Except the Dying

by Maureen Jennings

  “Is there something you wish to say, Edith?”

  “There is, madam.”

  “For goodness’ sake, speak out, then,” Donalda said with irritation.

  Edith’s lips drew tighter together. “You don’t have to go far to find the culprit. He’s right there.” She pointed at Joe Seaton, who had been sitting on the edge of the fender while they were all talking. “He’s the one got the girl in trouble, mark my words.”

  Joe shrank away and covered his head with his arms as if to ward off blows.

  “These are serious accusations, Mrs. Foy,” said Murdoch. “Can you prove them?”

  “He’s a guttersnipe and they never change no matter what good is shown them. Besides, he’s backward. Can’t tell the difference between Christian right and wrong any more than a dog can.”

  Murdoch found it hard not to snap back at the woman. His younger brother had been backward, and until the boy died Murdoch had spent a large part of their childhood defending him against similar ignorance. He moved over to Joe and tried to pull down his arm so he could see his face. The boy yelped in pain.

  “What is it, Joe? Have you hurt your arm?”

  He shook his head violently. As gently as he could, Murdoch pushed back the boy’s sleeve. Two angry red lines ran the entire length of the boy’s arm.

  “Good Lord, what happened?”

  Edith moved closer, and when she saw the boy’s arm she said, “Somebody scratched him, that’s what. Probably fighting for her life. It’s proof.”

  Murdoch ignored her. The cuts were too deliberate to be the result of a struggle.

  “How did you get these marks, Joe?”

  The boy wouldn’t meet his eyes, just tried to shake his head.

  Murdoch crouched down so that he was on the same level and all Joe could see was him.

  “Tell me the truth now, lad. Is it right what Mrs. Foy says? That you had connections with Therese Laporte?”

  Joe stared at him as if he couldn’t comprehend. Murdoch’s heart sank. He hoped for Joe’s sake it wasn’t true.

  “See, he’s practically admitting it.” This time it was Foy who spoke. “They were made for each other. Pair of bastards with no compunction about bringing bastards into the world.”

  Murdoch could see that the lad’s mouth and chin were trembling and there were tears in his eyes.

  “Joe?”

  “You might as well talk to a brick wall,” snorted Edith. “The boy’s simple.”

  “If we stop badgering him, we might get somewhere,” said Donalda. She spoke to the boy in a gentle voice. “Answer the officer, Joe. If you’re innocent you have nothing to fear.”

  Joe responded to her like a prisoner to the parson who has come to read the Last Rites. He fixed his gaze on her over Murdoch’s shoulder and said, “I didn’t have nuffin bad to do with Tess.”

  His voice was low and shaky as if from lack of use and he had a thick cockney accent, but the words were unmistakable. The others were as surprised as if the horse had answered.

  “Hmm. Thought the cat’d got your tongue. You sly little beast, pretending you couldn’t speak all this time,” said Edith.

  Murdoch had had enough. “I’ll thank you to hold your tongue yourself, Mrs. Foy. This is still a police investigation, I’d like to remind you, and you, madam, are interfering with the due process.” He stepped back, touching Joe lightly on the shoulder. “Go on, lad.”

  Joe didn’t budge from his focus on Mrs. Rhodes.

  “Tess didn’t write no letter, missus.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You says as how she wrote to ’er sister but she couldn’t have. She couldn’t write nor read. I know ’cos I was the one a-teachin’ ’er and she hadn’t got no farther than her letters.”

  Murdoch turned to Edith. “Mrs. Foy, you found that note in the girl’s bedroom, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I did. It was clear as a bell. I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

  “Do you still have it?”

  “I threw it in the fire. It didn’t seem important.”

  Joe’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Tess didn’t run away ’cos she was homesick.”

  Donalda nodded encouragingly. “Why did she, then?”

  He cast a quick glance at Foy but returned to her at once. “It was ’cos of ’im. He was after Tess. He wanted to do it with her all the time.”

  “You bloody little liar,” Foy yelled. Before Murdoch could prevent him, he had run at Joe and hit him hard across the face. The boy fell backwards, striking his head against the fireguard with a sickening bang. His eyes rolled up in his head and he lay still. Owen yelled and jumped up to help while Murdoch grabbed the butler’s arm, yanking him away, hard.

  “Stop it. Behave or I’ll charge you with obstruction of justice.”

  Foy kept on shouting. “That boy is wicked, Mrs. Rhodes. I knew we should never have got him. His kind never changes.”

  Edith pulled at her husband. “Stop it, do you hear? Won’t do no good.”

  Murdoch pointed to an empty chair. “Go and sit over there.” His voice topped the butler’s. “Don’t move again unless I tell you to.”

  He half shoved Foy towards the chair. The butler seemed to have lost all control and he was shaking, his face crimson with rage. Edith gripped him by his shoulders.

  “Try not to make more of a bloody fool of yourself than you’ve done already,” she hissed into his face.

  Murdoch waited until Foy obeyed, keeping his eye on him.

  “Is the boy all right?” he asked Owen, who had run over to help Joe.

  “He lost consciousness for a moment but he’s not badly off now.” He slipped his arm around the boy’s shoulders. “Come on, Joe. Let’s get you up.”

  He lifted him into a sitting position against the fender. Donalda, who had remained seated, spoke to Foy, her voice icy. “Is this true what Joe says?”

  “No, madam, absolutely not,” he replied. But guilt was written all over his angry face.

  Donalda addressed Edith. “How could you have found a letter written by a girl who was illiterate?”

  “The boy probably forged it.”

  “Joe? Can you speak?”

  A red mark had appeared on his cheek and he was the colour of bread dough, but he met her eyes.

  “I didn’t write no letter. But Missus Foy knew as what was happening. I saw ’er a-watching Tess all the time. She must of made her run off.”

  “Madam, I hope you are not going to take the word of a boy like him against that of two respectable people like my husband and me?”

  “Frankly, Edith, I don’t know what to believe. All I can say is that I am extremely upset at Foy’s behaviour. I will not tolerate it.” She turned to her son. “Owen, what do you say about all this?”

  “I wouldn’t trust John Foy as far as I could throw him.”

  Edith answered for her husband. “How easy for the mighty to accuse those of us who are not so fortunate. Far better the world think my husband was wicked, madam, than that your own son be accused.” She whirled to face Murdoch. “Why don’t you question him?” She pointed at Owen. “I saw him mooning over that girl all the time. That night she died he was probably with her.”

  “According to Mr. Rhodes he was with Miss Shepcote all evening.”

  Edith burst out, “That little mouse would make a pact with the Devil if Owen Rhodes asked her to.” She was reckless now, ready to burn her bridges. “He fancied the maid, I tell you. And that Saturday night he was out until the early hours too. Same with this Wednesday. He was probably with that doxie you found.”

  “Edith, don’t be preposterous,” Donalda cried.

  “Maybe he’s the one who did her in. It’d keep her quiet, wouldn’t it?”

  Owen turned white and Donalda became even stiffer.

  “Mrs. Foy, I will tolerate no more of this slander. You are discharged. Both of you. You will leave my employ immediately.”

  “Don’t expect me
to be silent, then. You can try to hide all you like but the truth is the truth. Your son was having connections with that girl and I will tell whoever asks.”

  Murdoch stepped in. “Mr. Rhodes, do you deny this?”

  “My God, yes. Of course I deny it.”

  There was no stopping Edith. “He’s a young man, isn’t he? Anybody can see he fancies himself. He had his way with her, you can wager.”

  “Mrs. Foy, will you stop. I had nothing whatsoever to do with Therese Laporte.”

  “Why is it, then, I saw you coming out of her room? About a month ago it was –”

  “That is a lie –”

  “Edith, stop this.” Donalda tried to stop the spewing. “Mrs. Foy is lying to protect her husband,” she said to Murdoch. “She has already forged a letter. She has no compunction about where she flings her mud.”

  “At the moment, ma’am, it is her word against Mr. Owen’s, however, and not much proof on either side.”

  “I assure you he was not with a prostitute the other night, just as I assure you he was not the father of Theresa’s child.”

  Owen stood watching her, his face filled with agony. “Mother, this is not necessary …”

  “Begging your pardon, ma’am, you are his mother and it is only natural you would defend him, but I’ll need proof. Mr. Rhodes, is there anybody at all who could vouch for your whereabouts on Wednesday night?”

  “No, there really isn’t.”

  “Owen, are you insane? Tell him.”

  “Mother, there is nothing to tell. I was not with anybody.”

  Donalda’s expression was bitter. “This is no time to display some schoolboy notion of honour.”

  “Call it that if you –” said Owen.

  At that moment, the door opened and Cyril Rhodes entered.

  “What on earth is happening? What is the shouting all about?” He saw Murdoch and halted.

  Donalda swung around to face him. “What impeccable timing, Cyril. Joe has accused Foy of fathering a child on Theresa Laporte. Edith is insisting the real culprit is our son. She claims to have seen Owen leaving the girl’s room.”

  “Indeed!”

  “Yes, indeed. And Mr. Murdoch is here investigating the murder of another young woman. He wants to know where we all were on Wednesday night. Apparently the dead woman was a prostitute. Perhaps you could help him.”

  “W-what do you mean? How could I help?”

  “Come now, Cyril, I doubt your tastes have changed that much. Perhaps she was someone of your acquaintance.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 15

  MURDOCH BREATHED IN THE FRESH AIR of the street with relief. The drawing room had become overheated in more ways than one. He decided to check on Foy’s alibi first. He didn’t doubt it was a real one, but he wanted to get a better sense of the man, and his chums might reveal something.

  The grey afternoon had moved imperceptibly into night and this outer edge of the city had no street lighting. Trudging through the snow, Murdoch was keenly aware that this had been the street Therese had fled along so recently. Many of the big houses glowed with light and where the curtains were open he could see well-furnished drawing rooms, well-dressed people living their lives. Had she felt the loneliness of an outsider? With an illegitimate child on the way, her prospects must have seemed bleak indeed. Who was the father?He was betting on Foy but he was too wise to let personal dislike influence him, and he knew the culprit was still uncertain.

  At Church Street he checked his watch. It had taken him ten minutes to walk this far, going at a moderate pace. At least his timing was holding up. However, he didn’t feel like walking the whole way. He’d had enough shank’s mare for one day. He saw a streetcar coming up on the tracks and stepped forward to flag it down.

  One of the men named by John Foy was a butcher who lived on Parliament Street, close to the medical school. Murdoch decided to see him first. Light snow was starting to fall, tickling his face, and the wind was gusting. He’d got off the streetcar at Gerrard, exchanged a few words with an excited Carrots, who greeted him from his spot on the curb, and began his walk east, again aware that he was following in Therese’s footsteps. The residences that lined Gerrard Street were elegant and well kept. Several of them sat in spacious grounds, and brass plates on the iron fences proclaimed these were doctors’ houses.

  Just past the corner of Sherbourne there was a charitable home for girls under fourteen who had been in need of rescue. The lamps were lit and he could see into the front room. A half-dozen girls all in neat white pinafores over grey dresses were gathered around an organ. Their mouths were opening and closing like fledgling birds, and he gathered they were singing. Hymns, probably, to judge by their serious expressions. A portly matron was conducting them, waving her arms in awkward dignity. Therese Laporte had not been much older than those girls.

  Fred Vose’s shop was above Gerrard Street on the west side of Parliament, the end building of a row of three, all newish looking in elegant pink brick. The store adjacent to the butcher’s was vacant, the windows shuttered, but the remaining one was lit sufficiently for Murdoch to read the plain, dignified sign: J. CARVETH, MEDICAL BOOKSELLERS. Like the sparrows who chase the crows waiting for droppings, Mr. Carveth had situated himself conveniently close to the medical college, and he seemed to have both a sense of humour and a sense of business. In the window was a skeleton pointing a fleshless finger at a stepladder draped with purple velvet. On each step was a fat tome pertinent to the student’s education according to Dr. Osler, including, Murdoch was glad to see, a weighty volume of Shakespeare’s complete works. He paused for a moment, reading the other titles the eminent doctor considered necessary to a medical student’s mental well-being. The Old and New Testament, of course, Plutarch’s Lives and, rather surprisingly, Don Quixote. Murdoch experienced a twinge of envy for the wealthy young men who could afford to spend five years in uninterrupted studies. Given the chance, he would have loved to enter the university, but it was out of the question for somebody with no means except what his own muscles could earn. He moved on.

  Mr. Vose’s shop window was hung with several carcasses. Unbutchered pigs, the gash in their throats like second mouths, swayed on big hooks, intermixed with the bloodied bodies of hares and rabbits and sides of beef. Beneath them were displayed various trays of grey tripe, dark red liver and kidneys. Two skinned and eyeless calves’ heads sat in the centre.

  A bell tinkled as he entered the shop. He glanced around. There was only one sconce lit, and the corners of the store were pools of darkness where he could just make out the sacks of sawdust for the floor and a couple of tubs of brine in which were floating several pig’s trotters. The bead curtain behind the counter parted and a man appeared from the backroom. He was brawny, with a broad, red face. Muscular arms swelled beneath his blue flannel shirt. His apron was dark with bloodstains. He was smoking a long clay pipe and the pungent tobacco mingled with the smell of blood and raw meat.

  “What can I do for you, Captain? The missus craving a nice fresh roast, is she?”

  Murdoch spent a moment to shake the snow off his coat and undid his muffler. “Are you Fred Vose?”

  “I am unless my mother was deceiving me.”

  “I’m Detective William Murdoch, and I’d like a few minutes of your time to answer some questions.”

  “Lordy, hammer away, Captain.”

  “I understand you’re acquainted with John Foy?”

  “I am that. What’s up? Has John done something he shouldn’t?” Vose’s eyes gleamed with curiosity.

  “He’s not been charged, if that’s what you mean, but I’m conducting an investigation and I’d like you to verify his statement.”

  “Does it have to do with that poor maid as froze to death? She was a maid at Birchlea, wasn’t she?”

  “That’s right.” Murdoch chose not to mention Alice Black at this moment.

  “John was very shaken by that girl’s passing. As soon as my wi
fe and I read about it in the newspaper we went straight over to see him.”

  “What did he have to say?”

  “He couldn’t understand how she’d come to die like that. To tell you square, Captain, at one point he was weeping like a woman. I’ve never seen him like that before.”

  Foy seemed to show a more delicate side of his nature to his brothers than Murdoch had yet witnessed.

  “If you ask me,” Vose went on, “Johnny was more bothered even than Edith … but then she is a bit of a flinty sort, if you know what I mean. It’s understandable, though, isn’t it? That maid was hardly more than a child. Still, I suppose, given she was a half-breed, we shouldn’t be surprised.”

  “She was French-Canadian, not of mixed heritage that I know of.”

  “Oh. Well, anyway, she was a Catholic for certain and you never know what funny thing they’re going to get up to.”

  “I don’t follow your logic, Mr. Vose.”

  “Why d’you think she was out getting herself froze to death?” He stared at Murdoch.

  “What’s your theory, Mr. Vose?”

  “I’ll wager she was doing what they call penance. Do you know what that is?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pain is what it is. I’ve heard that they get nuns and priests to lie stretched out for hours on the church floor. Think it’s good for their souls.” He waved his forefinger at Murdoch. “Some of them even beat themselves.”

  Murdoch didn’t bother to attempt justification of his church’s practices.

  “You wouldn’t get me doing anything like that,” said the butcher.

  “What I wanted to know is concerning a different matter. Can you verify Foy’s statement as to his whereabouts last Wednesday? He claims he spent the evening at a lodge meeting.”

  Vose concentrated on getting his pipe going, sucking vigorously on the long stem. Finally he exhaled with pleasure.

  “Wednesday? For sure. I can tell you straight and true, he was squatting beside me the entire time. Tim Winter was on my right, John Foy on my left.”

  Suddenly he put the pipe on the counter and wiped his right hand hard down the side of his apron. “Sorry there, Captain, I didn’t even give you a proper greeting.”