Poor Tom Is Cold (22 page)

Murdoch went to the door. “I am going to stand here, the way the constable did that night. Will your father come close to me? If he looks out over my shoulder he will see a young woman. I would like to know if he has ever seen her before.”

Lee moved forward before his son was in mid-translation. They stood in the threshold of the laundry, the door partially open behind them. Lee was considerably shorter than Murdoch but he peered around the detective’s arm and looked at Isobel.

The Chinaman shook his head and spoke to his son. Murdoch thought he was agitated.

“My father says not. He has never clapped his eyes to this woman before in her life.”

“Is he positive she was not the one walking with Wicken on Monday night?”

“He is certain of that. He has made a positive identification of that woman during the inquest … He wonder why you are asking him to retract his statement. A statement he made under oath.”

Murdoch sighed. “Please tell him that’s not it at all. I just wanted to make absolutely sure.”

“I do not know this person,” interjected Lee. “I have never seen her before.”

Murdoch could not tell if he was speaking the truth or not. Both of them were watching him. He was disappointed. He had put a lot of stock in this meeting.

He thanked them and went outside.

Isobel stared at him anxiously as he approached her.

“Well?”

“I’m afraid he denied it. Says you are not the woman he saw.”

“Damnation. How is that possible? Of course I was. He saw me, I know he did. I’ll talk to him …”

Murdoch caught her by the arm. “No, Miss Brewster. It won’t do any good. He’s adamant.”

She looked as if she were about to burst into tears.

“Then you don’t believe me?”

“Of course I do. I think he was too afraid to change his sworn testimony.” He let her go and she stood in front of him, her shoulders slumped.

“What are you going to do now?” she asked.

“I am going to talk to Miss Mary Ann Trowbridge.”

He thought she was going to grasp his hand again, but she didn’t, and they headed back to her house.

J
ARIUS
G
IBB WAS NOT AT WORK
. He had sent Janet with a message to say he was ill and would not be in for a few days. In a way, it was true. He felt as hot and restless as if he had a fever. He had been this way since dinner on Wednesday and nothing calmed him. Finally, he forced himself to sit at his desk, his ledger open in front of him. Janet had brought him a mug of strong coffee, milky and sweet, which he laced with a good dose of brandy. He made himself drink it slowly and deliberately before he took up his pen.

He stopped writing. He was pressing so hard he was in danger of bending his nib. He got up, went over to the fireplace, and picked up the poker. He prodded one of the lumps of coal that wasn’t burning.

Fortunately, Nathaniel had agreed to have the woman spayed. Presumably that would occur soon. He hit a piece of coal hard, splitting it in two. Flames jumped up to lick at the new fuel. He pounded another piece and another until the coal was completely fractured.

Miss Trowbridge had given her address as 106 Jarvis Street. Murdoch took his second streetcar of the day and set out to talk to her. He was certain now that Mr. Lee was mistaken in his identification but afraid to admit it. However, he thought it was odd Miss Trowbridge had made no attempt to negate Lee’s statement. On the other hand, witnesses often had blinkers on about matters other than their own. She must have met up with Wicken after Isobel had left.

As he headed back down Parliament toward Queen Street, he probed the hole in his gum with his tongue. His jaw was practically back to normal, as long he didn’t let in too much cold air and chewed on the other side. Mrs. Kitchen had resumed her duties and sent him off with a couple of hard-boiled eggs and a jar of milk sops for his luncheon. It didn’t come close to the rabbit stew that Enid had made for him, the memory of which made his mouth water. He hadn’t seen her this morning but he could hear her at the typewriter quite early. Perhaps tonight they could continue the interrupted talk she so obviously wanted. Not that he was any closer to coming up with an answer, but he didn’t just want to spout the church’s doctrine without thinking about it.

There was a woman walking ahead of him. She halted at the corner and he saw her lift her skirt decorously to avoid a puddle as she stepped off the curb. Nevertheless, her hem dragged through the water and
he suddenly had a vivid memory of himself and Liza, sitting one evening in her kitchen. She took care of her widowed father, and when he went off to bed, they had some rare and precious privacy. On this particular occasion, she was trying to clean the skirt of her best walking suit. The hem was covered with mud. “Wretched thing. It is always dirty.” If she had lived, he knew she would have become an agitator for many reforms for women, including the adoption of what was currently called Rational Dress. “Why shouldn’t I be able to wear a sensible shorter skirt without being leered at, or insulted?” she’d demanded. He’d stupidly tried to make light of the issue with a lewd joke and she was angry with him. “How can you be so clever about some things and so nocky about others? I wish you’d open up your mind.”

They’d eventually worked their way to a reasonable talk about her point of view, but her words had stung and he still thought about them.

He was checking the house numbers now. One hundred and six was a big house of yellow brick, gables painted in the popular hunter green. Shrubs filled the large front yard, held in by a very fancy wrought-iron fence. The gate squeaked when he opened it and, on closer inspection, he could see the shrubs were shapeless and too bushy. There were weeds in the cracks of the flagstone path. The house might be grand but it looked neglected. He tugged at the bell-pull, hearing it clang inside the house. The bay windows to his right
showed more care than the grounds. They were curtained with white lace, hung halfway up the window in the fashionable style. So far, nobody had answered, and he was about to ring again when the door creaked open. An elderly woman stood at the threshold, scrutinising him with a distinctly unfriendly expression. She wore a black silk dress and a white mobcap. There was a chatelaine at her waist which jingled slightly. He was somewhat surprised that the housekeeper had answered the door, but he gave her a polite smile and tipped his hat.

She frowned. “What do you want?”

“I’d like to speak to Miss Trowbridge.”

“Who?”

“Miss Mary Ann Trowbridge. I understand she lives here.”

“Who are you?”

Murdoch handed her his calling card. “Acting Detective Murdoch.”

The housekeeper, if that was who she was, studied his card, even reversing it as if there were more information on the back.

“She isn’t here.”

She handed it back to him.

“When will she return? It is important I speak to her.”

“She won’t.”

“Won’t what?”

“Return.”

“Do you mean she’s left the city?”

“No, I mean she won’t return, seeing as how she’s never lived here.”

Murdoch bit back a retort. If the woman needed to play games with him, he wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of getting riled up.

“Ma’am, this is an important police matter and I would appreciate your cooperation. Does a Mrs. Avison live here?”

“She does, but you can’t talk to her because she hasn’t finished her breakfast yet.”

Murdoch reached inside his coat and fished out his watch, looking at it ostentatiously.

“My, it’s half past two in the afternoon. Is your mistress an invalid then?”

She scowled at him and was about to close the door but he got his foot in just in time. He summoned as stern an expression as he could, although he had no desire to act the bully with such a tiny shrivelled old woman.

“I repeat, this is a police matter. If you don’t go this minute and tell your mistress I would like to talk to her, I will be forced to come in and find her myself.”

The servant stared back at him and he thought there was a glint of amusement in her eyes.
The old crow. She actually enjoyed that little contest
. He stepped into the hall.

“I’ll wait here.”

With a loud sniff of disapproval, she shuffled away down the hall. He watched her draw back the portieres in front of a door to the right, tap, and enter. He looked around. The hall was unusually spacious, large enough to accommodate several chairs, an imposing coat tree, and a fine marble fireplace, which was still protected by a brass screen as if it were summer. The place felt cold and gloomy. The only natural light came through the door windows, and although there was a splendid chandelier of crystal glass, none of the candles were lit. There were so many paintings on the wall, the crimson flock covering was almost obscured. As far as he could tell, they were all portraits. In spite of the grandeur of the house, there wasn’t a sign of any other servants. No butler came hurrying out to take charge, no maids en route to some task. The silence, the cold musty air, made him feel as if he were in a mausoleum. It seemed an old-fashioned, gloomy house for a young, pretty girl like Mary Ann to live in.

The rear door opened and the housekeeper emerged. She beckoned to him and he approached her.

“Mrs. Avison will see you. She doesn’t hear so good so make sure you speak up and don’t mumble.”

“I make a point of never mumbling,” said Murdoch, but any irony was lost and he felt petty for even attempting it.

“Good,” she said and moved a few inches out of the way so he could enter.

Like the hall, the room was dark, but at least there was a cheerful fire going in the fireplace. A woman was seated close to it in a large armchair. She was wearing a man’s maroon silk dressing gown and her white hair was in a loose braid down her back. As he came in, she reached for a hearing trumpet and held it to her ear.

“What is it you want, sir? I couldn’t make head nor tails of what Beulah was saying.” She waved her hand at the chair opposite her. “Sit down, for goodness’ sake. Beulah, go and fetch another cup. I’m sure he’d be glad of some coffee; it’s perishing out there.” Her voice was strident.

Murdoch did as he was told, putting his damp hat beside him on the floor. In spite of her white hair, Mrs. Avison was by no means an invalid, nor elderly; more likely she was in her late middle age. He decided her unorthodox dress and willingness to receive him the way she was must be cultivated eccentricity. She didn’t wait for the housekeeper to leave before she said, “Beulah’s been with me since we were both children. She started out as the nursery maid. She fusses over me in exactly the same way she did then.” She aimed the trumpet in his direction. “Go on then, explain yourself.”

He leaned forward. It was rather like playing a trombone in reverse.

“I want to speak to your niece, Miss Mary Ann Trowbridge. I apologise for intruding at such an unhappy time but I would like to ask her a few more questions concerning Oliver Wicken.”

Mrs. Avison heard perfectly and she looked at him, puzzled.

“I don’t know what in Hades you are talking about. There’s no such person here. I’m a widow and I live alone except for Beulah. You’ve made a mistake.”

It was Murdoch’s turn to be taken aback. “You don’t have a niece named Mary Ann who testified at the coroner’s inquest on Tuesday?”

“I certainly don’t. Neither niece nor nephew. Thank goodness for that, I might add.”

“The young woman gave this address and produced a letter purporting to be from her aunt, Mrs. Avison.”

“What sort of letter?”

“Corroborating her statement that she was engaged to a young man named Oliver Wicken.”

“It certainly was not I who wrote the letter.”

The housekeeper came back in carrying a china cup and saucer that could have belonged to a child’s tea set.

“Beulah, listen to this story.”

“Just a minute.” She went to the sideboard, poured out some coffee from a silver pot, and brought the cup to Murdoch. He had only drunk coffee on three occasions in his life and then it came liquid from a bottle and was loaded with milk and sugar. Cautiously, he sipped at the dark fragrant brew.