Night's Child (7 page)

“Yes, sir.”

“Dear Mrs. Barrett…it has come to our attention that you are retiring early tonight…it is with deep regret that we have heard this news…”

He dropped to his knees in histrionic fashion. “Dear Mrs. Jones, no don’t write it down. Dear Mrs. Jones, is there anything we can do for the next hour that is quiet enough not to disturb your landlady?”

“We can talk to each other.”

To his dismay, he saw she was serious. There was also no ignoring the feeling he was being punished.

CHAPTER
SEVEN

G
eorgina flung off the black focusing cloth, tipped the camera slightly downward, then disappeared again underneath the cloth. She fiddled with one of the right-hand knobs.

“Ruby, bring that lamp closer to her face. Good, that’s my girl.”

She emerged again, took up the long shutter cable, and pressed the button. After a few seconds, she pulled out the photographic plate, dropped it into her box, removed a fresh plate, and slipped it into the camera.

“I’ll take another one from the other side.”

Ruby waited patiently. Mrs. Guest, the recently dear departed, was dressed for the coffin in a night bonnet of white cambric and her best nightgown. The yoke and collar of the gown were of cream-coloured Valenciennes lace threaded with pale yellow silk ribbons. If, in life, Mrs. Guest had looked becoming in this gown, she no longer did. Her illness had wasted her face to a skeletal thinness and her neck emerged stalklike from the lace collar; her skin had turned a greenish grey, which the pure white of the cambric only accentuated. She smelled dreadful.

“Try the ringlets, there’s a pet,” called Georgina from under the camera cloth. “Let’s see how she must have looked.”

Ruby put down the lamp and went over to the valise they had brought with them. She rummaged through the tools of Georgina’s trade: a pot of rouge, a card pinned with several hair pieces of different colours, two or three bunches of silk flowers. She unpinned the coil of brown ringlets and went over to the bed where the corpse lay. This was the part of her job she enjoyed the least. Rigor mortis had gone, so she was able to lift the head, take off the bonnet, and slip on the band that held the ringlets. The ravaged face suddenly surrounded by shining, luscious curls on top of the wispy, grey hair was grotesque.

“Oh dear. Put the bonnet back on and pull the ringlets around her face. That’s better. Can you turn her this way a little.”

Georgina had rolled the tripod to the other side of the bed. “Step back. Splendid.”

She emerged once again and clicked the shutter.

“That should do it.” She pulled out the plate, held it up to the light for a moment, then placed it with the other one in the box. She pinched her nostrils. “Phew. She’s getting a bit gamey, isn’t she? Do something about it, will you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Ruby took a vial of chloride of lime from the valise, unstoppered it, and splashed a generous amount onto two cotton pads, which she placed on the dead woman’s forehead. The sharp smell temporarily overrode the odour of decay. Georgina had pulled forward a chair and taken out her sketchbook.

“Have they left her rings on, Ruby?”

Ruby reached underneath the sheet that reached to the middle of the dead woman’s upper arm and gently pulled up the left hand. There was a narrow gold wedding band on the ring finger. Ruby tried not to touch the clammy skin at the wrist but she had no choice.

“Just the wedding ring, ma’am.”

“Hmm. My impression of Mr. Guest is that he would relish loading his wife with visible signs of his own prosperity, wouldn’t you agree, Ruby?”

Ruby really didn’t know what Georgina meant, but she nodded as if she understood completely.

“Have a look on her dresser. See if she has any rings.”

The mirror had been draped with black crepe, and for a moment Ruby was startled at her own reflection, a ghostlike shadow in the room. All of the bedroom furnishings were of dark mahogany, and Mrs. Guest had favoured a crimson-and-green flock wall covering with matching curtains and fabric on the chairs. Against the opulence of the room, the bed seemed stark with its white sheets and colourless body. Ruby shivered, partly at the image of herself, partly because the room was very cold. The window was open wide to the frigid winter air and there was no fire in the grate, the better to preserve the corpse. Fortunately, Miss Georgina always worked quickly.

The top of the dresser was neat and orderly, the hair ornaments, arranged on a tray lined with pink satin, were of sterling silver, as was the hairbrush and hand mirror. Both were monogrammed.

“I don’t see a ring, ma’am, but there is lovely gold watch.”

She held it up. It hung from a heavy gold chain and the front was set with pearls, emeralds, and three diamonds.

“Very good, Ruby. Bring it to me.”

She continued to sketch the room as she spoke. When they went to view the bodies, Miss Georgina left behind her strange, mannish clothes, and her navy blue taffeta gown, trimmed with jet, was the essence of propriety. She also insisted Ruby wear dark clothing.
Like a little postulant preparing herself for her marriage to Christ
were her words, which meant nothing to Ruby. She thought the dull grey woollen waist made her look sallow. She took the watch to her mistress.

Georgina nodded. “Slip it over your neck for a moment. Let me see it against the grey.”

Ruby did so. She was surprised at how heavy the watch was, pulling her neck forward. The lamp had been turned up high and the light winked on the jewels. Ruby knew what they were now although before she came to the Croftons’ she had never seen so much as a picture of a pearl or an emerald. She longed to look at her own reflection but she didn’t dare do so, afraid her mistress would think it vain.

Georgina smiled at her. “I’d wager my life’s savings it was a present from Mr. Guest. Let me see.” She leaned forward, flicked open the front lid, and peered at it. “Yes. I was right. ‘To my dearest Margaret on the occasion of our golden anniversary.’” She snapped the case closed and let it rest against Ruby’s chest. “It is a vulgar piece, isn’t it?”

Ruby thought she had never seen such a beautiful thing in her entire life but she nodded.

“Yes, ma’am, it certainly is.”

Georgina flipped over a page and made a quick drawing of the watch, with arrows pointing to each jewel with a letter to indicate what they were in case she forgot. Ruby believed she herself would remember the design until the day she died.

Her mistress turned back to her original drawing. “What do you think? Is it a likeness?”

Ruby examined the sketch carefully. She had learned that this was the one area where her true opinion was wanted. Georgina Crofton was quite short-sighted. Her portraits, even with the help of a photographic image, were often a little off.

“She has been ill, ma’am. Perhaps in life her cheeks would be rounder and her nose less sharp.”

“Quite right, as usual, Ruby.”

Georgina made the adjustments. “Goodness I almost forgot. What colour were her eyes? Have a look, there’s a pet.”

Ruby walked over to the body and carefully lifted one eyelid. “It’s rather difficult to tell at this stage, ma’am. But I would say they were brown.”

“I’d better ask Mister. People get upset if you have the wrong eye colour. You know how that young couple were with the baby. As if it mattered. I thought all babies had blue eyes.”

She blew on her fingers. “It’s perishing cold in here. But I’m done. I’m going to give the painting a drawing-room setting so we had better go down there next.”

“Perhaps they would like to have these photographs behind her.” Ruby indicated two photographs in carved silver frames that were on the mantelpiece.

“As long as they weren’t taken by Mr. Notman. Why should I advertise for him?”

William Notman was developing a reputation in Toronto for his photographs, and although he didn’t do the same kind of work Georgina did, she had a bee in her bonnet about him. “Uncouth, my pet. People want pretty pictures, not that nonsense.”

“They are from Mr. Krieghoff’s studio, ma’am.” In one of the photographs, a much younger Mrs. Guest sat in a chair holding a baby in a long christening gown. Behind her was Mr. Guest, moustached, portly, obviously proprietal. The second portrait was more recent. Again Mrs. Guest was seated in the centre, but now there were six others behind her who looked as if they were further offspring. Three small children sat at their feet.

“In that case I will include it. A very good suggestion, Ruby.” Georgina started to gather up her things. “We’ll leave the tripod. The butler can bring it down. But let’s take the box with us. I don’t trust anybody not to drop it.”

She stuffed her sketchbook into the valise while Ruby went to get the box.

At the door, Georgina turned. She laughed. “I think you had better return the watch to the dresser. You don’t want them sending a constable after us, do you?”

Ruby turned bright red. She hadn’t forgotten about the watch around her neck. How could she? She had wanted to enjoy wearing it for a few more moments. Quickly she took it off and replaced it in its satin bed. Lugging the heavy box, she followed Georgina from the room.

She’d noticed her mistress slip one of the silver-edged hair combs into her pocket, but she told herself it must be necessary for the portrait.

CHAPTER
EIGHT

A
s soon as he got to the station the next morning, Murdoch consulted the street directory. There were forty-two photographers listed in the city, most of them on King Street in the fashionable shopping district or on the heavily commercial Yonge Street from King as far north as Bloor Street. He could do with some help if he was going to do a thorough investigation, and in spite of what he had said to Miss Slade, he was half inclined to go to Inspector Brackenreid now. He was always balancing on a knife’s edge with the man, who would reprimand him one minute for acting too independently and the next tell him off for not taking care of things. By “things,” Brackenreid meant anything that might reflect badly on the station or, more precisely, the inspector himself. Murdoch had the uneasy feeling that telling Brackenreid about the photographs would be like putting his hand into a lobster trap. And he knew from experience how sharp those claws were. He could understand the teacher’s concern for her pupil, but it was highly unlikely the situation would be resolved quietly. And why should it? He, himself, wanted the perpetrators to be caught and punished. However, he had agreed to begin discreetly, and that’s what he’d do.

He took out his chalk and, using the wall as a blackboard, sketched a rough map of the city streets as far as Bay to the west and River to the east, Bloor to the north and Front to the south. Then with the blue chalk he marked the addresses of all the studios that were listed in the directory. How had Agnes met the photographer? Was it through somebody she knew? A chance encounter? Someone who had seen her and thought she was a good possibility? If the latter, then the studio might be in the vicinity of Syndenham where Agnes lived or the Sackville Street School. He doubted she had the means to go far afield. There were two studios that qualified, one by the name of Broom and Company, on Queen Street just west of Parliament, the other, Lofts Photographic Studio on King Street, near Sackville. Both were within a few blocks of Agnes’s home. It was somewhere to start anyway.

He pulled open the drawer where he kept the photograph of Liza that he had taken not long before she died. He was in the habit of taking out the picture every day, but yesterday he’d forgotten to do so. He looked at the blurred image, not a good likeness, nowhere capturing the liveliness and intelligence to which he’d been so attracted.

“You would have liked Miss Slade, Liza,” he murmured. “She’s a woman after your own heart.” He touched the glass. Nobody compared to her. He replaced the frame in the drawer and, thrusting his notebook in his pocket, headed for the hall. On the way out, he would see if he could find out something about the anonymous letters.

As agreed, Seymour had stayed off duty and Sergeant Gardiner was at the front desk.

“Good morning, Will,” said the sergeant. “Anything we can help you with?”

Here was another situation requiring discretion, thought Murdoch. He was going to become as adept at deviousness as a town councillor.

“Has the morning post been collected yet? I was wondering if there are any letters for me?”

Gardiner pointed with his pen in the direction of the constable.

“Ask him.”

Callahan was sorting through the new deliveries, putting them into different piles.

“I haven’t seen anything so far, Mr. Murdoch.”

Callahan’s voice was polite and his boyish face showed his eagerness to please. His brogue was pleasant. Murdoch felt a spasm of unreasonable irritation. He wished he could like the fellow more than he did. It wasn’t his fault he was Philips’s replacement.

“Is this a typical day? There doesn’t seem to be a great deal of mail.”

“No, there isn’t really. Gets heavier at the end of the month when the tradesmen send in their bills.” He finished sorting through the last few letters. “Nothing, sir.”

Murdoch leaned over his shoulder, feigning curiosity. “The inspector’s correspondence is the majority, I see.”

“Yes, it always is. He’s forever getting invitations to inspect this or that.”

“Do you read the letters first, then?”

“Beg pardon, sir?”

“I just wondered. You seem well-acquainted with the contents.”

As far as he could tell, Callahan didn’t seem discomfited. “The inspector passes them along to me to answer for him.” He indicated the typewriting machine on the desk beside him.

“That thing must save you a lot of time.”

Callahan shrugged. “I’m only just getting the hang of it. Eventually it will be faster than handwriting, I’m sure.”