Vices of My Blood (13 page)

Chapter Twenty-Two

T
HE LAST TIME
Murdoch had been in the horticultural gardens pavilion was with Liza. They had gone to hear the Grenadiers band and he remembered it as being unbearably hot inside the pavilion, because even with all the windows opened wide to get a cross breeze, the sun had beaten down all day on the glass. Ladies fanned themselves desperately but sweated nonetheless. In spite of the heat, a small area had been cleared for dancing and several couples were jumping around with more vigour than grace, to the military two step. Murdoch didn’t know how to dance then and no amount of cajoling on Liza’s part could get him onto the dance floor. He wasn’t about to make such a fool of himself. Since she died, he’d taken dance lessons and had to admit he had enjoyed himself.
If onlys
were useless, but they slipped into his thoughts more often than he liked.

A long greenhouse abutted the pavilion porch and its entrance was from the porch. Murdoch pushed open the double doors and felt as if he had stepped into summer. The air was warm and moist and heavy with the smell of vegetation. He was in the main pergola and even though outside was grey and sunless, here the lush green plants and banks of multicoloured flowers made the day seem much brighter. The horticultural gardens and the greenhouses were the pride of the city and were as well tended as any private garden.

Just inside the entrance a young couple was sitting close together on a bench. They quickly moved apart as he came in and the woman straightened her hat. She was fair-skinned and her blush was obvious. Her sweetheart also looked discomfited. Murdoch realized he must have frowned at them, but it was not from disapproval, it was envy. He made himself smile, touched his hat, and walked around to the other side of central island where the trees and shrubs hid him from view. A squirrel had got trapped inside the pergola and it was chittering in fear and indignation, otherwise the greenhouse was quiet, any noise of drays or carriages shut out by the glass.

Murdoch looked around him. There were more benches on this side and behind them was a wide flowerbed. Each variety of shrub and flower was labelled. Many of them were unfamiliar to him, but he didn’t have time or inclination for horticultural lessons. In the middle of the island was a fanciful structure set up as part of a living room. A fireplace was made of ivy that had been trained to grow around a wooden frame. Above it were blue and yellow patches of some other climbing plant masquerading as the kind of marble you might find in a nobby house. There were real pieces of coal in the grate and red and orange flowers growing among them to simulate fire. A birdcage of twigs swung from a branch of a nearby tree. There was a fake bird in the cage made also of intertwined twigs, but the bars were wide enough to allow real birds to enter and a sparrow was hopping in and out of the cage. Murdoch was about to walk on when the bird fluttered down and lighted on the arm of the bench close to him. It took a couple of quick pecks at something between the slats, then hopped to the path and pecked some more. Murdoch dropped into a crouch, scaring the bird into flight. It was a big assumption, of course – who knows how many people had come through this pergola? – but he wanted to see what the bird was eating. There was a light scattering of crumbs on the bench and the path and he could see they were cake, not bread or biscuit. He took a blank envelope from his pocket and scooped up as many of the crumbs as he could. Later, using a magnifying glass he might be able to determine what kind of cake it was.

At that moment, he heard the ring of hobnailed boots and Constable George Crabtree appeared.

“Good afternoon, sir.”

“How’d you track me down, George?”

“Sergeant said as how you’d been called up to Miss Dignam’s and I was heading up there when I seen you going into the greenhouse. I thought I might be some help.”

“Good man. Among other things, I’m trying to see if I can find a cake tin here somewhere.”

He quickly filled in the constable on his interview with Miss Dignam and her story of the missing tin and the bad odour in the church.

“It looks like we’re after a tramp then, doesn’t it, sir? When she ran off, he went back to his prey, took the boots and watch, saw the cake tin and picked that up as well. He’d hightail it over here till the coast was clear, I’ll wager.”

“It’s looking that way. But what we need is some hard evidence. So let’s start where Reverend Swanzey says he met up with the wayfarer. He was in the adjoining greenhouse.”

Murdoch led the way through the connecting doors. This building was warmer and even more lush than the pergola.

“The wife and kiddies love coming here in the winter,” said Crabtree. “She says it shortens the season. She even talked me into coming to a concert in the pavilion last summer. Very good it was. Some cove was a whistler, you know, he sort of cupped his hands and blew through them. Sounded exactly like a flute.”

“Ah yes. I’ve heard that. I know somebody who does it.”

“Did you ever go yourself?”

“Not to that one … anyway, George, I know the constables searched this entire place, but we’ve got to go over it with a toothcomb.”

“Do you really think a tramp would throw away a cake tin, sir? The ones I’ve known wouldn’t. They always prize something where they can keep their baccy or any extra food.”

“You’re probably right, George. I’m thinking we’re more likely looking for old boots,” said Murdoch. “If he stole good boots from the pastor, he’d want to wear them right away. In which case he would have to get rid of his own. Why don’t you start on the other side and we’ll meet at the far end.”

Like the pergola, the greenhouse had a central island of tall shrubs and flowering plants that the path encircled. Crabtree turned to the right and Murdoch began to walk slowly down the path to the left. He was using his eyes, but he was also trying to put himself into the skin of the unknown tramp. In spite of what Dr. Ogden had said, Murdoch thought it was likely the murderer would have some traces of blood on his trousers and shoes. In which case he would want to get rid of them. A few feet down from the entrance was a rock garden, and water cascaded from a discreetly hidden pipe near the ceiling, over a manufactured rocky incline, and into a pool below. He could see fat goldfish swimming lazily among the lily pads.

There was a low railing around the pool, presumably for the safety of the public and no doubt the goldfish. There were masses of small cresses growing around the rocks, and he thought some of them near the lip looked crushed. If you wanted to clean off your boots and trousers, this was the easiest place to reach the water. He wished he’d brought his magnifying glass. He examined the spot as closely as he could but couldn’t really see an imprint of a boot or shoe. A slate slab overhang was chipped at the end, but that could have happened a long time ago. Not yet what could be considered hard evidence. He straightened up and continued to move slowly along the path.

He had only gone a little way when he was struck by a sweet scent drifting on the air. He halted. Surely not! But there they were, a mass of purple hyacinths in the flowerbed. He always thought of them as Liza’s flowers now. “Oh my dear,” he said softly.

“Mr. Murdoch, sir. Over here.”

Crabtree was calling to him, his voice excited. Murdoch ran around to the other side, where he saw his constable kneeling by the edge of the path. Here there was another small pond and on its far bank were a shed and a small water wheel that was revolving slowly. Crabtree, his sleeve rolled up, had his arm thrust deep into the water.

“I think I’ve got something, sir.”

He bent even closer to the water and with a tug, like little Tom Horner, he pulled out the plum. One black boot, soles split, dirty. He repeated the action and fished out a second boot.

He beamed at Murdoch. “That wheel was making a funny noise. It was hitting something as it went around. I thought it was a good idea to see what was the trouble.”

“Well done, George. Well done. Is there anything else in there?”

Crabtree fished around. “I don’t think so.”

Murdoch knotted the shoelaces together so he could carry the boots. “Let’s continue the search, but I think we’ve got as much as we’re going to get.”

They stayed in the greenhouse for another half an hour but found nothing more that could be remotely seen as significant. There was no sign of a cake tin, with or without peacocks.

Chapter Twenty-Three

L
OUISA
H
OWARD AND
R
EVEREND
S
WANZEY
had been sitting in silence for several minutes. Louisa was sewing her initials in black thread on new black-bordered handkerchiefs. She was glad of the lack of conversation, happy not to have to respond to the endless comments, mostly from the ladies, who had been calling on her.
Such a good man, so kind and generous
. They all said variations of the same theme. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe Charles to have been a good man, she did, but first of all, each remark made her weep afresh and second an insidious snake of resentment was stirring underneath her grief and shock. It was she who was left to raise their children, she who had to deliver his fatherless baby. She would have to move from this house now, and she had enjoyed her brief reign as pastor’s wife with the prestige it accorded her. Oh there’d be pity and apologies from the committee of elders, but another pastor had to be found. Where would she go now? She had sent a telegram to her parents who lived in Buffalo and she knew they were coming to visit her. But in the meantime, there was so much to see to. Both children were coming down with colds, which didn’t help matters. Charles had been an affectionate father, spending time with his children as often as he could and she could see how much they missed him. Louisa shifted her position as best she could. Her pregnancy wasn’t yet that advanced, but she was uncomfortable in the mourning dress Miss Smith had sat up through the night making for her. The crepe at the throat was stiff and scratchy and even with her corset, which she wasn’t ready to abandon, the waist was too tight.

“Is there anything I can get for you, Mrs. Howard?” Swanzey asked. She shook her head and he returned to his ruminations. He was probably thinking about when he’ll be offered the position of pastor, she thought with a puff of spite. There was little doubt he would get it. When Reverend Cameron had died, Swanzey and Charles had both been candidates for the position. The decision process had taken many months and even though there were countless prayers for God’s guidance, when the final vote was taken and Charles Howard, an American, was called from Buffalo, a few of the ladies of the congregation had let slip to Louisa that the final appointment had caused much acrimony. Well they’ll be happy now, she thought. Swanzey would take over. The elders were unlikely to go to the bother of finding somebody else. Swanzey wasn’t married, so perhaps he wouldn’t want to live in this house. It would be large for a bachelor. But then if he was offered the position, he would soon be looking around for a wife, she was sure of that. She glanced at him covertly. He was sitting across from her, staring into the fire. He was more handsome in profile, she thought, with his strong nose and lean jaw. Face to face, his eyes were unattractive and his lips ill defined. He suffered from a chronic eye irritation and his lids were reddened, the eyelashes often crusty. The lips he attempted to hide with a full moustache. His conversation was virtually non-existent as far as she was concerned, and she never felt comfortable in his presence, suspecting he found her wanting in seriousness. Nevertheless, if he became the pastor of Chalmers, which was supported by a large and wealthy congregation, she was sure he would find some young woman willing to marry him.

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed the quarter hour. He’d been here at least twenty minutes.

“I’m sure you have a lot of matters to attend to, Mr. Swanzey. I shall be quite all right by myself for a little while.”

He started and turned toward her. “Nothing is as pressing as your well-being, Mrs. Howard. I wonder … would you like me to say a prayer?”

“Thank you, that would be a great comfort.” Louisa put aside her sewing. One of Reverend Swanzey’s greatest attributes was a facility with extemporaneous prayers.

He perched on the edge of the couch and covered her hands with his.

“Let us pray.”

Louisa closed her eyes, but she was conscious of the dryness of his hands and the heat they generated.

“The Lord said to Cain, ‘What has thou done? The voice of thy brother’s blood crieth unto me from the ground. And now art thou cursed from the earth, which hath opened her mouth to receive thy brother’s blood from thy hand …’”

Louisa felt a fine spray of spittle on her cheek, but she couldn’t remove her hand from his to wipe it off. He was gripping her tightly. His voice had become louder and more resonant.

“And no less shall the Lord mete out his punishment to the wrongdoer yeah even more mightily when the innocent is struck down just as Abel was slain by his own brother as he walked in the field. Lord, we pray to you this …”

At that moment, there was a knock on the door and Doris entered. Swanzey stopped in mid-sentence. The maid curtseyed quickly.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I have the afternoon post. Would you like to see it now?”

Swanzey released Louisa’s hands, but his mouth was pinched with disapproval at the interruption.

“I beg your pardon, but I am anxious for word from my parents,” she said placatingly.

“Of course. That is quite understandable. I’m sure the Lord will wait for us.”

He seemed to grimace, but Louisa realized this was his way of signalling he had made a joke. She nodded at the maid.

“You can put it here.”

Doris deposited the silver letter tray on the lamp table beside her mistress, curtseyed again and left.

“Will you excuse me, while I see if they have replied, Reverend Swanzey?”

“Most certainly.” But he made no attempt to leave.

Louisa picked up the letters, leafing through them first. None bore her mother’s familiar handwriting, but one still caught her eye. The envelope was small and rather grubby and the writing ill formed.

“Who is this from, I wonder?” She glanced over at Swanzey, who had returned to the chair by the fire. “Would you be so kind as to hand me the letter opener? I believe it is on the mantelpiece.”

He handed it to her. She slit open the envelope and took out a piece of lined paper, also grubby, and began to read. Her hand flew to her mouth and she drew in her breath sharply.

“Mrs. Howard, what is the matter?” asked Swanzey.

She closed her eyes as if she could efface what she had just seen.

“Mrs. Howard?” he said again, but she didn’t answer and for a moment she swayed as if she would faint. Swanzey came over to her. The letter was in her lap and he picked it up.

“Read it, oh my dear God, please read it.”

March 6.

Dear Madam. You must know that yore husband, Charles Howard is not what he seemed. He was a wicked man and I can prove it. It was because of him that my daughter lost her innocence. We are willing to keep silent on this matter because of yore conditioin which as a mother I can understand. But we will want rekcompence. You can send the sum of
200
dollars or we will go to the newspapers. You can send it to the following address, who is a friend.

Mrs. Esther Tugwell

343 Sherbourne Street.

Yours faithfully,

One who has been wronged.

P.S
. you must act immediately. Don’t forget I can prove what I say.

“What does it mean, Matthew?” Louisa could barely speak.

Swanzey’s hand was shaking. “Alas, it means that there are evil people in the world who will take advantage of another’s tragedy in the most despicable manner.”

“But why would she say Charles was not what he seemed and she can prove it?”

“Do you know this person, Esther Tugwell?”

“Not at all. Who can she be?”

Swanzey folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope. He took her hand again.

“Your husband’s death has been reported by every newspaper in the city. I’ve heard before of vultures who scour the death columns and concoct such letters to see if they can take advantage of the bereaved family.”

Louisa started to weep. “Oh what is going to become of me?”

Swanzey patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. “Try not to upset yourself, madam.”

“But she says that Charles violated her daughter. That couldn’t possibly be true, could it?”

He patted some more. “Come now, Mrs. Howard. Do you yourself believe it?”

She dabbed at her eyes with one of the handkerchiefs. “Frankly, sir, I feel as if I am standing on quicksand. If you were to tell me the moon is truly made of green cheese, I would be inclined to believe you.”

She could see her response shocked him. “My dear Mrs. Howard, take a good look at the letter. It has obviously come from the lowest class of person. This woman has seized on an opportunity to extort money from you. Nothing more.”

“Perhaps I should notify the detective who was here.”

Swanzey pursed his lips. “Frankly, I would not recommend that. I don’t believe our police force is entirely comprised of the better elements of society and it would not be advisable for this news to be bruited abroad.”

“So you do believe it to be true?”

“No. Absolutely not. But vile gossip sticks no matter how pure the object.”

His words frightened her. “But what shall I do then?”

“What you must do is to put the matter completely out of your mind.” He tucked the letter into his pocket. “I shall deal with it myself. We have a name and an address. I shall call on this Mrs. Tugwell. ‘A friend’ indeed! Well I will put the fear of God into this friend, I promise you.”

Swanzey stood up. “I shall see myself out. Please get some rest.”

Louisa leaned back against the sofa cushions. She felt exhausted, as if she had been fighting a fierce tide for a long time.