Except the Dying (24 page)

“I yust arrive two weeks since.”

“Do you have work?”

“Not yet.” He managed a pained smile. “There are many other men to choose. Nobody want foreign fellow.”

Like so many immigrants he was hopelessly unprepared for the inhospitable climate. He’d found some sacking to wrap around his shoulders but he had no gloves or hat and he was shaking with the cold.

“You’ll freeze to death if you stay here,” said Murdoch. He reached in his pocket and pulled out his notebook. The snow immediately began to settle on the page as he wrote.

“Take this note to the police station and ask for Sergeant Seymour. You can stay there for the night. Tomorrow we’ll see if we can find you some work.”

He tore out the leaf and handed it to the youth, then took him by the arm and faced him in the direction of Sackville Street.

“Go down there and when you get to Wilton, turn right. That way.” He indicated the direction. “Keep going until you see the police station. There’s a green light over the door. Do you understand me?”

“Ja. Danke schön, danke schön.”

Murdoch watched to make sure he was going in the right direction, until he was obscured by the swirling snow. Ahead of Murdoch a lamplighter was reaching up with his pole to light the gas lamp on the corner. It didn’t make much difference to the darkness of the street; along Gerrard the lights were widely spaced. Murdoch wished he’d thought to bring his own lantern. Huddled into his coat, hat jammed down on his forehead, he trudged on.

Seymour would be good to the German lad, he thought. He wasn’t a perpetual vagrant, that was obvious, and he’d be viewed more favourably. It was the chronic paupers that the city despised and caused the city council to be emphatic about forbidding begging on the streets. The police had instructions to charge anybody found doing so. Recently members of the Ratepayers Association had suggested sectioning off fifty acres of High Park as a poor farm where the paupers and vagrants could live and work. Murdoch thought the idea was highly impractical. You couldn’t just dump everybody into one huge stew. There would have to be separate accommodations for those with children, for instance. To subject children to the influence of the desperate and destitute was to ensure they’d follow in those footsteps. Besides, he personally was not in favour of the out-of-sight, out-of-mind philosophy. He never forgot that there but for the grace of God went he.

By the time he reached the medical school, the street had emptied as people hurried home for their tea. Only one sleigh, bells jingling, had gone by, driven by a young man almost buried underneath the fur wraps, going too fast for the conditions. He was probably on his way to a sleigh party. The horse was blowing hard, its neck pulled in too tightly, its feet high-stepping. Murdoch hated to see animals treated like that.

The school was surrounded by a wrought-iron fence and the buildings were well set back, approached by a wide circular driveway that was rapidly filling with snow. Murdoch could make out the silhouette of the central spire. It didn’t soar as high to heaven as the one at St. James’s Cathedral, the tallest in the Dominion, but it was a reminder that this place of learning was not godless. There was an appropriate turret at each end of the main block for the studious to retire to, and one or two lights winked through the whirling snow.

To the right of the high gate was a brick lodge. Murdoch could see a soft gleam of candlelight coming through the window. The gate was not locked and Murdoch pushed it open, walked over, brushed away the snow and peered through the glass.

The room within was sparsely furnished, an oil stove in the corner, a wooden chair close to it and a table in the centre. On the rear wall was a board festooned with brass bells. A uniformed man was seated at the table, fast asleep and drooping in his chair. Even as Murdoch
watched, he swayed to the side but, without waking, righted himself with a little jerk.

Murdoch went in. The porter was a grey-haired man, thin and worn looking. He could have been old or middle-aged, it was hard to tell. His jaw was slack and Murdoch could see he was virtually toothless. His navy jacket was unbuttoned at the neck and stained down the front. A cap was pushed back on his head. There was a tin tankard beside him and the sweet smell of ale hung in the air.

“Mr. Grant?”

He snorted and his eyes opened. “’Oo are you?”

“Detective William Murdoch, Toronto Police Force.”

Alarm shot across Grant’s face. “Sorry, I … I was just catching a catnap. Never happens usually but, well, I’ve been a long stretch without sleep.”

Quickly, he straightened his cap and fumbled with his buttons.

“I’m on a case right now,” said Murdoch. “I want to ask you a few questions concerning one of the students at the college.”

Grant blew out his breath with a whistle of relief. “Thank goodness. For a minute there I thought I was getting the gate. Silly of me. They’d hardly send the police to do that, would they?”

“Not unless you were breaking the law.”

“What? No, no. I do me job like a soldier. Just got a bit tired, that’s all.”

They both knew he could be fired if he was reported for taking a tipple, but Murdoch guessed that Grant was on call twenty-four hours a day with one day off a month if he was lucky. In his opinion, that issue was between the porter and his employer, and if the man could sneak a bit of pleasure for himself, good luck to him.

“You said it was concerning one of the students. What have they been up to now?” Grant asked.

“What d’you think?” asked Murdoch, genuinely curious.

“Pranks, no doubt. Don’t tell me they’ve gone and built another snowman?”

“Is that so bad?”

“The last one was. Just afore Christmas some of them sneaked over to the Baptist Seminary on Jarvis Street there. Built a ten-foot-high snowman that looked just like the minister. I have to say it was right clever. He’s got red whiskers and they dyed some sheep’s wool, stuck a pair of spectacles on his nose, the whole bit.”

“That seems innocent enough.”

The porter snickered. “Oh, yes, that was, but then they added a large pink rubber hose. Put it you know where. Shocking it was. I mean young ladies were walking by every day.”

Murdoch tut-tutted in sympathy.

“This student you’re enquiring about, broke the law, has he?”

Murdoch knew how destructive rumour could be, and he wanted to be fair to Owen Rhodes.

“Let’s just say I need to verify his whereabouts at a certain time.”

Grant looked uneasy, and Murdoch remembered what Owen had said about his being unreliable.

“Are the students allowed to use the laboratories after class hours?” he asked.

“They are, but not a lot avail themselves. Unfortunately, some of the young gentlemen see their education as a lark. Pity their poor patients, I say. But then that’s youth for you. No harm, really. High spirits is all.”

Murdoch guessed that the young gentlemen in question made Grant’s life miserable. There were at least six bells on the wall and he could imagine the man answering summons after trivial summons.

“You know most of them, do you?”

“Oh yes. See them coming in and out all year.”

“But they don’t have to sign in after hours.”

“They’re supposed to, but lookit, they’re young. Lot on the mind, as it were. If you gave me a nickel for every Tom and Dick that didn’t, I’d be a rich man.”

“Can I see the register?”

“Certainly.”

He pulled a ledger out of the drawer and opened it, turning it towards Murdoch. Grant was right about the diligence of the medical students. There were no more
than four entries on Thursday night and only two on Wednesday. Neither name was Owen’s.

“Do you know Mr. Owen Rhodes?”

“Ah yes, sir. I do.”

“He says he was here in the laboratory all Wednesday night. Is that so?”

“Certainly is. He’s a study, that one. He’s here now, as a matter of fact. Came this morning. Been here all day.”

“I see. What’s he look like?”

“Short, stout fellow, black hair and whiskers. Wears spectacles.”

“You’re sure that’s Mr. Rhodes?”

“Positive. Know him like my own son. That’s my job, to know them all. What’s he done? Seems like a good sort to me. Doesn’t tease like some of the young fellows. But then they’re young and –”

Murdoch cut him off. “The Owen Rhodes I’m concerned with is of medium height, slim with copper-coloured hair, no sidewhiskers, small moustache. Favours gaudy waistcoats.”

“Ha, don’t they all. Quite the fashion these days with the young gentlemen. Those that have the balsam, that is. And most of them do, of course, here.” He tapped the bridge of his nose. “Doting fathers. Or mothers, more like. But anyway you was saying this fellow is a carrot-top. Maybe you’re thinking of Mr. Beresford. He’s a redhead. Quite tall, though, and beefy. Likes his grub.”

“Mr. Grant, tell me the truth. I wager these young colts lead you a merry chase when they’re in the mood.”

“That they do.”

“You see a lot of them going back and forth. Must be hard to tell one from the other at times?”

Grant looked as ambivalent as a mouse contemplating the piece of cheese in the trap.

“Oh, no, sir. I’m supposed to know who they are. Keep track and so on. I might make the occasional mistake but no, sir, I know them all.”

“And you’re sure that the raven-haired Mr. Rhodes who is in the college now was here all Wednesday night?”

“Absolutely.”

“Do you mind if I look around?”

“Not at all, Sergeant. The place is deserted, anyway, except for Mr. Rhodes. They all went home early on account of the weather. Any excuse if you’re young and carefree.”

“I’ve heard stories about the escapades these students get up to. Didn’t some of them start experimenting with laughing gas not too long ago? One took too much, I heard, ending up in the asylum for a week or two.”

Grant smiled with the true malevolence of the victimized. “That’s right. Last November it was. They were supposed to be learning the effects of ether. Always try it out on themselves. Good thing too. They’ll know what it’s like when they’re doctors, won’t they? Should
do a bit of amputation, if you ask me.” He chortled at his own joke. “But no harm intended, Sergeant. We’ve all been young, haven’t we?”

“Do any of them use opium that you know of?”

“Wouldn’t be surprised. They’ve got all sorts of drugs lying around. They make a lot of them theirselves.”

More probing didn’t elicit further information. Grant was an irritating witness, constantly vacillating between fear of jeopardising his job and the malicious desire to create trouble for the students. Finally Murdoch prevailed on him to show the main building. It took almost an hour to complete the tour. The porter was right about the lone student. He was dark-haired and industrious but his name was Llewellyn and he was of Welsh extraction, with a lilt to his voice. Murdoch hoped he would do well at his studies.

When he finally left and set off again into the blustery winds, Murdoch was sure of one thing. If Owen Rhodes had gone to the college on Wednesday night, he could easily have done so without Grant knowing or anyone else seeing him. His alibi was neither proven nor disproven.

FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 15

D
ONALDA PACED RESTLESSLY IN HER BEDROOM
, her whole being so charged with Murdoch’s visit she couldn’t sit still. Over and over in her mind she replayed what had happened. The Foys were packing to leave and she was glad. She was sure John Foy had forced himself on Theresa, and as far as she was concerned he was culpable in the girl’s death. She’d run away and perished.

“If only you’d told me,” she burst out loud, but she knew that Theresa had been too frightened to do so.

She poked hard at the fire, breaking the lumps of coal into flame. She couldn’t imagine Foy administering opium to the girl, however. So who had? That was the most frightening notion of all.

“Damnation!” she said out loud again. She regretted her angry remarks in front of the detective. There was no point in shaming the family. He, of course, had pounced on what she said but for once both she and Cyril were united. She insisted she had spoken carelessly, meant nothing, and Cyril denied any association at all with what he called “women of the night.”

Was it true? Even thinking that now made her throat burn, remembering the time so many years ago when he had wept in her lap.

“It will never happen again,” he’d said, sobbing like a boy. But she was unrelenting. Her love for him had died with the unborn child, the tiny lump of flesh that she had insisted the midwife show her. It was the same midwife who, nervously, had hinted at the real reason for the miscarriage. Dr. Pollard reluctantly confirmed the truth, and after a stormy confrontation Cyril broke down and confessed. Consorting with prostitutes was a habit he’d picked up in medical school, and it had continued throughout their marriage until the second pregnancy. She was four months expecting and full of joy at the thought of another child. But he’d come straight to her bed from a whorehouse and infected her with gonorrhea. The foetus died and she was ill for weeks, rendered infertile.