Let Loose the Dogs (12 page)

Mrs. Bowling had provided them with a show. The disconcerting thing was that Murdoch didn’t know who this display was intended for.

Chapter Twenty-three

S
OMEWHAT RELUCTANTLY
, N
EWCOMBE
left the puppy in the care of Mrs. Bowling, with instructions for feeding and care. None of the Delaney family reappeared. Kate must have seen James Craig leave, and she did not make good her promise of fresh tea. Newcombe and Murdoch headed back to the tavern.

“I didn’t expect anything like that to happen,” said Newcombe. “The lad’s been very well behaved when he’s been down at the inn.”

“Surely it’s not the first time he’s exploded in that way. Mrs. Bowling obviously knew what to do.”

“She certainly did.”

“I thought for a minute he was going to attack his mother.”

“I doubt it would go that far but you yourself were swift off the mark, Will.”

They walked on, the innkeeper unusually quiet. Finally Murdoch said, “I see what you mean about Miss Kate. She has completely lost her heart to young Craig.”

“Let’s hope that’s all she’s lost. According to Mrs. Bowling, they are left alone for hours at a time. Practising they claim; but if I had a girl that age, I’d want to know exactly what they was practising at, wouldn’t you?”

“Mrs. Bowling confides in you, does she?”

Newcombe stopped abruptly and faced Murdoch. The wind had reddened the tip of his nose, and his cheeks and his eyes were watery. “What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing in particular. It’s just that you seem to be privy to the Delaneys’ private life, and I assumed that was because their servant likes to gossip.”

The innkeeper stared at Murdoch, trying to determine if he was telling the truth. He relaxed a little. “Look, Will, you seem a good sort to me. I know you’ve got a job to do and that means you’ve got to ask questions, but you’re sailing a bit close to the dock. Mrs. Bowling is a decent Christian woman. She’s alone and she gets lonesome. She doesn’t feel comfortable coming into the tavern, as is understandable, so I take her a jug on occasion. We’re friends, you might say. She chatters on like all women do. I don’t pay her no mind.”

Murdoch nodded sympathetically. He had touched a nerve here, but he didn’t know why, and at this stage he certainly didn’t want to jeopardise the good feeling that had so far existed between the two of them.

At the bridge Newcombe stopped. “I need to make water.”

He turned his back on Murdoch, walked over to a tree, and urinated against the trunk. When he was done, he came back, buttoning his trousers. “That’s better. Nothing like a piss when you’ve got to do it. Do you have to go?”

“No, I’m all right, thanks,” said Murdoch, although he did wonder for a moment if he shouldn’t try and mark the tree to reassure his host.

He took out his watch and checked the time.

“Have you got an appointment, Will? You’re forever looking at your piece, there.”

“Am I? I wasn’t aware of that.”

In part he was timing the distance back to the bridge and from there to the tavern, but the pressure of time never left him, sitting like an ugly bird on his right shoulder ready to peck his eyes out.

You’re all I’ve got, Will. Don’t turn your back on me
.

It wasn’t
he
who had the appointment.

As they were approaching the top of the hill, Newcombe asked, “Are you married by chance, Will?”

“No, I’ve not yet had the pleasure.”

“Ah. Pleasure yes.” Newcombe tapped the side of his nose. “Pain, too, if you’re not careful. Wives can be fierce when they’re roused.”

“Is that so?”

“It is and therefore I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t repeat to Maria what I just told you about Mrs. Bowling. She’s the salt of the earth is my wife, but she, er, she might make more of it than there is, if you understand what I mean.”

“Of course. Not every wife would be secure with their husband visiting lonely widow ladies with jugs of beer, especially if they’re kept in the dark about it.”

“Exactly.” Newcombe let out such a sigh, Murdoch’s curiosity was whetted even more. He wondered if the innkeeper’s visits to Mrs. Bowling were as innocent as he claimed. He’d felt the tension between them in the kitchen. That didn’t come about because Newcombe once in a while delivered some flat brew. But he was puzzled. Mrs. Bowling was plain featured, not an obvious object of illicit desire. On the other hand, his impression of Maria Newcombe was of a kind-hearted woman who, when younger, would have been round and luscious as a plum. Did desire fade as the years went by? He’d never talked about it to Liza. Their love for each other had been hot, hers as well as his, and he couldn’t imagine a time when that would have waned. Apparently for some men it did.

“All right, are we?” asked the innkeeper. Murdoch nodded. They were at the door of the tavern now. There were two mud scrapers outside, and both he and Newcombe cleaned off their boots. Murdoch’s thoughts jumped to Enid Jones, also a widow, also lonely.

“If you scrape anymore, you’re going to take off your sole,” said Newcombe.

Murdoch walked all the way from the Manchester, not yet sure how Havoc would behave if they took the streetcar. The little terrier seemed to hate being picked up and snarled and snapped ferociously at the slightest indication that was going to happen. According to Newcombe, the dog would get used to him, and he’d provided some gamey pieces of meat to feed him.

Havoc so far had maintained a surly distance. Contrary to what the innkeeper had said, he showed no interest in the meat, sniffing at it and even taking a nibble but spitting it out immediately. However, he did walk well on his leash, trotting quietly at Murdoch’s side. By the time they reached Queen Street, Murdoch was knackered. He was tempted to postpone his call until tomorrow, but he didn’t dare.

Earlier in the year, while he was investigating the mysterious death of a young girl, Murdoch had met Samuel Quinn. The girl’s frozen body had been discovered in a laneway almost directly opposite to the rooming house where Quinn lived. Murdoch had liked the young man, who was a baker with a side passion for dogs. He had a feeling that the best person to consult about the “Fancy” might be him. He turned up Sumach to St. Luke’s Street where Quinn lived. The houses here were tall and narrow, pressed together in tight rows of four or five dwellings. The boardinghouse was shabby, the gables peeling. Murdoch wondered if Bernadette Weston still lived here. The thought of her made him uneasy, as it always had, and he banged hard on the front door. The bellpull was broken, and there was no knocker. He thumped a second time, tried the doorknob, and found the door unlocked. He stepped into the dark hallway. There was a thin sliver of light coming from the second door; but before he had to inch his way forward in the darkness, the door opened and Quinn himself came out.

“Ahh!”

“It’s all right, Sam. Detective Murdoch here.”

“You almost gave me a heart seizure.”

“Beg pardon. Nobody answered my knock. I’ve come to have a word with you.”

Havoc burst into a flurry of barks, which were answered by a deeper baying from behind Quinn. A sleek hound poked its nose around his legs, saw Havoc, and barked a warning.

“Quiet, Princess. Get back in there.”

The dog ignored him. Havoc was beside himself, straining at the leash to get into the fray.

Quinn grabbed Princess by her collar and hauled her into the room. In a moment he returned, carrying a candlestick this time. “Come in. I was just having my tea.”

“What shall I do about the dog?”

Havoc was still yapping fiercely.

“I’ve put Princess in her box so you can bring him in.”

Perversely, Havoc dragged on the leash and didn’t want to move. Murdoch decided to risk it, grabbed up the dog, and carried him into the room. Princess was stowed in a homemade crate by the bed. She didn’t bark at the reappearance of the terrier, just sat watching calmly. Either reassured or intimidated by the strange surroundings, Havoc stopped barking, and Murdoch put him on the floor. Just as he remembered from before, the room was uncomfortably hot, the coal fire blazing in the hearth.

Quinn stretched out his hand. “Good to see you again, Mr. Murdoch.”

They shook hands. Quinn pulled forward a wooden box. “Have a seat.” He glanced around the room. “Sorry, I seem to have misplaced the cushion.”

“That’s all right.” Murdoch sat down. Quinn indicated the teapot, which was on a small japanned table beside the bed.

“Can I pour you some tea?”

“I’d like that.”

Murdoch undid his coat and took off his hat and placed it on the floor beside the box. The tiny room didn’t seem to have known fresh air for years. He tried to breathe shallowly. His host was dressed only in his trousers and a red flannel undershirt, but even his face was shiny with sweat.

Quinn went to the bed, reached down and pulled out a cardboard box that had once contained gloves, took out a mug, and put it on the table. He poured the strong black tea and handed the mug to Murdoch.

“Finish your dinner, please,” said Murdoch.

There was a plate with the remains of what looked like a pork pie.

“I’m done. Here, I’ll give your dog some. What’s his name?”

“Havoc.”

“How long have you had him?”

“I only just inherited him.”

Quinn clicked his tongue at the terrier and placed a piece of the pie on the floor in front of him. Havoc sniffed, took a bite, then gagged and spat out the food.

“Doesn’t like it,” said Quinn. He picked up the meat and took it over to Princess, who poked her nose out between the slats of the box and gulped down the morsel.

Quinn grinned at Murdoch. “She’s like a bog; she’ll swallow anything.”

Murdoch sipped at the tea while Quinn perched on the bed and watched him. He looked nervous, and Murdoch hoped he had a clean conscience. He decided to put him out of his misery.

“I’m investigating another case, and it involves the Fancy. I thought you’d be a good man to talk to as you know dogs so well.”

Quinn tugged at his thick moustache. “What do you want to know?”

“There was a ratting match back in the summer at the Manchester tavern up on Shaftesbury Avenue above St. Clair. Later, a man was found murdered in the ravine, presumably because of a quarrel over the win. Have you heard anything about it?”

Quinn shook his head. “Can’t say I have. I’m not connected with that crowd anymore.” He made a gesture with his hand. “Straight and narrow all the way, that’s me. I got a better job at the Rossin.”

Murdoch gave an appreciative whistle. “Swell place.”

“It is. Royalty has stayed there so they tell me. I do all the cakes and tarts, just like I used to. It’s more work ’cos they can put up over four hundred guests at a time. But then they’re giving me more wages, so I’m not complaining. Come by any morning and I’ll slip you a sample.”

Murdoch drank some more of the tea. He believed Quinn when he said he hadn’t heard of the Delaney case, which seemed to have passed strangely unnoticed in a city that liked its lurid details when there was a murder involved. Perhaps justice had been too swift for the newspapers to get interested.

His host picked up the teapot. “Fill up?”

“No, thanks. That’s plenty for me.” Murdoch could feel the tannic acid eating holes in his stomach. “What I actually wanted, Sam, was in the way of a favour. I’d like to check into all the wags who were at the match. Find out anything I can.”

“Verdict in doubt, is it?”

“No, not that. The accused seems guilty all right, but I’m just tying up loose ends. There was a man at the match who didn’t come forward at the trial, and I’d like to find him in particular.” He used the same half-truth he had given Newcombe. “I’m working for the man’s family. We want to make absolutely sure.”

“Is your fellow going to hang?”

“Yes.”

“Soon?”

“Yes.”

“We’d better get a move on then. What’s the cove’s name who you want to find?”

“He went by White, but that probably isn’t his real name. He’s from the city, bit of a toff. Might be in banking or the legal profession. He was cagey about himself, not surprisingly.”

“How’d he do at the match?”

“Didn’t win or lose. Ended up fairly even. The major winner was the man who was killed, Delaney. He soaked them all. Walked away with ninety-four dollars.”

It was Sam’s turn to whistle. “Not too bad, that.”

“One of the other players was the man now sentenced. He accused Delaney of cheating by blowing a whistle to distract his dog at a crucial moment. They had a big barney, and Delaney was found later that night in the creek with his head knocked in.”

“Did your man confess?”

“No, he claims he’s innocent.”

Quinn poured himself some more tea and added a splash of milk and two spoonsful of sugar.

“What’s his name, this cove?”

“Do you need to know that?”

“It’ll be easier if I know what I’m talking about.” Sam was eyeing him curiously.

“His name is Henry Murdoch. Usually gets called Harry.”

“Murdoch? Are you related then?” “He’s my father.”

Embarrassed, Quinn got off the bed and made a pretense of checking on the condition of the fire. He added a lump of coal to the blaze before he spoke again.

“Must be hard, that.”

Murdoch shrugged. “Let’s say, it’s a most peculiar position to be in.”

Sam straightened up and turned to face him. “I’ll do what I can. Give me the names of the men and dogs.”

“White ran a brown-and-white Parson Jack feist named Samson, bandy legged; Pugh had a bulldog by the name of Gargoyle; Charles Craig and his son, James, both had pugs, Tiny and Bess. The innkeeper also put in his own dog, a Manchester terrier called Tripper. The dead man was the big winner, as I said, with another Manchester, Flash.”

“Plucky little dogs them.”

“When do you think you’d have something for me?”

“I’ll start on it right this instant. There’s a fellow I know down near the wharf. I’ll go and have a word with him. If he don’t know, nobody will.”

Murdoch stood up. “I appreciate this, Sam.”

Quinn dipped his head shyly. He pointed at Havoc. “This was your father’s dog, I assume.”

“Yes. I don’t know what to do with him. He’s a mean sod.”