Except the Dying (9 page)

As inspector, Brackenreid wore a fine wool jacket with brocade epaulettes and frogs down the front. Murdoch could see stains on the brocade and even across the table he could smell the beery stink of the man’s breath.

There was a blazing fire in the hearth and the small room was uncomfortably hot. Brackenreid, however,
hadn’t given the other men permission to undo their jackets. Sweat was running down Crabtree’s forehead and he had to keep wiping at his face, and Murdoch was feeling unpleasantly sticky. His stiff celluloid collar had started to chafe his neck. The inspector was also buttoned up but he seemed impervious. He took a noisy sip from the mug he was holding. His face relaxed a bit and Murdoch wondered what else was in there besides tea.

“Now, according to your report nobody laid eyes on the girl after five o’clock, and Mrs. Rhodes was the last to see her, when she was making sure the gal had set the table properly.”

He had rigorously tried to expunge his native brogue but it slipped out now and again, through the
r
’s particularly.

He turned a page. “You say you’re checking the dockets of the cabbies to see if she hired a cab.”

“Yes, sir. She’d travelled a goodly distance from Birchlea.”

“Don’t mean much. She looks like a bonnie gal to me. She could have walked easily.”

“True.” Murdoch eased into the sensitive area. “Or she could have been driven in a private carriage.”

Brackenreid frowned. “According to this, all the carriages at Birchlea are accounted for, and anyway they’re all saying they never saw the kinchin.”

“If they’re telling the truth, sir.”

“For God’s sake, Murdoch, let’s not tread into that
sort of muck. It won’t do us any good. I know for a fact Colonel Grasett and Shepcote are close as dilberries on a beggar’s arse. The colonel attends the alderman’s salons all the time.” He gulped on his tea. “Of course the fact that she had her apron up might not have anything to do with the opium thing.”

“I realize that, Inspector.”

“None of them have an idea who rogered her?”

“Apparently not. Mrs. Rhodes was shocked. She couldn’t believe the girl hadn’t confided in her.”

Brackenreid shook his head. “That’s a fanciful notion. Her mistress would be the last person a maid would get snug with. She’d be more likely to deny it ’til she popped out the little bastard.”

“Mrs. Rhodes said the girl had never had any callers. She was a Roman Catholic and was allowed to go to Mass on Sunday morning. They dropped her off at St. Michael’s while they went to St. James’s. They met her on the corner afterwards and brought her home. She didn’t have any other day off and according to Mrs. Rhodes she never reported meeting anyone or talked of any new acquaintances.”

Brackenreid chuckled. “Perhaps it was the Holy Ghost that did for the girl. Don’t the Catholics call it Immaculate Conception?”

“Yes, we do,” said Murdoch.

“Oh, beg pardon, Murdoch. No offence. I forgot for a moment.”

“No offence taken, sir.”

Brackenreid was perfectly aware of his detective’s faith but always tried to get in a jibe or two at Murdoch’s expense if he could. His own family had brought the politics of their country with them and he was a staunch Orangeman.

Crabtree shot a glance at Murdoch and wiped surreptitiously at his neck. He thought the detective skated close to the thin ice sometimes, and Brackenreid and he often eyed each other like two fighting dogs. Murdoch wiped a droplet of sweat from his nose.

“Can we unbutton our jackets, Inspector? It is very warm in here,” asked Murdoch.

“What? Oh yes. Take them off if you like. It is hot, now that you mention it.”

He unfastened the top button of his jacket.

Crabtree opened up his uniform, revealing a glimpse of red flannel underneath and an impression of redoubtable muscle development. He was the station’s prize athlete in the heavyweight division of shot put and tug-of-war, and even though the next police games weren’t until August, his chances were the subject of much speculation and interest among the other policemen. Murdoch could see the keen glance that Brackenreid sent that way, but he didn’t want to spend the next half hour discussing the possible condition of Sergeant Anstell, who was number-one station’s pride and joy. He unsnapped his collar studs and got back to the subject.

“I went to talk to the priest at St. Michael’s this afternoon, but he didn’t know the girl. It’s a big parish. However, he gave me his tithe list and tomorrow we can start calling on the parishioners.”

“Maybe she didn’t actually go there. She could have been lying. Taking that time to get up to mischief.”

“That’s possible, sir. But given that she was a Roman Catholic I think it’s more likely that she was reluctant to say much about her church at all in a family that was not of the same faith. People can be prejudiced.”

Brackenreid waved his fingers irritably at the detective. “And they don’t know anything about opium, I suppose?”

“Dr. Rhodes admits to using it in his medicines, which he makes up himself at the surgery.”

The inspector stared at Murdoch. “That don’t mean anything.”

“I didn’t make any implications. I’m stating the facts. The son, Owen, is a medical student and it’s quite likely he could acquire the drug if he wanted to.”

“It sounds to me like you’re trying to stick a pin on a donkey’s rear end, Murdoch. Just find out who seen the girl and we’ll have the answers. Why don’t you get out there and start asking some proper questions?”

“That’s what we’ve been doing for the past day and a half, Inspector.”

Crabtree wiped a damp spot from under his chin and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He knew only too
well the extent of Brackenreid’s temper. His colour was rising, and it wasn’t only the heat and his “tea.”

“Have you gone to the Sheenies about the missing clothes?”

“Yes, sir. Two constables went to all the Jewish merchants on Queen and King but nobody has received anything resembling the goods. She left her uniform behind, but according to Mrs. Foy she would have been wearing a grey serge skirt, matching jacket with blue velvet trim –”

“I have no need to know all that. Can we get along? I’m still feeling poorly, I should remind you. Constable, what about you?”

“You’ve got my report there, too, sir,” Crabtree answered quickly. “I questioned the servants and it’s the same story. Nobody knows anything.”

“What about the stableboy? He’s a Barnardo Home boy, isn’t he? I’d say he’s a likely possibility.”

“He’s a timid little creature. Frightened of his own shadow. He never takes his eyes off you. Makes you think of a dog that’s been ill-treated.” Crabtree looked a bit embarrassed at his sortie into simile. “He’s only thirteen and small to boot.”

“That’s old enough. Boy in my father’s village had spawned two brats by the time he was eleven. Boys like that have no more Christianity in them than dogs.”

Murdoch was reminded of Alderman Shepcote’s words. Perhaps he and Brackenreid had had a good
chin about it at one of the salon evenings for Miss Flo Wortley.

“By boys like that, do you mean orphan boys, sir, frightened boys, or boys from Ireland? As I understand, this one is English.”

Brackenreid stared at his detective for a moment, trying to determine whether or not to take offence. “Gutter boys, that’s who I mean.” He contemplated his mug, which was now empty. “Is that everything, Constable?”

“I’d say so, sir. The Foys claim they didn’t leave the house that evening and neither did the boy.”

The inspector fished a cigar out of a silver box on the desk and lit it. “Has anything come up with the Bertillon?”

“Not yet. The regular clerk is off sick and we don’t have anyone else who understands the system. By Friday, we should know if she has a file.”

Brackenreid blew a cloud of smoke towards the two officers. “I presume we are trying to get in touch with the family?”

“I sent a wire to the Windsor police and they’ll try to contact the local priest in Chatham. We don’t know exactly where the girl lived. It was a farm near there, but they’ve had a bad storm and the police don’t think they can get through until Thursday or Friday.”

Murdoch’s envelope was sitting on the table and Brackenreid took out the photograph and studied it for a moment.

“Perhaps she was a light-heeled gal, but she doesn’t look it. She’s got a sweet face.” He drew thoughtfully on his cigar. “Needless to say, I’d like to show that this station can work as well as any other, if not better. I want answers soon but I don’t want any feathers ruffled. Is that clear?”

Murdoch managed to bite his tongue. “Quite clear, sir.”

The inspector flicked some ash into a dish on the table. “Dismissed,” he said.

Murdoch and Crabtree went back to the orderly room downstairs, where Murdoch poured them both some tea. It had been steeping for a while and was as dark as molasses. Puss was cleaning herself diligently underneath the table. Crabtree added two spoonfuls of sugar and some milk to his mug and took a gulp of the tea.

“When I was there in the kitchen a-telling of the girl’s condition the air was so thick you could’ve cut it with a butter knife. The boy looked like he was about to flash his hash any minute and the housekeeper almost choked on the soup she was tasting.”

“I had a similar feeling with the Rhodes family. The son stammered and stopped like he was imitating his own father. Then he finally confessed that he had stayed visiting with Harriet Shepcote until midnight. They weren’t chaperoned, and maybe that’s why he was acting so guilty. His mother was furious. Not going
to show it in front of me but she got very tight-laced, I can tell you.”

“Do you think the young master got into the maid’s drawers, sir?”

“Could be. He’s a handsome fellow. Wouldn’t be hard for him to steal the heart of a young country lass. Then again, she could’ve met some cove at church. It might take nine months to grow a babe but it only takes minutes to plant the seed. As you know,” he added.

The constable had four children and another on the way.

“You’re right there, sir,” he said and he looked so glum Murdoch was sorry for teasing him. He motioned to him to continue.

“There’s a back window. Faces onto the stable yard and opens into the passageway behind the kitchen. You could climb in there and be up those stairs like a bolt of lightning.”

Both men sipped on their tea in silence for a minute. Then Murdoch said solemnly, “We can’t totally overlook the other possibility.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“The Holy Ghost, of course.”

Crabtree smiled.

MONDAY, FEBRUARY II

O
WEN WAS SPRAWLED
at one end of the sofa, his foot tapping restlessly, watching his mother while she fastened bands of black crepe along the mantel of the sitting room fireplace. The pictures were similarly festooned, the mirrors covered and the curtains drawn all afternoon.

“Shall I light another lamp?” he asked.

“No, thank you, Owen. This is sufficient.”

Suddenly she stopped what she was doing and picked up one of the framed photographs from the mantel.

“Owen, look. How could I not have noticed before?”

She brought the photograph over to the sofa. “Can you see the resemblance?”

Puzzled, he studied the picture and shook his head. “Don’t know what you’re getting at, Mother.”

“Theresa and Marianne. You must see it.”

He shrugged. “Sorry, dear, I don’t.”

“It’s not so much a resemblance of features as expression. See, the openness about the eyes. The mouth. Marianne always looked as if she were about to burst into laughter. Theresa had that look sometimes.”

“If you say so. ’Fraid I can’t quite see it myself.”

Donalda replaced the picture on the mantel. “Marianne was not much older than Theresa. Far too young to die, both of them.”

She hadn’t really looked at the picture for a long time, and she saw it now with fresh eyes. The photograph was a small
carte de visite
, more popular years ago than now. They had gone down to London, to the best studio in Belgravia. Her father was able to indulge in such things in those days. Both girls had worn their most fashionable dresses, shot silk taffeta with a high collar and ruched bodice, the new tight-fitting sleeves. They had only put their hair up that month, she remembered. Marianne had led the way as she always did, bossing her, determining what she would wear, even rubbing the merest hint of rouge on her cheeks.

Donalda touched the glass of the picture frame. A lock of dark hair was curled around the bottom of the photograph. Who would have known that before the summer was over, Marianne would be dead, the victim of a stupid accident? All their endless, earnest talks about dying an honourable old age, “full of pride at our noble deeds,” as Marianne had put it, had come to naught.

“What are you thinking, Mother?”

“That the dreams of youth so rarely materialize.”

“Dear me, that is gloomy.”

“I feel that way today.”

“That’s understandable. Ever since I can remember you’ve told me stories about yourself and your friend.” He hesitated. “Perhaps that’s why you’re so distressed now. About Therese. It’s sort of like losing her twice.”

Donalda glanced up at him. “I hadn’t thought of it quite like that.”

She sat down in the armchair opposite and stared into the fire, watching while the flames danced and jumped around the coal. And told her son the story again because she needed to.

The particular day was one of the glorious August afternoons that happen only in England. The blue sky was dotted with puffs of white cloud and the air was golden with sunlight. Marianne had wanted to go to the ramshackle hut that perched on the riverbank. They had played there since they were children and she had taken to calling it their summer house. “How utterly pretentious,” said Donalda scornfully. She didn’t like the spiders or the musty gloom inside. She wanted to sit in the shady gazebo and read together. However, as usual, Marianne had overridden her objections. “It will be cool in there. It’s an adventure, Addie. Don’t be a slug.” Finally, Donalda agreed on condition they play “Jane Eyre,” from their favourite book. They’d played this game
before and Marianne always wanted to be the mad Mrs. Rochester. The first time, she cried and wailed so convincingly that Wilson, the gardener, had rushed down to the hut to see what was the matter. Donalda preferred the part of Jane but they always squabbled about her interpretation. “She is afraid, timid,” said Marianne. “You must wring your hands like so. Perhaps even faint. Then Mr. Rochester sweeps you up in his arms and carries you away.” Donalda demurred, “She is made of tougher mettle than that,” and insisted on addressing the crazed Bertha in a loud, commanding voice. “Stop that at once.” Marianne scolded her in exasperation. “No, Addie, not like that. You sound exactly like Miss Thompson. You are not speaking to a naughty pupil, you are facing a woman in the grip of violent insanity.”