Let Loose the Dogs (20 page)

Chapter Thirty-seven

M
URDOCH WASN’T SURE HOW
he was going to be granted access to Blackstock without admitting to the court clerk, and therefore to Newcombe, who he really was. Fortunately, a well-wisher was delaying the barrister in the courtroom, and by ruthlessly shoving through the crowd Murdoch was able to get close, Newcombe right behind him.

“Mr. Blackstock, a word if you please.”

The young man halted. He looked at Murdoch politely enough, ready for more congratulations, but then he saw Newcombe and an expression of utter alarm flitted across his face. Murdoch seized his chance and stuck out his hand.

“My name is Williams.” He nodded over his shoulder. “I believe you already know Mr. Newcombe. I wondered if we could have a word in private.”

Blackstock returned his handshake reluctantly and gave Newcombe a brief acknowledgement. The transparency of his thoughts was almost laughable. He was considering denying all knowledge of the innkeeper, refusing an audience to them, and vanishing into his chambers. This was swiftly followed by the realisation that Newcombe must know who he was and was seeking him out for a reason. Not a benign reason, if his nervousness was any indication.

“Yes, of course. Come this way to my chambers. Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.”

This last remark was to one more well-wisher. They were acting as if the Blackstocks had won a championship of some kind instead of the dubious victory of prejudice over truth. Murdoch was happy to follow him through the door into the calm of the adjoining hall.

“I’m in here,” he said, indicating the door to the right. They followed him into the room.

Mr. Clement either had a different chamber or was still being detained in the courtroom because, to Murdoch’s relief, he wasn’t present. Like the courtroom itself, the chamber was plain. No fancy panelling or lush curtains here. The floor was planked, the fireplace small and meagre, and the window was covered with a beige Holland blind. A single table sat in the corner, and a weather-beaten bookcase, crammed with papers, was beside the door. There were two armchairs, both in worse condition than the one Murdoch had in his own cubicle at the station.

Blackstock took refuge behind the table, waving at them to sit down. He opened a wooden box and took out a cigar. As an afterthought, he offered the box to the two men.

“No, thank you,” said Murdoch, but Newcombe accepted eagerly.

“What can I do for you, Mr., er, Williams?” He didn’t look at Murdoch but busied himself with the ritual of clipping his cigar and lighting it. Newcombe did the same, and the air quickly filled with aromatic smoke.

“I understand you were present at a ratting match after which one of the participants, John Delaney, was found dead in the creek.”

“Oh, you do so understand, do you? And who told you that?” Even now he could not totally forsake his barrister’s attitudes.

“I did, sir,” interjected Newcombe. “We came here to find a Mr. White, and we found a Mr. Blackstock. But you are one and the same, unless you perchance have a double.”

He chuckled and Blackstock smiled nervously. “No, not that I know of.”

Suddenly, he pulled out a red silk handkerchief from his inner pocket and wiped his forehead. “As you see, I am one and the same.”

“Why did you not come forward, sir?” asked Murdoch. “The police put out advertisements for you. A man was charged with the murder.”

“Right. As a matter of fact I never saw any such advertisements. I did read about the murder, shocking thing that, but the murderer was apprehended immediately so I saw no reason why I would be needed.”

“It was a criminal case, Mr. Blackstock.”

“I do realise that, but as I say, it seemed no concern of mine.”

Again there was the hurried mopping of the forehead, and Murdoch saw it was no mere ritual. Blackstock was sweating profusely. Suddenly he seemed to realise what Murdoch was doing, and he scowled. “Why are you here? By what authority do you ask me such questions?”

Murdoch hesitated but Newcombe gave him a reprieve. “Mr. Williams has been hired by the family of the accused man to do a further investigation – to make absolutely certain that justice has been served.”

“What are you talking about? There wasn’t a shadow of a doubt. I, myself, saw the bad feelings between Harry Murdoch and John Delaney.”

Murdoch interjected. “You’re a man of the law, Mr. Blackstock, yet you deliberately ignore a plea for your witness in a murder case. I find that reprehensible.”

“I told you, I didn’t know anything about it.”

“And yet your own partner was the defending counsel. According to Harry Murdoch, he offered to take on the case, pro bono. I should say that normally you would only take a case that pays well, like the doctor today. Why did you agree to defend somebody who had no money at all?”

“Clement and I don’t discuss everything. We work independently. If he wants to work for charity, it’s up to him.”

Blackstock was sitting very still staring at Murdoch, a lamb watching the wolf circling.

“Isn’t it more likely that you instructed him to take the case so you could keep close tabs on what was happening? Clement is not a particularly good lawyer. Is that why you had him take the case? So that the accused man would
not
get off?”

Blackstock pushed his chair away from the desk, as far from Murdoch as he could.

“That is preposterous. I really do insist you leave, sir. This entire harangue is an insult.”

“An insult doesn’t measure up to the damage of a hanging, Mr. Blackstock. You can feel as indignant as you want, but you are not the one who will be dead before the week is out, insulted or not.”

Murdoch could feel his own anger was barely in check. He’d actually spat, and there was a glistening dot of spittle on Blackstock’s chin. Newcombe intervened.

“Gentlemen, I think we need to discuss this matter more calmly. Perhaps Mr. White, I mean, Mr. Blackstock, knowing the gravity and urgency of the matter, would be willing to make a statement, in confidence as it were.”

Perhaps because he saw the innkeeper as his inferior, Blackstock managed to find some dignity again. He wiped his chin.

“I repeat, I have nothing to add that would at all change the verdict of the case.”

“Unless it was a confession,” said Murdoch.

“What on earth do you mean?”

“Exactly that. You yourself could easily have murdered Delaney.”

“What utter nonsense.” Blackstock picked up a silver bell that was on his desk. “I’m not going to listen to this. I shall have you removed at once, sir.”

Before he could shake the bell, if that was really his intention, Murdoch leaned over and grabbed his hand.

“We haven’t finished our conversation to my satisfaction.”

“Are you threatening me, sir?”

“If you like. And I will go further if necessary. Mr. Newcombe, will you lock the door, please?”

Although he looked uneasy at this turn of events, the innkeeper obeyed and remained by the door. Murdoch released Blackstock’s wrist.

“All I require are the answers to some simple questions. If you have a clean conscience, you need have no fear.”

“Of course I have a clean conscience. Why shouldn’t I?”

“Why indeed? Now then. I understand you left the tavern at the same time as Mr. Craig and his son?”

“Yes. And they have confirmed that under oath.”

“They merely stated that they went into their house and left you apparently walking towards Yonge Street. However, it would have been easy for you to turn back and go into the ravine. You weren’t that far behind Delaney. What’s to say you didn’t catch up with him? There’s nothing easier than to get hot about a cheater when there are high stakes. You challenge him, you lose your temper, and as he turns away from you, you hit him with a piece of wood. He falls to the ground. You get out of there as fast as you can. And wait to see if somebody else will take the blame.”

Blackstock gaped at Murdoch. “Are you insane? I did no such thing.”

“It’s not that far-fetched; don’t pretend it is. You are a respectable professional man, but you’re also a gambler. You were drinking that afternoon. Perhaps your judgement was affected. Maybe you didn’t even realise Delaney was dead when you fled.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Murdoch picked up the bell. “Would you like to come forward and make a statement?”

“There is no point. The case is closed. As far as I am concerned, the guilty party has been apprehended. Any testimony I could have made would not have affected the verdict at all.”

Murdoch stared into Blackstock’s eyes. He believed him. The other man sensed his change of attitude and relaxed a little.

He got up and went to a cupboard underneath the window behind him. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I have to take a tonic for my health.”

He poured himself a full glass from the bottle, and gulped it back. Dabbing at his mouth, he returned to his chair.

“You say you are conducting an investigation on behalf of the family of the convicted man?”

“That’s right.”

“You must be working for Murdoch’s son then. He listed one daughter, who is in a convent, and a son, who was last known to be a lumberjack.”

Murdoch fenced the question. “So you admit to being conversant with the case?”

There was silence for a moment, and he saw the conflict on the barrister’s face. Blackstock mopped up again. “To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t mind making a clean breast of the whole thing.”

Murdoch sat back in his chair. “Please do.”

“When I read about the murder and the detaining of the Murdoch man, I thought the least I could do was to ensure he had a fair trial. No, wait, sir. It is not at all what you were imputing just now. I did not want it known to the public that I had been present at your establishment, Mr. Newcombe, but that is the extent of my prevarications. I suggested to Clement to take on the case. He is not a showy fellow, but contrary to what you believe, he is competent. I assisted him to the best of my ability when he needed it. However, I have to assure you, Mr. Williams, it was not complicated. I don’t think it would have mattered very much who represented Mr. Murdoch.”

Blackstock picked up a frame photograph from his desk and held it out to Murdoch.

“I do realise I must seem like a shabby sort of chap, but I have more than just myself to consider. That beautiful woman is my wife, Emmeline. The little infant is my son, Algernon the third.”

Murdoch took the picture. It was a studio portrait. An impeccable Blackstock was standing beside his wife, who was seated, an infant in christening robes and bonnet in her arms. She was very young, perhaps not more than twenty, with fair hair, elaborately coiffed, and she was elegantly and fashionably dressed.

“As you can imagine, Mr. Williams, I …”

He didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence. There was a sharp knock on the door.

“Algie, open up.”

Newcombe unlocked the door, and Emmeline Blackstock herself swept in.

“Why have you got the door locked, Algie?” She stopped when she saw her husband’s visitors, but Murdoch thought it was a calculated hesitation, a brief concession to social etiquette. “I beg your pardon, I didn’t realise you were busy.”

Blackstock hurried over to her and took her hand. “We’ll be finished in a moment, dearest. I’ll join you in the carriage.”

But the lovely Mrs. Blackstock was not going to be fobbed off so easily. She knew who was important and who wasn’t. “Little Nonny is wailing like a banshee. He so wants to see his poppa.”

She turned to bestow a pretty smile on Murdoch. He could see Newcombe was ready to bolt out of the door, but something about Madame Emmeline infuriated him. She could not be considered an exceptionally pretty woman, but he had never before seen anyone so gorgeously dressed. Lush ostrich feathers bobbed at the crown of her pert hat, and her walking suit was a soft golden velvet with a trimming of dark fur at the hem and waist. There was an insert at the bosom of ivory-coloured leather, which looked as if it was sewn with small precious stones. That piece of apparel alone would have cost more than Murdoch earned in three months, and that was a conservative estimate.

“I’m afraid Nonny will have to cry a little longer, madam,” he said. “Our business is not yet concluded.”

One might have thought from her shocked expression that he had suddenly started to unbutton his trousers. Blackstock, on the other hand, suddenly reacted like a cornered fox. He positively jumped into action.

“Mr. Williams is quite right, my dearest. Please wait for me in the carriage, and I will be there momentarily.”

He was almost shoving her out of the room, and in the upheaval she dropped the dainty fur muff she was carrying. Murdoch picked it up and handed it to her. She looked into his eyes for a moment. Whatever she saw there seemed to alarm her, and she made no more resistance. Blackstock closed the door behind her and pulled out his handkerchief. At first Murdoch didn’t realise that it was not only sweat Blackstock was wiping away, but also his tears. He glanced over at Newcombe, who gave a little shrug of embarrassment. However, Murdoch wanted Blackstock to squirm some more so he said nothing else, just sat waiting for him to recover his composure.

“You were saying, sir? As I can imagine …”

“I, er, well, you saw her …”

“I saw that your wife is accustomed to luxury. I assume she would not approve of any habits that would jeopardise her style of life. Is that what you wanted to say?”

“Yes,” whispered Blackstock.

Chapter Thirty-eight

F
R.
L
E
B
EL CLUTCHED AT HIS WIDE-BRIMMED HAT
, which was in danger of sailing off his head in the gusting wind. He regretted now that he hadn’t caught a streetcar along King Street, but he practised little economies whenever he could. His parish was small and not a wealthy one, consisting largely of French Canadian tanners who had formed a community in the vicinity of the church. They didn’t even have their own building yet but were using the former Methodist Church that was on that spot and which had been abandoned for the more splendid cathedral on Church Street. This never ceased to disturb Fr. LeBel, who said to anybody who would listen he felt like a cuckoo, who he understood were too lazy to build their own nests but simply borrowed those of other birds to lay their eggs. His congregation listened to his homilies on this subject with impassivity. They were struggling
mettre le pain sur la table
, and for the moment they were content to worship in the old church, especially as the bishop had come down from Montreal to bless the site.

After putting in a brief appearance, the sun had retreated and the afternoon had turned grey and cold. There were fewer pedestrians than usual. Nobody was out for a stroll the way they were when the weather permitted, admiring the shop windows of the fancy stores that lined the lower end of King Street. However, there were two or three carriages waiting on the street. Fr. LeBel frowned in disapproval. The horses were glossy and well fed, but they stamped and blew air from their nostrils that was white as smoke. In his opinion it was far too cold to keep the poor beasts standing still like that while their mistresses were pampered and fawned over by sales clerks. The coachmen were muffled from top to toe with heavy fur coverings, but it was the horses he pitied. He decided to make it the point of his homily this Sunday, even though there was not one of his parishioners wealthy enough to keep a horse and carriage. He could extrapolate into the sin of vanity he supposed, although he had dealt with that recently.

As he approached the corner of Church Street, he had to wait for a moment, clutching his hat with one hand and trying to pull his cloak tighter to his body with the other. The wind bit at him savagely. On his right was St. James Cathedral, its soaring copper spire dulled in the gloom. Fr. LeBel said a brief prayer for the souls of the unbaptised who worshipped there. This church disturbed him with what he considered its flagrant imitation of a Roman Catholic edifice. The devil often took a pleasing shape to tempt the faithful into sin. He hurried on.

Every two or three days, it was his task to go to the general post office on Toronto Street to collect mail. Many of the people of the parish used his church as an address because it was easy for their relatives to remember. Also, they didn’t have to worry about losing precious letters or parcels at the lodging houses where so many of them lived.

The priest had his head bent so low, he couldn’t see where he was going, and suddenly he almost collided with a woman who was coming out of one of the shops. She had a long, silver fur stole wrapped around her face, the little fox head sitting on her shoulder.

“Pardonnez moi, madame,”
he said, but he was not oblivious to her expression of dismay. With his long, black cloak and wide-brimmed hat he knew, as far as she was concerned, he was a bizarre figure.

The shop from which she had emerged was known as the Golden Lion. Beautiful tall glass windows faced onto King Street, and above the arch of the doorway was a crouching lion cast in brass. Two floors were above that and on top of the pediment was another huge lion striding confidently into air. It was gilded and in summer the sun burnished it like gold. Fr. LeBel could not understand why a lion should be chosen as a symbol for a dry goods store, and he didn’t approve of this either. However, the height of the upper lion meant it could be seen from afar, and it drew many customers. Visitors to the city were usually taken to the store so this magnificent example of Toronto affluence could be boasted about.

He continued on his way with the uncomfortable awareness that the woman with whom he had almost collided had pulled the fur close around her chin as if to protect herself against a pestilence. Fr. LeBel said another prayer to protect himself from the malevolent thoughts of those outside the true faith.

He turned north on Toronto Street heading toward the post office, which was at the end of the street. In spite of the cold journey, the priest enjoyed collecting the mail. The post office never failed to remind him of his Parisian birthplace with its tall, paired columns, recessed windows, and ecclesiastical dome. The fine stone carving over the lintel was the English Royal Arms, so he avoided looking at that. To the left was a wide canopy shading a side door. When he had first arrived in Toronto a year ago, he had inadvertently entered by that door only to find it was intended for the ladies and opened onto a private room where they would not be disturbed. Amidst smiles tinged with contempt he had withdrawn hastily, gathering his soutane in his hand to lift the skirt above the mud.

Today he went in the main entrance, glad to be in the warmth. He hurried over to the wicket, where a postal worker sat waiting for customers. The priest was relieved to see it was Mr. Langley on duty, a man he knew.

“I would like to ’ave the poste for the church, if you please,” he said, careful to pronounce his words clearly so as not to give offence.

The other man checked one of the cubby holes behind him. “You have a package today, Father, from Montreal.”

Fr. LeBel accepted the small number of letters and signed the chit.

“Somebody will be happy,” said Mr. Langley.