Except the Dying

by Maureen Jennings

  There was a discreet tapping at the door and Edith Foy entered, manoeuvring the breakfast tea trolley.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Rhodes.”

  “Good morning.”

  Edith wheeled the trolley to the fireplace, where there was a bowlegged Chinese table and a plush-covered armchair.

  “I hope you slept well, madam.”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Shall I build up the fire?”

  “If you please.”

  Donalda poured herself a cup of tea from the silver pot and added a slice of lemon and a piece of sugar. There was a bread roll and a dish of stewed compote on the tray for her breakfast.

  “Is Master Owen awake?”

  “Not as yet, madam. Shall I have Foy call him?”

  “No, I’ll do it. But you can start drawing his bath.”

  She sipped at her tea, enjoying the warmth of the cup in her hands. “Where is Theresa? Is she still unwell?”

  The housekeeper was poking at the fire, her back to Donalda.

  “To tell the truth, madam, I don’t rightly know.”

  She turned around and there was a strange expression on her face, a hint of pleasure curling at the side of her mouth. “She’s gone.”

  Donalda stared at her. “I don’t understand. To church, you mean?”

  “No, madam.” Edith took a piece of paper out of her apron pocket. “I went to her room first thing, seeing as she had not yet shown her face in the kitchen and I was concerned she might still be feeling poorly.” She handed Donalda the note. “This was on her bed.”

  Donalda unfolded it. The message was written in pencil in childish big letters.

  I HAVE GONE BACK HOME. I MISS EVERYBODY TO MUCH. YOUR OBEDIENT SERVANT, Therese Laporte.

  “Good gracious. What does it mean?”

  “Just what it says, I think, madam. She’s gone off back to Chatham, most like.”

  “But why?”

  “Like she says there. She was homesick.”

  “I know she was at first, but not lately. She seemed to have settled down nicely.”

  “Not really, madam. She put on a good face with you because she knew that it bothered you to see her carrying on so, but I heard her weeping away nights.”

  “You should have told me.”

  “I didn’t want to trouble you with such silly matters, madam. I kept expecting she’d get over it.”

  “When did she leave?”

  “I can’t rightly say. I was concerned about her last night and looked in, as was only right. The room was dark and I thought she was sleeping and didn’t disturb her. However, this morning I found that she’d put a bolster under the quilt to make it look like she was in bed. She didn’t want her getaway to be discovered too soon. Cunning child that she is. Not giving a care to those who would worry about her.”

  “I find it so hard to believe that she wouldn’t say anything.”

  “Ungrateful, if you ask me. She should have given notice at least. And you taking her under your wing the way you did, madam.”

  Donalda wanted to snap at her housekeeper, speak out in the girl’s defence, but she knew that would be foolish. There was bad feeling enough. Donalda had taken to Therese from the start. She was sweet-tempered and eager to please, whereas Mrs. Foy, efficient though she was, often had an aggrieved put-upon sort of air that was unpleasant.

  The housekeeper came over to the tea trolley and, unasked, poured more tea into Donalda’s cup.

  “I haven’t wanted to say anything, madam, because I know you showed a fondness to the girl, but she was a sly one …”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “She looked like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, but –”

  “Yes, do go on.” Donalda couldn’t hide her irritation.

  Edith tightened her lips. “Little Miss Laporte was a thief.”

  “I don’t believe that!”

  “It is quite true, madam. Last Thursday my silver brooch went missing from my room, and also my husband’s watch fob. A real gold piece it is, that he’s most fond of. I found them in the girl’s room. Tucked into the back of the wardrobe.”

  “How do you know they were stolen?”

  “Begging your pardon, madam, I don’t see as how they could have walked there.”

  “Why would anyone steal jewellery only to leave it behind?”

  “I can’t pretend to understand the mind of a thief, madam. I only tell you what I found … There was another thing, madam.”

  Edith sounded as if she had something delicious in her mouth. Donalda was positive she actually smacked her lips.

  “I found a box of handkerchiefs in her drawer. Untouched. I distinctly remember they were the ones Dr. Rhodes himself gave you yourself as a Christmas present. Lovely Irish linen they are. If that isn’t proof I don’t know what is.”

  “Nonsense. I gave them to Theresa myself.”

  “Oh, I see. I beg your pardon, madam, I didn’t realize –”

  “I didn’t much care for them.”

  “Of course, madam. You can do whatever you wish with your own belongings.”

  “Thank you, Edith, I shall keep that in mind.”

  “Yes, madam. Will there be anything else?”

  “I assume you plan to inform the police about the thefts.”

  Edith lowered her eyes quickly. “I don’t wish to be uncharitable. I have them back and as long as there’s nothing else missing I am willing to let the matter drop.”

  “In that case we had better question the doctor and Mr. Owen. Neither has reported any loss so far, but perhaps they should check their cufflinks and pins.”

  “Yes, madam. Will you be wanting me to advertise again?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Perhaps this time we could request an orphan girl? They appreciate a good position more than most young women do these days. The Wrights got someone from the Barnardo Home in Peterborough and she has worked out most satisfactorily.”

  “Very well.”

  “I’ll see to it tomorrow.” Edith picked up the note from the tea trolley. “We don’t need this, do we?” Before Donalda could protest, she threw it into the fire. The flames devoured it in a moment.

  “What dress would you wish me to lay out this morning, madam?”

  Donalda was staring at the black fragments of paper as they floated up the chimney. “What did you say?”

  “Your dress, madam? Which one today?”

  “My wool plaid, I think. The church is never warm enough.”

  “Perhaps your cashmere undervest, then, madam?”

  Edith went into the adjacent dressing room. Donalda was glad to be out of her sight. She could feel tears stinging at the back of her eyes. Inappropriate tears, she knew, but the anguish of her dream was still close and she was hurt by Theresa’s callous behaviour. In spite of the inequality between them she thought there had been real affection. She was obviously wrong.

  When Edith returned to the kitchen with the breakfast tray, her husband was sitting at the table with Joe, the stable lad. The boy was gulping down hot porridge and John Foy was sipping noisily from a mug of steaming tea.

  “’Bout time you stuck your head out of the den,” she said.

  Foy spooned more sugar into the mug, took another drink, smacked his lips and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “I said it was about time you got down here,” she repeated.

  “I heard you,” grunted Foy.

  “It’s almost a quarter to ten. Master Owen needs his bath drawn and you should get the doctor’s breakfast going.”

  Foy sipped his tea slowly. His wife glared. “What’s wrong with you? You look like something the cat brought in.”

  “Don’t go at me, woman. I was up late last night.”

  “Oh?”

  “Oh, yourself. What do you know? You were whistling at the angels.”

  “Why were you up late, then, Mr. Clever?”

  “Because the doctor couldn’t get in.
”

  “What do you mean he couldn’t get in?”

  Her husband was spinning out his tale, knowing it would irritate her to no end if he was privy to something she wasn’t.

  “The door was bolted. Fortunately for him, I was awake.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Must have been at least two o’clock.”

  “Where was he ’til that godforsaken hour in the morning?”

  “At his consulting rooms. He enjoys it there. It’s quiet and peaceful.”

  “How do you know?”

  “How do you think? Because the doctor speaks English and I understand English. He told me.”

  “Who bolted the door?”

  “Must have been Mr. Owen. He took Miss Shepcote home. Poor thing was very poorly, sneezing all over the china the entire evening. I suppose when he come back he shot the bolt, not knowing Doctor was out.”

  Edith took a pair of gloves out of her pocket and wriggled her fingers into them. They were a tight fit.

  “Where’d you get those?” asked Foy.

  “I found them.”

  “Where?”

  “It don’t matter where.” She smoothed the black leather gloves. “What were you doing going round the house at two o’clock in the morning?”

  “I couldn’t sleep. Not with the racket you were making. So I got up. Thought I might as well make sure everything was tidy downstairs. Good thing I did too. The doctor had been out there knocking the wood off the door. Could have got his death of cold.”

  She spoke sharply. “I hope you’re watching yourself, John Foy. This is a good position for us.”

  Neither of them had acknowledged the presence of Joe Seaton, who had not raised his eyes from his bowl of porridge. He finished, picked up his dish and went over to the sink. Edith noticed him.

  “See you give it a good rinse.”

  He didn’t say anything. He never did, and they had got into the habit of treating him as if he were deaf and dumb, which he wasn’t.

  “You’d better go and get the carriage ready,” continued Edith. “They’ll be leaving soon. I don’t know what’s the matter with you stableboys. You couldn’t find your way out of a maze if a string was tied to your whatnot.”

  Joe’s predecessor had left the Rhodeses’ employ the summer before without any warning. Although Joe had never clapped eyes on the boy, Edith always spoke as if they were in a wilful collusion.

  She tapped her husband on the shoulder. “As for you, if you don’t hurry up with that bath, they’ll all miss church. And we wouldn’t like that to happen, would we?”

  “I haven’t finished my tea yet. Where’s Tess? She can do it.”

  Edith stroked the sleek kid of her gloves, finger by finger.

  Foy watched her over the edge of his mug of tea. “Is she still poorly?”

  “She’s gone. She’s left.”

  “Gone? What the Jesus do you mean?”

  “What I say, and I’ll thank you not to take the Lord’s name in vain … She was homesick. Couldn’t stand it here a minute longer. She’s gone home.”

  “Home?”

  “There’s an echo in here.”

  “To Chatham, you mean.”

  “That’s where she’s from, so I assume that is where she is heading.”

  “Will you please explain what the Christ you are going on about? How d’you know she’s gone home?”

  Edith reached over and put her hand on top of her husband’s. There was no affection in the touch. “I told the mistress that the girl ran away because she was homesick. I told her she left a letter. She left it on her bed. For me to find. Said she missed her home. You know how she was always going on about that sister of hers …”

  Joe made a strange grunting noise, and the Foys stared at him.

  “What’s wrong, lost your sweetheart?” asked John maliciously.

  “Leave him alone.”

  “It’s true. I seen him making sheep’s eyes at her.”

  “Never mind that. Listen to me. I also told the mistress that Therese stole some of our jewellery.”

  “She didn’t do that.”

  “Oh yes, she did. You see I found your fob in her bedroom.”

  “Oh, get away …”

  She gripped his hand hard. “That gold bit went missing weeks ago. You said you’d dropped it at the lodge. But there it was. How would it have ended up in the girl’s room if she didn’t steal it?”

  He stared at her, then jerked his hand out from beneath her gloved one. “You’ve got all the answers, haven’t you?”

  She began to peel off the tight black gloves. “One of us has to, don’t we … Now, why don’t you get along and draw that bath. You, Joe, swill out your bowl and get going. You’d think the royal princess had vanished, to see the both of you.”

  Joe pumped out some water and washed his bowl and spoon. If the other two had paid him any attention at all they might have noticed how slumped over he was. They might have seen that his thin, pale face was taut with misery.

  Joe already knew that Therese had gone.

  Chapter Four

  SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 10

  AT SIX O’CLOCK MURDOCH SENT CRABTREE to bring Cavendish to the morgue so he could do a likeness of the dead girl. He and two constables had called at all the houses on the nearby streets with no success. There were the usual number of unlikely identifications but nothing he could believe. Nobody had come in to number four with information, and telegrams to the other stations had so far yielded nothing. When Murdoch finally left for home the brief grey winter day was long gone. The street lamps were lit and the persistent snow swirled around the posts, shining in the gas light. His lodgings were on Ontario Street, an easy walking distance from the station. He was tired and hungry and glad not to have far to go.

  Three years ago Father Fair, the priest at St. Paul’s, had referred him to the Kitchens, who were also Roman Catholic. His previous digs had been with a Presbyterian widow whose faith was as hard and uncompromising as the Rock on which she claimed her church was built. It was a relief to Murdoch to live with his fellow parishioners. There was no frown of disapproval when he left for Mass. No muttered prayer of fear when he hung his crucifix above his bed. And he didn’t have to find ways to dispose of the roast beef his previous landlady had always served on Fridays.

  The Kitchen house was one-half of a double with white bargeboards edging the brown gables. In the summertime both dwellings were covered with grape-ivy, but now the runners were like tracings on the orange brick. He let himself in.

  The hallway was redolent with the smell of fried meat, and a burst of saliva filled his mouth. On Sunday all restaurants and shops were closed and the only food he’d eaten all day was half a cheese sandwich that the duty sergeant had shared with him. His stomach rumbled. He was looking forward to his tea.

  The far door opened and Beatrice Kitchen came out to greet him. She was a tiny woman, as neat as a nuthatch, with fine grey hair worn flat and smooth to her head.

  “Mr. Murdoch, you’re so late. You must be famished. I’ll wager you didn’t have a thing to eat all day.”

  “You are absolutely right on all counts.”

  She took his hat and coat and hung them on the coat tree. “You’ve been dealing with that poor murdered girl, I’m sure,” she was tut-tutting as she dusted the snow from his hat and coat.

  “You heard about it, then?”

  “Yes, I did. May Brogan – you’ve heard me mention her, I’m sure; she was so poorly all winter – well, in any case she came to Mass late and she was all of a fluster, I could see that right away. After the service she told me about the police finding a dead girl in St. Luke’s Lane. May lives at the corner of St. Luke’s and Sumach, so she heard all the commotion. She wondered if I knew anything, seeing as how you live here, but I said I was in the dark myself. A constable had come to fetch you early this morning, but that was all I could say.”

  Murdoch hovered awkwardly in the narrow hall, pinned b
y his landlady’s excitement.

  “Not that I would tell May anything that I shouldn’t, as you know. Oh, dear, look at you shivering here. All in good time … Come on down to the kitchen and get yourself warm. I made you a nice bit of liver.”

  Murdoch rubbed his hands together to restore the circulation. “Thank you, Mrs. K. Right now I could eat moss off a rock.” He nodded in the direction of the parlour. “How’s himself?”

  “Not so good today. But he’ll cheer up when he knows you’re home. He was very interested in the story of the dead girl. He’s got all sorts of ideas already. You know what he’s like.”

  “I’ll be glad to hear them. We’ve got nowhere so far.”

  Murdoch meant what he said. He’d come to value Arthur Kitchen’s shrewdness, and talking over the incidents of his day had become a routine they both looked forward to.

  Last winter Arthur Kitchen had developed a hacking cough, and it soon became apparent he had the consumption. Until then he’d had a good job as a railway clerk, but when his condition was known, he was fired with some paltry excuse. A tiny pension from an insurance company was all he had to live on. Over the last six months his health had deteriorated to the point where he no longer left the house, spending his time confined to the small front parlour. Murdoch was the only lodger now; others had moved out when they realized what the sickness was.

  Murdoch followed his landlady to the kitchen and as they passed the parlour, he could hear the bubbling cough.

  “I’ll just say hello,” he said. With a knock, he opened the parlour door.

  The room was icy cold. Mrs. Kitchen had heard that fresh air was good for tubercular patients, and she kept the window open day and night. Murdoch wasn’t convinced the sooty blasts that came in from the Toronto streets were equivalent to fresh Muskoka breezes, but Arthur found the cold air relieved the discomfort of his constant fever. When he saw who it was, his gaunt face lit up.

  “Evening, Bill. Late tonight.”

  He was seated in a wicker Bath chair, wrapped in a quilt. Handy beside him was a spittoon. The room was thick with the rotten odour of consumptive lungs.

  “Evening yourself, Arthur. You’ve heard about the case, I understand –”