Authors: Maureen Jennings
“Not so far. That’s why I came to see you. I thought we could go over every possibility. Anybody you know who might be carrying a grudge.” He took a sip of tea. “Anything you might be doing that could possibly be construed as illegal.”
His companions reacted as if a shadow had gone across a summer sun, fleeting enough, but sufficient to cause them to stiffen and, ever so slightly, move closer to each other for warmth.
“I think it would behove you to define the term ‘illegal,’” said Wilkinson, his tone belligerent.
Seymour smiled. “You have to forgive my friend here, Will. He is in his second year at Osgood law school. He can’t help himself.”
Murdoch was struck by how much Wilkinson’s words had echoed Miss Slade’s. He was about to launch into a definition, but Seymour got to his feet. He went over to the sink and rinsed out his teacup. When he spoke his back was toward Murdoch.
“Tell you what, Will. I appreciate you have a job to do but I don’t want to take up your time. Obviously somebody has got it in for me and is trying to make mischief, but I don’t know who that would be.” He returned to the table. “And despite what Tim says, I’m quite aware of what constitutes illegal activity.” He picked up the other empty cups. “I promise you, my conscience is clear.”
Murdoch could see a barely discernible nod from both Miss Slade and the young lawyer-to-be. They hadn’t uttered the word
Amen
, but they may as well have.
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
F
or the past few days, Murdoch had had the impression that Mrs. Kitchen wanted to tell him something. With hovering guilt about his unsanctified relationship with Enid Jones, he rather expected his landlady was going to give him a little homily about the teachings of the Catholic Church and the dangers of involvement with those who weren’t of the true faith. He was braced, therefore, when he joined her and Arthur for one of their regular after-dinner visits. Because Murdoch had to get to the typewriting competition, Beatrice had made an early dinner, going to more care than usual with his meal, an excellent roast, for once cooked to perfection. She’d even prepared his favourite sweet, a rich layered trifle. He was sated, round of belly when they sat down with hot tea in front of the parlour fire. Arthur seemed tired and somewhat withdrawn, but that wasn’t unusual as his health fluctuated. Murdoch found himself searching for a topic they could discuss. He often mentioned the cases he was working on as Arthur said it kept him in touch with a world he was no longer part of. This wasn’t pure altruism on Murdoch’s part. He valued their observations; Arthur with a shrewd analytic mind and Beatrice always practical. However, out of consideration for his landlady, he didn’t mention the photographs and Agnes Fisher. The poison pen letters were much safer territory, and both Mr. and Mrs. listened intently while he’d described Reardon and Wilkinson and what had transpired at the boarding house. He didn’t tell them that the fourth lodger was a New Woman. He knew Beatrice was having enough trouble accepting that a schoolteacher was boarding with men, and he felt rather protective of Miss Slade.
“There’s a difference between having a clear conscience and being a criminal,” said Arthur. “According to the law, I’m a thief if I steal my neighbour’s horse. But what if I know that horse is being mistreated and the only way to rescue it is to take it away from its owner? In that case I would say my conscience is clear.”
“Your point is well taken, Arthur. All three of them were evasive when I asked directly if Seymour had been doing something illegal. But what that might be, I have no idea.”
“Is it possible he is a bigamist?” asked Mrs. Kitchen. “You assumed he is a widower, but what if he’s not? What if in his own mind he had excellent reasons for leaving his wife, she was immoral or licentious, for instance? Then he meets this schoolteacher and falls in love with her. Makes an offer of marriage, although he knows he is not legally free.”
Both her husband and Murdoch gaped at her.
“Why, Mrs. K., that is an ingenious notion. And who then would be sending the letters?”
“Perhaps his real wife.”
“She’s got something there, Will. What do you think?” Arthur grinned.
“I must say I didn’t detect any hint of romantic feeling between Miss Slade and Mr. Seymour.”
“Ah but they wouldn’t want you to know, would they?”
“So you think she would be aware of the other wife and marry him anyway?”
“Why not?” said Arthur. “Women can be very foolish if they become besotted with a man.”
“And so can men,” added his wife.
“It’s not the same,” said Arthur.
Mrs. Kitchen looked as if she could argue the point but she didn’t. “Well, obviously something isn’t right and I have every faith that Mr. Murdoch will discover what that is.”
Her tone made it clear she didn’t want to go on with the discussion. She glanced over at the clock on the mantelpiece, which was just starting to chime six o’clock.
“My, time is getting on. We don’t want you to be late. Have you finished with your tea, Mr. Murdoch?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Here it comes, he thought and braced himself, although he wasn’t sure for what.
Beatrice glanced over at her husband. “Shall I tell him, Arthur?”
“Better you.”
“Tell me what?”
Beatrice clasped her hands in her lap. No, it wasn’t going to be a lecture about Enid. She appeared too upset for that.
“Mr. Murdoch, you have become a dear friend to Arthur and me over the past three years, a dear friend indeed…Oh Arthur, you have to tell him.”
Murdoch waited while Arthur tugged at the nightcap he habitually wore. Finally, he blurted out, “We’re going to have to leave, Will.”
“Leave? The house, you mean?”
“Yes,” Beatrice jumped in. “You know how some doctors believe pure fresh air and rest can bring about a cure of the consumption. By sheer chance, I saw an advertisement in the newspaper that there was a hotel in Muskoka in need of a housekeeper. Apparently, it is rather like a hospital and the guests are all people with the illness. It’s right on one of the big lakes and the air is as fresh as if it’s just blown in from Heaven. They boast that most of the guests leave there completely cured.”
She paused, the unspoken question in the minds of all three of them hovered. Would this apply to Arthur?
“I wrote to them and I heard back a few days ago. They have offered me the position. In lieu of regular wages, they are willing to give us room and board, and Arthur can take the treatment, such as it is.” She looked at Murdoch, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “How could I not accept if it means Arthur gets better? But I’m worried about leaving you in the house.”
Murdoch jumped up and planted a big kiss on her cheek. “Why this is wonderful news. And don’t you dare give a second thought to me. There are other boarding houses, none a jot as good as this one of course.”
Beatrice, still discomfited from his display of affection, but smiling now, nodded at her husband.
“Tell him the rest of it, Arthur.”
“What we’re wondering about is if you’d consider staying on here and sort of managing it for us. With mother working at the hotel, we won’t have any large expenses to speak of and we’d like to hold on to this house until such time as we see how I do. We’d both rest easy if we knew you were in charge of the place.” He grinned. “You don’t have to cook for anybody of course. They can find their own meals or Mrs. O’Brien next door could do for them. If we let out the two rooms, this one and the one next to you that Mrs. Jones had, the income could cover any extra costs quite nicely.”
“And we would give you a reduction in the rent for your services.”
They were both watching Murdoch’s face. He beamed at them. “That sounds like the best offer since I can remember. Of course I’ll do it. And forget that nonsense about reduced rent, I’ll pay my proper share.”
Beatrice frowned at him. “There is no agreement unless you accept the conditions as specified.”
He threw up his hands in histrionic resignation. “Very well. I agree. And when, may I ask, are you planning to leave?”
“They will send us a telegram as soon as a room is available, but according to the letter it could be any day now.”
Arthur had been trying to hold back a cough, but it got the better of him and for a few moments, Beatrice and Murdoch were forced to watch him fight for breath. She passed him a handkerchief and he spat out bloody phlegm, then dropped the linen immediately into the bucket of carbolic by the side of his chair. He lay back for a moment. The coughing spells exhausted him.
“Oh Will,” he said softly. “I have almost forgotten what it is like to live a normal life. I hear you bounding up and down stairs and I try to imagine the time when I could do the same. I pray, make bargains with God, for just one more moment of that freedom.” He tried to smile. “The best the Lord can do is send me a dream. I had one last night, as a matter of fact. I’m on my old wheel again, the Ideal I told you about. And I’m pedalling along Front Street, the wind from the lake is in my face, my legs are strong as a horse’s. I’m breathing as deep and easily as I ever used to, not coughing up my own flesh. Oh it was such a sweet dream, I didn’t like waking up, I can tell you.”
He appeared on the verge of tears and Murdoch felt an ache in his own throat. Ever since he’d moved in with the Kitchens, Arthur had been ill, progressively worse in spite of all his wife’s ministrations. Murdoch knew he’d once been an active man because they’d talked about it, but he never complained even when his physical discomfort seemed unendurable. This was the first time Murdoch had ever heard him express such feelings of sorrow and loss for the life he no longer had.
He reached over and patted Arthur’s arm. “You’ll be back on that bicycle and challenging yours truly here to a race before we know it.”
Arthur smiled but the sadness didn’t lift from his eyes. “I hope so, Will. I’d even let you win one or two if we could do that.”
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
B
y the time Murdoch slipped into his seat, the Mechanics Institute was jammed with people alive with excitement, and the air was thick with the smells of cigar-tainted clothes, pomade, and perfume. The audience had come as well dressed as if they were attending a concert instead of a typewriting competition. Alwyn and Mrs. Barrett had saved a seat for him beside theirs. The boy was in new finery, a navy worsted suit with a red spotted waistcoat. His hair was slicked down and he smelled like soap. He glanced over at Murdoch and frowned.
“They are going to start at any minute.”
“Good thing I came when I did then.” Murdoch leaned forward and touched his hat to Mrs. Barrett, who responded without much enthusiasm. He knew he would never be in her good graces. Rightfully so, she suspected his intentions with her lodger.
Alwyn glanced at Murdoch. “Your moustache is wet,” he said critically.
Suddenly, the electric lights in the hall all blinked off. The chatter stopped abruptly at the unexpected darkness but resumed immediately in relief when the overhead chandeliers lit up again. A man in a formal black frock coat and dark trousers walked onto the stage and held up his hand for silence. He could have been a man from any profession, dignified and rather arrogant in his bearing. When he spoke, however, his manner and booming voice were that of a circus barker.
“Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce myself. Aloysius Carver at your service and I am here to welcome all of you to the first World Typewriting Competition ever to be held in our noble city of Toronto. We are most pleased to be the host of this exciting event, which has attracted competitors from all over the world, especially our neighbour to the south, where the current world champion, Miss Mae Orr, resides. She is with us tonight, prepared to defend her title.”
A burst of applause from the right side of the audience, where some people were holding small American flags. The maestro bowed at them, then continued, “We have in addition two highly qualified entrants from over the pond: one lady from England and a gentleman from Germany. But best of all, our own fair country is represented by no less than five competitors, two of whom are local residents.”
More applause, this time from the left side. “Yes, five, and all of them capable of wresting away the cup from Miss Orr, even if I say so myself.”
He turned and signalled to a man standing at the rear of the stage who immediately pulled away a black cloth draped over a table. Three large, gleaming silver trophies were revealed.
“These are for the competitors who finish in the top three places. In addition each will receive fifty, thirty, and twenty-five dollars respectively. Five runners up will receive a cheque for ten dollars, courtesy of the Remington typewriting company…”
“Mamma truly needs that money,” Alwyn whispered in a worried voice.
“Let me explain the rules to you who are uninitiated. The competition is divided into two parts. The first is a fifteen-minute dictation from a text that has been kept secret from the competitors. We can’t give anybody a chance to practise. After that the papers will be collected and our honourable judges, who are at the moment also backstage, and who are all members of our Board of Commerce, will carefully mark and grade the papers. Marks will be deducted for strikeovers, uneven typing, too many words on the line. While they are doing that, the competitors will be given a text to copy, the same for all and also unknown. After fifteen minutes, our timer will ring his bell…Mr. Briggs, if you please.”
His assistant dinged the button on the large brass bell in front of him.
“When they hear that, the competitors must stop at once. Anybody observed making even
one
more stroke after the bell has sounded will be disqualified. I’m sure all you people with keen eyes and wits will make sure there is no cheating.”