Authors: Maureen Jennings
“What have you been doing?” Amy asked Murdoch.
“John and Charlie have drawn up a list for me of bereaved families. I’m trying to follow the mourning-card path, see if that will lead anywhere.”
Amy cast a warning glance in Reordan’s direction, who saw her. “Look ahere,” he said to Murdoch. “I’ve been glad to help out, but I’m in the dark as to why. Surely you can tell me something? What do you take me for?”
Murdoch felt like quoting Seymour, “They aren’t my secrets to reveal,” but Amy took matters into her own hands.
“That seems only fair, John. But why don’t we wait until you’ve finished your business?”
“Right ho,” said Reordan. There was a sheet of paper on the table and he pushed it in front of Murdoch. “This is the first list I made. A lot of the announcements were repeated three or four times and several were in all of the papers. But I sifted out as best I could and you’ve got seventy-seven names there, fifteen of them were children under ten, and twelve of these were infants, stillbirths or babies of three months or less. Eight were males. That’s the ones you wanted, right?”
“Correct.”
“I marked them out separately. I also arranged them in order, starting with the closest to the house here. I kept them in line, as it were, so you won’t have to wander all around the wrekin.”
“I had the easier job,” said Seymour. “More people were dying than in need of servants.” He gave Murdoch another piece of paper. “In June, there were six advertisements. Four were in the
Globe
, two repeated in the
World
and the
News
. Three had box numbers to reply to the newspaper, only three gave an address, but all of those continued to advertise in July and August so I don’t think they’re the ones we want. Only two didn’t repeat their advertisement in July, one was in the Junction and the other, alas, gave only a box number. Both of those were in the
Globe
.”
“The Junction is too far, I think. I can’t imagine a girl walking from Sydenham Street to there. It would take her all day. But good work, thanks, John. I’ll see if I can get the accounts from the newspaper tomorrow. Meanwhile,” he stood up. “I’d better get going on this other list before it gets too late to make calls.”
“Not until you’ve had some supper, surely?” Amy said. “I for one am famished and I can smell something delicious that I would suspect is John’s famous ragout de pattes de cochon.”
“It is. Or, in English, Mr. Murdoch, pig’s feet stew. It’s a French-Canadian dish.”
“We can divide up the list, Will,” said Seymour. “It’ll go faster that way.”
“I stand persuaded. Thank you.” Murdoch conceded, as much as to the hunger pangs in his stomach as anything. Reordan beamed and limped over to the stove to serve the meal.
Murdoch turned to Amy. “Miss Slade, I will have to inform Inspector Brackenreid what I am doing. I’ve already been skating near the thin ice. I don’t know if he’d approve of me tromping around the city upsetting people who have recently suffered a great loss.” He grimaced. “I’m not implying our good inspector is a man of sensitivity because he’s not, but he is jumpy about stirring up complaints.”
Amy had laced her fingers in her lap. She didn’t look at Murdoch when she said, “Perhaps I could be of help? Three people will make even more headway.” She hurried on. “I can be quite truthful about it. I can say one of my pupils is in difficulties and I am trying to trace her nearest relative through the photograph she gave her.”
“Why? Why would a teacher go to that trouble?”
“I can only speak for myself. You forget I would be telling the truth.”
Seymour interjected. “She’s right, Will, and if anybody can get people to open up, Amy can.”
Miss Slade stiffened. “Don’t have any fear that I won’t appear quite respectable, Mr. Murdoch.”
“It’s not that,” Murdoch said, although the thought had crossed his mind, “Charlie and I are police officers. We have legitimacy.”
“I’m not going to make an arrest, surely? We all have the right to ask questions of one another and we have an equal right to refuse to answer.”
They were interrupted by Reordan’s plunking down three bowls of steaming stew on the table. Thank goodness no little trotters were sticking out of the broth.
“Eat up, argue later.”
Murdoch took a taste. The stew was rather on the bland side, the meat cooked to a pulp and mashed into balls. Definitely edible. He couldn’t help noticing that Amy made no dainty protestations about how much food was in her dish, but tucked in with as much gusto as the men. The meal was full of odd contrasts. There was no cloth on the scrubbed pine table, but the plates were of fine, patterned china and the knives and forks, silver.
For the next few minutes they spoke little except to make polite comments about the ragout. There was a stiffness between Murdoch and Miss Slade. He decided she was not a woman who liked to be thwarted.
Seymour finally spoke up. “Why not let Amy help? It would be better if you could hold off on letting Brackenreid in on the case until we ourselves know what’s going on. Besides, Amy will be a far sight better investigator than some of our constables.”
Amy leaned over and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “Thank you, Charlie. Well, Mr. Murdoch, will you consider it?”
“It’s rather unorthodox.”
She laughed in delight. “Unorthodoxy and I are close acquaintances, in case you haven’t noticed.”
Murdoch studied her face for a moment and she returned his regard steadily. There was something about her that reminded him of Liza, although he couldn’t quite identify what it was. Physically they were quite different. Liza had been tall and of a dark complexion. Amy Slade had blue-grey eyes, fair hair, and was rather short.
“Well?” she asked.
“All right. I’ll agree.”
Reordan put a silver tray in the middle of the table and started to load the bowls and cups on to it.
“Isn’t it time you told me what is going on?”
Amy looked at Murdoch. “Do you have the photographs with you?”
He nodded and took the envelope from his pocket.
“While you do that, I’ll get some writing paper,” said Seymour.
He left, and Amy drew Reordan into the chair beside her. “I found these four photographs in the desk of one of my pupils, young Agnes Fisher. They are offensive. Three are obscene, one is both blasphemous and obscene.”
Murdoch was about to hand the envelope to Reordan when she stopped him. “I don’t want you to show him the picture of the girl.” She touched the Irishman’s destroyed hand. “This is nothing to do with you, John. Both Mr. Murdoch and Charlie needed to see the picture if they were going to investigate, but I believe strongly that any viewing whatsoever participates in the wickedness.” She searched for words. “We become carriers of the evil even if we ourselves are not one of those who would take pleasure from such a sight. This photograph should be destroyed and will be as soon as we find the perpetrator. Do you understand what I mean, John?”
He shrugged. “Not really, but it doesn’t matter. If you don’t want me to see it, I won’t.”
She opened the envelope and took out the three cards. Reordan whistled through his teeth when he saw what was written on the back of the mourning card.
“And you believe your pupil wrote those words?”
“It is her hand.”
“And who’s the dead prince?”
Murdoch answered. “His name is Leonard Sims. He was found murdered this morning.”
“You didn’t do the in memoriam surely?”
“No. It looks as if the girl was the one who inked in the black borders.”
“Which says she knew he was cooked?”
“Yes.”
“Bad business.”
Reordan picked up the Newly-wed card and seemed to freeze in his chair. To Murdoch’s surprise, who thought the Irishman fairly worldly, he appeared shocked by what he saw. He stared at the picture for a moment, then held it up to the light.
“Who scratched out the faces?”
“Probably Agnes, er, my pupil, did,” said Amy. “Mr. Murdoch says the ink appears to be the same as that used on the other two cards.”
“Is the photograph you don’t want me to see an obscene photograph of your pupil?”
“Yes, it is.”
Reordan was visibly agitated. He virtually spat at Murdoch. “Do you know who the photographer is?”
“Yes and no. We have no concrete evidence, but I’ve got my sights on a studio on King Street called Gregory’s Emporium. It’s close to both the school and Agnes’s house. I’m guessing she wouldn’t go too far afield. And I didn’t like the proprietor at all. Slimy bastard. Oh, sorry, Miss Slade,”
“I’m not so delicate, Mr. Murdoch. My ears didn’t fall off.”
Reordan was studying the Newly-wed card intently and Murdoch could see it was making Amy uncomfortable.
“What did he look like, this Emporium cove?” he asked Murdoch.
“Short and stocky with reddish-brown hair cropped short. He’s a cockney and likes to speak in what he called rhyming slang. You don’t know him, do you?”
Reordan shoved the card away from him. “Of course not, why should I?” He eased himself to his feet. “Well, I’ve got washing up to do.”
He limped over to the sink and Amy called after him.
“Are you all right, John?”
He didn’t turn around but his voice was flat.
“Of course I’m all right. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Murdoch found his reaction puzzling. He had been so eager to be involved in the case. What had happened? He was about to press the issue when Amy Slade gave a little warning shake of her head. Just then Seymour returned with paper, pens, and an inkwell.
“Here we go then.”
Leaving the Irishman to his task, the three of them huddled around the table with the list in front of them and began to copy out the addresses. Murdoch took three, Seymour three, and Amy was given the two closest to home.
“What do you think, can we reconvene in about two hours, finished or not?” asked Murdoch.
Seymour and Amy agreed and Murdoch managed to hold back on his fussing about what Amy should do or not do. He left, calling out a goodnight to Reordan, who had reverted to his rude self and merely grunted a reply.
When Murdoch got outside, he realized he’d forgotten he’d told Enid he would come to her in the early evening for supper. Damn. He was going to be very late.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE
M
urdoch had taken the names that were on the perimeter of the city limits. The first address was on Bloor Street not far from the Church of the Redeemer. However, when he got there, he found the house boarded up. When he inquired at the next-door neighbour’s house, he was told that the family had left the city and returned to England.
“Too much sorrow here,” said the neighbour, a plump young matron who had a child in her arms and one at her skirt.
The second address was at a large house on Lowther Avenue, and he had to walk there from the end of the Bloor streetcar line. A sweet-faced young maid left him on the doorstep while she went to see if her mistress was “at home.” She was, and he was ushered into a drawing room crammed with furniture and, like the Smithers drawing room, lavishly decorated with black crepe and silk ribbons. The lady of the house was seated at the piano, sorting music, when Murdoch entered. She greeted him politely but her voice was enervated, as if she had no energy left for the world. He explained the reason for his visit and expressed his condolences, which she accepted graciously. She was expensively dressed in a black velvet gown that managed to be a garb of mourning and fashionable as well, with its tight waist, full sleeves, and glitter of jet at the collar and cuffs. He had the sense she hadn’t enjoyed the short taste of motherhood she had experienced. There were several framed photographs on the mantelpiece revealing a wife considerably younger than her husband. Yes, they had a photograph taken at her husband’s insistence by their friend Mr. Notman. He didn’t usually do mourning portraits but had agreed as a favour. At Murdoch’s request, and after a search, she unearthed the photograph. It was quite unlike the one Amy had found, the baby was bigger and darker and was photographed lying in a crib sumptuously covered with satin. He thanked her and took his leave.
His last call took him to the north end of Yonge Street, to the home of Mr. and Mrs. James Hickey, who lived above a butcher’s shop. There was no maid. Mr. Hickey answered the door and reluctantly allowed him in. His wife was seated on the sofa and he joined her there, sitting close, not altogether to give her comfort, Murdoch thought. He explained his mission again and once more offered condolences. Hickey told Murdoch angrily that no, they would never have a mourning photograph taken because their son was born with a cleft palate, among other deformities. He had died when he was six weeks old. The man seemed to be blaming his wife for delivering a defective product or perhaps his anger was masking dreadful grief and disappointment. The woman hardly spoke, simply sat red-eyed, her hands in her lap. Murdoch left as soon as he could.
He was more than happy to hear the clang of the streetcar coming up behind him as he reached Church Street. He jumped aboard, dropped his money into the conductor’s tin box, and sat down, huddling into his coat. The heater at the rear of the streetcar was stoked high, and the mingled smell of coal and damp woollen coats permeated the air. When the conductor called out his stop, Murdoch felt almost reluctant to leave the warmth of the streetcar.
Amy Slade answered his knock. “Oh do come in. You must be perished.”
Murdoch tried to wipe the slush from his boots as best he could on the scraper and followed her inside. He suddenly felt shy and awkward, almost missing the hook on the coat stand as he hung up his coat. This time there was no appetizing smell coming from the kitchen and no light showed below Reordan’s door.
“Where’s the chef?”
“I don’t know. He’s gone out, which is very unusual for him.” She smiled. “I thought we could meet in my room.” She hesitated. “Charlie isn’t back yet.”