Authors: Maureen Jennings
“Hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” A man had appeared at the loading door of the mill and was glaring at him.
“Just doing an inspection of your goods,” called Murdoch. “Making sure these logs are packed in tight, do you want one of your workers to break his leg?” He turned and ran back, hoping he wouldn’t slip again and look like a fool.
“What! What inspection?”
Before the man could protest further, Murdoch had reached the fence.
“Everything seems in order,” he called and hopped over the fence the way he had come.
“Hey, get back here,” yelled the man, but Murdoch got out of sight fast. He was panting but he’d enjoyed the exercise.
A few houses up from the mill was number 108, and the pounding of the steam engine could still be heard, or felt, more like it–a minor perpetual earthquake rumbling beneath the street.
Murdoch stopped for a moment to get his breath and glanced over his shoulder to make sure the irate watchman hadn’t come out looking for him. All clear. He opened the gate quickly and walked up to the door. He’d come here last summer to meet Seymour for a long bicycle ride but then the house had been rather drab, with brown trim and sparse bushes in the small front yard. The door was now a cheery buttercup colour and there were a couple of ornamental stands in the front that no doubt held flowers in summertime. The shiny brass door knocker was in the shape of a lion’s head and he lifted the ring that the beast was holding in its mouth and rapped on the door. Nobody responded and after the third attempt, he was about to give up when the door opened a crack and a man peered out.
“What do you want?” asked a hoarse, whispery voice. Murdoch couldn’t help the momentary shock at the man’s appearance. The entire right side of his face was covered with livid scar tissue from a severe burn, the lips drawn down and revealing the pink inner flesh of the mouth. The fingers of his hand were fused into a claw.
“I’m calling on Mr. Seymour,” said Murdoch. When he’d been here previously, a pleasant middle-aged widow was the landlady.
“Who are you?”
“My name’s Murdoch. William Murdoch.”
“Friend of his or what?”
“Yes.”
He didn’t elaborate, not wanting to start gossip by revealing he was a detective.
“He ain’t in.”
Murdoch forced himself to be polite. With a disfigurement like that, the man had a right to be surly.
“Any idea when he’s expected back?”
Their eyes met and Murdoch realized the man was probably his own age. The hideous burn marks and the scanty hair across his seared scalp made him seem much older. He grunted, conceding a little.
“He won’t be long, he just went to run an errand.” He moved back. “You might as well come in.”
Murdoch stepped into the hall. A lit sconce threw off a low light, showing plain, whitewashed walls. There was oil cloth on the floor, no druggetts to soften the coldness. The simple, wooden coat tree was hung with a black overcoat and fedora. He had an odd sense of being in a monastic establishment, something else he didn’t remember from last summer.
“Does Mrs. Pangbourn still live here?”
“No, she moved out to Calgary a few months ago.” The reluctant doorman started to shuffle away. Whatever had burned him must have also broken his leg or hip for he limped badly.
“Are you the landlord?” Murdoch called after him, wanting to engage him in conversation.
But the man didn’t answer and disappeared into the room at the back. There were two other doors off the hall, but neither had draped portieres, which contributed to the austere appearance of the hall. There wasn’t anywhere to sit and he hovered awkwardly by the door wondering if he should haul the sullen man out of his lair. Then the front door was flung open and in a bluster of chill air, a woman, her long mackintosh slick with rain, burst into the hall. She stopped short.
“Goodness me, it’s you, Mr. Murdoch.”
Murdoch tipped his hat. “I, er, I regret you have the advantage of me, ma’am.”
The woman tugged off the black, mannish felt hat that was jammed low over her brows.
He smiled. “Ah, I do beg your pardon. Good afternoon, Miss Slade.”
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
A
my Slade regarded him apprehensively. “I certainly didn’t expect you so soon. What have you discovered?”
“Regrettably, not a great deal. I have not located the photographer.” He saw the disappointment in her eyes and he continued hurriedly. “But I do intend to continue the search. I’ll find him.”
She nodded. “If Agnes does not return soon, I will have to report her absence to the truant officer.” She turned away to hang up her wet waterproof. “Ugh. This rubber lining keeps out the rain all right, but you get so clammy, it’s hardly any better.”
“I am actually here to call on Mr. Charles Seymour,” said Murdoch. “I didn’t realize you were fellow boarders.”
“I gave you my card.”
“I must confess, I hadn’t taken note of your address.”
The man who had answered the door poked his head out of his room. “Oh, it’s you, Amy. Is everything all right?”
“Yes, of course, John. Mr. Murdoch and I are acquainted. He is here to see Charlie.”
“So he said. Charlie’ll be back in a jig.”
“It’s so dreary out, I think a pot of tea would do wonders. Mr. Murdoch, why don’t you come down to the kitchen. Will you join us, John?”
“No, thank you.”
“Come and at least let me introduce you.”
John emerged as reluctantly as a maltreated dog comes out of its kennel.
“Mr. Murdoch, this is John Reordan. John, this is Mr. William Murdoch. He works with Charlie.”
Reordan brushed the palm of his left clawlike hand with his right and tentatively reached out.
Murdoch also offered his hand, “Yes, I’m acting detective at his station.”
Reordan suddenly jumped back. “Are you, indeed? Well, Mr. Acting Detective, I only shake hands with those who earn their bread by the sweat of their brow. You don’t qualify.” With that he turned and hobbled away.
“John! Don’t be so silly,” Amy called after him, but he ignored her and slammed his door shut behind him.
She sighed. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Murdoch. I can never predict how he will be.”
“It’s not your fault. He’d obviously had an unfortunate experience and can’t distinguish that from me.” Murdoch spoke pleasantly, but in fact he was annoyed by Reordan’s behaviour. If Miss Slade hadn’t been there, he would have told the man off. “Besides, he’s quite wrong, if you were to see me in the height of summer, you’d think I earned my bread by the sweat of my brow.”
He was gratified by her laugh, which did agreeable things to her face.
“I would still like that tea you mentioned,” he added.
“Of course, come this way.”
Murdoch followed her, trying not to stare at her legs. The damp woollen pantaloons were clinging to her calves.
“Please have a seat,” she said, ushering him into the kitchen. “I’ll stir up the fire.”
The kitchen seemed to be the gathering place for the lodgers, not unusual for a boarding house. Murdoch was struck once again by the austerity of the furnishings. There was a small, scrubbed pine table in the middle of the floor, with four bare chairs around it. Two cushioned chairs were underneath the window. A large cupboard took up most of the space next to the door, across the room from a cooking range. There was the same scrupulous cleanliness he’d noted in the hallway. No plates or cups sat unwashed at the sink. The range was nicely blacked, and the large pot on one of the burners looked quite new. Something that smelled delicious was cooking in it. Amy lifted the lid and took a sniff.
“Potato soup, John’s speciality.”
“His Irish heritage, I suppose.”
She nodded. “I believe that also accounts for his antipathy toward police officers.”
“Surely, he’s not as disagreeable to Seymour.”
“Oh no. They are the best of friends.” She smoothed back some stray strands of wavy hair, unnecessarily, he thought. Not much had escaped the tightness of her severely drawn bun. She was an attractive woman in spite of a tendency to be too solemn, and he’d noticed something in Reordan’s eyes when he’d looked at her. Murdoch thought the rudeness he displayed toward him, the visitor, might be more personal than historical.
“Is Mr. Reordan your landlord?”
She gave him an odd look. “No, he’s not.”
“Somebody takes good care of the house.”
“We all live here so we all try to be considerate of each other.”
For the life of him, Murdoch couldn’t understand why the conversation, banal as it was, was making her so uncomfortable, but that was the case. Perhaps it was because she was an unmarried woman sharing lodgings with single men and no landlady to chaperone her.
“Are there other lodgers?”
“Yes. We are four all together. Mr. Timothy Wilkinson also lives here.”
Amy was busying herself with tea making. She took down a teapot from a shelf in the cupboard and scooped three spoonfuls of tea leaves out of a caddy. Murdoch knew Mrs. Kitchen, his landlady, would not have approved of such poor tea making as Amy hadn’t warmed the pot first, but he of course made no comment. She brought two cups and saucers to the table. The china was patterned with delicate flowers, gold rimmed and light as eggshells. They looked out of place on the scrubbed surface of the table.
“I think we have some cake if I’m not mistaken,” she said, prying off the lid of a cake tin on the table. She frowned. “I’m afraid not. Somebody has already eaten it.”
So much for mutual consideration, thought Murdoch.
She poured out two cups and he helped himself to milk and sugar lumps. The milk jug and matching sugar bowl were silver.
“I assume it was Seymour who referred you to me,” he said. “I was wondering why you asked for me.”
“Yes, Charlie has a lot of respect for you. I, er, I need somebody with integrity. I was most grateful he could recommend you.”
“So you showed him the photograph?”
Amy sipped daintily at her tea, saucer in one hand, cup in the other, in the manner of the well-brought up.
“No, I did not. It is my opinion that every time somebody looks at that hideous photograph, no matter if their intention is benign, the child is violated again. It was necessary for you to see it, but other than you I would prefer no one else views it.”
Murdoch knew that if the case came to court, which it must if he found the perpetrators, the photograph would be handled and ogled over by many men. He said nothing.
“I simply told him I had a difficult and legal matter to deal with concerning one of my pupils,” continued Amy. “He suggested I speak to you.”
There was an awkward silence. Murdoch was trying to determine how to proceed without betraying Seymour’s predicament. She rescued him.
“He has told me about the anonymous letters and, as you know, he is currently under a cloud of suspicion. Not of his own making and dreadfully unfair.” She placed her cup and saucer on the table. “I think it’s shameful that some scurrilous person would stoop to such a thing.”
Murdoch liked the word
scurrilous
, which he hadn’t heard before. He’d add it to his vocabulary.
“I agree. If a man in his position is in fact involved in illegal activities, then his accuser should come right out and say what they are.”
To his surprise, he saw Miss Slade turn rather pink. “What constitutes an illegal act is sometimes debatable, don’t you think?”
Murdoch was about to reply that, no, he didn’t think there was any doubt about what was on the statutes and what wasn’t, but before he could wade into that murky water, he heard the sound of the front door opening and people entering.
“That’s probably Charlie now,” said Miss Slade and she stood up and went to the door. Murdoch watched her, curious to see what kind of welcome she was going to give the sergeant. He was a good few years older than she, but he was unmarried after all. And quite eligible as long as he didn’t lose his job.
She poked her head out. “Charlie, we’re in here. Mr. Murdoch’s come to see you.”
Was she giving Seymour warning, thought Murdoch. Was he being overly suspicious?
The sergeant came into the kitchen. He wasn’t a man given to overt expression of feeling, but Murdoch’s quick assessment was that Seymour was glad to see Miss Slade, platonically not romantically, and that his reaction to Murdoch was ambivalent, a mix of pleasure and apprehension.
“Will, good afternoon to you. Chilly weather, isn’t it?” He stretched out his hand. He was wearing a tweed jacket and trousers with a brown muffler around his neck. The homely clothing made him seem younger, less dour than the police uniform.
Right at his heels was a young man, tall and shambling and extraordinarily hirsute. His untrimmed brown beard covered his face from his cheekbones to the top button of his coat. His hair was thick and wiry and shot out sideward from his head, making him look as if he was standing in a perpetual wind.
“This is Tim Wilkinson. Tim, I’d like you to meet Will Murdoch, one of my colleagues.”
Murdoch hesitated, wondering if this lodger was going to be as rude as Reordan had been. Wilkinson made the same hand-wiping gesture that Reordan had made and immediately offered his hand. In the thicket of his beard, his teeth gleamed in a wide smile.
“Glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Murdoch. Our friend here has spoken highly of you.”
Murdoch smiled modestly.
“Would you two like some tea? It’s freshly made.” Amy removed the cozy from the teapot. It was cups of tea all round, and Seymour and Wilkinson sat themselves at the table, forcing everybody into a sudden intimacy. Once again, Amy took the initiative.
“Just as you came in, Charlie, Mr. Murdoch and I were talking about the letters.”
“Disgusting,” muttered Wilkinson somewhat ambiguously.
Seymour drank some of his tea. “Indeed. Has anything new come up, Will?”
As this seemed to be a household with no secrets, Murdoch didn’t see any point in being unforthcoming.