Poor Tom Is Cold (21 page)

What am I looking for?
A diary? Love letters? Any indication into what was truly happening in the constable’s life. There was no desk, but between the wardrobe and the door to the hall was a glass-fronted bookcase. Murdoch walked over to it and opened it up. On the top shelf was a small army of lead cavalry soldiers, well seasoned, and a small cast-iron bank, brightly painted. A little brown dog was sitting in front of a slotted box while a harlequin clown held a hoop in front of it. Unable to resist, Murdoch fished out a penny coin from his pocket and placed it in the dog’s mouth. Then he pushed down the lever and the terrier jumped through the hoop, dropped the penny into the slot, and sat down again.

The other shelves all held books, most of them seemingly left over from Wicken’s boyhood. Several novels, a mix of Sir Walter Scott, Jules Verne, and Ralph Connor; the complete works of William Shakespeare in thirty-nine volumes, rather pristine.
Little Men
, a book Murdoch always intended to read and never had. A stained and obviously well-studied edition of
Clater’s Farrier
. At random, Murdoch picked out a book entitled
For Boys
. There was an inscription inside:
To my dearest Oliver on the occasion of his fifteenth birthday. With fondest regards, Mother
.

Murdoch leafed through the book, which was written by a Mrs. Shepherd. The tone was evangelical, exhorting the boy reader to have only pure thoughts in order to have a healthy body. Murdoch turned to the chapter entitled What is Sex? A doctor was quoted concerning one of his patients, a young man who complained of strange nervous symptoms. He suspected that the man’s difficulties were due to some sort of sexual exhaustion. The patient replied, “Never, I never practised masturbation and never had a nocturnal emission.” However, he did admit to caressing his fiancée when he visited her, and afterwards his mind became occupied with sexual fantasies. “That is the source of your problem,” said the doctor. Irritated, Murdoch closed the book and returned it to the shelf. As far as he was concerned, these sorts of teachings were worth piss, the nattering of priests and women with no experience.

What else was here?
Nothing remarkable. Ah, a book on etiquette that he himself had pored over years ago. He took it out with a little grin at the memory. Shy and awkward in social settings, Murdoch had tried to teach himself the rules, which unfortunately tended to make him even more self-conscious. It wasn’t until he met Liza that he’d relaxed. She’d showed him what to do and laughed him out of his stiffness.

He was about to abandon the bookcase altogether when he saw that there was one book tucked away at the back of the shelf. He took it out, wondering if it had been hidden or had just fallen back there.
The Heart of Midlothian
by Sir Walter Scott. The cover matched the others in the set and this too was inscribed lovingly by Mrs. Wicken. A twelfth birthday this time. He was about to replace it when he saw that there was a thin piece of muslin pressed among the pages. He took it out. Inside the cloth was a lock of dark brown hair. Murdoch stowed the find between the covers of his own notebook. There was nothing else he could see that might be relevant, and the overfurnished room was beginning to close in on him. He went back to the hall.

Mrs. Morrow showed him out and, as soon as he was on the street, he took a long, deep breath. He had quickly developed respect for Mrs. Wicken and he could only feel compassion for her loss. However, he sensed that beneath the gracious manners there was a will of iron. He could understand why her son might have chosen to keep certain matters from her.

H
E DECIDED TO GO STRAIGHT OVER
to the lending library, which was situated on Toronto Street, to the rear of St James’ Cathedral. He wanted to see if he could find at least one definite confirmation of Isobel’s story. Needing exercise, he walked briskly down Sackville to King Street where he could catch a streetcar. This far east, the stores were smaller, not as classy. There wasn’t a line of carriages waiting outside any of them the way there always was nearer to the fancy stores on Church and Jarvis streets.

A streetcar was clanking toward him and he signalled to the driver to stop. He stepped on board into an almost empty car. The oil heater at the rear had been lit and inside was warm, smelling of the straw that was scattered on the floorboards to soak up the mud. In the middle of winter, the snow made everything a brown stew, but today the straw was still relatively fresh.
Murdoch took a seat near the front and the ticket collector was on him at once, rattling his box.

“Fare please, sir.”

He dropped in his ticket and the collector moved on. For a moment Murdoch almost envied him. His job seemed so clear-cut and defined. His only challenge was to keep a sharp lookout for cheaters, men who only went a couple of blocks, then, when he was busy, got off without paying. He was a young fellow, good-looking in a bold way. Destined to go far up the ranks of the Toronto Street Railway Corporation. He looked like the kind of man who would push for Sunday service. Murdoch thought the fuss about this issue was an utter waste of time. Some councillors were adamant that to have the streetcar running on the Sabbath was to propagate the work of the devil himself. Logically, this applied only to the streetcar workers, as all taverns and hotels and places of entertainment were closed on Sunday. Murdoch himself would like to have seen the cars running, taking people out to Sunnyside on hot summer days, for instance, or church even, if that’s what they wanted. He sighed at the thought. He had long hated the dead space of Sunday when the entire city went into a kind of slumber.

“Church street. Who wants Church Street?” the conductor bellowed out. Murdoch got to his feet, the conductor pulled on the bell rope to alert the driver, and the streetcar halted at the corner.

On the northeast side of King and Church was St James’ Cathedral. Murdoch had passed by many times without paying much attention, but now he actually looked at it. The slender copper spire, gleaming from the recent rain, soared into the pewter sky. The buff-coloured brick was warm and inviting even on this dull day. From the outside, it looked like a Roman Catholic church. The same cruciform design, the same dignity. If he had more time, he could go in and see what the inside was like. For one reason or another, not the least being a primitive superstition, he had never disobeyed the Catholic Church’s teaching about the dangers inherent in the abodes of the nonbelievers. As he walked up to the library, he chided himself. It wouldn’t hurt if he started exploring.

It was so quiet in the library that entering it was not unlike stepping into a place of worship. He almost looked for the holy water font.

The newspaper reading room was to the right and he decided to start there. At the far end was a high counter, and behind it, a young woman waited patiently for requests. She was wearing a white waist with a stiff high collar and a rather masculine tie. Her fair hair was pulled up into a severe knot and she was wearing gold pince-nez. She looked highly efficient. Nonetheless, her smile was friendly as she acknowledged him.

“Today’s
Globe
is the only one available at the moment, sir. Would you like that?”

Murdoch assumed the rush on the daily papers was
because of the shipping disaster everybody was caught up in.

“I’m not a customer, I’m afraid. I’m a detective with the police force, number four station.” He handed her his card and she took it gingerly. “I’m trying to trace the movements of one of our constables. I have reason to believe he was here on Saturday last, in the afternoon. Were you on duty at that time, Miss, er …” He checked the brass nameplate that was on the counter. “… Miss Morse?”

“Yes, I was.”

“Perhaps you remember him? A tall fellow, about twenty-four years of age, with a blond moustache, fresh complexion.”

“Does he have a name?” she asked, reaching for a small file box in front of her.

“Oliver Wicken.”

Surprisingly, she looked a little flustered. “Yes, I do remember the name. He was here about three o’clock. He took the
Huntsville Forester
. It isn’t often I get a request for that newspaper, so we had a little chat about it … that’s why I remember him so particularly.”

Murdoch felt bad. Wicken was an attractive young man and probably not above a little harmless flirting. At least Murdoch hoped it was harmless and he wasn’t going to unearth yet another fiancée.

The librarian looked at him with curiosity. “May I ask why you wish to know? He isn’t in any trouble surely?”

They had both been speaking in hushed tones, but even so, an elderly gentleman wearing check knickerbockers, who was at one of the nearby stands, hissed at them.

Murdoch sidestepped her question. “Was Mr. Wicken alone?”

“Yes, he was.”

Murdoch sighed. Did this mean Isobel Brewster had lied? A man came up to the counter. His clothes were shabby and he smelled stale. Murdoch knew he had come in because the library was warm and dry.

“The
Globe
, if you please,” he said to Miss Morse.

She took the rolled-up newspaper from one of the cubbyholes behind her, where they were stashed, and handed it to him.

“There’s a free space in the far aisle at the back,” she said.

Murdoch liked her for not discriminating against the man, who more than likely couldn’t read a word.

From where she was sitting, the librarian had a good view of the entire room and who came and went. Murdoch turned back to her.

“Did you notice if Mr. Wicken spoke to anybody while he was here?”

She frowned. “I believe he did. He must have met an acquaintance. They did talk briefly, as I recall.”

“Could you describe the gentleman?”

“As a matter of fact it was a lady.”

Several men were standing in front of the long easels
where the newspapers were hung, but as far as he could see there were no women. He didn’t expect anything else. Most women were still doubtful about the propriety of being in a man’s domain.

He leaned forward. “Miss Morse, you have been very helpful and I’m sorry that at the moment I am not at liberty to tell you why I am making these enquiries. However, it is very important. Can you describe this woman?”

“I barely paid her any attention.”

“Anything at all that you remember would be helpful. Her age, her colouring, her costume.”

“Very well.” She wrinkled her forehead in concentration but he knew she was pretending. She had paid a lot of attention to Wicken’s acquaintance but didn’t want to admit to it.

“I believe she was quite dark, with an olive complexion, and tall. Almost as tall as Mr. Wicken himself. Perhaps a few years older than myself … I am twenty-two. She was wearing a long waterproof, a rather smart scarlet hat with a white feather and navy ribbons.”

Murdoch dragged at his moustache, relieved.
Sorry, Miss Brewster, for doubting you
.

“Did they leave together?”

“Yes, now that you mention it, I believe they did.”

“Did Mr. Wicken seem distressed in any way?”

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Was their exchange amicable, would you say?”

“It appeared to be.” Unconsciously the young woman sighed. “He looked quite happy to see her.”

Murdoch could almost read her thoughts, the doubts that his questions were raising, but he still couldn’t stomach telling her what had happened. Perhaps he could come back at a later time near the end of the day. He suspected Miss Morse might be harbouring more passion in her breast than her white starched shirtwaist might indicate. Fortunately, the knickerbockered man intervened as he returned his newspaper. Murdoch whispered a quick good-bye and left. It was time to get back to Isobel Brewster. At least one part of her testimony seemed to be true.

Isobel herself answered the door and he knew she had been waiting, jumping at every knock. He asked her to get the exact clothes she was wearing on Monday night, which she did at once. He could hear a fretful child in the background and the rather sharp hushing of a woman’s voice. Isobel joined him quickly. She had put on her long waterproof and a sensible black felt hat, which had only a single piece of blue ribbon for trimming. They set off up Parliament Street and he told her that the librarian had confirmed that she was with Wicken last Saturday. She made no comment but he could see how relieved she was.

At the corner of Queen Street, he stopped and took the piece of muslin from his notebook.

“Is this your hair, Miss Brewster?”

She hardly looked at it, but he could see she was affected. “Yes. I gave it to Ollie at Christmastime as a memento. At his request. He snipped off a piece himself when we were walking in the park.”

Unasked, she took the curl and placed it close to her own hair. It was an exact match. Another point on her side.

They soon reached Sam Lee’s laundry and Murdoch asked her to stand where she had been on Monday night. She did, taking up a spot close to the curb.

Murdoch pushed open the door and entered. Almost at the same time, the door at the rear opened and Foon Lee emerged.

“Can I be of assistance, sir?”

“Detective Murdoch, again, Mr. Lee. I wonder if I might speak to your father for a moment?”

The young man stared at him, not recognising him at first. Then he gave a slight bow of recognition.

“Certainly. I will fetch him simultaneously.”

Murdoch was about to correct his English usage, but thought it might seem rude and he let it go. Foon went back through the rear door.

He heard a murmured conversation and Mr. Lee came out, his son close at his heels.

He put his hands together and bowed in the Chinese greeting.

“Mr. Murdoch?” He pronounced it “Mulldot.”

Murdoch addressed Foon. “Will you tell your father that I am still concerned about the death of the constable. Some new evidence has come to light that I am investigating. I have a witness outside and I would like to see if he can identify her.”

Foon translated. Lee nodded.