Poor Tom Is Cold (30 page)

“I understand that.”

Frustrated, Murdoch stood up, although there wasn’t very far to move.

“You are saying, unequivocally, that you have no knowledge of a constable named Oliver Wicken or any engagement that existed between him and Miss Mary Ann Trowbridge?”

She shrugged and delicately probed underneath her dentures to remove a fragment of icing. “I am saying that, with such a bad memory as I have, I am utterly unreliable as any sort of witness.”

He knew he would not shake her. Even in such ridiculous lies she was imposing.

“Why did Miss Trowbridge leave your house?”

Again the shrug. “She was a little bored with Toronto. She has relatives in Montreal and it seemed more exciting to her, I presume. She rarely confided in me.”

He returned to the couch, sat down, and took out his notebook.

“Where is she staying in Montreal?”

“Alas, Mr. Murdoch, I don’t know. She never said.”

He closed the notebook with a snap. “Was Miss Trowbridge at home on Monday evening?”

“Yes, I believe she was.”

“All evening?”

He’d made a move she hadn’t expected. She bought time by sifting through the candy pail.

“I cannot say for certain. I was rather unwell; I retired early.”

A yellow egg was popped into her mouth. More crunching.

“Did you say good night to your niece?”

“Yes, of course.”

“What time was that?”

“I cannot be precise.”

“Just within an hour would help. Eight o’clock? Nine?”

She hesitated, trying to sort out the least compromising answer. “Perhaps closer to nine. As I say, she is an independent young woman. She must have slipped out, not wanting me to worry.”

“Would you have forbidden her if you had known?”

“Of course. Which is why she was probably so cautious. I doubt anyone else would have seen her.”

“In other words, nobody will deny or corroborate her statement?”

“I suppose you could put it that way.”

She offered him the candy pail.

“Can I tempt you?”

“No, thank you.” He waited for her attention. “Miss Trowbridge said under oath that she met with Wicken the night he died.”

“Indeed!”

“But I have a witness who says he saw the constable in the company of a different woman at that exact time. His fiancée.”

“Really? Another? Is he setting up to be a bigamist?”

“I don’t think so. I believe he had only one, the young woman who met him on his beat. You see, according to my witness, Miss Trowbridge is a prostitute.”

He’d wanted to shock her but she was ready.

“There are always people ready to smear a young woman’s reputation.”

“And yours then, ma’am. My witness says that you run a bawdy house here and that Mary Ann Trowbridge is one of your doxies.”

She smiled; she was on safe ground here. She’d dealt with this before. “As I already said, I am a music teacher. I run a music academy for adult students. People are only too ready to gossip.”

As if to validate her statement, a piano started up from somewhere in the house. The sound was execrable, out of tune and spasmodic.

She was as implacable as the stuffed couch she sat on. Murdoch sat forward.

“Mrs. Doherty. At this time I am not too interested in how you earn your living. I am more concerned with
trying to find the truth about what happened to Oliver Wicken. Let me put it this way. I will give you until tomorrow evening to locate the current whereabouts of Miss Mary Ann Trowbridge. If I receive that information in good time, I will not proceed any further with the complaint we are going to receive about you and the music academy. Is that clear?”

For answer, she reached over and pulled at a bell rope that hung beside the fireplace.

“I will ask Emily to see you out.”

He didn’t move and they faced each other like two opponents across a chess board. She lowered her gaze first. “I’ll think about what you have said, Mr. Murdoch. If I do obtain the information you need, I will send a messenger to the station.”

“Number four, the northwest corner of Parliament Street and Wilton.”

The door opened and the housekeeper came in carrying his sealskin coat and hat. He took them from her and headed for the door, negotiating his way around the chairs. Mrs. Doherty and Emily both watched him.

There was a lamp beside Nathaniel’s bed, the wick turned low. The old man’s face was dark with shadows, but there was a glisten of saliva dribbling from the corner of his mouth. His eyes were open. Jarius leaned over the bed, placing his hands on either side of
Nathaniel’s head as if he would embrace him. He stared into the unmoving eyes.

“I don’t know if you can hear me or understand what I am saying but I don’t care. Listen to this, Nathaniel. It is time you died. You should have gone years ago. You won’t recover from this, don’t even hope that you will. So it is time to make right some wrongs. You are going to make a new will.”

The old man made grunting sounds in his throat and his eyelids flickered.

“Does that little fart mean you understand me? I dearly hope so. I want you to make your last journey knowing the truth. You can take it to hell with you because that is surely where you are going.” Jarius picked up the cloth that was on the pillow and wiped away the dribble. Then he bent down until he was so close, it was almost a kiss.

“I hate you! You think I loved you but you fooled yourself. I have never for one moment felt any feelings toward you other than disgust. You destroyed my mother, my dear mother, as surely as if you had put a revolver to her temple. She wanted to die because her life here was unbearable.”

He caught Nathaniel by the chin and jerked his head higher.

“You do understand. I can see that you do. You look shocked. I don’t know why you should be. We reap what we sow. You are fond of proverbs, aren’t you?
Spare the rod and spoil the child. Waste not, want not
. Lots of them, all impressed on my bare backside.”

Nathaniel made a feeble attempt to move his head away but it was impossible. Gibb squeezed his chin even tighter. “Frank hates you too, but you probably know that. The surprise must be me.”

He let go and stepped back, pulling aside the quilt. “You stupid, revolting old man. At your age, to think you could still stop your beak in some poor woman.” With a tug, he lifted the nightshirt. “Look at you. A chicken gizzard has more life in it than that.” He leaned over him again. “Listen to me good, Nathaniel. Your little jade was as light heeled as they come. She wanted to hump with me from the moment she came in the house. And she did. She slipped between my sheets many a night when you were snoring. Oh, she is as willing a tit as I’ve ever had. She was spent over and over. Quite wore me out. I only told you the half of it.”

It was all lies, of course. Peg had done no such thing. Except for the single desperate visit to his room, she had kept her distance. Jarius had enjoyed contemplating which course of action he would take. Tell the truth and make the old man face his mistake, or send him to eternity with a lie to make him squirm. The latter had seemed more likely to inflict pain.

The gurglings from Nathaniel’s throat were louder. Jarius smiled. “Don’t like to hear that, do you? She’d almost convinced you she was innocent, hadn’t she?
Well, take it to your grave, dear Stepfather. May it torment you for all eternity.”

He reached inside his waistcoat and took out a folded sheet of paper. “This is your new will. I have written it out according to your instructions. I’ll read it to you.”

He opened the paper, shook it in mock seriousness. “
This is the last will and testament of Nathaniel Joseph Eakin Esquire of 295 Gerrard Street in the city of Toronto and the county of York. Being of sound mind
… Debatable, but never mind, I’m going to predate it.
I hereby bequeath my goods and chattels in the following manner. To my beloved children
– I call that a poetical conceit –
To my beloved children, Francis John Eakin and Augusta Louisa Curran, I leave the sum of one thousand dollars each
. Not what they are hoping for, of course.
To my wife, Margaret Eakin, I leave likewise the sum of one thousand dollars, to be used for her care and maintenance as long as it is necessary
. Don’t worry, she won’t need that much longer.
I leave to my faithful servant, Janet Cullie, the sum of two hundred dollars
. See how kind you are in your dotage, Nathaniel. Now here’s the nub.
To my dearest stepson, Jarius Gibb, whom I have ever loved and been loved by as a son of my own flesh and blood
. That’s good, isn’t it? Another poetical conceit.
To Jarius, I hereby leave my estate and all money that does accrue from the same, my insurance policies, and savings bonds
. A goodly sum, Stepfather, thank you. Nobody would have suspected you had such a fine dowry. I welcome it, and as we both know, it is only fair and just that it go to me. Augusta has her own husband to take
care of her, Frank would piss it away on whores and horses within a month, and dear Stepmother won’t have any need. So there we are.”

He had brought in his scribe’s lap desk and he opened the lid, took out a pen, and dipped it in the inkwell. Then he lifted Nathaniel’s flaccid hand and wrapped the fingers around the pen.

“Sign here.”

Slowly, he drew the old man’s signature on the paper. “Good, that will do nicely.”

He blew on the ink to dry it, then replaced the paper in his pocket. “I know what you’re thinking, Stepfather, but I have taken care of that. The date on the will is two days ago. Before you became incapacitated. How fortunate for us that you had the foresight to take care of your affairs. And I know Frank won’t balk at getting one thousand dollars. That is better than a rope necklace.”

He bent over and kissed Nathaniel on the cheek. “Good night, Stepfather. Sleep well.”

He left, closing the door as softly as if he were leaving a nursery. Good. He was fairly certain the document was watertight, but just in case, there was one more thing to take care of. It was time some member of the family went to visit the unfortunate Mrs. Eakin.

T
HE BRANDY
M
URDOCH HAD DRUNK
at the bawdy house was racing through his body, and there was a jauntiness in his step as he headed toward Queen Street to catch the streetcar.

When he took his seat, however, the false energy left him abruptly. The car clattered along, and before he knew it, his head drooped forward on his chest and he began to doze off.

“Sir! Sir!” The conductor was shaking his arm. “Here’s your stop. The provincial asylum.”

He was speaking in a hushed voice as if it were impolite to say the name out loud.

Murdoch scrambled to his feet, and conscious of the curious gaze of the other passengers, he made his way to the front. The car slowed down and halted in front of the gates. He was the only one to get off.

He hadn’t been here before and didn’t know what to expect. However, at first sight the asylum appeared imposing and dignified rather than frightening, although he could see the windows were barred and there were sharp-looking railings on top of the surrounding wall. The building was long with two wings, each four stories high, and a higher central block. There was a cupola over the centre pediment that gave the building an ecclesiastical appearance, but which he’d heard actually housed a water tank. Although there was currently a lot of gossip about the bad air and need for repairs, originally the asylum had been designed with pride and care and it still showed through.

The tall iron gates were open and he walked in and along a winding path to the front doors. In the garden were two fine marble fountains, now turned off for the winter. Probably in summer the aspect was as pleasant as a public park.

He had telephoned the asylum earlier to see if it was all right for him to come, and the matron herself said she would meet him in the receiving area. He was relieved at that. As he entered the building, a uniformed doorman with impressive grey side-whiskers greeted him.

“Good day to you, sir. What is your business?”

“I am Acting Detective Murdoch. Miss Bastedo is expecting me.”

“Ah, yes. Come this way, if you please.”

He led Murdoch across the marble-tiled hall and up
a flight of stairs. The place seemed deserted and Murdoch remarked on it.

“On a day like this we don’t get many visitors,” answered the doorman. “Pity really. Makes a change for the inmates to have some family company. They like variety same as everybody else.”

At the top of the stairs was a wide corridor with windowed rooms opening onto it. A sign said
FEMALE PATIENTS ON LEFT. MALE PATIENTS ON RIGHT.
He glanced into one of the rooms on the right. A man, head bent to his chest, was seated between a woman of middle age, quite well dressed, and a younger woman. They must have been mother and daughter by the similarity of their posture, and they were staring straight ahead, not speaking or touching the man, each lost in her own misery.

In the centre of the corridor was the matron’s office. It rather reminded him of the bridge on a ship. Windows on all sides gave her a view of the comings and goings in the reception rooms. She was writing at her desk but she looked up at their approach and came out at once to greet them.

“Mr. Murdoch, I’m Miss Bastedo. We can talk in my office. Thank you, Landry.”

The doorman bowed slightly and left them. Must have been a butler in his earlier employment, thought Murdoch. The matron, however, had none of the polite airs of a lady of leisure. She held out her hand as straightforwardly as a man might and her grip was firm indeed.

“I have arranged to have Mrs. Eakin brought down. She will be here shortly.”

She indicated he should sit down and she went behind her work table, a severely plain piece of mahogany that took up most of the space in the small office. She opened a cloth-bound daybook.

“I thought we should talk about her condition beforehand. This note was completed by the attendant this morning. I’ll read it to you. ‘Mrs. Eakin continues to show signs of improvement. She is keeping herself clean and is generally pleasant to the staff and other inmates. She has agreed to do some light sewing and has already completed two tray covers. She is eating well and taking her tonic without complaint.’ Good.”