Night's Child (18 page)

“Yes, sir.”

At the entrance to the cubicle, Crabtree hesitated, then turned to Murdoch.

“I have a daughter, as you know, sir. I find it incomprehensible what has been done to Agnes Fisher. I don’t care if my feet fall off, I’m going to find her.”

“Thank you, George.”

A slightly tousled Mrs. Gregory opened the door of the studio. She brought a recalcitrant strand of hair under control.

“We’re not open for business today.”

Murdoch beamed at her. “I do apologize, ma’am, but I’m about to head back home and I’d like to get my photographs. Save you having to post them to me.”

She hesitated, then stepped back and let him come in. “I think they’re ready. Just a moment.”

While she was checking in the desk drawer, Murdoch wandered closer, composing his face into what he hoped was a suitable leer. “Mrs. Gregory, I can tell just by looking at you that you’re a liberal-minded woman…I’ve heard a man can get, you know, er, special cards…Naughty ones, if you know what I mean.”

Her expression turned so icy, he quailed. He had no real proof the studio wasn’t utterly respectable and now he had possibly insulted a decent woman.

“I have no idea to what you are referring, Mr. Murdoch.” She thrust the package into his hand. “Here are your photographs. The balance on account is two dollars and twenty-five cents.”

He handed over the money and she snatched it from his hand as if it were contagious.

“We will keep the negative plates for one month and if you want more prints you must let us know at once. Good day, sir.” She picked up a pen from the tray and jabbed it into the inkwell so sharply, he almost winced.

There was nothing for it but to leave. When he was in the hall, he heard the door lock behind him.

The light on the stairs was too feeble for him to get a good look at the photographs so he waited until he was outside where the thin winter sun had reappeared and the sky was the pale blue of old, faded eyes.

He studied the photograph, looking for any detail at all that was the same as in the picture of Agnes Fisher. There was nothing. The backdrop was just as Gregory had set it up for him. Perhaps an expert could tell the difference from one camera to another the way Enid could distinguish typewriting machines but he couldn’t.

Then he looked at the whole image, himself in the Prince’s study. He grinned wryly. He looked quite distinguished, if he said so himself. Add a desk and bookcase, make your subject stare sombrely into the camera, and you’ve got a man in the professions with an illustrious career ahead of him. For a moment, Murdoch felt a pang of disappointment. Such a possibility was closed to him. Roman Catholic men with no family connections and no education beyond standard six would never enter any of the professions. Even being accepted into the detective division had been a chance thing. At the last minute one of the applicants had fallen ill and Inspector Stark needed a man to fill his quota. Murdoch was it, although he had been relegated to acting detective for three years now and he didn’t know if that status would ever change.

He returned the photographs to the envelope, feeling frustrated again with his lack of progress with the case. Was Mrs. Gregory and the studio what they seemed to be? He couldn’t tell and unless he got a search warrant, he wasn’t any closer to finding the telltale props. He thought of going in search of Crabtree but another thought niggled at the back of his mind. The coincidence of the anonymous letters bothered him. Paradoxically, the discovery of the murdered boy had been a relief. Reluctantly, he’d let himself entertain the possibility that his friend, Seymour, might have perverse sexual appetites, but he’d bet his life that the sergeant wouldn’t have been party to the vicious beating and strangulation of a young man. He decided this was when discretion could be put aside. Seymour had to come clean.

Murdoch headed along King toward River Street, his thoughts suddenly jumping away to his own situation. The Kitchens and Enid were all on the verge of leaving him. Rationally, he knew that they didn’t have much choice. Moving to Muskoka might save Arthur’s life and he understood why Enid couldn’t ignore the summons to go home. But damn it, all three of them at the same time! He’d even had a fleeting thought after Mrs. K.’s announcement that Enid could move back into the house when they left. He knew she wouldn’t, though. Not without a landlady to chaperone them. He’d never quite given up being surprised that she had consented to having connections with him. Not just consented, actually seemed to welcome it. That thought stirred him up, but was followed as quickly by shame.

I saw your face, Will.
She saw that he didn’t want to marry her. And that was why she was going back to Wales.

By the time he reached Seymour’s boarding house, he was thoroughly chilled. The sky might be blue but the price was wind with an Arctic bite to it. He’d walked straight past the planing mill, no dancing on logs today.

Reordan let him in. The livid burn marks on his face seemed even more disfiguring in the winter sunlight. He wasn’t very welcoming either.

“Charlie has stepped out. If that’s who you’re calling on.”

“Yes, it is. Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“Half an hour at the most.”

“Can I wait for him then? I don’t want to walk all the way back to the station if he’ll be here soon.”

Reluctantly, Reordan stepped back so Murdoch could enter.

“I won’t disturb you. Shall I wait in the kitchen?”

“That’s private quarters.”

“Seymour’s room, then? I can’t just stand here.”

“Top of the stairs on the right,” Reordan conceded reluctantly.

He shuffled off, leaving a strange, malodorous miasma behind him. Reordan was not a man for washing.

Murdoch went up the stairs. Like the hallway, the walls were bare and painted the same white. The only concession to comfort was a grey sisal runner. Last year, Murdoch had visited his dying sister in the convent where she was a cloistered nun. There had been the same air of austerity and scrupulous cleanliness about the convent halls. He almost expected to see a crucifix here. There wasn’t one, but at the end of the landing there was a small table over which hung a large framed photograph.

He went to have a look at it. The table was of polished walnut and on it was a silver candleholder and a little silver dish filled with dried rose petals. He examined the photograph, a formal studio portrait of a balding man, probably in late middle age. He had a strong nose and a white, neatly trimmed beard that couldn’t hide the powerful thrust of his chin. The compelling thing about him were his eyes, which were heavy lidded and dark and bespoke both compassion and intelligence. It was an attractive face. There was no name attached to the photograph and Murdoch couldn’t identify him. He was about to turn away when he spotted a stamped imprint at the bottom right side of the picture. It was a circle around a triangle with the letters S.O.M.A. written between the circle and the triangle. Murdoch was familiar with most Masonic Order symbols and this wasn’t one of them, but he guessed it was some kind of esoteric order. The little dish of flowers, faintly perfumed, and the candle could be some kind of offering or just decoration, he couldn’t tell. The unknown man didn’t look like the kind who solicited adoration, but who knew for sure. He took out his notebook, copied the symbol, and turned to Seymour’s room. The door was slightly open, a low fire in the grate and a lamp lit. Clearly the sergeant hadn’t intended to be gone for long. Murdoch went in. He was uncomfortable with anything that might imply spying, but he also knew he wouldn’t get another chance like this.

Like the rest of the house, Seymour’s room was neat and underfurnished. A narrow bed, covered with a grey blanket, was against one wall. Two cane chairs were arranged in front of the fire, one with a footstool. There was a wardrobe, oaken and plain, a washstand and a small desk. The only decoration, if you could call them that, were two high bookcases on either side of the hearth. They were loaded with books and binders of newspapers. Murdoch walked over to get a look at the sergeant’s taste in reading material but was stopped midway by what he saw on the desk. A stereoscope was lying beside a pile of view cards. For an instant, Murdoch froze, not wanting to go any farther. However, he had no choice. He picked up one of the cards.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE

T
he card read,
Making ladies waists
, and showed neatly dressed women sitting across from each other at long tables. Murdoch turned the card over. It was from the T. Eaton Company and explained in glowing terms that the floor engaged more than four hundred and fifty operators and the factory was light, clean, and airy and, even better, the company boasted that they kept a superior class of help. Murdoch put the card into the stereoscope and adjusted the slide until the photograph sprang into relief. The factory certainly looked industrious, with row upon row of women, heads bent over their sewing machines, all definitely looking like a superior kind of woman. He imagined their hands and nails would be inspected by a supervisor every day. Not unlike the constables when they reported for duty, come to think of it. Uniforms checked for spots, shoes for polish, and, of course, breath for any trace of alcohol. He was glad he didn’t have to go through that any more.

The next few cards were also from the T. Eaton Company,
The laundry room, The mail room
, the same uninspired photographs of anonymous women and the reverse messages all praising the quality of their work. Murdoch scanned the other cards, about two dozen of them: different employers but all of people working at a trade.

He replaced the stereoscope on the desk. If Seymour was interested in illicit pornographic views he wasn’t likely to leave them out for all to see. He hesitated for a moment, then pulled open the drawer. More cards fastened with rubber bands. And an unfinished typewritten letter. He didn’t have time to read it, but he noted the same cryptic symbol he’d seen on the portrait in the hall. A triangle inside a circle. There was the sound of the front door opening and almost at once Reordan’s voice.

“Your police friend is upstairs, Charlie.”

Murdoch went over to the cane chair and sat down. He was highly uncomfortable at what he had just done, even though he believed it was necessary.

He heard Seymour’s footsteps on the stairs and in a minute the man came into the room. Murdoch scrutinized his face and was relieved to see no trace of nervousness but rather the opposite. Seymour came over to him, hand outstretched.

“Good day to you, Will. Any news?”

“Not about the letters.”

“What then?” The sergeant’s expression was enigmatic but Murdoch thought he looked relieved.

Murdoch took the photograph of the turbaned youth from his envelope. “Do you know this fellow?”

Seymour stared at the picture for a moment but after an initial moment of shock, his face was once again inscrutable. “Is he dead?”

“Yes.”

Seymour went over to the fire and poked at the coals. “What happened?”

“His body was found on the lake, stuffed into a steamer trunk. Somebody had beaten him then strangled him.”

Murdoch saw the tension in Seymour’s shoulders. “Poor sod.”

“Do you know him?”

There was an indistinguishable mutter.

Suddenly Murdoch felt a surge of anger and he strode over to the fireplace. “Charlie, what the hell is going on here? What are you doing?”

Seymour didn’t answer but continued to stab the fire. Murdoch grabbed the handle of the poker, forcing him to stop. “Will you answer me, for God’s sake? You’ve got to stop hiding.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Seymour let go of the poker and stood up, moving away. Murdoch was after him.

“You bloody
do
know what I’m talking about. You’re doing something that some fart catcher knows about or suspects. Immoral, illegal, at the moment I don’t give a frig about fine lines. All those coy little glances and precious allusions. It’s obvious you’re all involved in some kind of secret society, the special handshakes, the shrine out there in the hall…”

Seymour’s lips were tight. “It’s not a shrine.”

“What the frig is it then? You obviously knew this boy. What was he, your nancy boy? Are you a group of panders who’ve convinced yourselves it’s all right?”

“Will, stop it! You can’t talk to me like this!”

Murdoch slapped the photograph. “He’s dead, Charlie, and he had a miserable death. I saw the look on your face. You knew him, admit it.”

The sergeant flushed. “That has nothing to do with the letters.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I haven’t seen that lad for several years.” Seymour dropped down on the edge of the bed and with a groan put his head in his hands. Murdoch waited impatiently for him to continue. Finally, he looked up. “His name is Leonard Sims and he was one of my nabs when I was on the beat. We raided a brothel where he was working. He was only fourteen or fifteen at the time.” He stopped and, for a moment, Murdoch thought he was weeping. “I felt sorry for him and I let him go…Of course he was a guttersnipe to the core. He wasn’t grateful. But he saw this as his chance to try a spot of blackmail. He said he’d tell the inspector I’d sodomized him unless I gave him money.”

“And did you? Give him money?”

“No. I beat him and dragged him to the magistrate. He was sent to the industrial school for two years. I never heard from him after that.”

“Did he make good his threat?”

“Oh yes, but nobody believed him after what I’d done.” He shook his head. “I should have admitted at once that I knew who he was but it’s an episode I’m not proud of.”

“And you’re certain that the anonymous letter writer isn’t raking up old dirt?”

“I don’t think so. The letters refer to my present activities, if you recall.”

“Which are?”