Let Loose the Dogs (19 page)

Chapter Thirty-five

A
LMOST AT A TROT
, Murdoch headed over to Church Street where he could catch a northbound streetcar. He was also anxious to talk to young Billy. The lad was at the same spot, and when he saw Murdoch he called out.

“More letters for me, Mister?”

“No. I just want to make sure you delivered the one I gave you.”

“I did. No gammon. I did exactly what you asked.” He grinned cheekily. “If I told you how she was, will you give me another nickel?”

“Maybe. Depends if it’s worth it. But the truth only. No fibbing. Was she pleased?”

“She was and she wasn’t. When I said the letter was from you, she looked alarmed. You know, as if you was going to write something bad that she didn’t want to hear. Then she stood there and read it and she looked happy; then she looked sad again.”

Billy was suiting his facial expressions to his words so that the contortions made Murdoch laugh even though he didn’t like it that Enid had looked sad.

“Did she say anything?”

“She thanked me kindly for bringing the letter. She talks in a funny way, doesn’t she? Like she’s singing. ‘Thank you, young man. I am obliged to you.’” He gave such a perfect imitation of Enid’s Welsh accent that Murdoch laughed again.

“Hey, mind your manners, fellow.”

The arab was studying him shrewdly. “I should tell you, Mr. Murdoch, you’ve got a rival, a masher.”

“What are you talking about?”

“’S true. He must have seen you give me the note. I hardly got round the corner there when he was on me. He offered me twenty-five cents if I’d tell him who you were.”

“And did you?”

“Not me. ‘Why do you want to know?’ I asks.” He squinted up at Murdoch. “Shall I tell you what he says?”

“You’d better!”

“All right, you don’t need to blow. He says, ‘Because I have reason to believe that man is of a suspicious character, and if you are carrying a letter for him it could get you in trouble with the law.’”

“What! Who the hell was this fellow?”

“I told you, he’s trying to shove you out with your lady. That was just guff he was giving me about suspicious character.”

Murdoch frowned. “Did you tell him my name?”

“’Course I did. I says, ‘You’ve got it all wrong, Mister. He’s the law himself. He’s a Detective, name of Murdoch.’”

The boy was grinning at Murdoch triumphantly.

“Get on with it, Billy, for the Lord’s sake.”

“That stops him right in his tracks. ‘Can I have a peek at the note?’ he asks, which was when I knew he was trying to move in on your lady. ‘Not a chance,’ says me. ‘This is private for her eyes only.’ ‘Very well,’ he says, ‘I am mistook in my suspicions,’ and off he goes.”

Murdoch stared at the boy, who immediately shifted his glance.

“You’re a little liar. You showed him the letter, didn’t you?”

Billy flinched away from the raised hand. “No, I didn’t. I swear, Mister.”

Murdoch stepped back, ashamed of his sudden temper.

“Can you describe him to me?”

“He wasn’t anything special. Not as tall as you. Brown moustache. He had on one of those waterproofs with a cape. He wasn’t no swell, but he didn’t look hard up either. Spoke sort of soft.” The boy regarded Murdoch anxiously. “That’s all I noticed, honest.”

“You were probably staring at his money, that’s why.”

Billy flushed and once again, Murdoch felt ashamed of himself. He cuffed the boy lightly on his arm.

“It’s all right. I’d be the same if I was in your shoes.”

“I just remembered something,” Billy said. “He took off his glove to pay me, and he had the top of his finger missing. This one.”

He held up the middle finger of his left hand. Murdoch stared at the boy.

“You’re not having me on, are you?”

“No, sir. I swear that’s what I saw. This finger.”

“All right, I believe you. If he comes and talks to you again, let me know at once. You can come to the station. They’ll take down a message. Don’t look so nervous. If you’ve got a clean conscience, nothing will happen to you.” Murdoch fished another couple of pennies out of his pocket. “Here. Add that to your haul.”

At that moment a carriage stopped at the kerb, and an elderly man leaned out of the window, snapping his fingers at the lad to clear a path to the hotel door.

“Yes, sir. Here we go.”

Billy jumped to the command, and Murdoch left him to it and continued on his way. Unless there had been an epidemic of amputations of middle fingers in the city, he assumed this man was the same one who had negotiated hiring Gargoyle for Mr. Pugh. Sam Quinn must have let it leak out why he was inquiring. Trying to stop gossip among the Fancy was as impossible as trying to stop fleas hopping from dog to dog.

He wondered how the man had tracked him down. It was also embarrassing to think of another man reading his tenderest thoughts, but there was little doubt the boy had shown him the letter. How could he resist such an offer when it meant a night’s lodging to him? On the other hand, maybe it was strictly a coincidence about the dogs, and this man was truly a rival. As far as he knew, Enid had had no callers all the while she lived at the Kitchens’, and it seemed unlikely. So either the “bland as blancmange” stranger was interested in knowing about Murdoch because he was Enid’s suitor or because he was investigating the Delaney case. Both possibilities troubled him.

Chapter Thirty-six

T
HE COURTHOUSE FOYER
was full of hazy blue smoke as many of the spectators were taking advantage of an adjournment to have a pipe or cigar.

“Let’s look at the notice board,” said Newcombe, and he forged a path through the crowd to one of the massive concrete pillars in the centre of the foyer where the boards were fixed. In spite of his attempt to honour the gravity of the situation, the innkeeper was enjoying himself. He had accepted Murdoch’s invitation with alacrity, declaring it was not often he got to go down to the city.

“There’s a case in courtroom A, which is that one to the right. We might as well start there.”

They shoved through the mass of people and went into the courtroom.

“Over here. There’s space in the third row, next to the prisoner’s box.”

Murdoch followed close behind, and they slid into the bench. Murdoch looked around. The room could not in any way be termed majestic with its unadorned walls and plain wooden benches. The best feature was the tall windows that faced onto Adelaide Street on the north side and Toronto Street on the west. There was a new electric light hanging from the ceiling, but it was pale against the sunlight that was coming through the windows. The winter sun was putting in an appearance.

“Oi, them’s our seats,” boomed somebody behind them. Two men, one of them big and wide-shouldered, were glaring at them. Newcombe was not in the least intimidated. “Finders keepers,” he said, cheerily. The man who had the weather-beaten face of a teamster looked as if he was about to make an issue of it, but fortunately, at that moment a woman on the end of the row stood up and relinquished her place.

“You can sit here. I’m leaving.”

“You haven’t heard the verdict yet,” said another spectator.

She shrugged. “He’ll get off. They always do.”

With a little angry swish of her skirts, she left.

“Anybody want to take odds on it? Two to one, Not Guilty,” said one of the men, a sharp-nosed fellow who looked as if he’d make a wager on his own mother’s death hour if somebody would take him up on it.

“Done,” said another man in front of him. There were no other takers, but a lot of reluctant shuffling as the row made room for the large man who had challenged Newcombe.

Murdoch was squashed between a stout, rosy-cheeked woman on his left and Newcombe on his right. The woman’s hat was so wide it was virtually brushing his cheek, and he felt sorry for the man seated behind her who, he could see, was bobbing back and forth to peer around her.

Murdoch had appeared as a witness on a few occasions in the court; and because he knew there was a risk of being recognised, he’d taken the precaution of wearing his brown fedora instead of his Astrakhan cap, and he had it pulled well down over his forehead. His muffler was up around his cheeks. He knew that many of the spectators were regular visitors, especially if the case was sensational, as he gathered this one was. All around him was the same air of anticipation and excitement you’d find at a music hall show just before the curtain went up. Nobody dared spit or break open nuts because of the court constable observing them, but they would have if they could.

Murdoch pulled off his gloves and wiped his forehead under the brim of his hat. He was already sweating. The courtroom was heated by a large woodstove, and with so many people in their winter clothes, all jammed together, it was stifling. He wasn’t sure he could maintain his cover much longer.

Newcombe nudged him. “We’re starting,” he said.

The door at the far end of the room opened, and the clerk of the court entered, a tiny, bespectacled man in sombre black. A tall, shambling sort of man in the black suit and white collar and tie of a barrister followed him.

“My, oh, my,” exclaimed Newcombe. “Look who it isn’t.” He nodded in the direction of the lawyer. “It’s Mr. Clement himself. He was Harry Murdoch’s counsel.”

Murdoch’s heart thumped, and he stretched to get a better look at the man. Harry had spoken of him with some contempt, and Murdoch could understand why. Clement’s appearance was not impressive. He was beardless but his side whiskers were long and wispy, and the hair that was dragged across the crown of his head in a futile attempt to hide his baldness was greasy. His black gown didn’t fit him well, as if it were on loan from a shorter man. He took his seat at the lawyers’ table, which faced the jury section, and began to riffle through the papers.

Unobtrusively, a man came down the centre aisle from the back of the courtroom and stepped into the prisoner’s box, which was next to them. Murdoch assumed this was the accused in the case. He must have been granted bail and was therefore under his own recognisance to show up for his trial. He was a trim-looking man, well-dressed in a dark grey morning suit and sober cravat. In contrast to his counsel, his hair and beard were neat. He was close enough for Murdoch to get a whiff of his pomade.

The stout woman prodded Murdoch in the ribs with her elbow. “That’s the complainer. The woman in the brown cape.”

She indicated the bench behind Mr. Clement. The woman was clearly under a strain, fiddling with her hair, repetitiously tucking strands up beneath her wide-brimmed hat. It was rather hard to place her, not quite respectable with a too lavishly beribboned hat, but her clothes were decent enough.

The door facing them opened yet again and in strode two more barristers. Newcombe thumped Murdoch in his excitement.

“Bull’s-eye, first time out. It’s him. The one in front. It’s our man White.”

The teamster heard this of course, and he snorted with the contempt of those in the know for the ignorant.

“No, it’s not. That’s Mr. Blackstock. He’s the junior defending counsel.”

Murdoch glanced at Newcombe for confirmation, and the innkeeper nodded. “That’s the one we want all right. No matter what he’s calling himself, there’s no mistake.” The men were seated at the same table.

“Are he and Clement partners then?”

The teamster answered for Newcombe. “Yes they are, although Mr. Blackstock senior is the one who does most of the questioning. Sharp as a tack he is. Clement seems half asleep.”

Newcombe shook his head. “Very strange. There wasn’t a whisker to be seen of Mr. Blackstock cum White at the trial.”

“What trial are you talking about?” interrupted his neighbour. “I’ve seen most of them. I can’t work because I hurt my back. I come here whenever I can; gives me something to do.”

Murdoch thought he’d throw some bread on the water and see where it floated.

“Did you see the case of
Regina v. Henry Murdoch?
He was charged with the murder of John Delaney up in the Shaftesbury Road ravine this past August. Mr. Clement was his defence counsel.”

“Murdoch? Is he a tall scrawny fellow, no hair on his head to speak of? Glum looking?”

“Yes, I suppose that would describe him,” said Murdoch.

“I did watch that case.” He stared at the innkeeper. “Hey, now that I take a closer gander at you, you were one of the witnesses. You’re a publican.” He tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger. “I never forget a face.”

“Yes, that’s me, Vincent Newcombe. And who are you?”

“George Rogerson, at your service. And who’s your friend?”

“Williams,” answered Murdoch.

“Have we met before? You look familiar as well. Were you a witness?”

“No, I don’t think we’ve met. I hear that all the time. I must have a common sort of mug.”

They shook hands all round.

“Why were you asking after the Murdoch case?”

“Just curious. I understand there was doubt as to whether he was guilty or not.”

Rogerson shrugged. “Don’t know where you get that from. Open and shut. I prefer a case that’s got a bit of drama to it. You know, is this poor man wrongfully accused? Yes he is, no he isn’t, well make up your mind because there’s a rope necklace to be fitted. But that fellow was a goner from the start. Got himself drunk as a lord then bashed the man he thought had cheated him. Mark my words, it happens all the time. He should have pleaded manslaughter. He’d have got a lighter sentence.”

Murdoch felt an unreasonable desire to knock the knowing look off Mr. Rogerson’s face.

“Did Mr. Clement do a good job, would you say?”

“Not bad considering he didn’t have much to work with. But the prosecutor was better. A Mr. Greene. He’ll go far, that young man. Hungry as a shark for advancement. And jurors respect him. Don’t talk down to them or get too familiar. Mr. Clement mumbles, which in my opinion is bad for a barrister. Makes you think he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

Mr. Blackstock alias White was at the prisoner’s box talking to his client. He was medium height, young to be a barrister, with dark, full hair and a luxuriant moustache. He ignored the spectators as if they didn’t exist, shook hands with the defendant, and sat down beside Mr. Clement. Murdoch knew Newcombe was not mistaken. Blackstock fitted the description Harry had given him. He could not mask his own air of confidence and privilege. He was a swell, there was no doubt about it.

Suddenly, responding to some signal Murdoch could not detect, the clerk of the court picked up a bell from the table and rang it with vigour.

“Oyez, oyez, oyez. All rise. The court is now in session, His Honour, Mr. Justice Falconbridge, presiding.”

With much shuffling, the spectators got to their feet as in swept the judge, an imposing figure in his long, black robe. He mounted the steps to the judge’s bench, which was on a raised platform. Here he paused, surveyed the courtroom, nodded, and sat down.

The clerk called out. “You may be seated.”

More shuffling as everybody sat down; Murdoch was squashed even more against his neighbour as the spectators on his bench seized their opportunity to make more room for themselves. The judge indicated to the clerk that he could call the jury, and they soon filed in, thirteen men. All of them were neatly turned out, and Murdoch surmised they were predominantly merchants, one or two might even have been professional men. The counsel for the defence had done well by himself with this jury. They took their places in the jury section, which was on Falconbridge’s left-hand side at right angles to the spectators.

The clerk had the commanding manner of the officious. “Foreman of the jury, please stand. Have you collectively reached a verdict?”

“We have.”

“And will you therefore speak for your fellow jurors. What is that verdict? Do you find the accused guilty or not guilty of the crime of rape?”

The foreman smiled. “We find the accused to be not guilty.”

There was an outburst of chatter in the court, which the judge immediately suppressed by hammering with his gavel. From the noise, however, Murdoch assumed this was a popular verdict. The man in the prisoner’s box actually gave a little wave of his hand in acknowledgement. However, Murdoch saw how the woman responded as if she had been slapped. Then she stood up slowly. There was a man in the first row of onlookers, and he came forward and took her arm. He did not comfort her, nor did she ask for comfort. She looked over at her own barrister, who said something to her then turned back to gather up his papers. She began to walk down the aisle toward the rear doors. Murdoch had the impression that if it was not a court of law, many of the men watching would have been jeering and shouting at her.

“What was she charging him with?” he asked Rogerson.

“Carnal knowledge. He’s a doctor and she says he fiddled with her when she was being examined.”

“And?”

The man tugged at the ends of his moustache. “Mebbe he did, but why’s she bringing it out in public I want to know? If she was my wife, I wouldn’t countenance it. Disgrace to the family. And look what happened. He got off. You can’t charge a doctor and expect it to stick. She was worse than foolish to even try.”

There was quite a crowd around the doctor congratulating him, but Murdoch saw the younger Blackstock was walking towards the rear door.

“Come on, Vincent, let’s go and have a word with Mr. White.”

“I told you, his name’s Blackstock,” said their neighbour.