Except the Dying

by Maureen Jennings

  “I’m terrible sorry, Ettie,” he said again. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  She shrugged. “Nothing to be done, is there? She’s gone.” Suddenly she slammed down her mug, splashing hot tea on her hand. She put her scalded fingers to her mouth. “Sod it, sod it,” she said. With her unburnt fist she started to pound on the table. “Sod it, sod it,” she kept repeating.

  Mrs. Kitchen added a spoonful of sugar to the tea and handed Murdoch the cup and saucer. He took a cautious sip. “Wonderful, Mrs. K. As usual.” She beamed. Making his tea exactly how he liked it was a source of delight for her.

  “Ready for your tonic, Arthur?” she asked her husband.

  “Now?”

  “You’ve only had seven. We should try to get in at least two more tonight.”

  There was a jug on the sideboard and beside it a bowl of eggs. She poured thick cream from the jug into a glass, cracked one of the eggs into it and gave them a thorough stir. She brought the yellowish mixture to her husband, who downed it in a couple of gulps and wiped his lips with gusto on the back of his sleeve.

  “Arthur,” she protested, “use your handkerchief. Where were you brought up?”

  Murdoch grinned. “I’m tempted to make up a few of those myself.”

  “You should. Good for you. I tell you I can feel the difference. In two days.”

  The cheery tone sounded false, not quite masking the underlying desperation. Arthur Kitchen had lived for a long time now with ever increasing debility and the certainty of a painful death. Murdoch fervently hoped this new treatment would work.

  As usual they were sitting underneath their quilts and he was relating the events of the day. Beatrice had lit the fire for his benefit but he’d insisted on leaving the window open as Arthur’s fever was high tonight.

  Beatrice sat down again. She had begun to decorate another box and the smell of glue and lacquer was thick and sweet in the air.

  “What’s that you’re doing, Mrs. K.?”

  She daubed some black lacquer onto one of her shells and surveyed it critically. “Mrs. Lewis said there was a call for mourning boxes, so I’m doing a black one for her. I’ll see if this works. The lacquer doesn’t stick too well … Go on, Mr. Murdoch.”

  “Not much more to say, really. Nobody seems to have known the man Alice left the hotel with.” He pulled up the sleeve of his cardigan to demonstrate. “He has a tattoo around his wrist and forearm. A snake. Not hard to recognize, but every last man of them says they never saw him before.”

  “They that put their hands in evil will perish by evil.” Beatrice’s metaphor was a little confused, but her expression wasn’t. Murdoch drank some more tea. He knew how kindhearted a woman Mrs. K. actually was, but when it came to certain kinds of immorality she knew no compromise. She hadn’t evinced any pity for Alice Black.

  “We also questioned everybody within a mile radius of the beach, but same story. Nobody saw anything.”

  “Are they to be believed?” asked Arthur.

  Murdoch nodded. “I’d say yes. Her friend, Ettie, swears Alice didn’t know anybody in that neighbourhood and had never been there. It’s more likely she was taken to the beach in a carriage. Her jacket was partially unbuttoned and Ettie says she was wearing a shawl, but that’s nowhere to be found and neither are her boots.”

  Murdoch stared into the fire. The dancing flames were making no headway against the cold coming in from the window, but they were soothing to watch. Tomorrow he was going to go to the Rhodeses’ house and show them the rosary. There’d been too much to do today.

  “How was himself?” asked Arthur.

  “A real Cossack. He kept going on about shirking. I wanted to tell him to feel my frozen feet.”

  Arthur laughed. “In a tender spot, I hope?”

  “Arthur!” exclaimed his wife, but she smiled too.

  “Exactly. He’s pushing me to arrest the lunatic but we’ve got nothing whatever to go on except the fact that the old man found the body. Unfortunately he doesn’t help matters by not answering questions. He just keeps yelling Scripture.”

  Beatrice paused for a moment in her arranging of the shells. “My mother’s cousin’s son used to do that. Not Scripture but nursery rhymes. Poor fellow got knocked down by a runaway horse when he was a boy, and it damaged his mind. He was never the same after that. No matter what you said to him, he’d rattle off a nursery rhyme. Nobody could make it out at first, but his mother was good with him and she finally figured he was speaking in riddles. The dear child didn’t live long. God in His mercy saw fit to take him to Heaven when he was only twelve.”

  “What do you mean he was speaking in riddles?”

  “Well, for instance, if she said, ‘Henry, what do you want for your tea?’ he’d answer, ‘Georgie porgie.’ What he meant was that he’d like some pudding. Or if he’d say, ‘Mittens,’ it meant bread and jam.”

  Arthur snorted. “Good thing his mother understood him. If it were up to me the fellow would’ve starved to death.”

  “If the old man is speaking in code, I don’t have the foggiest notion what it is,” said Murdoch. “He’s telling me we’re all damned and will get our punishment, and that seems pretty straightforward to me.” He yawned. “Well, it’s up the wooden hill for me. I have an early start again.”

  Arthur said, “I almost forgot, Will. Do you remember you was asking about a little dog, a Pekingese –”

  “Or a King Charles,” interrupted Beatrice.

  “It was a Peke, Mother. Something rang a bell so I looked at some of the back issues of the News. Listen to this. It was in Saturday’s paper.” He opened one of the newspapers that was beside him and read.

  LOST DOG. My dog vanished on Friday, while on his regular walk in the vicinity of Church and Queen. He is a purebred Pekingese. Light beige, large eyes. Answers to Bartholomew. Generous reward for information to his return. Contact Mrs. Shaw of Melita Ave.

  “I’ll make a note of that. By the way, what kind of dog is large as a pony, white and brown with long droopy ears and eyes like this?” He pulled down the lower lids of his eyes, exposing the red.

  “Oh, that’s a Newfoundland, for sure. Lovely dogs they are, but they drool a lot.”

  “That sounds right. If you come across any other notice in the paper concerning a dog like that, let me know.”

  Arthur grinned in pleasure. “I certainly will. They’re valuable dogs, they are.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Beatrice.

  “I have a suspicion Mr. Quinn is up to no good when it comes to canines,” said Murdoch.

  “He has a dog of his own, didn’t you say?” remarked Arthur.

  “That’s right, a noisy hound. Makes a heck of a row all the time.”

  “Must be a female.”

  “Arthur! What a thing to say.”

  “No, no, Mother, what I mean is the fellow’s probably using the old trick.”

  “What’s that?” asked Beatrice.

  “You want to pinch a dog and hold it for the reward, all you have to do is wait until it’s let off its leash, then parade your bitch in front of it. At certain times, she’s, er, irresistible. Off runs dog with only one thing on his mind, and the owner is left wringing his hands, ready to pay up to the kind rescuer of dear Marmalade or whatever he’s called.”

  Murdoch laughed. “You’ve got it, Arthur. On the other hand, we police can suspect our own mothers if we’re not careful. He just might have friends who trust him with their expensive dogs.”

  “Still, I’ll keep my eyes open for other notices.”

  Murdoch pushed off his quilt and stood up. “I’m off. Good night to both.”

  He shook hands and went up to his room. He considered having a pipe but he was too tired, so he undressed quickly and got into bed, shivering as his body touched the cold sheets. Blast, he had forgotten to practise his dance steps, and he’d missed his lesson this week. He’d better do an hour tomorrow or else he’d be a disgrace to the professor at t
he salon.

  The thought of holding a young woman in his arms made him restless again and he thumped his feather pillow into a hollow. Unbidden to his mind came the memory of a thin shoulder beneath his hand, shockingly warm to the touch. He turned over and gave his pillow another punch. Thoughts like that would get him exactly nowhere.

  Chapter Fourteen

  FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 15

  INSPECTOR BRACKENREID PUSHED ASIDE the reed strips and stepped into the detective’s cubicle. Murdoch was at his desk and got to his feet.

  “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “Bring me up to date on this bloody maid affair. The chief constable himself has sent a telegram wanting to know what is happening.”

  Murdoch pulled at his moustache. If Colonel Grasett was wondering and if Brackenreid was venturing out of his own office, somebody was turning up the wicks. Probably the alderman, Godfrey Shepcote. He struck Murdoch as the kind of man who liked to find a good cause to make a noise about.

  “I don’t have much new to report, sir. We’re still following up responses to the newspaper article, but so far nothing has opened up.”

  “And now we’ve got this other tart to worry about.”

  “Her name was Alice Black, sir.”

  “Who the sod cares? Did you get anything more out of the madman?”

  “No, sir. But I doubt he’s the killer. Zephaniah’s an old man. I can’t imagine him being able to overcome a young woman like Alice.”

  “Don’t be too cocky about that, Murdoch. Lunatics can have the strength of ten when they need to. Anyway, it’s the other business I’m more concerned about.”

  He nodded over at the wall, which the detective was using as a blackboard. “What’ve you got there?”

  “It’s a map of the area pertinent to the scene of the crime, sir.”

  “I hope that chalk will rub off.”

  “If it doesn’t I’ll personally whitewash the wall.”

  Brackenreid went closer. “Explain it to me, Murdoch.”

  “Here is where Therese’s body was discovered in the St. Luke’s laneway.” He picked up his ruler and tapped the places as he spoke. “Right here is where the newsboy, Carrots, claims to have seen her. He was at the corner of Church and Gerrard and he says she went past him going east along Gerrard.”

  “Why would she be doing that? I thought she was supposed to be going home. Surely she would have been heading for the train station? That’s at the bottom of Yonge Street.”

  “You’re quite right about that, Inspector, but I think I can guess what she was doing.”

  In spite of himself Murdoch felt eager to show him the progress of the investigation. “The dotted line is the route I believe she took when she left Birchlea. When Carrots saw her it must have been about twenty or twenty-five minutes past nine. Jimmy Matlock, another one of the newsboys, says he saw her crossing the road at Queen and Berkeley and he also remembers her walking east. He is vague about the time but says he’d just heard St. Paul’s chime the quarter hour. If we allow her twenty minutes or so to get from Carrots to Jimmy it would put the time at about a quarter to ten, give or take. She has walked south and is still going easterly –”

  “So? Get on with it, Murdoch.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Murdoch clenched his teeth to hold back his retort. He knew what Brackenreid was like when he was in one of his moods.

  “Therese was a young girl in trouble, and she was French-Canadian. In times of need I think we all seek out the familiar. What represents home to us …” He indicated a mark on King Street. “Here is the old Methodist church. Currently, it is being used by a small settlement of French-Canadians who live nearby. I’m guessing that’s where she was going.”

  He knew he was opening himself up to trouble by presenting this theory, and he regretted saying it almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth. The inspector hooted.

  “Blamed thin, if you ask me, Murdoch. If you were to find me walking up Bay Street, you couldn’t assume I was going anywhere in particular. What if I’d gone that way home on a whim, for a change of scenery?”

  “Not quite, sir. If I found you walking north on Bay Street, I’d assume you were going to the National Club.”

  “What? Oh, I suppose so, but regardless, my point stands.”

  “I’m just trying to work logically from what we know of the girl’s character and her circumstances.”

  “Are they the only two sightings, two guttersnipes?”

  “Yes, sir, so far, but I consider them to be reliable witnesses. They both gave a good description of the girl.”

  “All right. Go on. Tell me about the rest of your artwork.”

  “Here, with the blue squares, I’ve traced Owen Rhodes’s route. He left Birchlea at approximately nine o’clock to take Miss Shepcote to her home. He said he travelled across Bloor Street to Church, down to Gerrard, along Gerrard, then south on Berkeley to the Shepcote house, which is just below Queen Street. He claims he dallied there with Miss Shepcote until midnight, then went home via the same path. If in fact this was not the truth and he left Miss Shepcote earlier, he could easily have met up with Therese and taken her somewhere.”

  “Doesn’t Miss Shepcote verify his alibi?”

  “She does, sir, but she seemed very uncomfortable and I wasn’t sure she was telling the truth.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Murdoch. She is a well-brought-up young woman. She was probably shy about the fact they were unchaperoned at that hour. Besides, why should she lie?”

  “To give young Rhodes an alibi.”

  He waited for Brackenreid to comment, but he merely grunted and pointed to the map.

  “The circles are Dr. Rhodes, I presume?”

  “Mr. Shepcote and Dr. Rhodes, actually. The two of them left Birchlea shortly after nine and the doctor was dropped off at his consulting chambers at Church and Carlton. He says he was working on a report for some medical journal until one o’clock. He likes the quiet. Then he walked part of the way home until he found a cab. I’ve put Constable Wicken onto collecting all the cab driver’s dockets for the past week, so we should be able to verify that part of the doctor’s statement at least. However, we have only Rhodes’s word that he stayed late in his office. He could have had a rendezvous with Therese. She was alone when Jimmy saw her, but if the doctor was walking quickly he could have met up with her on Queen Street. Or he could have hired a carriage. He certainly can come by opium in great quantities if he needs it.”

  “For God’s sake, Murdoch, you’re snatching at straws. According to you nobody is telling the truth about anything.”

  “Sometimes it feels that way, sir. However, the girl’s condition is not a lie. Somebody impregnated her.” Murdoch indicated the wall again. “That is the journey that Mr. Shepcote’s carriage took when he left Birchlea. After dropping off Rhodes, he proceeded to his club on River Street. The coachman made a point of telling me that he went via Wilton.”

  “What do you mean ‘made a point’?”

  “It seemed rather like that. I didn’t ask him, he volunteered. However, that puts the alderman in the same vicinity as Therese and at about the same time. If he had actually gone along Queen Street he could have encountered Therese Laporte here, anywhere between Berkeley and River streets.”

  “Good Lord, Murdoch, you’re not suggesting the alderman has anything to do with this affair.”

  “I’m not suggesting anything at the moment, Inspector. I’m simply trying to get straight the various movements of the parties who were in any way connected with Birchlea and the life of Therese Laporte. The steward has confirmed to one of my men that Shepcote was at the club from about a quarter past ten until midnight.”

  Brackenreid leaned forward, peering at the wall. “What’s that?” He pointed at a small pockmark in the lower part of the map.

  “That’s actually a hole in the wall, but I thought I may as well use it. I’ve drawn a balloon around it. I meant to represent that from thi
s point on Therese vanished into thin air.”

  “You’re getting too fanciful for me, Murdoch.”

  Murdoch kept his voice as flat as possible. “Here is where I believe we’re onto something, sir. Constable Wicken is a very capable young officer and he questioned every householder along Queen Street. At number four ninety-five a woman named Philips swears she was sitting at her window from nine-thirty that night until at least midnight. Her husband is a teamster and she was expecting him in from a journey at ten. Apparently one of his horses went lame and he didn’t get home until late. Mrs. Philips says Therese Laporte did not pass by. She lives here, on the southwest corner, which means she would have seen anybody turning north or south on Sumach, or continuing along Queen Street.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Murdoch couldn’t help pausing for a moment for effect.

  “This is why I congratulate young Wicken. The woman kept going on as how no girl could have walked by that night. Wicken realizes his questions were a bit too directive and he asks her if had she seen a vehicle, then. Why yes, she says, there were two. A farmer’s wagon and a carriage. The wagon went by close on midnight going south on Sumach but the carriage was earlier, about ten o’clock, travelling east along Queen Street. Unfortunately Mrs. Philips couldn’t really say what sort of carriage it was, but she thought it might be a hired one. The horse was a grey or white.”

  “It’s hard for me to see this as useful, Murdoch. It’s like catching spiderwebs.”

  “Spiders catch a lot of flies on those same slender lines. You see, Mrs. Philips admitted to seeing Alice Black go by. She hadn’t mentioned it earlier because she knew who Alice was and that wasn’t what we wanted to know. Wicken kept asking about a strange young girl. But she is positive that Alice went by after the carriage.”

  For the first time, Brackenreid looked interested. He touched the wall.

  “The tart must have seen the Laporte girl.”