Poor Tom Is Cold (29 page)

“I have come concerning the matter of the constable who recently met with his death. On later reflection, my father has decided he is not utterly positive in his identification of the young woman accompanying the constable on that fateful night. In fact, on later reflection
he has determined that the woman you, yourself, presented was more likely to be the one he had first seen standing behind the officer.” He paused to await Murdoch’s response, who, sensing there was more to come, didn’t say anything. Foon looked away and addressed the rest of his remarks to the wall behind Murdoch’s shoulder. “In the interests of helping the police officers in their quest, my father is, however, able to offer some information concerning the other woman. The ladyship who appeared at the inquest and said she was betrothed to Mr. Wicken.”

“Is he now? And what might that information consist of?”

“Her name is Mary Ann Trowbridge as she stated but her address is a deceit. She does in fact live on Sydenham Street. Her profession is of ill-repute.”

“I see. How does your father come to have that information?”

Foon coughed politely but still spoke to Her Majesty’s portrait. “This ladyship and my father had acquaintance at a previous time. Of an entirely chaste nature, of course.”

It wasn’t easy to read him through the thick dialect and the apparent lack of expression on his face, but there was a hint of resentment in his tone, a tightening of his lips.

“When was this chaste encounter?”

“A few months ago, I believe.”

“Did he mention at what number on Sydenham Miss Trowbridge lives?”

“Yes. She resides at number three hundred and thirty-four. The house with a blue door.”

Murdoch fiddled with his moustache. Foon was corroborating what Beulah had said. Apparently Miss Mary Ann was still active. It might make matters even harder for Mrs. Wicken and Isobel if this came out.

The Chinaman finally met his eyes. “Mr. Murdoch, would it be correct for my part to assume you will not need to mention my father? We are at the mercy …” His voice trailed off and Murdoch realised what a serious thing it was for him to come to the station.

“Does he know you have brought this information to me?”

Foon looked at him and his expression this time was revealing. “Can I say that my father would no doubt have approved, but I have not yet had the occasion to inform him. I chose to encumber myself with this errand.”

Murdoch held out his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Lee. You have performed your civic duty. I will follow up on this.”

Foon shook hands somewhat hesitantly. His fingers were cool, slightly damp.

A
LL THE CURTAINS WERE DRAWN
at the house with the blue door. A cast-iron lantern was fastened on a bracket to the side of the porch. It was placed so that no direct light fell on the person who might be standing there. Cunning. Murdoch opened the gate, which screeched a warning, and walked up to the door. There was a heavy brass knocker he thought at first was carved in the shape of a lion’s head. As he lifted the ring, however, he saw that the design was that of a woman’s face with snakes writhing from her brow. He thumped hard.

Almost at once, the curtain across the windows to his right lifted slightly. He couldn’t see who was looking out but he smiled pleasantly so as not to frighten them. After what seemed a long wait, the door opened, barely a crack, only sufficient for him to glimpse a tiny woman, soberly dressed and sharp featured.

“Yes?” She scowled at him.

He touched the brim of his hat politely. “I was wondering if I could speak to Miss Mary Ann Trowbridge. I understand she lives here.”

“Who are you?”

Murdoch hesitated, not sure whether revealing his identity at this point would get the door closed in his face. He felt squeamish at the idea of pretending to be a customer, however.

“My name is Murdoch. I’m an acting detective at number four station. I’m pursuing an investigation and I would like to talk to Miss Trowbridge.”

She didn’t look impressed or alarmed. “What sort of investigation?”

“I’d prefer to discuss that with her.” “She doesn’t live here anymore.” She didn’t relent from the frown.

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know. I’m not the post office keeper.”

The woman’s hair was pulled up tightly into a knot at the top of her head, accentuating her rather prominent ears. What he could see of her dress was a drab brown. She made him think of an elf, but without the endearing qualities one usually associated with the fairy world. She also was a kindred spirit to Beulah.

“Is there anyone else I can speak to then?”

“No.”

Fortunately, he was saved from more aggravation by somebody speaking from the hallway.

“Emily, you are letting in the worst draft. Either invite the gentleman in or close the door.”

The woman addressed was obviously about to follow the second injunction but Murdoch quickly got his knee in the way. He pushed his way forward across the threshold.

A young woman was standing at the bottom of the stairs. She was full fleshed and her white diaphanous gown was cut to reveal a considerable amount of bosom and bare arm. Her abundant brown hair was loosely pinned, her lips and cheeks rouged. She was Murdoch’s idea of a whore.

She smiled. If the doorkeeper was a bad-tempered elf, this young woman was a flower fairy. At least in the dim light. He touched his hat again.

“Excuse me, ma’am, for disturbing you, but I am a detective and I would like to come in and ask a few questions.”

The smile vanished and she looked alarmed.

“I, er …” She glanced over her shoulder for help and yet another woman appeared. The hall was becoming crowded. She was older, statuesque in build, magnificently corseted into a pearl-grey silk gown. The ivory satin draping her bosom would have done credit to any mantelpiece. Her full chin was pushed into further roundness by the high lace collar. Exactly what he imagined a bawdy house mistress would look like.

“Emily, what is the trouble here?” She spoke with complete authority and the gatekeeper stepped back a pace. The young woman also moved halfway up the stairs but stayed to watch.

Again Murdoch introduced himself. “I would appreciate some of your time, ma’am.”

He saw her consider all of her choices, then she smiled. Her teeth were startlingly white, and faultless. He was reminded of Dr. Stevens’s denture display case. She held out a mittened hand, leaning across Emily as if she were a piece of furniture.

“How do you do? I’m Mrs. Clara Doherty.”

He took her hand, a little uncertain as to what was expected of him. She was wearing a large emerald ring on her index finger and the gesture was almost papal. He refrained from kissing it, however, and half-squeezed, half-shook the palm.

“Please come in. We can talk in my chambers.” Her accent was quite English.

He wasn’t sure how he was going to get past the recalcitrant servant without embarrassment to both of them, but Mrs. Doherty saved him.

“Emily, I’m sure Mr. Murdoch needs something warm. Bring us some Turkish coffee. Is that agreeable to you, sir?”

Murdoch nodded appreciatively. His search for Mary Ann Trowbridge was introducing him to some exotic culinary tastes.

“Give me your things,” said the housekeeper and he obeyed, struggling in the confined space to divest himself of his sealskin coat. Finally he was free and she took the coat and hat and trotted off down the hall, where she dumped them on a tall oaken stand. The young woman, who had giggled prettily during this transaction, was still watching, but with a quick nod of the head from her mistress, she too left, ascending the stairs with a certain degree of melodrama and her dress lifted well above ankle height. The effect was marred, however, by her need to sneeze violently. She didn’t let go of her skirt but sniffed back whatever snot she could.

“Mr. Murdoch?” Mrs. Doherty said.

He blushed, annoyed at himself for being distracted.

“This way.” She pulled aside a red velvet portiere to the left, opened the door, and ushered him in. He immediately banged his shin against the corner of a low table that seemed to be placed directly in the doorway. Mrs. Doherty sailed ahead, navigating an astounding amount of furniture – lamp tables, plant stands laden with large potted ferns, purple plush armchairs. She took a seat on one of the couches by the fireplace and indicated he should sit across from her. The carpet was thick, fawn coloured, patterned with large pink and yellow roses. Mrs. Doherty glanced at his feet and he was aware that his boots were wet and he shifted like a schoolboy. He’d conducted many interviews in his career but he didn’t remember feeling so ill-at-ease and
clumsy. He didn’t know if it was his own consciousness of his lack of sexual initiation or if Mrs. Doherty had perfected the art of keeping the male half of the population off balance.

“I know that Mary Ann Trowbridge lives here. I would like to talk to her.”

His harsh tone apparently startled Clara, who had obviously been intent on keeping up pretences as long as she could. She frowned.

“I’m afraid she’s moved out.”

“When?”

“Yesterday, as a matter of fact. But I must insist you explain yourself, sir. Why do you want to speak to her?”

Her voice changed; the false English intonation dropped away.

“As you no doubt are aware, Miss Trowbridge testified recently at an inquest into the death of a young constable. The investigation is not complete and I would very much like to ask her some questions.”

She chose to look affronted at his lack of manners.

They were interrupted by Emily, who without a knock or any other warning opened the door and entered the room. She was carrying a silver tray on which sat a silver coffeepot and two cups and saucers. They were delicate but normal size, unlike the ones at the Avison house.

“I’ve just took out some plum cake, shall I bring it in?” she asked Clara.

“No, this is quite adequate.”

Murdoch would have dearly liked some plum cake, as his stomach had been growling for the last hour, but he had offended Clara by his lack of tact and she was punishing him. There was a stiff silence while Emily put down the tray on the sideboard, shoving aside a porcelain lamp that tinkled musically as the crystal droplets shook. She poured out some dark, thick liquid into the china cups and handed one to Clara, the other to Murdoch. Then she herself took a seat on the couch beside Mrs. Doherty, who immediately sipped avidly at her drink. Murdoch tried his. The brew smelled all right, but tasted so harsh and bitter he almost spat it out. He was aware Clara was watching him.

“Hm … hm.”

Surprisingly she smiled her perfect smile. “I prepare the essence myself. I have heard there is none quite like it.”

Murdoch nodded in acknowledgment, not sure how he was going to swallow the rest of the poisonous brew. He felt as if he had lost a layer of skin off his tongue.

“Horrible stuff,” said Emily. “Burn a hole in your stomach.”

Mrs. Doherty ignored her and he wondered again what the status of the bad-tempered elf was in this household. Not servant surely. She took too many liberties.

His hostess opened a drawer in one of the plant stands that was on her right. She took out a small silver
flask, unscrewed the top, and held it out to him. “A little brandy, Mr. Murdoch. It is a very dull morning.”

He wouldn’t have broken the fragile truce even if he’d taken the pledge.

“Thank you, ma’am. A spot would go down well.”

Emily snatched the flask from Clara’s hand and poured a generous shot into his cup. She then added a much smaller amount to Mrs. Doherty’s cup. Murdoch tasted the coffee again. The brandy definitely improved the flavour and he managed to gulp back most of it.

He heard the faint sound of a bell ringing from the rear of the house. Emily immediately stood up. “I’ll leave you to your business,” she said, and she gathered up the two cups, put them on the tea tray, and left. As soon as the door had closed, Mrs. Doherty bent over, fished beneath the skirt of the couch, and pulled out a wooden pail. She took off the lid.

“Would you care for a sweet?”

“No, thank you, ma’am.”

She paused, scrutinised the contents of the pail, and selected a bright pink egg-shaped candy.

“Now, sir. You were saying?” asked Clara. The English inflection was back in place, slightly muffled by the crackling of her chewing. He decided to come in on a more oblique tack.

“Are you acquainted with Mr. Sam Lee, a Chinaman?”

She didn’t speak until she’d finished off the candy egg. “No, I am not.”

“He says he has been a visitor here.”

“Is that so? Unfortunately, Mr. Murdoch, as all of my friends will tell you, I have a most appalling memory. In my capacity of music teacher, I see many people but I could not tell you who they are. If we were ever to meet on the street, I do not acknowledge them. I regret to say, I will probably forget you, yourself, tomorrow.”

So that was going to be her line, was it?

“But you do remember Oliver Wicken? He was engaged to Miss Trowbridge.”

“How extraordinary. But these days young women are so independent. They don’t share their lives at all, not the way we used to when I was a girl.”

Murdoch was certain she had never been young, that she had sprung fully dressed and bejewelled out of her father’s head.

“You are saying he never came here to see her?”

“No, he did not.”

“What is your relation to Miss Trowbridge?”

“She is my niece by marriage.”

He leaned forward, trying to force her to look him in the eyes.

“Mrs. Doherty, at the inquest which is under the jurisdiction of Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, Miss Trowbridge produced a letter supposedly from her aunt. She named her as a Mrs. Avison. That good lady has informed me that they are not related and that, in fact, Miss Trowbridge was her maid some years ago. Her
name then was Trotter. It seems that the poor girl was got in the family way and was dismissed.”

“How unkind of her employer.”

“Madam, I must remind you we are dealing with the law. This is very serious. It seems that your niece produced a document which was a forgery. She will be open to charges.”