HIC EST ENIM CALIX SANGUINIS MEI NOVI ET AETERNI TESTAMENT …
Again Murdoch’s thoughts drifted away. The chapel was austere enough, but the chalice was of an ornate gold and there was a life-sized crucifix hung above the altar. He wondered what Mrs. Enid Jones would think about such adornments. As far as he knew the Baptist Church wouldn’t even allow a wooden cross in the church, and the ministers wore black suits. He sighed. It was at times like this that he had to face how far apart they were in their respective faiths. Suddenly, he heard his sister’s name, her religious name that is. Fr. Proulx was reciting a prayer for the dead.
Memento etiam, Domine, famulorum tuarum. SOEUR PHILOMENA, qui nos praecesserunt cum signo fidei, et dormiunt ni somno paces. He looked in his missal, although he knew what the words meant. In spite of his anger, they gave him comfort.
Remember also, Lord, your handmaiden, who has gone before us with the sign of faith and rests in the sleep of peace.
In a brief conversation with Sister Agnes, Murdoch realised that they believed him to be the sole remaining member of the family. In fact, he hadn’t heard anything of his father for many years, but he assumed he was still alive. He didn’t know if Susanna had deliberately chosen not to tell the nuns or if it was a misunderstanding. Neither he nor his sister had seen their father since Bertie’s death. A few days after he’d gone, Murdoch and Susanna, afraid of what could happen between him and his father, had fled. He was just thirteen; she was nine. They had made their way to their only aunt, their mother’s older sister, who lived forty miles away up the coast of Nova Scotia. Aunt Weldon was a spinster, a teacher who took them in because she had to – because our Lord commands us to have charity or we are as nothing. She had repeated this many times.
The priest was breaking the Host over the chalice, and the flat piece of unleavened bread made a snapping sound. Fr. Proulx was grey haired, well past middle age, and stooped. He had to peer shortsightedly at the book his server held in front of him.
The priest turned to face the communicants and held out the Host. One by one, the three women stood up and went to the communion rail. Murdoch followed them and they knelt together at the altar rail. He opened his mouth, and Fr. Proulx placed the bread on his tongue.
Corpus Domini nostri Jesus Christi custodiat animam tuam in vitam aeternam. Amen.
He then turned to the side of the altar to offer the Host to the nuns. They were all hidden from view, and Murdoch could see only the priest as he reached forward to the invisible woman at the prie-dieu.
Murdoch went back to the pew, trying to swallow the wafer of bread, which stuck to the roof of his mouth. The nuns were singing a Miserere. He knelt down and tried to say the Paternoster.
He heard a sniffle beside him. One of the women was weeping. At what? She couldn’t possibly have known Susanna. It was pure sentimental rubbish that she was crying like that. Murdoch’s own eyes were dry. He was too angry to cry.
The singing ceased and the priest completed his rituals at the altar, wiping the chalice with the cloth and replacing it in the ciborium. He kissed the altar and turned to face the four of them.
Dominus vobiscum.
“And with thy spirit,” replied the crying woman, her Latin somewhat indistinct.
Both priest and server made the sign of the cross, and Murdoch did the same. The mass was over. Fr. Proulx and the server disappeared into the sanctum, and the three women slipped away without any talking or acknowledgement of each other or him. He sat for a moment longer, the pungent odour of the incense tingling in his nostrils. The candles in the sconces flickered. It was daylight outside but another snow-filled grey morning, and the light in the chapel was dim.
Chapter Nine
PATRICK PUGH TILTED THE WASHSTAND MIRROR forward so he could see himself better. He separated out the front lock of his hair and daubed it with the bleach. His hair was naturally dark brown, thick, and wavy, but he’d been dyeing this one piece white for some time. He thought the flash gave a certain element of drama to his appearance, rather like a picture he’d seen of Mercury, the winged messenger. Besides, it was memorable. If anybody was talking about him, they inevitably referred to the man with the white streak in his hair. Then, if necessary, he could reverse that. Return to his normal appearance. “Have you seen a man, slim, about forty years of age, nobby dresser? He has a white lock of hair at the right temple?” “No, can’t say I have.” Pugh had found that, in some circumstances, it was better to be obvious than not. When you wanted to vanish, everybody was on the lookout for the flamboyant man in the tartan suit and red crusher, not the quiet, nondescript one in the plain grey overcoat and black fedora. He thought of it as a sort of magician’s trick. “Look over here, at this scarf, not here where I am putting a card in my pocket.” Pugh was fond of magic tricks and had learned several. On some of the lonely night watches, he practised legerdemain with a pack of cards. When he was tired of this work, he thought he would start a new career as a touring magician.
He whistled through his teeth, a jolly ballad he’d heard at the tavern. That was another thing he was good at, remembering tunes. He only needed to hear one once, and he could whistle the whole thing right through.
He scrutinised himself. That seemed good enough. He moved the mirror downward so he could get a glimpse of his naked loins. Yes, good. His stomach was as flat as a prizefighter’s, and his thighs and calves firm and muscular. He could pass for a man at least ten years younger than he actually was. Finally, he stretched out his hands. Steady as rocks. The tip of his middle finger on the left hand was missing, and he never failed to experience a touch of chagrin at the sight. Even though he’d learned to take advantage of the defect, he was vain about his long, slender fingers. He’d suffered the loss when he was doing a stint as a mucker in a copper mine in Jerome, Arizona. Sheer carelessness on his part. But that was another tale to tell when he found time to recount his memoirs for posterity. Keeping his voice low, he started on the ballad.
The wind sae could blew south and north,
And blew into the floor;
Quoth our goodman to our goodwife,
‘Gae out and bar the door.’
He went over to the bed where he’d laid out his clothes. First, the drawers and a fleece shirt, both a mixture of silk and wool because he had sensitive skin and pure wool was irritating. Over the shirt, he pulled on a flannel chest protector lined with soft chamois. The scarlet of the flannel clashed with the burgundy stripes of his shirt, but that couldn’t be helped. It was unlikely anybody would be getting a gander at his underwear today. He had his eye on a plump little tart who sang at the Derby, but she would have to wait until his job was finished. Pugh believed in discipline. While he was on a job, he never consorted with women.
Next he reached for his long socks. They were getting worn and the heels needed darning, but he had no time to do it now. He fastened the leather straps tightly, then pulled on his tweed trousers, which he’d purchased from Mr. Eaton’s store only last month. Finally he put on his heavy wool jersey and checked the mirror again. Yes, he looked quite nobby. The brown sweater suited his dark complexion.
He picked up the imitation lamb cap, which was sitting on his dresser, and pulled it on. A snug fit. He had taken it from one of his former clients. He did not consider this stealing. The man had been less than generous with his fee, and Pugh had therefore supplemented it with the cap and a pair of decent raccoon gauntlets.
Pugh went to the wardrobe and took out the blue mackinaw. The jacket was waterproof, lined with tweed for warmth, and had a hood that gave him double protection from the weather and prying eyes. Pugh considered it was an ugly piece of apparel, but it served its purpose.
There was a silver flask in the inside pocket. He shook it. Good! Still some whiskey left. In the other pocket there was his deck of cards and his notebook and pencil. He hesitated for a moment then reached in the back of the wardrobe, pulled out a canvas bag, and undid the straps. Inside was his revolver. He took it out and stowed it in
the mackinaw. He was ready. His cowhide boots were outside the door, cleaned and polished by the old man who also served as clerk to the hotel.
Pugh blew out his candle. He paid for each one he used, and he believed in being careful. He slipped out of his room and, carrying his boots, walked softly down the hall. There was only one light in the sconce, the wick turned down so low it was almost useless. He went down the stairs, paused long enough at the door to put on his boots, and stepped out into the cold night.
Then said the one unto the other,
‘Here man, tak ye my knife;
Do ye tak off the auld man’s beard,
And I’ll kiss the goodwife.’
Pugh fastened the flap on the hood so that the lower half of his face was covered. Perhaps today he would be lucky.
Chapter Ten
MRS. KITCHEN CAME OUT OF THE PARLOUR just as Murdoch was hanging up his coat and cap. She held out her hand to him. “Please accept my condolences, Mr. Murdoch.”
“Thank you, Mrs. K. You got my telegram then?”
“Constable Crabtree brought it over this afternoon. And he also wanted me to convey his regrets. The inspector has given you a leave of absence until Friday.”
Murdoch shrugged. A leave of absence meant no wages, and he would have been glad of the distraction of work. However, the inspector always insisted that any of the police officers who suffered bereavement take some time off. Murdoch had decided some time ago that this had nothing to do with genuine compassion and everything to do with saving money.
He unlaced his boots and, unbidden, Mrs. Kitchen took his slippers out of the brass slipper box by the coat stand and gave them to him.
“I have some supper waiting for you.”
“Thank you indeed. I forgot to book a seat in the dining car, and the sittings were full. The last acquaintance my stomach has had with any food was about five o’clock this morning. One of the nuns brought me some vegetable soup.”
“For your breakfast?”
“That’s what they always eat apparently.”
Beatrice allowed herself a mild tut-tut of disapproval. “I’ve braised you a pork chop.”
He followed her into the kitchen.
“How is Arthur?”
“A little better today.” She smiled. “He complains dreadfully about the cream and eggs, but I am certain they are helping him. He isn’t as weak and is coughing less. Don’t you think so, Mr. Murdoch?”
If he were honest, he would have to say he hadn’t noticed much improvement. Arthur had some days that were not as bad as others, but the progression of the illness seemed relentless.
Murdoch made a noncommittal sort of grunt. He didn’t want to be the one to dash her hopes either.
“He asked if you would care to join us after your supper.”
“Thank you, I will.”
He sat down at the pine table, and Mrs. Kitchen took his plate out of the warming oven.
“I’ll let you have your meal in peace.” “Please stay, Mrs. K. I would enjoy some company.”
“I’d be happy to.”
She perched herself in the chair opposite him. The pork chop was overcooked and dry and the potatoes lumpy, but he made enthusiastic sounds of appreciation for her sake. It didn’t take long for him to consume everything. He sopped up the grease with a piece of bread.
“I was there at the end, but they wouldn’t let me get close or touch her. I only saw her shadow through a grille. She is buried in the private cemetery of the convent, and I didn’t see that either.”
Mrs. Kitchen got up to remove his plate. She brought over a piece of apple tart and placed it in front of him. Murdoch rubbed at his eyes. He was overwhelmingly tired.
“If I may say so, Mr. Murdoch, the nuns were only doing what they ought to do. That is their vow. They call it ‘enclosure,’ I believe. Once in, the only people ever allowed to see them are a doctor or a priest. I know my cousin’s daughter entered a cloistered order. She went down to America, but they never clapped eyes on her after she took her final vow.”
“It’s unnatural.”
“I suppose you could say that, but it’s a sacrifice they and the family make for Our Lord’s sake.”
Murdoch knew it was useless to argue with Mrs. Kitchen on certain matters, especially if they pertained to the church. She was as good-hearted as a woman can be, but any questioning of their mutual faith made her uneasy. She was rigid and dogmatic to the point of superstition. Besides, it was too late and he was too tired to talk much. However, as she had done so often in the past, Mrs. Kitchen surprised him.
“Frankly, if it had been up to me, Mr. Murdoch, if I was the prioress, I would have broken the rules in those circumstances. What the harm is in a man saying a final farewell to his only sister, I don’t know.”
He smiled at her, his irritation gone. “Thank you, Mrs. K. I cannot say I detected any softening in the nuns. Not that I saw them either. Even the funeral was conducted with them on the other side of a wall. I could hear them chanting, but that was it.”
She spooned three generous spoonsful of tea leaves into the teapot and added boiling water from the kettle.
“Let it steep for a minute. But before I forget, there’s a letter for you. The constable brought it over with the telegram. I’ll fetch it.”
She bustled off and he got up to pour his tea before it became strong enough to dissolve the enamel on his teeth. Mrs. Kitchen came back with a long envelope in her hand. There was a seal on the back with an official-looking stamp in it. Murdoch used his knife to slit open the flap.
The letterhead was that of James Massie, the warden of Don Jail.
Dear Mr. Murdoch. Will you be so good as to call at my office as soon as possible. One of our prisoners is anxious to have communication with you. A morning hour would be best at your earliest convenience.
Your servant, J. M. Massie, Warden
“Not bad news I hope,” said Mrs. Kitchen.
“No, probably good news. I believe I mentioned young Adam Blake to you a couple of months ago, the lad convicted of pickpocketing? I was the one nabbed him, and I thought he might be set straight with a good talking to. He wasn’t that receptive I have to admit, but I told him I’d come and visit when he saw the error of his ways. I assume a spell in jail has brought clarity to his mind.”
“So it should.” She reached in the pocket of her apron. “By the way, Mr. Murdoch, I took the liberty of cutting this for you.”
She took out a wide strip of black silk.
“Thank you, Mrs. K.”
He raised his arm and she fastened the band to his jacket sleeve where he would wear it for the next few months as a sign of mourning. He sighed. Poor little Cissie.
Chapter Eleven
CHARLES CRAIG OPENED HIS EYES and lay still for a moment, trying to determine what had awakened him. His wife, Margaret, was snoring softly beside him as she did when she had been forced to take laudanum for her pain. The room was hot and smelled of the ammonia liniment she applied nightly to her swollen joints. He listened but the only other sound was the scratch and rustle of the evergreens that grew beside the house. He slipped out of bed and, barefoot, padded over to the window. The blind was pulled down tight to the sill, and he lifted the side a crack so he could look out. Their bedchamber was at the rear of the house and below him was a large garden, smooth and white with the recent snow. Directly in front, the ground rose gently to a high fence, which demarcated the edge of their neighbour’s property. Their house was hidden by a thick stand of evergreens that extended to the right and down to the road, offering perfect privacy. To the left was an open field. He thought he could detect a slight movement, a deeper shadow among the shadows of the evergreens in the upper corner, but he wasn’t certain. The sky was overcast, and the moon was obscured.
He stayed motionless at the window for several minutes then, with a little groan, straightened up. Margaret muttered in her sleep, and he went back to the bed and pulled the quilt up around her shoulde
rs. He waited a moment to make sure she had not awoken, then he went to the wardrobe and took out his trousers and a jacket. He favoured the newer style of nightwear, and he was wearing striped flannelette pyjamas. He pulled the trousers and coat on over these and crept from the room. There were no candles lit on the landing or stairwell, but his eyes were accustomed to the darkness and he made his way downstairs to the study. There was a dull slit of light showing beneath the door. He knocked, one hard tap followed by two softer ones. In a moment his son opened the door. Craig had moved out of view a few paces down the hallway and, without pause, James joined him.
“Is he out there again?” he asked.
“I’m not completely certain. Did the dogs bark just now?”
“They did a little while ago.” James looked discomfited. “It didn’t seem too serious,” he added. “I thought it must be a squirrel or a racoon.”
“There are occasions when you are worse than the most ignorant loafer,” said Charles. He did not raise his voice or insert much inflection, but James flushed as if he had been roundly scolded.
“I’m sorry, Papa.”
“Never mind.” Charlie nodded in the direction of the study. “Are the curtains closed tight?”
“They are.”
“Let’s go in.”
Craig led the way back into the room. James had been enjoying a pipe, and the air was thick and aromatic with the smoke. There was a glass of whiskey on the table beside his chair. His father walked straight over to the desk and rolled back the top.
The pug who had been keeping James company trotted over to him, waving her little curl of a tail. Craig gave her a cursory pat on the head.
“Is Tiny in the kennel?”
“Yes, of course.”
Craig removed one of the inner desk drawers and reached his hand inside, turning the wooden screw that unlocked the secret compartment.
“Where is he?” asked James.
“Same place in the east upper corner.” He took a small leather billy out of the hidden drawer.
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