Night's Child (27 page)

“By the way, Liam, this letter was inside the door. I picked it up.” He took another envelope from his pocket. “You deal with the post so I thought you’d better have it.”

Callahan took the envelope curiously.

“I noticed it was addressed to the inspector,” continued Murdoch, “but it’s odd that somebody just dropped it off like that, don’t you think? He told me he’d been receiving some complaining letters lately. Maybe it’s one of them.”

“Right.” Callahan put the envelope in a tray on his desk. “I’ll take it up later.”

The sergeant was still busy with the widow who was deaf and both their voices were raised as she described at length where she was when she missed her purse. Murdoch bent close to Callahan’s ear.

“You know what, young Liam, I saw that the envelope wasn’t sealed. It might be better for our inspector’s frame of mind if he wasn’t troubled by silly nuisance notes at this time. Why don’t we have a look at what that letter is all about? I take responsibility. If we think it’s worth while, we’ll pass it on to him; if it’s a load of horse plop, we won’t bother him with it. He’s already had three letters that really bothered him, I know that for a fact.”

Callahan began to look afraid. He knew what Murdoch was getting at but wasn’t ready to crumble just yet. He didn’t move and Murdoch picked up the envelope.

“Why don’t I open it and you can be completely innocent of all wrongdoing, if it is wrongdoing, which I doubt.”

He removed the letter from the envelope, turned so that his body shielded them from Gardiner. Fortunately, the widow was garrulous.

Murdoch held the paper in front of Callahan. “My, my, it’s a good thing Brackenreid hasn’t seen this.”

To Inspector Brackenreid. What is this station coming to? You harbour a viper in your bosom in the presence of constable, second class, Liam Callahan. This is what he does in his spare time. He is planning to send it to the newspapers. You will be a laughing stock, sir.

A well wisher.

On a separate sheet of paper Murdoch had drawn a picture of the inspector, with his bald head and bushy sideburns, slumped at his desk, clutching a bottle of whisky. A caption came from his mouth: “Don’t bother me, I’m working.” If he said so himself, Murdoch thought it was a good likeness and he’d inked the nose with the red of a serious toper. He almost felt sorry for Callahan, who gasped in horror. “I never did that.”

Murdoch grimaced. “That’s the problem with letters like this. There’s no way to prove they’re not true. You say you’re innocent, but who’ll believe you? When the dirt flies, somebody’s going to smell.”

“But why would I do anything like that? I have no reason.”

“Liam, I believe you but I don’t know if anybody else will. Miss Gripe is loyal though, isn’t she. She won’t mind if you lose your position. She’ll stick by you.”

Callahan looked at him directly. The pretence dropped. He knew what Murdoch was doing. He almost snarled, the fresh-faced youth vanished.

“What shall I do?”

Murdoch folded the letter and drawing and replaced them in the envelope he put in his pocket.

“I’ll help you even if thousands wouldn’t. Type the following letter. Quick, before Gardiner hears us…Dear Inspector Brackenreid. Regarding the matter of Sergeant Seymour. I am happy to inform you that I completely retract my former accusations which were based on error and mistaken identity. He is a fine officer and you need have no concern for his conduct at any time. You have my guarantee I will let the matter drop completely.”

Callahan was in his best form and typed as quickly as Murdoch was speaking. Silently he rolled the paper from his typewriter and handed it to Murdoch, who put it in an envelope he had brought with him.

“I’ll deliver it to his office right away.”

The constable was staring straight ahead but Murdoch could feel his hatred. He squeezed his shoulder hard.

“It’s reassuring to know that the matter is settled and there will be no more anonymous letters to distress the inspector.” He tapped his pocket. “We don’t want him to see this, do we? Ever.”

Gardiner was escorting the old lady to the door.

“What have you two been doing? Didn’t I hear you clacking away like a train, Liam? That was very good.”

“Constable Callahan was obliging me in a personal matter,” said Murdoch.

“You shouldn’t be doing that on police time.”

“Don’t worry, it won’t happen again.” He took his hat from the peg and held out the new envelope. “Gardiner, this letter is for Inspector Brackenreid. Will you see that he gets it. Don’t worry, I think he’ll be very happy to receive it.”

CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIVE

G
eorgina Crofton’s house was on Gerrard Street, facing onto the Horticultural Gardens. In good weather, the Gardens were a popular gathering place, dapper mashers in their straw hats strolled the paths covertly eyeing the nursemaids wheeling perambulators or the servant girls and seamstresses on their days off chattering together on the benches, also covertly eyeing the dandies. But on this bleak January morning the park was deserted.

The house was large and elegant, built of pale buff-coloured brick with a green door and window trim. The front steps curved to the door and the path was paved with slate. It was possible Miss Crofton made a good living from her work, but Murdoch thought the look of the house more suggested long entrenched wealth. He tugged on the bell and while he was waiting for the door to open, he banged the muddy snow off his boots. He was just about to pull more heartily on the bell when the door was opened by an elderly woman in the plain navy dress of a housekeeper.

“Yes?”

The woman’s tone was supercilious, her expression disdainful. Murdoch had encountered the snobbishness of servants many times before but it still irritated him. He handed her his card.

“Good morning, ma’am. I’m Acting Detective Murdoch and I would like to speak to Miss Georgina Crofton.”

He expected more disdain but her reaction was the opposite. She looked alarmed.

“Oh dear, so there are thieves in the neighbourhood. We feared as much. Come in, please. Miss Georgina is in her studio. I’ll get her at once.” She started off down the hall, then turned back to him.

“Shall I fetch Mrs. Crofton as well? She is in her chambers.”

That sounded rather legal but Murdoch knew it was just a pretentious way of saying Mrs. Crofton was not dressed yet.

“No, don’t bother her. Miss Georgina will be sufficient.”

The housekeeper pulled back the brocade portieres from the drawing-room door.

“You can wait in here, sir. It’s a bit chilly, I haven’t got the fire going yet.”

Murdoch gave a little deprecating shrug. “It’s what I deserve for calling at such an early hour, ma’am.”

She looked flustered and, pushing aside another set of curtains, she ushered him into the room and hurried away down the hall.

The air of the drawing room was cool but the decorations were not. Murdoch had never seen anything quite like them. His first impression was that the room was spacious and full of sunlight, but he realized that this was an illusion created by a screen of mirrored panels at a right angle to the wall. The room was actually fairly small and much of the space was taken up by three Turkish couches covered by woven blankets of deep blue with a sun yellow and fire-red zigzag design. The woollen curtains looped across the threshold were of the same pattern. The most unusual feature, however, were the window frames, which had a facade of slender white columns supporting arched lintels with scalloped edges, decorated in gold filigree. In the window bays were two earthenware pots, each filled with man-high pale green plants with flat, oblong spiny leaves. The marble fireplace was reflected several times over in the mirrors as was a brass birdcage where a pale yellow bird cocked its head at him curiously. Murdoch felt as if he had entered a foreign country.

He was about to test the tip of one of the spiny plants to see if it was as sharp as it appeared to be when the portieres were pushed aside and a woman made her entrance, heading straight for him, her hand outstretched. The housekeeper was behind her.

“Detective Murdoch, I’m Georgina Crofton. Mrs. Buchanan tells me you are in pursuit of thieves.”

He shook hands although initially she had crooked her hand as to almost invite a kiss. She wasn’t in the least imperious, however, and he put the gesture down to finishing-school training. Like her drawing room, Miss Crofton was exotic. She was tall, past middle age, with a face that seemed all nose and chin. Her hair was braided on top of her head and wrapped with a flowered scarf. She was wearing a long holland smock so bedaubed with paint it might have been used for her palette and she smelled faintly of turpentine.

“As a matter of fact, ma’am, that is not why I am here. I have no knowledge of thieves in the area.”

She turned to the housekeeper. “But I thought you said…”

“That’s what he told me, ma’am.”

Murdoch had done no such thing but he didn’t want to wrangle with the woman.

“Not thieves, ma’am, but a very serious matter I wish to discuss with you.”

He thought an expression of wariness flashed across Georgina’s face, but she said affably, “Of course, perhaps, Mrs. Buchanan, you would be so good as to bring us some chocolate. I haven’t had my morning chocolate, Mr. Murdoch, so I do hope you will join me.”

“No, thank you, ma’am.”

“Dear me. I’d better wait then. Hannah would you mind…perhaps Mrs. Crofton needs your assistance?”

The housekeeper didn’t look happy about having to leave but she did so, pushing through the curtains like an actress making her exit.

“Please sit down, Mr. Murdoch.” Georgina waved at one of the couches and took the one opposite. Murdoch moved aside a red tasselled bolster so he had room to sit while Miss Crofton reached over to one of the lacquered tables beside her, snapped open an ornate silver box, and took out a thin brown cigarillo.

“Would you like one, Mr. Murdoch?”

Briefly, he was tempted, they didn’t come his way that often, but he shook his head.

“I hope you don’t mind if I do. I’m quite an addict to the demon tobacco.” She put her cigarette in a little clip on a stick, lit it, and drew in a deep grateful breath. The tobacco smell was slightly perfumed.

“So what is the nature of your business, sir?”

Murdoch took the envelope from his pocket, removed the mourning card, and held it in front of her.

“Did you take this photograph, ma’am?”

She held out her hand. “Let me see.”

“I’ll just hold it for you, if you don’t mind, ma’am.”

He leaned closer and she peered at it with myopic eyes. “Why yes, that’s the Dowdell infant, isn’t it? Poor lamb, he was with us such a short time and his parents were devastated at his loss.” She blinked at Murdoch. “I don’t understand why you, a police officer, are asking me about this photograph. How did it come into your possession?”

He didn’t have a chance to answer before the door opened and Mrs. Buchanan returned, wheeling a tea trolley.

“You know what you’re like if you don’t have your chocolate,” she said to Georgina, ignoring Murdoch.

Georgina smiled. “Hannah has been here since I was born. She feels she has the right to supersede my decisions.”

The housekeeper lit a spirit lamp on the trolley and set an exquisite china pot on top of the ring.

“Please continue, sir,” said Miss Crofton.

“I prefer to wait, ma’am.”

“My goodness, you can say absolutely anything in front of Mrs. Buchanan. We have no secrets from her.”

Maybe you do and maybe you don’t, thought Murdoch, but I’m not about to flash photographs like these in front of an elderly servant.

“I’ll wait,” he repeated and saw the tightening of the housekeeper’s lips. She desperately wanted to put him in his place and establish hers but didn’t quite dare. She picked up a grater and a block of chocolate and shaved slivers into the pot. She gave it a thorough stirring, then poured some of the hot liquid into a china mug.

Behind Miss Crofton, Murdoch caught a glimpse of his own reflection. In his grey sealskin coat, he looked as out of place as a sparrow among parrots.

Mrs. Buchanan handed the mug to her mistress but made no attempt to leave.

“Mr. Murdoch is inquiring about one of my photographs, Hannah, but so far he hasn’t said why. Surely you are not come to offer me a commission for the police are you, Mr. Murdoch?”

“No, ma’am.”

Miss Crofton extinguished her cigarette on a silver dish. “Hannah, would you be so kind as to bring me a slice or two of that delicious seed cake you baked yesterday. I find I’m quite peckish.”

Mrs. Buchanan shot a poisonous look at Murdoch and she flounced away, as much as a woman who is stiff with rheumatism can flounce.

As soon as the door closed, Georgina frowned at Murdoch.

“I have hurt her feelings, sir, and I never wish to do that to somebody as valuable as my good nanny. What can possibly be so serious that it necessitates this secrecy?”

He handed her the card. “Look on the reverse if you will, ma’am.”

She turned the photograph over, then held it closer to her face so she could read the words.

“Good gracious me. How disgusting. Who wrote such things?”

“I don’t know for certain. That is what I am trying to find out. The photograph was discovered by a teacher in the desk of a young pupil at one of our schools.”

“Has the boy been charged?”

“It was actually a girl, ma’am. And no she has not been charged as yet. She denied all knowledge of the photograph and how it came to be in her desk.”

“Somebody is trying to cause trouble for her then?”

Murdoch shrugged. “Perhaps. When was the photograph taken?”

“Three months ago.”

“Who else would have a copy of this photograph, ma’am? Other than Mr. and Mrs. Dowdell?”