Night's Child (24 page)

“Don’t worry, Miss Slade. I won’t tell anybody we’ve met alone in your private chamber.”

He was attempting to make a joke, but it fell totally flat. She looked at him in surprise.

“That concern hadn’t entered my mind.”

They went upstairs, she leading and he studiously focusing on a spot between her shoulder blades. She had changed into her bloomer outfit again, the over tunic was cinched at the waist by a leather belt.

“In here,” she said, and ushered him in.

He had expected either the same conventlike furnishings as the rest of the house or, influenced perhaps by the flowing bloomers, a room of drapery and plump cushions. This was neither. Amy had divided off her sleeping area by a tapestry screen and a double set of bookshelves crammed with books. The rest of the room was a sitting area, rather cramped because of the division but pleasant and colourful. Two brocade armchairs were in front of the fire, a dainty mahogany desk was against one wall, and there was a corner shelf unit where he glimpsed a collection of china ornaments. The lamps were turned high and the fire was blazing.

“Here, take this chair. I can offer homemade hot ginger beer, can I pour you some?”

“I’d like that,” said Murdoch, not entirely sure if that was true. It was not a drink he’d had before.

She had a small hob on the fire and she removed the steaming kettle, poured the hot water into a jug, added the ginger beer from a bottle, stirred and poured it into a mug.

Murdoch drank some, found it rather stimulating and with a strong aftertaste.

“Very tasty,” he said in reply to her inquiring look. He put the mug on a small three-legged table and took out his notebook. “Why don’t we start while we’re waiting for Charlie. What did you find?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. Neither of the families that I visited could afford photographs. In that respect my help was not fruitful, but I must tell you, Mr. Murdoch, this has been one of the most harrowing experiences I have ever spent. In both cases, the state of the family, especially the mother, was so dire, I, a stranger, could offer them little comfort. The first child succumbed to influenza. They should not even have gone to the expense of publishing a memorial notice but it was a matter of pride. I stayed there for a long time as the mother had a great need to talk about what had happened. When I finally left, I went to the address on Queen Street, which turned out to be the home of a woman I have encountered when I have been shopping. The dead child was her fifth and, like the others, he lived for only two months.” She sipped on her own mug of ginger beer. “The poor woman cried out to me for some words of wisdom but I had none, trite or otherwise.”

Murdoch remembered how he’d felt when Liza died and how angry he became with the priest who tried to quote church doctrine on the mystery of God’s will.

“Sometimes sympathetic silence is the best comfort,” he said.

“Perhaps.”

They were silent, each in their own thoughts. Finally, Amy said, “Did you do any better with your investigation?”

“Not at all.” He relayed to her what had happened. “Let us hope that Seymour did better.”

At that moment, they heard the hall door open.

“That must be him,” said Amy and she went to the door. “Charlie, we’re up here.”

Seymour came hurrying up the stairs and into the room.

“Will, good news. I’ve identified the baby in the picture.”

“Well done. Who is it?”

Seymour handed his piece of paper to Murdoch. “They were my last visit, would you believe? They’re a young couple and the babe was their first child, a boy. When I went into the parlour, I saw the photograph immediately. They’ve got it in a fancy silver frame on the mantelpiece. Their name is Dowdell, Geoffrey and Sophie, and the photographer they used was a woman, Miss Georgina Crofton. She lives on Gerrard Street.”

“Did you ask the Dowdells if they knew Martha or Agnes Fisher?”

“Of course. They said they didn’t. They can’t afford to keep a regular servant. I also threw in the name of Leonard Sims, but nothing there either. Here’s their address. The other two people on my list had not had pictures taken.”

Suddenly, Murdoch couldn’t help himself and he had to stifle a yawn. He stood up.

“It’s too late to call on Miss Crofton tonight. I’ll go first thing in the morning.”

“I hope it leads somewhere,” said Amy.

“So do I. I’m sorry we’re not making faster progress.”

She met his eyes. “Do you think Agnes has come to harm?”

“I don’t know.”

He wished he could say he was certain the girl was safe but he couldn’t, and there was something about Amy Slade that precluded platitudes. She looked so pale and tired, his heart went out to her. “If I may say so, Miss Slade, I think you should retire for the night. You have been most helpful.”

“What shall I do now?” asked Seymour.

Murdoch fished in his pocket and took out the list he’d made of photographic studios.

“You can start checking on these tomorrow. I’ll join up with you as soon as I can.”

“John seems to have deserted us,” Amy said to Seymour. “I’m worried about him. He was acting so strangely when he saw the photographs.”

Seymour shrugged. “He gets that way sometimes. You don’t always know what will set him off. And they weren’t the easiest pictures to look at. I’ve known him vanish for one or two days at a time. It’s as if his memories press in upon him and all he can do is move like a homeless dog.”

Murdoch offered his hand to the schoolteacher. “Thank you again, Miss Slade.”

She smiled at him rather mischievously. “You seem in a hurry to leave, Mr. Murdoch. Don’t tell me you have another duty to perform.”

He could feel himself blush. “Not a duty, ma’am, but a prior engagement. And I’m terribly late as it is.”

“I hope your friend will forgive you.”

“So do I.”

“You will keep us informed of your progress, won’t you?” Amy asked.

For a split second, Murdoch wasn’t sure what she was referring to.

“Yes, of course. Good night to both of you. No, don’t worry, Miss Slade, I can let myself out.”

He left them, aware that Amy was gazing after him.

CHAPTER
THIRTY

I
t was past ten o’clock by the time Murdoch arrived at Enid’s lodgings. He almost expected her to have gone to bed, but there was a light showing at her window. Having no desire to rouse Mrs. Barrett at this hour, he made a snowball and threw it at the window. Immediately, the curtain was pushed aside and Enid waved at him, mimed to him to be quiet, and disappeared to open the front door.

Neither spoke as he entered the house and Enid’s welcome was decidedly on the cool side. He went to kiss her, but she avoided him with more warning mimes. Murdoch felt a stab of guilt as it was obvious Enid had been anticipating his arrival for a long time.

She closed the door to her sitting room behind them with a little snap.

“I was worried, Will. I expected you at five o’clock.”

He didn’t remember specifying a particular time but certainly ten o’clock was well past arrival time.

“I’m sorry, I’ve been working on a case and I had to trudge all over the city to do my interviews. Is Alwyn asleep?”

“Most certainly, he is. He tried to stay up as late as eight o’clock to see you, but he couldn’t.”

Another little piece of fiery coal on his head. Murdoch thought Enid had got the matter of reproaches down to a fine art.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated.

They were keeping their voices low, which made it difficult to have a flaming row although Murdoch felt that’s what Enid wanted.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked with excessive politeness. “You must be cold and hungry.”

Coward that he was, Murdoch didn’t feel like explaining he was still full of pig’s feet stew so he just shook his head.

“I’m not hungry, but tea would be nice, thank you.”

Enid went to the fireplace to fetch the kettle. While she was making the tea, trying to create a distraction to ease the tension and also because he needed her help, Murdoch took his notebook from his inner pocket.

“Enid, I’ve solved that issue of the anonymous letters. Sergeant Seymour is involved with a labour organization, which he’s not allowed to be, and the letter writer knows about it. I don’t want Charlie to lose his job, so I’ve decided to see if I can scare off the fellow. Will you type something for me?”

“Surely you don’t mean tonight? I might wake Mrs. Barrett.”

“I doubt that. Isn’t this the evening she spends with her sister.”

Enid blushed fiercely at being caught in her little lie, and Murdoch thought he’d made matters worse by tripping her up like that. He reached over and pulled her gently into his arms.

“Please don’t punish me, Mrs. Jones. I am so happy to see you and if there had been any way of informing you I would be late, I would have done so.”

She leaned against him stiffly, not yet ready to yield, but he didn’t let go, nuzzling his chin against her hair. Finally she turned her head and looked into his face. He was surprised to see she had tears in her eyes.

“Oh, William, I wish it could have been otherwise.”

He knew she didn’t mean just the tardiness of his visit but there was nothing he could say. If he made her a proposal of marriage, she would have to return to Wales first and even though with her in his arms he was hot with desire, he knew that he could not pretend a depth of feeling he didn’t have. Again he was twisted with guilt, and he kissed her urgently to compensate. She responded slowly at first but more and more passionately. Finally she was the one who broke off the embrace. The brightness in her eyes was unbearable and he reached for her again but she caught his arms.

“Alwyn is fast asleep. If we stay here he is less likely to hear us.”

She went to the door, turned the key in the lock, and practically ran back to him. He drew her to the hearth and they lay down on the rug. A bed would have been more comfortable but at that moment Murdoch would have been happy to lie on bricks.

Because of the urgency in both of them, the connection was over rather more quickly than he wanted but they nevertheless lay for a while on the rug, until, arm aching, he levered himself into a sitting position. She stayed there with her head on the cushion he had pulled down when they started. He’d loosened her hair and it hung untidily about her face. She was flushed and he saw that her cheek was reddened from rubbing against the roughness of his chin. She smiled up at him.

“Did you say you had some work you wanted me to do?”

They both laughed, which led to more kisses.

Finally, he leaned back and grabbed his notebook.

“I wrote it out.”

She yawned and, pulling on her robe, got to her feet and went over to the typewriter. She sat down, inserted a clean sheet of paper in the machine.

“I’m ready, sir.”

He placed the notebook where she could see it. She read through what he’d written and glanced over her shoulder at him in surprise.

“Goodness me, is this true?”

He shrugged. “It could be.”

“Is it addressed to anybody in particular?”

“Inspector Brackenreid.”

She grinned. “I see. What’s sauce for the goose is good for the gander.”

“Precisely.”

CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE

I
n spite of the improved feelings between them, Murdoch didn’t stay at Enid’s much past midnight. A rug on the floor was hardly conducive to a good night’s sleep. He slipped away into the quiet streets. The lamps had been extinguished, but the snow reflected light enough to see by. He trudged past the darkened houses, where an occasional lamp revealed a late bedtime.

When he entered his house, he paused as he always did to listen to sounds coming from Mr. and Mrs. Kitchen’s quarters. All was quiet, and Murdoch hoped Arthur was having a rare peaceful night. The first shock of their announcement had subsided, and Murdoch wished fervently the move to the fresh country air of Muskoka would bring Arthur health.

Once in his room, he undressed quickly. The fire Mrs. Kitchen always built for him had died to glowing embers and the chill of the winter night had seeped in. Shivering, he jumped into bed, wishing not for the first time there was a warm body waiting for him to lie next to. And again, he cursed himself for not insisting on marrying Liza sooner. He had never experienced her undressed body pressed against his and the regret of that tormented him. He thumped his pillow, rolled on his side, and deliberately tried to wrench his thoughts away from the past and back to Enid and her generous embrace.

He closed his eyes and immediately felt sleep slip away. Damn. He knew what that signified. He tried to lie still but he couldn’t, and the tossing and turning began. He sat up to check the alarm clock on his dresser. It was already two o’clock. He thumped the feathers in his pillow and buried his face in it. Arthur Kitchen had once told him that the best cure of insomnia was loving conjugal connections but clearly that wasn’t proving true. He’d just had loving connections and he was still wide awake. Arthur may have advised love for insomnia, but Father Fair, the priest at St. Paul’s, on the other hand, said the best cause of a good night’s sleep was a pure conscience. Murdoch decided that what was keeping him awake was guilt. He sat up again, trying to decide if it was worth it to light a pipe. It was. He reached for his Powhatan, stuffed it with tobacco, lit it, and drew deeply on the stem. What the hell was the matter with him? He’d never describe himself as a randy tomcat, but he did seem to be having divided feelings yet again among three women; one was deceased to be sure but the other two weren’t. And to one of those, he had made promises of the flesh that he didn’t think he could keep. The shadow of Liza was present at the best of times when he was with Enid, but now someone else had come into the picture. He couldn’t get thoughts of Amy Slade out of his mind.