Authors: Maureen Jennings
Seymour didn’t hesitate. “Thanks, John. A list would be helpful, can you bring it to us?”
Suddenly the Irishman cackled. He fished in his pocket. “I’ve got it here. Call yourselves police officers. It seems obvious to me that the person doing the letters has to be a member of the Knights or knows somebody that is.” So much for Seymour’s affirmation of unshakeable loyalty, thought Murdoch. Reordan handed over the paper. “I brought up the membership list of Excelsior. That’s the name of his local assembly,” he added for Murdoch’s benefit.
Seymour stood up and leaned over the chair back so he could read the list with Murdoch. There were twenty-five names, neatly printed.
“Course, the person could be registered under a false name,” said Reordan. “It’s happened before. The bosses want to keep an eye on their wicked workers, so they send in a spy.”
Suddenly, Murdoch stabbed the paper with his forefinger. “No! There it is. Or rather I should say, ‘There she is.’ Do you know this woman, Charlie?”
“Florence Gripe? Why yes, I’ve met her. But surely you’re not suggesting…?”
“Miss Gripe is presently engaged, and she eventually will become Mrs. Liam Callahan.”
“What! The station stenographer?”
“One and the same. I was introduced to her only last night at a typewriting competition. There’s your link right there.”
“Are you sure, Will?”
“It’s a very unusual name. I can’t believe there are two of them.”
“She seems such a fine young woman, I find it difficult to believe she would betray me.” Seymour looked acutely uncomfortable and Murdoch remembered the impression Florence’s admiring eyes had made on he himself.
Reordan wagged his finger at them. “There you go again. Overlooking the obvious. Her fiancée might have flushed you out without her intentionally revealing anything. This Callahan, he could have escorted her to a meeting, for instance, and ‘Lo, my goodness. Can I believe my eyes. There’s our esteemed sergeant filing in with the other plebs.’”
“You said something like that yourself, Charlie,” added Murdoch, “and it certainly answers the question of all the beating about the bush. Callahan probably doesn’t want his sweetheart to know what he’s doing.”
“All right. But why has he got it in for me?”
Reordan did the finger-wagging gesture again. “Don’t you police officers always ask who stands to gain by this crime? I’ve heard you talk about that lots of times, Charlie. My guess is that Callahan stands to benefit by you getting the shoot. My guess is that he wants your job.”
Murdoch smiled at the Irishman. “You’re putting us to shame, John. It makes sense. It’s impossible to climb up the ranks of the police force except when a spot opens up ahead of you. We’re not expanding at all this year, nor next in all probability. You can stay stuck in the same rank until your hair turns white and your teeth fall out.”
“And especially if you’re a Papist, which William here is.”
Murdoch grimaced. “Especially if you’re a Papist.”
“I’m one too,” Reordan jumped in. “It ain’t easy. That’s another reason I respect the Knights of Labour, they don’t care who you bow to, or bend the knee to, or whatever the Protestants do.”
“Hold on, you two. Let’s get back on track here. You’re saying that Callahan wants my job? But he’s only a constable, second class. It wouldn’t go to him.”
“Not directly,” said Murdoch. “The choice would be one of the two first-class constables, Fyfer or Crabtree. Let’s say for the sake of argument that you left and George was moved up to sergeant. His position then would need filling. There are several constables, second class, who could take it. In jumps the hardworking Mr. Callahan. Better wages, better conditions.”
“Not much better.”
“But enough if you want to get married, and he surely does. I thought he was decidedly under Miss Gripe’s spell. And my guess is she would be a rather expensive wife. Not to mention that she makes eyes at every man she comes across. Perhaps she trilled on about you to him, and he didn’t like it. Come on, Charlie, did you flirt with the girl?”
The sergeant actually blushed. “Not flirt exactly, but she is a very sweet young woman. I didn’t know she was engaged to be married. She never spoke of it.”
“There you go then. I’d say Callahan got jealous and wanted you out of the way. Or at least disgraced and less eligible.”
Seymour was shaking his head. “It’s hard to believe, Will. He seems like such a pleasant young fellow.”
“Too pleasant for me. He’s an arse crawler. No wonder he and our inspector get along so famously. Besides, he’s a liar. He told me a lie, a small one to be sure, but it makes me question what else he might be hiding.” Briefly he related the story of the typewriting competition and Callahan’s unexpected appearance. “He pretended he isn’t accomplished when he is, but why not tell the truth? I saw him on that platform and he wanted to win, probably at all costs. Ambition to burn in that young man. One of his jobs at the station is to sort the daily post, so he could easily slip in a letter or two. And he is a stenographer. I haven’t had a chance to check his typewriting machine against the letters, but Mrs. Jones, er, a woman I know, says they were typed on a Remington, and that is the machine used in most offices these days. When I asked him about typing, he covered his trouser seat by pretending he didn’t know how, not realizing I had a friend who was in the same contest. No wonder he was shocked to see me. It’s him all right, Charlie.”
“But what do we do now? Even if we unmask him, I’ll have to admit my involvement with the Knights and that’s it for the police force. He’ll probably only get a reprimand.”
Murdoch thought Seymour was sitting on the fence. He would have to make a choice sooner or later. But he couldn’t abide blackmailers, which was what Callahan was.
“I’ll think of something.”
The worry left Seymour’s face and he laughed. “If I know you at all, William Murdoch, you will most certainly think of something and it will be highly moral but probably quite illegal.”
“I’ll drink to that,” said Reordan and he lifted his mug of tea in a salute.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
S
hortly afterwards, Reordan said he had work to do and left them. All this while, the envelope with the other photographs had sat unopened on the desk. Seymour got up and went over and picked it up.
“I’d better have a look at these.”
“I warn you, it’s ugly,” said Murdoch.
The sergeant sat in the cane chair opposite and slid the photographs out. He snorted in derision at the Newly-wed photographs, but when he saw the picture of Agnes, his jaw clenched.
“My God, Will, surely this isn’t Amy’s pupil? She never told me it was this kind of thing she was concerned about.”
“Miss Slade said she discovered them in the girl’s desk, but the child would offer no explanation. She wants me to find out who the photographer is and is hoping that I can keep the police out of it officially until we know what’s happened. Frankly, I don’t know if I can do that and conduct a proper investigation, but I said I’d try.”
Seymour, in an unconscious imitation of the schoolteacher’s reaction, inverted the photograph.
“You must have thought my little speech about an unhealthy society somewhat naive. I find this kind of thing incomprehensible. Poor Amy to ever have had to see it.”
“And poor Agnes.”
“Quite. Is she the one who wrote the obscenities on the mourning card?”
“Probably. Miss Slade was fairly certain it was the girl’s hand.”
Seymour gazed at the photograph of the dead baby. “It’s hard to believe that a young girl would deface a picture such as this. Where would she have learned such words?”
“Miss Slade says the girl’s father is a complete ne’er-do-well. I met him and I’d concur with that. The mother is dead and there has been no mitigating influence, if there was indeed a maternal one, except for the classroom and Miss Slade.”
“And if ever a woman would provide a mitigating influence, as you put it, she would.”
Seymour’s expression was fond but Murdoch thought it revealed a fraternal fondness and once again he was annoyed with himself for caring about that.
“Do you think Agnes was coerced into posing for the stereoscopic picture? Or was she paid?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t been able to question her myself. She hasn’t returned to school. I spoke to her brother, but other than saying she might be with an older sister who is in service he wasn’t helpful. And now that Leonard Sims has been found dead, I’m very worried about the girl’s involvement.”
Seymour picked up the other photograph. “Have you covered up his parts because he’s naked?”
“Yes. I might have to show that picture around.”
“The black border and the scratching out of the two faces look as if they have been done with the same pen and ink, so I assume it’s Agnes’s work too.” The sergeant replaced the picture in the envelope. “What have you done so far?”
Quickly Murdoch related his visits to Gregory’s Emporium and the other two studios.
“Gregory’s is the closest to the Sackville Street School and Agnes’s house. I didn’t like the fellow who owns the place, but I couldn’t find anything to link him to the stereoscopic pictures or the mourning card.”
“I can understand your rationale for starting there, but the child could have met them anywhere. We should check every studio in the city.”
“I know. Unfortunately, there’s nothing to say the photographs have even come from a studio. What do they need? A camera and a set? Not much more.”
He took his cabinet pictures from his pocket and handed them to Seymour. “I had my portrait taken at the Emporium.”
Seymour grinned. “You look very prosperous, Will.”
“I was imagining I was Inspector Brackenreid. But, as you can see, the backdrops aren’t like anything in either of the cards. I managed to have a look inside the cupboard in the studio but there was nothing that corresponded.” He knocked out the tobacco from his pipe. “Really, the only two leads I have at the moment are, first, the baby’s mourning card and the place where the older sister is working. The baby’s picture looks as if it was taken by a different photographer, but it was in Agnes’s possession so it might lead us somewhere. Her brother thinks she got them from Martha, the older girl, which is a second reason to find her.”
Seymour echoed his gravity. “I agree. What do you want me to do?”
“I’d like you to go to the library and check the death columns in the newspapers for the past six months. Make a list of all the children about three or four months of age who have died. We’ll divide up the numbers and go and see if they had mourning cards made and if so what photographer they used. At the same time, I’d like to check the Help Wanted columns and see if anybody was advertising for a servant girl before and including June of last year.”
Seymour chuckled. “You’d be surprised at how easy that might be. I don’t even have to go outside.” He stood up. “Come on.”
Murdoch put the envelope in his pocket and followed Seymour downstairs. The sergeant knocked on Reordan’s door. “John, it’s me again. Can we have a word?”
The Irishman opened the door promptly and a wave of stale air came out of his room.
“Will here needs to search through some newspapers and we were wondering if you could give us a hand.”
Reordan’s eyes brightened. “My pleasure. Come in to the library.”
The Irishman stepped aside and gestured them into his room. Murdoch had never seen anything quite like it. There were stacks of newspapers on every inch of the floor and little else in the room except a filing cabinet and a narrow bed. Pathways wound in and out of the stacks. The three of them were crowded awkwardly in the tiny space left to let the door open.
“John is the Knights record keeper,” said Seymour. “He keeps track of any publicity that the Knights receive in all of the newspapers in the country as well as any news events that might be of concern to us.”
Reordan beamed. “I keep a record of everything. This might look like a maze but it ain’t. I know where everything is.” He was clearly very proud of his accomplishment, but Murdoch was in danger of suffocating from the lack of fresh air in the room and the amount of newspaper there was.
“What are you looking for exactly?”
“We need names and addresses of all families who suffered the bereavement of a male infant over the past six months.”
“Right you are.”
“I’d also like names and addresses of any people advertising for a servant girl during the month of June last year. And if you can tell me which of those stopped advertising in July, I’ll be forever in your debt.”
“Done.”
“How long do think it will take?”
“I’ll help,” interjected Seymour.
“In that case, an hour, an hour and a half at the most.” Reordan looked at him. “Am I to know what for?”
Murdoch hesitated. “With regard to the bereaved families we’re trying to find out if they have had any dealings with a particular photographer we want to question. The servant girl is somebody we’d like to talk to.”
“Good enough.”
He shuffled off toward the wooden filing cabinet and Murdoch beckoned Seymour into the hall.
“While you’re doing that, I’m going to go see if I can shake some information from Agnes’s father.”
Seymour grimaced. “Be careful, Will.”
“Don’t worry. I’m the soul of tact.”
“Ha!”
Seymour let him out and, once on the street, Murdoch breathed in deep drafts of the chill air as if he could clean out both Reordan’s story and Agnes’s plight. He couldn’t. He only succeeded in making himself cough.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
F
isher wasn’t at home, so as much as he wanted to get his hands on the man, Murdoch couldn’t. Once again, young Mrs. Tibbett answered the door and smiled shyly at him. She didn’t know where Fisher had gone, she said, but probably to one of the local taverns. Ben wasn’t in the house either. Still posing as a truant officer, Murdoch repeated that Agnes’s teacher was anxious about her, but, when pressed, Kate could give no further information as to where the girl might be. Murdoch thought she was troubled about something, but one of the twins set up a wail in the background and she hurried away.