Except the Dying

by Maureen Jennings

  Murdoch regarded him, smiling. “Now let me have a gander at you.”

  Kelly’s features were broad and flat, and childhood smallpox had made him cribbage-faced. The general effect was rather sinister. But Murdoch knew, in spite of his appearance, he was a decent man of fierce loyalty and honour. They’d known each other at the lumber camp twelve years before, where Kelly was the manager and Murdoch a young chopper.

  “You’ve not changed a speck.”

  The steward chuckled. “If you think that, it’s sure your own eyesight in what’s changed.” He patted his stomach. “Fifteen more pounds. I married a widow lady last year and she’s been doing her best to fatten me up like I was a prize steer worth more by the pound. Lots of bread and potatoes in there.”

  “So somebody finally snared you?”

  “True. A man likes some comfort in his old age. She’s a lovely little thing, plump and sweet as a nut with a nice nest egg to boot.” He pulled up a chair for Murdoch. “I’d heard up at the camp you’d joined the bulls.”

  “Were you surprised?”

  “Not me. Some of the choppers thought you’d turned your coat, but those as knew you, including meself, said it was good a man as straight as you was looking after law and order.”

  Murdoch was pleased. He’d always valued the older man’s good opinion.

  “You’re looking perishing, Willie. Let me get you a drop to warm you up? I’ve got nothing but the best.”

  He went over to a high bookcase that lined one wall, reached up and pulled out a strip of blank books. A small liquor cabinet was behind.

  “Am I to assume you’ve come about the young colleen that died last week? A young lump of a lad was here asking questions before.”

  Murdoch nodded. “Something else has happened … Ever know a woman named Alice Black?”

  “Never.”

  Kelly took a bottle of Glenmorangie, tucked it under his arm and pulled out the cork with his teeth. He got out a crystal glass and poured Murdoch a finger of scotch.

  “None for you?”

  “No. Minnie made me take the Pledge before we married. The drink made me a hothead all my life. I’m better without it.”

  He sniffed at the scotch like a besotted man smells his absent mistress’s gown. “Beautiful! But go on, Will.”

  “Alice Black was a prostitute. We found her strangled down near Cherry Beach on Thursday morning.”

  “Did you now? What a terrible thing.”

  Murdoch raised his glass. “May the road always rise before you and may you ever have the wind at your back.” He took a sip, rolling the silky liquor around his tongue before swallowing.

  “Alice might have been offed by a Tom in a rage, but I think it’s too much of a coincidence. She stole the clothes from Therese’s dead body. I’m wagering she knew something she shouldn’t have and was conveniently dispatched to the Grand Silence.”

  “What can I do to help, Will?”

  “Two of the men who were connected with the first girl are members of the Yeoman Club.”

  “Alderman Shepcote is, and your constable already asked me about him. He was here on that Saturday night. I saw him meself. Came about ten, left at twelve. Who’s the other buck?”

  “Dr. Cyril Rhodes. Do you know him?”

  “For sure. A little cull. Forever tripping over his own tongue when he talks.”

  “That’s the one. He claims he was here on Wednesday night.”

  “Does he now? I didn’t see him meself, but we can ask Forsyth. He could have booked one of the private chambers.”

  “What are they?”

  “Four rooms at the back where the members can stay if they’re too tired or too full to go home. Or if they want to do some private entertaining.”

  “Gigglers?”

  “On occasion. Not always. Might be some special business.”

  “Is the doctor the sort of man who’d pay for his pleasures?”

  Kelly hesitated. “I’ve only been here a month, Willie. It’s not a thing I would know.”

  “His wife spat it out like a fishwife, but then they both shut up tighter than a pair of clams. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean nothing by it,’ says she. ‘Oh, I’d never do anything so wicked,’ says he. Liars both of you, says I. Anyway, he claims he was here on the night of Alice Black’s murder and at his consulting rooms when Therese Laporte died.” He put down his empty glass. “How about showing me these nice private rooms?”

  Kelly nodded. “We can go the back way.”

  “Can’t have the members running into a police officer, can we? What’d they think?”

  The steward grinned, shamefaced. “That’s the truth of it, Will. And sooner or later they’d get around to blaming me.”

  He led the way down the hall and through a heavy door to a narrow, uncarpeted passageway. At the far end was a second door, and this opened into another wider hall with thick carpeting and rich flock wallpaper. There were four doors on one side.

  Kelly opened the first one. Rather to Murdoch’s surprise, at first appearance this room was quite plain. It was only when you looked a little closer that you could see the excellent quality of the furnishings. Around the marble fireplace were grouped two armchairs and a sofa, all upholstered in brown suede leather. The tables and sideboard were cherrywood, the lamps fine porcelain. Above the fireplace was a large gilt-edged mirror and, to one side, another portrait of Her Majesty Queen Victoria. On each of the side walls were reproductions of celebrated oil paintings, all depicting royal occasions: the young queen in a white gown addressing Parliament, the wedding of the Prince of Wales to Princess Alexandra of Denmark and so on. Opposite was a beige felt curtain, to the right a louvred door and to the left, double doors.

  Murdoch pointed. “Where do they lead?”

  Kelly went over and pulled open the double doors. Behind them was a put-away bed.

  “Do ye want me to take it down?”

  “Not at the moment. And there?”

  “That’s the crapper room. The water closet.”

  Murdoch went to have a look. In the small alcove behind the louvred door was a washbasin fitted with brass faucets, a deep bathtub and an oaken water closet. Curious, Murdoch pulled on the chain and watched as the water came swooshing down into the porcelain bowl, swirled and disappeared.

  “The members certainly have all the modern conveniences, don’t they?”

  “That’s what they pay for.”

  Murdoch walked over to the felt curtain. “Is this the back door?”

  “That’s it.”

  He drew back the curtain, which smelled of cigars. There was a door behind it, an iron key in the lock. As he opened it a rush of cold air hit his face. He was facing directly onto a laneway. It looked just wide enough for a carriage and had been well used, the ground showing many overlays of wheels. When he leaned out, he could see there was a service bay to his left where tradesmen could bring their carts.

  He closed the door, let the curtain drop and stepped back into the room, dusting some of the light snow from his shoulders.

  “The members could easily come and go without being seen if they used the laneway.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “Is there any way to know if Rhodes used this room?”

  Kelly thought for a moment, then slapped himself on the forehead. “May I be taken without shrift for my sins if I’m not an idiot … We have chits. The members like it better. They simply sign for their drinks and meals as they have them and pay their accounts at the end of the month. Each chit is stamped. It makes settling up with the waiters easier. I’ll fetch them.”

  While he waited, Murdoch examined the room. The books in the walnut glass-fronted case were properly sober and edifying. There was a beautifully illustrated volume of Master Thoughts in Poem, Prose and Pencil, which he’d recently seen in McKenney’s Bookshop on Yonge and had coveted. He replaced it carefully and opened the doors of the walnut sideboard. It was empty except for two new packs of cards and a b
lank notepad. For a moment he was disappointed, but he checked himself. What had he expected? A box of French letters? Syringes and hookah pipe?

  The lavatory also revealed nothing personal. A razor, a soapdish and brush and thick satin-damask towels were provided. There was no indication whatsoever in this tastefully furnished room of the kind of activity that Kelly had hinted at.

  He sat down in one of the armchairs, sinking back into the soft upholstery. He could see himself sitting there, his crystal glass of Glenmorangie beside him, his leather-bound book of Master Thoughts at his elbow.

  Kelly returned. “Hey, Willie me boyo, you look right at home. Perhaps one day ye’ll be a Yeoman yerself.”

  “Sure. And one day we’ll be able to live on the moon. Come on, what’ve you got?”

  The steward was carrying a stack of papers speared on a metal spike. He pulled half of them off and gave them to Murdoch.

  “You take those. They’re all the chits for the last week. These rooms are referred to as the Cabinet Section. This particular one is called the Gladstone. The others are the Peel, the Wellington and the Disraeli. Sometimes the waiters will note which particular room they’re serving and sometimes they don’t.”

  He held the papers down with his thumb and started to leaf through them. Murdoch followed suit. Many of the signatures were of prominent men. The Yeoman Club admitted only the most eminent of Toronto’s Christian citizens.

  After a few minutes, Kelly said, “Will you stick to the job at hand? You’re oohing and aahing like a chambermaid at a banquet.”

  “It’s interesting to the policeman in me … Alderman Blong ordered four magnums of Champagne?”

  “He was entertaining his fellow councilmen.”

  “Speaking of which, here’s a chit for McDonough. He’s our medical officer.”

  “Good man?”

  “Let’s say the colonel likes him because he’s very efficient.” He imitated the doctor putting his ear to a man’s chest. “‘Hmm, Constable, sounds like the Don River in there. But nothing to worry about. I don’t want to keep a young swell like you off the beat. Get yourself some goose grease, rub it on your chest and wear a flannel vest. Next!’”

  Kelly laughed. “I know the kind. In the camp it was sheer luck who came in the door first, the physician or the undertaker. But that bill belongs to Hugh McDonough, the doctor’s sprig. He’s a regular here. He and his friends.”

  There was a curious tone to Kelly’s voice.

  “Don’t you care for him?”

  The steward shrugged. “The Good Lord made many species of animal for his ark.”

  “He was in one of the Cabinet rooms on Saturday. He must have had guests, unless he’s in training to oust the Fat Man at the Exhibition. Two magnums of hot Champagne and a quart of fresh oysters. No, two quarts of oysters.”

  “He always has company. He has a passion for cards and he’s here ’til all hours. I don’t know when he does his learning. He’s supposedly studying medicine himself, God help us.”

  “So’s the Rhodes scion. Is he a member here?”

  “No. Just his father.”

  “Ever see him? Redhead, lathy build, nobby dresser.”

  “Can’t say I have.” Suddenly, Kelly jumped up. “Here we go. Dr. Rhodes ordered a glass of Harvey’s cream sherry on Wednesday night. Let’s see, that was Humphrey’s shift too, which means it was early on in the evening. The man went home with a digestive problem, so I know. Me suspicion is he tipples, but I’ve yet to catch him.”

  “Who, Rhodes?”

  “No, you daft boyo, the waiter Humphrey.”

  “Rhodes says he came here about seven o’clock. Do the waiters enter the room when they bring the drinks?”

  “Not without permission. They are told to knock and place the tray outside the door.”

  “So we can’t know if the doctor was alone or not.”

  “No, not unless the waiter overheard someone. Ye’re thinking of a female person, I presume?”

  Murdoch nodded. He finished his pile. “There’s nothing else, and he says he was here from early evening until the next morning. What was he eating, snow?”

  “Regrettably that doesn’t prove anything. He could have gone to the dining room and somebody else paid his meal.”

  “Did you see him?”

  “No, but I was in my office a lot of the time.”

  “Sean, I’m going to have to ask questions.”

  “They won’t like it, Will. Be careful, me friend. These aren’t your usual nocky piss-makers. These are the Uprights. You’ve got to be very sure of yourself or you’re the one who’ll get it.”

  “I’m aware of that.” Murdoch sighed. “Unfortunately, we’re not much further forward. We’ve confirmed Rhodes was here at the club Wednesday evening but there is no proof that he stayed the night. And even if he did, it’s possible to come and go from these rooms without being seen. He could have slipped off, met Alice Black, killed her and been back to enjoy a good night’s sleep with nobody the wiser. We’ve nothing for Shepcote, but he said he was at home, anyway.”

  Murdoch leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head. He was tired and he hadn’t had anything to eat all day. Maybe Sean could stand him a dish of oysters or a plate of roast beef. His friend must have read his mind.

  “Come on back to my office. This is a quiet time of the evening. I can order us some lamb chops. The cook is excellent, as you can imagine.”

  “All right. But let me see the other rooms first.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “I don’t know. A ghost to talk to me maybe.”

  Kelly replaced the chits on the spike and led the way to the adjoining room. The plaque on the door said WELLINGTON but this room differed from the Gladstone only in the choice of wall covering, which was brown, and the oil paintings, which were all military: the Zulu attack on the garrison at Roke’s Drift, General Gordon making his last stand at Khartoum.

  Murdoch walked around but the room was unrevealing.

  “Satisfied?” Kelly asked.

  He nodded, about to leave, when his eye was caught by the double doors that hid the bed. They were not totally closed. He went over and opened them up. The bed behind wasn’t completely flush with the wall.

  “How do I get this down?”

  Kelly came over and grabbed a lever at the side. With a hard tug, he pulled the bed down.

  The cloth valise had been stuffed underneath the mattress. Murdoch snapped open the bag. Women’s clothes. A Bible was sitting on top of the grey jacket and he took it out. Inside was an inscription. À ma soeur, Therese Laporte. Avec amour. Claudette.

  He felt a flood of white-hot anger.

  “Sean, I want to know who was in this room on Saturday last. I’m going to question every fat cull, and they can have my arse on a bandbox for all I care.”

  As Murdoch started to replace the clothes in the valise there was a sharp rap at the door. Kelly answered it. The imperturbable Forsyth stood there. He made a quick attempt to look over the steward’s shoulder but Kelly blocked him.

  “Sorry to disturb you, sir, but there’s a lady to see you. She said it was a matter of great urgency. I took the liberty of placing her in your office, sir. The members, er, won’t have to, er, pass her in the hall.”

  Women were not allowed into the inner sanctum of the club under any circumstances.

  “Did she state her business?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Who is she?”

  “She says her name is Rhodes, Mrs. Cyril Rhodes.”

  Chapter Twenty

  FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 15

  DONALDA RHODES WAS STANDING in front of the fire warming her hands, but she turned around quickly as the two men entered the room. When she saw Murdoch, she looked frightened. Kelly spoke first.

  “Mrs. Rhodes, I’m the steward, John Keene, at your service.”

  “I wished to see my husband.”

  Murdoch interrupted. “He isn’t
here, and frankly I’d like to locate him myself.”

  “Why is that, Mr. Murdoch? I thought you had all the information you required.”

  She spoke haughtily and even though he knew it was a facade, he was irritated. Fed up with the lot of them.

  “Mrs. Rhodes, we have found Therese’s valise. It was hidden in one of the rooms.”

  “I see.”

  “You can understand the importance of this discovery. Either the girl was brought here or at the very least somebody from this club was with her in the last hours of her life.”

  For a moment she appeared to be searching for some denial, an explanation that would remove the danger from her own house. Then she sat down on the edge of the chair by the desk, her back ramrod straight as if she needed to hold herself upright.

  She took the ebony cross out of her pocketbook and handed it to Murdoch.

  “I believe this is from Theresa’s rosary.”

  “Where did you get it, ma’am?”

  “Joe found it in a carriage. He is in the way of fishing down the seats for stray coins and he discovered this.”

  “Whose carriage would that be, then, ma’am?”

  Donalda hesitated, glancing over at Kelly, who was hovering awkwardly near the door.

  “Would you rather I left?” he asked.

  She considered him. “It doesn’t really matter. It will all come out soon, anyway.”

  “Whose carriage, ma’am?” Murdoch prompted.

  “Miss Harriet Shepcote’s. She came to Birchlea on Tuesday last, and that’s when he found it.” She met Murdoch’s gaze. “He only showed it to me just now … I am sure he is telling the truth, Mr. Murdoch.”

  He tapped the crucififix lightly in his palm. “Why did you come to the club, Mrs. Rhodes, and not directly to the police station?”

  “I hoped my husband would be here. Frankly I felt the need to speak to him. Please believe me, I had every intention of informing you, but I’m sure you can understand my concern. Miss Shepcote is quite closely connected with our family … We are hoping for an engagement between her and my son.”