Night's Child (19 page)

“Will, I can’t tell you. The story isn’t mine alone to tell. I’m sorry.”

“Surely, these people wouldn’t want you to be dismissed to save their hides?”

“Whether they would or no isn’t the point. I told you, I have done nothing that sits on my conscience. You’ll have to believe me, Will. And I’m not going to say any more.”

“For God’s sake, Charlie. What are you, a dried-up old maid of a missionary who wants to kiss martyrdom? I’m not here to burn you at the stake. There are more important things happening than your delicate
conscience
.”

Seymour raised his voice in turn. “You know nothing about it. I don’t have a delicate conscience, as you call it. I’m not going to reveal secrets that aren’t mine alone.”

Murdoch reached in his pocket and took out the envelope with the photographs. He threw it on the desk. “Have a look at these. Miss Slade told you there was a legal matter concerning one of her pupils but she too is of a delicate sensibility and she didn’t show you the filth itself. The girl in the picture is the one who drew a mourning band around Leonard Sims’s picture so she knows he’s dead. As far as I know she could be dead too. Go on, take a look and then tell me if you want to help me find out who did it. That is as long as it doesn’t interfere with your conscience too much.”

At that moment, there was a tap on the door and Reordan limped in without waiting for an answer.

“What’s all the shouting about?”

“Oh nothing much,” said Murdoch, who was still steaming. “Charlie and me are having what you might call a philosophical discussion.”

For some reason, his words seemed to fling Reordan into a rage and he bellowed, “Are you, indeed? Well that’s no call to sneer at him, mister arse crawler of a policeman.” He shuffled over to Murdoch with surprising speed and caught hold of the lapels of his coat. “I won’t tolerate a copper trying to shout down a pal of mine.”

The suddenness of the attack made Murdoch react instinctively and he in turn grabbed the Irishman by the wrists. He was a good foot shorter than Murdoch, which meant he was glaring up into his face like a terrier confronted by a mastiff.

“Don’t worry about me being a cripple, Mr. Frog. I’ll take you and your kind any day.”

In fact, Murdoch could feel the strength in the man’s arms. His destroyed face was crimson with rage and there was a speck of saliva at the corner of his mouth. He looked as if he was ready to shift his grip from coat to Murdoch’s throat. Either that or throw him to the ground.

“Leave it, John,” called out Seymour, and he grabbed Reordan by the shoulder. “Stop this at once. Will’s a good friend of mine.”

For several more moments, Reordan continued to glare into Murdoch’s face, then reluctantly he loosened his hold while Murdoch shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, ready to defend himself again if need be. Finally, the Irishman lowered his gaze and Murdoch released his grip on his wrists. He had no intention of being manhandled again.

“Sir, I don’t know what your moan is all about but I won’t stand for any man, crippled or not, grabbing me.”

Seymour quickly got in between them.

“You’ve no need to fight my battles for me, John.”

Murdoch was about to say, “That’s just an excuse for the fellow,” but he stopped himself and stepped back a little way. His heart was thudding.

Reordan swayed slightly on his crippled leg and Seymour slipped an arm around his waist to ease him into the chair. “My God, man, we can’t be fighting our friends. We’ve got to save that for the real enemy.”

“I didn’t like the way he was after talking to you.”

“You’re not the only hot head around here. Will can get as fired up as you but he’s a man of honour.”

Reordan muttered, “That’s hard to believe, he’s a frog, isn’t he.”

“Yes, and I told you he’s a friend. Now let’s you and him shake hands and, John, you started it, you should apologize.”

“That’s all right, Charlie,” said Murdoch. “Mr. Reordan was correct in saying I was speaking in a certain tone of voice that was uncalled for. I apologize to you for that.”

“Well, while we’re all apologizing, I’m sorry too, Will. I know you’re only trying to help me.” Seymour ruffled his own thin hair so it stood up in wisps. “I think we all could do with a nip of brandy. Strictly medicinal, John, don’t worry.” He walked over to his bookcase, moved aside a couple of fat volumes, reached to the back of the shelf, and took out a bottle. He handed it to Murdoch first. “You’ll have to swig, I don’t have any glasses up here.”

Murdoch took the bottle, unscrewed the top, and swallowed down a gulp, passing the bottle to Seymour, who did likewise, then gave it to Reordan, who indulged in a curiously ladylike sip. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

“So why are you riding Charlie?” he said. “Why don’t you chase after real criminals? They aren’t hard to find. Just look under a rock and you get any number of bosses.”

Seymour frowned a warning. “John. We’re keeping to my business alone.”

“Let him say his piece, Charlie. He might not be aware of the reality of the situation.”

“No, Will. It was me you wanted to hear from.”

Reordan stabbed his finger in the air. “Say on, Mr. Frog. I’m as aware of reality, as you call it, as the next man. Get it off your chest whatever it is.”

Murdoch was thoroughly exasperated by the man and his rudeness and his own voice matched it, in spite of himself and his pity. “You call Charlie a friend and so do I, but he is in danger of losing his job. He’s a bloody good sergeant but that’s it for his career if it happens. He won’t be taken on by any other police force in the country.”

“Maybe not such a loss,” snapped Reordan.

“To him it would be. If you’re such a good friend, you’d know that. It’s not just a
job
.”

The Irishman glanced over at the sergeant, whose expression said it all.

Murdoch pressed on. “He’s been doing something that is against the law, as written on the statutes. Somebody knows about it and has been sending anonymous letters to the inspector in order to get him dismissed. Charlie, however, refuses to clear his name or give me any information so I can help him because he says there are other people involved. I presume you are one of those people, Mr. Reordan. So what is it you’re going to do? Let your friend slide down the drain or come clean and let me in on what this is all about?”

Reordan gaped at him, then at Seymour. “Charlie?”

Seymour replaced the cap on the bottle and put it on the lamp table. “I told Will that the secrets weren’t mine to reveal.”

There was a brief silence, then Reordan grimaced. “Hey, you can have my secret any time you want. I ain’t ashamed of it. If it would help the frog to tell him about the Knights, you have my permission, no question.”

Murdoch leaped on his statement. “The Knights? You mean the Knights of Labour? I thought they’d dissolved.”

Reordan was indignant. “We ain’t going under. We’ve still got work to do.”

“Do you belong to the Knights of Labour, Charlie? Is that it?”

Seymour made fists with his hands and bumped them together. Finally, he answered.

“Yes, I do. And yes, I am quite aware I could get the bird because of it. As our illustrious inspector is forever reminding us.” He stuck his thumbs in his waistband and gave a fair imitation of Brackenreid’s posture and voice. “‘Gentlemen, a police officer must always be without partisanship.’”

“Them’s all fancy words for saying that frogs toady to employers and them that already has,” scoffed Reordan. “Talk about justice being blind, frogs make up for that by having a great nose for what’s going to keep them smelling sweet.”

“Give it a bone, Reordan, I’d like to hear what else Charlie has to say.”

Seymour got to his feet. His face had brightened and his voice was that of an enthusiast. “This isn’t any ordinary labour group, Will. The full name is The Noble and Holy Order of the Knights of Labour and it is an appropriate one.”

Murdoch shrugged. “Maybe so but it’s still a secret society and a labour group.”

“I’m aware of that but hear me out. They–that is,
we
–want to work toward permanent justice for every human soul, not just for one small class of society. I’ve come to believe deeply in their philosophy.”

To Murdoch it was coming to sound more and more like a religion. “The stern-looking cove in the hall with the altar in front of his portrait, I gather he’s a Knight too?”

Seymour ignored the jibe. He was too eager to tell Murdoch, for all the world as if he were a young man trying to convince a stern father that his choice of a bride was a good one.

“That’s the founder, Uriah Stephens. He began the Order in Philadelphia in 1869. The Canadian chapters have shrunk a bit, more’s the pity, but we’re still going.”

“There was a symbol in the corner, what’s that signify?”

“Let me tell him,” interrupted Reordan like an eager schoolboy. “The principles of the order are secrecy, obedience, and mutual assistance. The three lines of the triangle indicate the three elements essential to man’s existence and happiness: land, labour, and love. The circle is the bond of unity by which the membership is bound together.” Like Seymour, Reordan was speaking as fervently as any priest.

“That all sounds very noble, no, hold on, I’m not poking fun at you, it does sound noble. I’m all for it. The problem is that no police officer, including Charlie, can belong to a labour organization.” He nodded over at Seymour. “Are you going to resign from the Knights?”

“No.”

“And you don’t want to resign from the police force?”

“No.”

“Christ help us, Charlie, you can’t do both.”

“Why shouldn’t he?” burst out Reordan. “He’s been doing both for months now and nobody’s come to harm.”

“Look, I agree with you, but I’m not the police chief. He’ll lose his job.”

Seymour did the punching movement again. “God, Will. I don’t know what to do. I’m like a man with two wives and I’d swear on a bible I loved both of them. I don’t know how the hell I’m going to choose.”

Reordan addressed Seymour. “Perhaps your pal needs to know more about reality as I’ve seen it, Charlie. Maybe then he’d comprehend better why you ain’t going to give up the Knights easily.”

Seymour hesitated. “If you want to, John, but I don’t think it changes the situation that much. I’ll still have to make a decision.”

Reordan turned to Murdoch. “Do you want to hear my story?”

Murdoch bit back his reply. “Go ahead.”

Reordan touched his scarred face. “You’ve probably been wondering how I got burned like this. I would never have survived if it weren’t for the Knights. They saved me.” He stretched out his hand. “But before I go on, you’d better give me a swallow of that brandy.” Seymour handed over the bottle and Reordan drank some with the gasp of a man unaccustomed to liquor.

“It weren’t no accident. It was done deliberate. I was tarred and feathered, you see.”

CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR

M
urdoch waited while Reordan took another drink of the brandy, a much bigger sip this time.

“I got these burns nine months ago. I was working in Ottawa at the Perley and Pettee sawmill. Have you heard of them?”

Murdoch nodded. “There was a big strike there that eventually involved all the mills in the area but it ended badly, I recall.”

Reordan scowled at him. “I hope by that remark you mean it ended badly for the workers, not the bosses. They made piss-all concessions.”

“I did mean it ended badly for the workers. They couldn’t hold out.”

His comment agitated the Irishman and he got to his feet and began to hobble up and down the small room. Seymour watched him and Murdoch could see he was ready to jump in at any moment if need be.

“For sure we couldn’t hold out because we were almost starving before the strike and even with relief money, men with families couldn’t endure. The wives of the bosses sat around in their silk and satin while our wives went in rags and fed their bairns cold water to stave off the hunger pangs. All we asked was a ten-hour day and that the wages be restored to what they were which was pitiful enough. I was bringing in seven dollars a week and I was a single man and could hardly live on it.” Reordan’s face was contorted with old anger. “All the workers at the Pettee mill and the nearby mills had stopped work. My foreman, a bastard by the name of Napoleon Leblanc, had ordered a shutout. But we had dragged ourselves through a terrible summer of near starvation and we were determined not to give in. We’d have had too, though, if it weren’t for the Knights who came in to organize matters.” He paused. “The bosses called them ‘walking agitators,’ like their own workers were too stupid or too downtrodden to rise up against them. Well, that weren’t the case. When I heard what the Knights had to say, I joined up in a flash…And you despise us, no doubt.”

“I rather you didn’t put words into my mouth, or thoughts into my head that aren’t mine, sir. I have no reason to despise an organization of which I know little but what I do know has been favourable.”

Reordan was only slightly mollified. He was hell bent on hating somebody and Murdoch, the policeman, was as good a target as any.

“Like I said, we were determined to hold out. Then on the night of April 13, we heard that the bosses were bringing in scabs from Quebec. A lot of the men were at the boil when they got that news. They wanted to go and burn down the bosses’ houses and make a fight of it. But Jamie Paterson, who was one of our leaders, was as smart as a fox. ‘That’s what the bosses want, lads,’ he says to us. ‘They want the world to see us as a mob without morals or brains. Well we won’t give them that satisfaction.’ He says as how he wouldn’t put it past the bosses to set the scabs on a rampage and say it was us as did the damage. So he wanted four or five of us to go out on the watch and keep the property safe against anybody who come to pillage, don’t matter whether they’re calling themselves friend or foe. Well, it took a bit of persuading. There were a lot of hot heads in our own group at the end of their tether and they were ready to set fire to those big mansions stuffed with the food we had put on their tables. But finally they agreed.” He stood still, staring in to space as if he were watching his own story projected on the wall. “So that’s how it come that Saturday night, there I was sitting outside the boss’s house keeping watch. There was young Sam Gibson and me. We’d been issued with pistols, the both of us, which made us feel we could take on anybody as need be. It had turned cool and we were huddled around a brazier to keep warm, which was why we didn’t even see the scabs till they was on us. So much for our guns. There were two of them, muffled up with scarves so’s they wouldn’t be recognized. And they were on us in a flash. Sam was closer to them than me and as he turned to see what was happening, one of them smashed him in the jaw with his billy. They got me pinned to the ground before I could utter a peep and shoved a rag in my mouth. I was trussed and hogtied in seconds.”