Authors: Maureen Jennings
“Will, what’s happened?”
“Is Reordan here?”
“He went out almost an hour ago.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“We didn’t see him, we just heard him come in and go out again immediately after. I called to him to join us but he didn’t even answer.”
“What’s the matter?” Amy asked.
As succinctly as he could, Murdoch told them Alwyn’s story.
Amy sat down suddenly on the coat-tree seat. “And you think the man they were waiting for was Reordan?”
“No, I’m not certain of that. But he was undoubtedly the one who showed up at Gregory’s studio at that moment.”
“And Gregory is the photographer we’ve been looking for?” Seymour asked.
“He’s the one, all right. There was another man present who they said was an actor who might be in the scene with them. He’s called Renaldo, but Ben told Alwyn his real name was Tibbett. He lives in the rooms below the Fishers’.”
“So he would know both Agnes and Ben,” said Amy.
“Yes.”
“Just a minute,” said Seymour. “I’ve got to check something.” He went down the hall and tried Reordan’s door. It was unlocked and Seymour entered the room. Murdoch waited with Amy in the hall. She had replaced her severe navy jacket and white waist with a short-sleeved, green silk loose top. Her hair was down and tied back in a ribbon. She looked much younger and more vulnerable than he’d yet seen her.
“I cannot comprehend Ben taking the Welsh boy to that studio. How could he do such a thing?”
“We don’t know anything yet. Ben might be an innocent himself. He told Alwyn that Gregory promised him a dollar and some sweets if he could find a suitable boy.”
Seymour emerged from Reordan’s room. “John had a pistol in his drawer. It’s gone.”
“What the devil…now what?”
Amy looked up at Murdoch. “You don’t know Reordan as we do. He couldn’t be involved in abusing children.”
Murdoch shrugged. “We’ll find out, won’t we.”
She frowned at him. “I am not speaking only about his character. He never leaves the house except for dire necessity. He is so ashamed about the way he looks. We would know if he was going out a lot.”
Murdoch was skeptical. “Neither of you are at home during the day.”
She shook her head. “I cannot believe it.”
“I must admit, Will, I find it incredulous as well.”
“It always is,” said Murdoch. “But let’s think logically, can we? Where might he go and why has he taken his revolver?”
“I think he’s been in a very strange mood since we showed him that photograph,” said Amy. “I thought he was dreadfully shocked.”
“Could it be he has taken the law into this own hands?” asked Seymour. “Remember, he asked you if you had any suspicions as to who was the photographer.”
“It’s more likely he’s done something like that. I refuse to believe he’d be a purchaser,” said Amy.
“He could also be trying to destroy any evidence.”
“No! I don’t believe it.”
“Regardless, we’d better get over to the bloody Emporium quick.”
Amy reached for the cloak that was on the peg behind her. “I’ll come with you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Seymour. “This has all the indications of a dangerous situation.”
“The only person John will listen to at all is me. If he’s planning something harmful, I can talk him out of it…Please don’t waste time trying to dissuade me, Mr. Murdoch. There is no time to argue. I am quite capable of taking responsibility for my own actions. I will not be a liability.”
She was right, there was no time to argue, and he could tell arguing wouldn’t work anyway. Short of tying her up, he had no way to stop her. Besides, what she said made sense and he already knew that Miss Amy Slade was a woman of her word. She would not be a liability.
Seymour hurried off to get his coat and hat. He came back downstairs carrying a policeman’s short stick with a leather looped strap at the end.
“I kept this from my days on the beat. It may come in handy.”
The three of them set off, Amy in the middle of the two men. Murdoch was prepared to hire any cab that came by but the street was deserted. Amy kept up with them even though they were jogtrotting. At the corner of King and River, they paused to get breath, just as a streetcar came rumbling by.
“Come on,” shouted Murdoch and he set off at the run. The ticket collector saw him and signalled to the driver to stop. Seymour and Amy were right at his heels as Murdoch climbed aboard the streetcar. There were only a handful of passengers on board. He pulled out his official card and showed it to the driver.
“I’m commandeering this car on police business. No stops, as fast as you can to Church Street.”
“What about my passengers?”
“They’ll have to get out and catch the next car.”
“There isn’t one for half an hour.”
“They’ll survive.”
Seymour was already moving down the aisle of the streetcar, telling the passengers they had to disembark at once. Fortunately they all looked like able-bodied men who wouldn’t freeze to death waiting for another streetcar. They were curious but compliant, there were only a few grumbles. As soon as they were out, the driver started off, getting up the car to top speed. Amy sat on the bench.
The ticket collector came up to them. “Who’s she? A police officer too?”
Murdoch didn’t answer but something must have showed on his face because the man averted his glance. Seymour clung to one of the leather straps hanging from the ceiling of the car.
At top speed and with no need to stop for passengers, the streetcar was at the corner of King and Church in a matter of minutes.
“Stop here,” said Murdoch. “Thanks, and keep my card so you can report what happened.”
“I will,” said the driver. “I hope it was worth it. If I get the can, I’ll come after you.”
The three of them jumped down.
“Will, look!” Seymour grabbed his arm and pointed at the roof of the Emporium building. A drift of black smoke was coming from around the frame of the top window. In the seconds they watched it, a tongue of flame appeared.
“My God, the place is on fire.” Murdoch swirled toward Amy Slade. “There is an alarm box at the corner of Jarvis Street. Here’s my key. There’s a hook inside the box that you have to pull down. Let it slide back and the alarm will ring. You will have to stay there until the firemen arrive so you can direct them.”
She took the key and set off on the run, her pantaloons making the going much easier than the encumbrance of a heavy skirt would have done.
Murdoch and Seymour raced across the road to the Emporium. A quick glance in the front window showed them the fire had not started in the empty downstairs store. The house was quiet, no shouting of occupants, no roaring of flames as yet. Murdoch tried the door leading to the upper floor and they went into the hallway. Seymour shone his lantern on the stairs, and they headed to the studio. There was an acrid smell of gathering smoke in the air.
The upstairs door was slightly ajar. Murdoch pushed it open and they stepped inside. A woman, bound and gagged, was in a chair in the middle of the room. It was Mrs. Gregory.
Her head was drooping on her chest and for a moment he thought she might be dead. However, as he crossed the floor toward her, she jerked into consciousness, her eyes widened in terror.
“Mrs. Gregory, we are police officers.”
The gag was a woollen scarf that had been tightened cruelly around her mouth. Murdoch tugged it free and the woman began to scream.
“It’s all right, ma’am. You are safe,” he said, even though she probably couldn’t hear him above her own screams.
“Charlie, take her outside. I’ll check the studio.”
Thick smoke was rolling underneath the door to the adjoining room. Murdoch thought he could hear the crackling of flames.
Seymour began to untie the woman’s arms, and all the while she never stopped screaming. Murdoch left him to deal with her. He ran over to the other door and threw it open.
“Reordan? Are you in here?”
The smoke was so dense, he started to cough violently. Holding up his arm to shield his eyes he managed to get to the window. He’d snatched up Seymour’s night stick, and he used it to smash the glass. The fresh air came in with a rush and the smoke billowed and rolled but began to pour out of the window. Murdoch turned around, able to see more clearly.
On the dais in the very chair he himself had sat was a man, also tightly bound. He was not tied or gagged because there was no danger that he would run or call out. The entire side of his head was destroyed from the blast of a revolver, by the looks of it. There was enough of his face left for Murdoch to recognize the young man he had encountered when he first went to the Emporium. Ralph Tibbett. His upper torso was drenched in blood from the head wound but what was worse was that his trouser buttons had been opened and blood still seeped from the injury that had been inflicted on him. He had been castrated.
CHAPTER
FORTY
T
here was a loud crack from the other side of the room and more smoke gusted underneath the door and through the frame. Murdoch knew he couldn’t wait for the fire truck to arrive. He didn’t know if anybody was alive or where Reordan was. He wrapped his muffler around his nose and mouth and shoved open the door that led to Gregory’s apartment.
The entire opposite wall seemed to be on fire, flames licking at the window frames and mantelpiece. However, opening the door had allowed some of the smoke to escape and he could see well enough.
In the centre of the room, as yet untouched by fire, was one of the most macabre scenes he had ever witnessed and it was to haunt him ever after.
Gregory was bound hand and foot to one of the central pillars. He was gagged but his eyes were open and he was alive. Stacked all around him in a pyre, were dozens of photographic cards and loose papers. John Reordan was in the process of emptying a drawer of folders on to the heap. Hearing Murdoch, he spun around. He had a revolver in his hand and he immediately pointed it.
“Don’t come any closer, Will. You don’t deserve to die, but I’ll kill you if you try to stop me.” His voice was hoarse.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Reordan continued to shove papers toward the pyre with his foot but without taking his eyes off Murdoch for a moment. “That’s it exactly. I’m sending him to hell.” He uttered a cry that was half sob. “I have very good reasons, Will.”
“John, he’ll be tried and sent down for a long time, I promise you.”
“That’s not enough.”
Murdoch went to say something, but Reordan yelled at him. “There’s more to it than you know. It’s personal.”
He was coughing from the smoke and very agitated but the gun was steady. Out of the corner of his eye, Murdoch saw Gregory heave against his bonds. Reordan saw him too and responded by throwing another folder on the pyre. He jerked his head in Gregory’s direction.
“He’s the one who tarred and feathered me…When you showed me that photograph of a man with his cock exposed, I recognized that man too, or should I say
it
. He has scars from the clap on his shaft. I dealt with him next door, and now I’m dealing with this one.”
Murdoch risked a glance at Gregory, whose frightened eyes fastened on his in desperation.
Reordan barked out at him. “Charlie told you he pissed on me, but he didn’t know the worst. Both of them raped me afterward.” Murdoch tried a small step forward but Reordan kept the revolver steadily aimed at his head. “When you said you suspected Gregory of doing those photographs and that he was an Englishman. I knew it was him. And I was right, of course. I’d know his voice if I was dying. If I’d gone blind, I’d know that voice.” He kicked some more cards to the heap, which Murdoch could see had been splattered with fluid. A smashed lamp on the floor indicated what that splatter was. Reordan was seized with a spasm of coughing but didn’t break his focus on Murdoch.
“I’m not the first person he’s raped. You should see these cards and photographs. He was going to set something up with two young boys. I saw them when I came here.”
Murdoch eased forward again. The smoke was worse and his eyes were stinging and watering so badly he could hardly see. He raised his voice over the noise of the flames.
“John, don’t do this, I swear I’ll bring him to justice.”
Reordan gave a sort of laugh. “Come on, Murdoch. You must have seen Tibbett out there. There’s no going back for me. Can you blame me? They’re getting what they deserve.”
Murdoch didn’t know how much of this Gregory could hear but he was still struggling futilely with the bonds. He obviously knew what Reordan intended.
With his gun still aimed at Murdoch, Reordan reached to a table behind him where there was a lit candle in a holder.
Murdoch yelled at him. “John, stop. I’m not going to stand by and watch you burn a man alive.”
He tried another step. Reordan cocked the hammer of the gun. “Don’t be a fool, Will. This toe-ragger isn’t worth it.” Quickly, he stooped down and applied the candle flame to the paper. With a whoosh, the paper, soaked with lamp oil, burst into flames.
Then they both heard the bell of the fire truck as it raced toward the building. For one crucial second, Reordan was distracted and glanced over his shoulder. Murdoch leapt forward and grabbed his wrist, and they locked in a bizarre dance, pivoting and twisting. But his assailant had a demented strength and he flung Murdoch to the ground. He rolled to one side, expecting to be shot, keeping his eye on Reordan. The Irishman lowered the gun, then suddenly thrust it underneath his own chin and pulled the trigger. The impact threw him backward into the heart of the fire. Murdoch scrambled to his feet and waded into the burning pile, kicking away the cards and paper. The flames had raced greedily toward Gregory and his clothing and hair were on fire. The rope cords that were binding him were also burning. At the edge of his consciousness, Murdoch could feel pain in his own legs, but he tugged Gregory free, and dragged him away from the flames.