Except the Dying

by Maureen Jennings

  “Can I get you a cup of tea, sir?” asked Murdoch.

  The doctor shook his head and reached inside his coat, which was of fine sheared lamb.

  “My card.”

  Murdoch studied the piece of cardboard. Substantial, glossy white, plain black script.

  DR. CYRIL RHODES

  (Specializing in nervous diseases)

  387 Church Street

  He took his time, allowing the doctor to settle down.

  “I understand you can identify the dead girl we’re seeking information about?”

  Rhodes nodded. “I do believe she is, er, was, our maid Therese.”

  Murdoch held out the photograph. “Was this her?”

  Rhodes swallowed nervously. “Yes. Regrettably it is.”

  “Her full name?”

  “Therese Laporte.”

  “French-Canadian?”

  “Yes. She was from somewhere near Chatham, I believe.” Rhodes tugged on his trim beard. “W-what happened?”

  “We don’t know yet. One of our constables found her body in the early hours of Sunday morning. Over near Sumach Street. You live up in Yorkville Village, sir?”

  “That’s right. Birchlea House on Lowther Avenue.”

  Murdoch wrote that down. “She seems to have been a long way from home. What would she be doing over this way?”

  “I can’t-t say. I heard on Sunday morning that she had left. Sort of run away, really. She’s been with us for the past six months but apparently she was home … er, home … homesick. Our housekeeper, Mrs. Foy, found a note she’d left. My wife will be very distressed when she finds out. She was fond of the … the girl. Spent a lot of time with her. Training and whatnot.”

  His words trailed off and he gazed at Murdoch anxiously. Then he patted his coat. “Sorry, I can’t linger. I was at my office when I saw the notice. I had to postpone my appointments. Th-thought this was im-important. You’ll want me to make a formal identification, I presume?”

  “Yes, I will.”

  Rhodes was about to stand up but Murdoch frowned at him.

  “I have to ask you a few more questions, sir.”

  “I don’t know much more than I’ve already said.”

  “What were the exact contents of the note?”

  “What?”

  “The note that your cook found – what did it say?”

  “Didn’t look at it myself, but apparently it was about wanting to return home. She was from the country, you see. Got quite homesick. Often do these, these … they often do, these girls.”

  “Indeed. Toronto must be a big change for them. When did you yourself last see Miss Laporte?”

  “Hmm. I suppose it was shortly before the evening meal. Fiveish on Sat-Saturday. She was setting the table.”

  “Did she seem herself?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Did she seem ill in any way?”

  “Not that I noticed, although she didn’t serve that night. Mrs. Foy said she was indisposed. Seems now as if that wasn’t true. She was probably planning her getaway. Dratted inconvenient. My wife spent considerable time training her. She seemed most suitable. Now we’ve got to start all over again.”

  “So you do.”

  Murdoch thought he’d kept his voice neutral, but the doctor glanced at him sharply and blushed suddenly like a boy. He was not quite so self-centred and impervious as he seemed.

  “You d-do … you don’t understand,” he said.

  “Understand what, sir?”

  Rhodes waved his hand. “No m-matter. It is not relevant.”

  He patted his coat again, which seemed to be a habitual nervous gesture. “I do have appointments to meet …”

  “Of course. I will need to come to the house and talk to your servants afterwards.” Murdoch thought this was a good time to give out some more information, and he explained about the body being naked. Rhodes seemed suitably shocked.

  “We’ll need a description of her clothing,” added Murdoch. “I don’t suppose you could help us in that regard, could you, Doctor?”

  “I’m afraid not. She was the, er, maid … after all.”

  “She wore a uniform, didn’t she, sir?”

  “Yes, of … of course. A dark skirt, or dress rather, white apron, white cap. The usual sort of thing.”

  There was another knock from the hallway and Crabtree came in and handed Murdoch a cardboard box.

  “The postmortem report, sir. Just delivered.”

  Murdoch hesitated for a moment. “Do you mind if I take a quick look at this, Doctor?”

  Rhodes pulled out his watch again and studied it. “If you must …”

  Murdoch was already reading the report.

  Toronto. February 11, 1895

  This is to certify that I, Robert Moffat, a legally qualified physician in the city of Toronto, did this day make a postmortem examination upon the body of a woman, not yet identified. The body is that of a well-nourished young woman about fifteen or sixteen years of age. There were no clothes on the body when it was brought into the morgue. The abdominal organs, kidneys, and liver are normal in size. Bladder is contracted and empty.

  The immediate cause of death was asphyxiation. This was brought about by the extreme cold weather, which caused the lungs to go into contraction and therefore no oxygen reached the brain and heart. There were injuries to the left elbow, which was dislocated, and the left ankle, which was severely bruised. These injuries may have occurred after death and are consistent with limbs being displaced while in the grip of rigor mortis.

  Murdoch finished reading while Rhodes fidgeted.

  “Bad news, is it?” he asked finally. “She wasn’t, er, wasn’t attacked, I hope?”

  Murdoch put down the paper. “No, she froze to death. However, as I’m sure you know, Doctor, a person doesn’t just lie down and take a nap in freezing weather.”

  “Great heavens, she wasn’t inebriated, was she?”

  “Apparently not. Did she have a history of drinking?”

  “Not that I know of. Young g-girl, after all.”

  “It’s not unusual. Anyway, that’s beside the point….” He looked Rhodes squarely in the eyes. “She was with child. About six weeks along.”

  Rhodes recoiled. “Dear Lord!”

  “I gather this is a surprise to you, sir?”

  “Of c-c-course it is. I mean, she d-didn’t seem that sort of girl, not at all. Good gracious, my wife will be very upset.”

  “Perhaps that was the real reason Miss Laporte left your house so abruptly.”

  “I … well, I suppose it could be.”

  “Did she have a sweetheart that you know of, sir?”

  Rhodes blinked. “Mr. Murdoch, I am dreadfully sorry for the girl but she was only my maid. I do not concern myself with the private lives of my servants.”

  “Did your wife ever mention it?”

  “No, she did not.”

  Murdoch picked up his pen. “Would you give me the names of the other members of the household?”

  “Are you only interested in the males?” There was an unexpected note of sarcasm in Rhodes’s voice, but Murdoch liked him better for it.

  “Everybody, if you please,” he said politely.

  “There is my wife, Donalda, my son, Owen. The butler, John Foy, and his wife, Edith. A stableboy, Seaton, er … I don’t recall his Christian name. Those are all the servants we keep. We live quite simply.”

  “How old is your son?”

  Rhodes raised his eyebrows and looked as if the question were too forward, but he answered. “Twenty-t-two.”

  “And the stableboy?”

  “I have no idea. About thirteen, I would imagine.”

  Rhodes patted his watch pocket. He was going to wear a hole in it at this rate.

  “Doctor, you said you saw Miss Laporte at the dinner hour. Were you at home for the rest of the evening?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Murdoch, I fail to see … Why do you ask?”

  “Answer t
he question if you please, sir.”

  The doctor flushed at his tone. “Well, let me see … In fac-fact I was not at home that evening. Miss Shepcote was not well and the evening ended fairly early. I had some important work to do at my consulting rooms so I went there afterwards.”

  “Miss Shepcote?”

  “She and her father, Alderman Shepcote, were our dinner guests. She and my son are, er, well, we, er, hope they will be betrothed fairly soon.”

  “What time did you leave your house?”

  “I don’t know exactly. Somewhere after nine. Owen took Miss Shepcote home in our carriage and I left a little later with Mr. Shepcote, who let me off at my office.”

  “And when did you return home?”

  “Detective Murdoch, I must say these questions are s-starting to sound impertinent. What does it have to do with the girl’s death?”

  “Allow me to read this section of the doctor’s report:

  I was suspicious about the state of the deceased’s pupils, that is to say they were contracted to the point of pinpricks. There was a distinctive odour to the organs which I recognised as that of opium. When I examined the bruise on the right forearm under a glass my suspicions were confirmed. There was a tiny puncture in the vein consistent with the mark of a syringe. I then tested blood samples and found significant residue of the drug opium or a derivative such as morphine …”

  Rhodes gasped, but Murdoch kept on reading.

  “My estimate is that there was not sufficient amount of the drug to bring about death but certainly enough to have induced unconsciousness. It is diffcult to say when this would have occurred but might have happened anywhere from ten minutes to half an hour after injection. If she lost consciousness on the street, as seems to be the case, she would have been unable to withstand the freezing temperature. The stomach was empty. She had not eaten recently, which would also contribute to the power of the drug. There were what looked like bruises from a hand-grip on her arm as well. My surmise is that she was held forcibly while the injection was administered. Some person or persons is criminally culpable for her death.

  I am your servant, R.D. Moffat, M.D.”

  Murdoch paused and regarded Rhodes. “Perhaps now you can see the need for me to ask questions no matter how impertinent they seem?”

  Before the doctor could respond there was another tap and Crabtree thrust his head through the reed curtain.

  “’Scuse me, sir, but there’s a gentleman out in the hall. A Mr. Shepcote. He won’t wait.”

  Murdoch looked at Rhodes. “Could this be your dinner guest?”

  At that moment the man himself appeared. He wasn’t as tall as the constable but he was as wide, and a heavy raccoon coat made him wider. “Rhodes?”

  He had a booming voice, and Murdoch didn’t miss the almost involuntary flinching that occurred in Dr. Rhodes. Or the look of utter distaste that crossed his face. However, he got to his feet.

  “Shepcote, I’m in here.”

  Crabtree backed away, squeezing past the newcomer, and Shepcote pushed through the curtain into the little cubicle. He ignored Murdoch and addressed Rhodes.

  “Must be true, then? It is your maid that’s been found. Harriet said it was her. What in Hades happened to the girl?”

  Murdoch intervened. “Mr. Shepcote, I’m Detective Murdoch, the investigator on the case.”

  The alderman had a red wind-whipped face, thick blond sidewhiskers and prominent blue eyes. He considered Murdoch for a moment, then thrust out his hand.

  “’Pologies for bursting in like this. But it was a shock, seeing as how it was Saturday when I saw the girl alive. I thought I’d better do my duty and get over here. What in Hades happened?” he asked again.

  Murdoch turned to Rhodes. “Would you mind waiting for me outside, Doctor? I’d like to talk to Mr. Shepcote in private for a moment.”

  “Outside? In the h-h-hall?”

  Rhodes was reacting as if Murdoch had suggested he go sit in the privy.

  “Did you come by carriage? There, if you prefer.”

  Rhodes left and Shepcote took the chair, undoing his heavy coat. Murdoch knew who he was. He owned the Signal, a popular morning newspaper, and he’d used it as a vehicle to get himself elected to the city council, splashing the front page for a month with his portrait and highly flattering endorsements from local businessmen. As far as Murdoch was concerned the man was welcome to the job.

  Shepcote was watching him with his head turned to a slight angle, as if one eye was sharper than the other.

  “What’s the story? What happened to that poor girl?”

  Murdoch avoided a direct answer. “I understand you dined with Dr. Rhodes on Saturday. Is that where you saw Therese Laporte?”

  “That’s it. She’s their maid, or was, I should say.”

  “How did she seem?”

  “I can’t say I paid much notice. She took my hat and coat and I went into the drawing room.”

  “Did she appear distressed? Ill? Disturbed in any way?”

  Shepcote gave a snort. “Strange question, isn’t it? Like I said, I didn’t pay her any attention. I was there to visit Rhodes and his wife, not to hobnob with the servants.”

  Murdoch kept his head down as he made notes. “I can take that as a no, then, can I, sir?”

  “You can.”

  “I understand you gave Dr. Rhodes a ride in your carriage at the end of the evening. You left him off at his office.”

  “That’s it.”

  “What time was that, sir?”

  “I’ve no idea. Must have been before ten.”

  “Where did you go then?”

  Shepcote’s face went even redder. “Look here! I came here as a good citizen because I thought I knew some poor dead girl. Why the hell are you questioning me like I was a candidate for St. Vincent’s?”

  Murdoch would have dearly liked to tell him to sod off but that was too dangerous a thing to do with an alderman.

  “Because I’m investigating a serious incident. At the least we’re dealing with manslaughter, at the worst, murder.”

  That shut his nab. Murdoch pulled over the postmortem report and read it aloud again.

  Shepcote tugged a large bird’s-eye handkerchief out of his inner pocket and wiped at his face. “Good God! Shows you can never tell with wenches. One in the basket! She didn’t seem like a willing tit.”

  “We can’t make assumptions, can we, sir? Connections could have been forced on her.”

  “Wouldn’t she have said something? Told her mistress?”

  “Not necessarily. She’d be afraid to lose her position.”

  The alderman stared at him for a moment in his lopsided way, then shook his head violently. “Terrible thing, terrible. But see here, Sergeant, you can count on my help. I’ll make it front-page news.”

  And it’ll sell you more papers, thought Murdoch.

  “Thank you, Mr. Shepcote. If Dr. Rhodes confirms the identification at the morgue, I can go right over and get a description of the clothes she was wearing. It’ll help us to trace her movements. Perhaps I could bring that information to the paper later today?”

  “Of course.”

  Murdoch flipped the sheet of paper in his notebook. “And where did you go after you let off Dr. Rhodes?”

  “What? Oh, yes. I went over to my club.”

  “Which one is that, sir?”

  “The Yeoman Club on River Street. I stayed there ’til midnight or so, then went home. I suppose you’d like my address? One hundred and twenty Berkeley Street.”

  “Did you drive the carriage yourself?”

  “I did not. Them days have long gone. I’ve got a man, George Canning. You can ask him, if you doubt my word.”

  “It’s not a matter of doubt, sir.”

  There was the sound of footsteps out in the hall and again Constable Crabtree loomed outside the curtain. “Dr. Rhodes wants to know if you’ll be much longer. The horse is getting cold.”

  “I’ll be right
there.”

  Shepcote stood up to leave.

  “Just one more question, sir,” said Murdoch. “Do you have any opinion as to who might have had connections with the girl?”

  “Hardly.”

  “You’re a shrewd man, Mr. Shepcote. Did you notice anything at all? Anyone eyeing the girl? Any little glances, a brush of the hand, that sort of thing?”

  “You’re sounding like a novel, sir. Our encounter must have lasted a minute. Didn’t see her after that. But if you’re looking for a culprit, you should go talk to the Rhodeses’ stableboy. He’s a home boy and we all know they have the morals of dogs.” His voice grew louder and with a certain ring as if he were addressing eager members of the Mechanics Institute. “As a matter of fact, I’m bringing a bill to the council as soon as I can. We’ve got to limit our intake of immigrants. These children they send us are the offspring of degenerates and criminals. It’s in their blood. You only have to take one gander at that boy and you can tell. Shifty-eyed as they come!”

  “I understand the boy’s only thirteen.”

  “So what? I’ve known boys like him and younger who’ve sired naturals like rutting dogs.”

  “I’ll speak to him, sir. Thank you for coming.”

  “Yes, of course. Terrible business it is for certain. But I’ll wager a month’s salary that boy’s the culprit.”

  And I’ll wager we’ll see that in your paper tomorrow morning, thought Murdoch. And a lot of people will be only too ready to believe you.

  He was also struck by the fact that neither Rhodes nor Shepcote had commented on the presence of opium in the girl’s body.

  Chapter Six

  MONDAY, FEBRUARY II

  OWEN RHODES FINISHED FASTENING the skate blade to Harriet’s boot.

  “There you go. Ready?”

  He pulled her arm through his and they glided off onto the ice. The rink was a cleared patch of the frozen river Don. Later it would get crowded, young men and women meeting after working hours to skate in the torchlight, but now in the morning the other skaters were mostly boys playing truant from school. A ragged bunch nearby had one pair of skate blades among them, and a fierce quarrel erupted as they tried to determine whose turn it was next. Some other boys were sliding on pieces of cardboard and shouting with delight.