Poor Tom Is Cold (18 page)

However, they were both suddenly awkward, standing close in the narrow hall.

“Mrs. Kitchen has gone to a prayer vigil at the church,” Enid said. “I promised I would look after you in her place.”

“That’s kind of you, Mrs. Jones, but really I am quite capable of taking a plate out of the oven. I have done it many times before.”

“Whether you are capable or not isn’t the point, is it now? We both thought you could do with some tending to on a raw night like this. Especially with you having had your tooth pulled.”

She scrutinised him. “Your face is still swollen. Is it hurting?”

“Very much,” he said solemnly.

She stepped back. “Go get you a warm by the fire, then. I will bring in your tea.”

He went into the little front parlour. The fire was crackling and there was an extra lamp on the table. The heat and light seemed dazzling after the dismal weather outside.

“Hello, Alwyn.”

Enid’s son was sitting at the table with some sort of games board in front of him. As Murdoch entered, the boy glanced up but he didn’t look too pleased to see him.

“Good evening to you, sir.”

Murdoch looked over his shoulder. “What’s that you’ve got?”

“It’s a game my mamma gave me.”

“Looks interesting.
The Prince’s Quest
. What do you have to do?”

Alwyn became a little more animated. “The princess is asleep and she’s in danger. There are four princes who want to save her. The first one to get to the bower wins her.” His face was earnest. “The path is full of dangers.”

“Ah, yes, I’ve known it to be.”

There was a silence while the boy considered his options. Finally, he said, “Will you play then?”

“I would like to.” He pulled out the chair next to the boy.

“We must first choose our pieces,” said Alwyn.

He showed him cutout shapes of princes on little wooden stands. They wore flat hats, short embroidered jerkins, and dark stockings. Each had a sleeveless cloak, also short, which were of different colours.

“I’ll take the purple one.”

Alwyn looked disappointed. “That was the one I wanted.”

Murdoch hesitated, trying to decide whether it would be better for character development for the boy to take his lumps or whether he could curry a bit of favour. He elected to placate.

“Green for me then. He’s a handsome fellow.”

“No, it’s all right. My da said it wasn’t manly to complain if things didn’t go your way.”

“Did he now? He was right, I’d say. Purple it is.”

Alwyn studied the princes. “I’ll take blue, no – this one, the red.” He set the two chosen figures on the board, each one facing a different path. “Throw the die and move according to the number.”

“Where’s the princess?”

The boy pointed to a woman with extraordinarily long hair who was reclining languidly on a couch. Her eyes were closed so he assumed she was sleeping. Or waiting and full of anticipation.

Vigorously, he shook the die in his cupped hands and tossed it down with a flourish. One.

“Hm, the story of my life.”

Alwyn threw a five and gleefully counted off the spaces along the path toward the prize.

“I’m beating you already.”

Murdoch’s next throw landed him on a square marked Shoes of Swiftness, and he was able to shoot ahead, thereby avoiding a stint of work in the dwarf’s cave. Alwyn threw a four and landed in the
Garden of Sleep
.

“Oh, dear, miss three turns,” said Murdoch.

“No, that’s not fair,” the boy wailed.

“It’s the luck of the game, titch. Remember what your father said.”

He was about to throw again when Enid entered. She was carrying a big tray.

He got up quickly to help her. Alwyn said something to her in Welsh, gesturing angrily at Murdoch. She answered in a soothing voice, shaking her head.

“I didn’t,” said Murdoch.

“Didn’t what?” she said, startled.

“Cheat.”

“You know Welsh?”

“No, but I know small boys. He landed fair and square in the
Garden of Sleep
. He has to miss three throws.”

“Good gracious, that is hard.”

“Rules are rules.”

He wanted to add,
That is what your husband taught him
, but was reluctant to introduce any memory of her former love.

She turned to her son.

“Mr. Murdoch is going to have his supper. You can finish your game afterwards.”

Alwyn answered in Welsh and, picking up the die, he went back to the board. He was going to play both princes. Then he was sure to win the princess. Murdoch thought it was churlish to protest. He moved over to the place set for him.

Enid lifted the lid off the tureen.

“I made a rabbit soup,” she said. “It’s a popular dish at home.”

The food smelled so fragrant, Murdoch’s mouth watered and he was afraid he’d actually be drooling if he didn’t eat soon. She ladled some soup into a bowl, handed it to him, and waited for him to take his first taste. He did so, nearly scalding himself.

“Utterly delicious,” he managed to mutter.

“It’s hot, be careful now.”

He tore off a piece of bread from the hunk on his plate and stuffed that into his mouth to ease the pain. She watched him with gratification as he made more appreciative noises.

“I thought you’d need something soft.”

Alwyn looked up. “I’ve got a loose tooth.” He opened his mouth and waggled one of his front teeth.

“Good for you,” murmured Murdoch, trying to make sure the soup wasn’t getting into the gaping crater he could feel in his gum.

“I’ll bring in the potatoes. I mashed them up with the rest of the rabbit,” said Enid.

She went back to the kitchen, leaving Murdoch to blow air into his burning mouth.

Alwyn returned to his game, talking quietly to himself as he moved his pieces. Murdoch saw him land in the Haunted Glen. He was supposed to throw a three to get out but he ignored that and moved on. Murdoch was about to call out, “Hey, you’re cheating,” but thought better of it. The lad needed a firm hand, he decided. He studied him for a moment. He had his mother’s dark eyes but he was sharper of feature and his hair had a curl to it. I wonder what it’s like to see your own reflection in a child’s face, thought Murdoch. Or the face of the woman you have loved? He stopped eating.

Enid came back into the room and he hastily dipped his spoon back into the soup.

“Is it all right then?”

“Wonderful.”

She put the platter on the table.

“Thank you, Mrs. Jones. This is very kind of you.”

“Not at all. I wanted to help Mrs. Kitchen.”

On impulse, he caught hold of her hand, grasping it awkwardly in a semi-handshake. Then, as if his body were acting entirely on its own accord, he brought her fingers to his lips, kissing them lightly. Her skin smelled faintly of onions. She didn’t pull away but he didn’t know what to do next. He wanted desperately to be eloquent but found himself tongue-tied. He looked up at her. This time she did move.

“I must go fetch the potatoes.”

“You brought them in already.”

“So I did.” She became even more flustered and reached for the soup tureen. “I’ll take this out of your way and let you finish your meal in peace.”

“This is peace. I’d be honoured if you would keep me company.”

She hesitated briefly, then sat down at the opposite end of the table.

“Very well.”

He bought some time by spooning up more soup, which had cooled somewhat.

“Utterly delicious.”

She nodded. Alwyn gave him a reprieve by getting up and going over to his mother.

“I won, Mama. I rescued the princess.”

Fondly, she put her arms around him and kissed his forehead. “Well done, little one.”

Murdoch was about to say that it was easy to win if you were moving both pieces but he bit his tongue. Feeling rivalrous, was he?

“If you go into the kitchen you will find a tray of lemon dumplings,” she said to the boy. “You can have one for yourself. But eat it there, look you.”

Alwyn took off.

“Lemon dumplings? This is a meal fit for a king.”

There was another uncomfortable silence while he tackled the platter of rabbit meat and potatoes.

“Mr. Murdoch, there is something I have been wanting to ask you.”

“Yes?” He was hopeful.

“In church last week, the minister was preaching about the afterlife. He pointed out that if my son were to die, God defend us, the Roman Catholic Church teaches that he would not go to heaven as he is not of the Catholic faith. He would be deprived of the sight of God for all eternity through no fault of his own. Can you explain to me how a person who believes in the Divine love can accept such a cruel doctrine?”

Murdoch almost groaned out loud. A theological discussion was not his notion of love talk. But she was regarding him earnestly, wanting an answer.

“As far as I am concerned, doctrine is man-made. We
hope that it reflects God’s will on earth but we can never know that for sure.”

She seemed dissatisfied with his answer. “Yes, but …”

Fortunately, he was rescued by Mrs. Kitchen coming into the parlour. Her nose and cheeks were reddened from the chill air outside.

“Mr. Murdoch, I am so glad Mrs. Jones has been taking good care of you. I won’t even apologise for my absence, since I can see what a splendid meal she has prepared.”

Murdoch stood up to greet her. “Splendid and plentiful.”

“Are you ready for your tea?”

“I am indeed.”

“The kettle is at the boil,” said Enid.

“Good, let me just see how Arthur is doing and I’ll make us all a pot. You will join us, won’t you, Mrs. Jones?”

“Thank you, but perhaps another night. I have to start getting Alwyn ready for bed.”

She headed for the door.

“Perhaps I can answer your question at a later time,” said Murdoch.

She nodded. “It is a discussion I am looking forward to.”

Mrs. Kitchen waited until she left. “She worked all day on that soup, Mr. Murdoch. I would be careful if I were you.”

“What do you mean, Mrs. K.? It tasted quite all right to me.”

She tapped his hand. “Don’t pretend. You know perfectly well what I am talking about. She fancies you.”

Murdoch clasped both her hands in his. “Oh, dear Mrs. K., is that so terribly bad?”

“It’s not so much it’s bad, as that it’s out of the question. Or have you forgotten she’s a Baptist?”

He sighed and let her go. “No. You both seem intent on reminding me. She wanted to know how I explained limbo.”

“Did she indeed? That means she’s serious. She’s trying to see how big the chasm is. But never you mind, some people have made successful mixed marriages. She would have to convert, of course.”

He grinned. “Mrs. K., here we are talking about the lady as if she and I were courting. I’m not even at the starting line.”

She smiled, knowingly. “I would say you’re approaching it fast.”

M
URDOCH PUT HIS REPORT BACK
in the file folder and returned it to the cabinet. Two local ministers from Jarvis Street Baptist Church had issued a complaint. An English travelling troupe of dancers had distributed bills on the street. The photographs of the young women in the troupe were completely indecent, according to the ministers. They requested the police charge them. Murdoch thought the women, although showing a length of lower leg, were suitably clothed for dancers, assuming they had to pirouette and leap about. The ministers were indignant at his defence, and it became apparent that their complaint was not only concerning the clothing, but the very existence of the troupe. He had taken their deputation, accepted the petition with a long list of signatures, and promised to investigate further.

He found it hard to muster much enthusiasm for the case. He’d been sitting for at least a half an hour with
Elizabeth’s photograph in front of him. He knew it was irrational of him but he was feeling guilty at the intensity of his feelings for Mrs. Jones. It was all very well for Father Fair to say she was dead and in God’s love and that she would be happy for him. In life, Liza had been prone to possessiveness, something he’d rather liked. It had made him feel wanted. He picked up the framed picture.
Liza, my dearest, you know that you had my heart and, if you had lived, no one else would ever have warranted a glance from me. But you left me and I cannot help myself. This is a woman you would have liked, perhaps befriended. I know she is not of our faith but oh, Liza, I do have to admit, I would dearly like to have her
. The blurry image of his dead fiancée showed no expression except, he was sure, some reproach.

He and Liza were of the same faith, of course, but he couldn’t remember that they had discussed it much. Religion was part of the fabric of their lives, unquestioned for the most part, the rituals so familiar. They went to mass regularly and therefore to confession. They’d laughed about that together, well aware that they were committing venial sins all the time with their mutual impure thoughts. Liza insisted her penances were more severe than his but he didn’t know if that was because she owned up to worse things or because she was a woman.

He touched the photograph. It was not a very good picture. Her large-brimmed hat was shading her face too
much and she’d moved just as he clicked the shutter. He returned the photograph to the drawer, feeling even more guilty that he was putting her away in that fashion.

Impatiently, he brushed off a couple of lethargic flies that were crawling over the surface of his blotter. Because of the adjoining stables, the fly population never completely disappeared. The flies just got slower, storing up energy for the spring onslaught.

He leaned back in his chair. Usually he took his surroundings for granted but today he scrutinised them with critical eyes, and his spirits sank even lower as he took in the pervading shabbiness. His desk was old, wobbly, and in need of revarnishing. He hadn’t added to its appearance by constantly scratching the surface with his pen-nib when he was trying to get his thoughts straightened out. There was room for only one other chair, a decidedly shabby armchair from heaven-knows-what previous life. Part of the seat was torn and some of the horse hair was coming out. He had requested a replacement, but so far nothing had happened. According to Inspector Brackenreid, there was no money to spend, although Murdoch noticed his office was well furnished. Only last month, a splendid crimson velvet rug had arrived from the T. Eaton Company. So what if the roof still leaked over the stables and the sashes on the windows were so shrunken the snow drifted through in the winter? If Brackenreid met with members of the public they served, which was rare, he did so in impressive surroundings. The sweet fruits of power.