A stableboy, Seaton, er … I don’t recall his Christian name. Those are all the servants we keep. We live quite simply.”

“How old is your son?”

Rhodes raised his eyebrows and looked as if the question were too forward, but he answered. “Twenty-t-two.”

“And the stableboy?”

“I have no idea. About thirteen, I would imagine.”

Rhodes patted his watch pocket. He was going to wear a hole in it at this rate.

“Doctor, you said you saw Miss Laporte at the dinner
hour. Were you at home for the rest of the evening?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Murdoch, I fail to see … Why do you ask?”

“Answer the question if you please, sir.”

The doctor flushed at his tone. “Well, let me see … In fac-fact I was not at home that evening. Miss Shepcote was not well and the evening ended fairly early. I had some important work to do at my consulting rooms so I went there afterwards.”

“Miss Shepcote?”

“She and her father, Alderman Shepcote, were our dinner guests. She and my son are, er, well, we, er, hope they will be betrothed fairly soon.”

“What time did you leave your house?”

“I don’t know exactly. Somewhere after nine. Owen took Miss Shepcote home in our carriage and I left a little later with Mr. Shepcote, who let me off at my office.”

“And when did you return home?”

“Detective Murdoch, I must say these questions are s-starting to sound impertinent. What does it have to do with the girl’s death?”

“Allow me to read this section of the doctor’s report:

Rhodes gasped, but Murdoch kept on reading.