There was a shelf running the length of the rear wall with platters, photographs, and other paraphernalia. Newcombe was indicating a box with a glass front. Inside was an enormous brown rat.
“Mahogany caught that in the barn. Exactly as big as he was, but that didn’t frighten him any. One pounce and done. It was one of the last things he did. I didn’t notice at first, but the rat had bit him here …” He opened his mouth and pointed. “Nipped him right on the roof of his mouth. It got infected and before I knew it he sickened and died. I’ve kept the rat just to boast about, and I was glad I did. It’s my memento.”
The innkeeper was clearly still upset.
“It is huge,” said Murdoch.
“Biggest I ever seen.” Newcombe replaced the box on the shelf.
Murdoch had got to the stage of mopping up the remaining gravy with a thick slice of fresh baked bread. “I wonder if you’d mind telling me what happened that night. I mean when Delaney was killed,” he added hastily. “It’s always good to hear direct from the horse’s mouth.”
Newcombe sat down across the table from him and launched into his story, which had the seamlessness of an oft-repeated tale. For Murdoch’s benefit, he added much more dog lore, including a detailed account of each terrier’s performance. However, with regard to the actual events, there was nothing substantially different from what Murdoch had already read in the trial records. He threw in one small check.
“You say that everybody had left except Mr. Pugh, and he was with you until the Delaney boy appeared. Was he in your sight the entire time? Did you go into the kitchen for instance? It doesn’t take that long to run to the bottom of the ravine and back.”
Newcombe chuckled. “You would have to be an Indian scout to get down there, do your evil business, and get back up here without a bead of sweat showing. It’s true I went into the kitchen to fetch some grub, but he never moved. He was sitting right where you are, and I was right where I am.”
“Why didn’t you stay in the barn?”
“Phew. It was like a furnace in there. He wanted to come in here where it was a bit cooler, so we did.”
“And your wife? Where was she?”
Newcombe stared at him. “Maria? Why do you want to know about her?”
“I’m just trying to nail down all the pieces. I noticed she wasn’t called up as a witness at the trial.”
“Wasn’t no need. She wasn’t in the barn at all. Lacey helps me serve at the matches.”
Murdoch tried to find the right approach. He didn’t want to risk alienating the innkeeper again. There might be a second test.
“While you and Mr. Pugh were in here, I presume your wife was in your private quarters.”
Newcombe still looked suspicious. “She was. She’s got enough to do during the week without spending her Sabbath day working.”
“Of course” – he patted his stomach – “and if I may say so, well-deserved.”
The innkeeper was mollified. “Not that she does get her day of rest all the time. There’s always somebody giving birth or dying. No matter whether they’re beginning or closing, they all ask for Maria. She’s good with babies, and she’s good with the sick.”
Murdoch dabbed at his moustache with the damask napkin Mrs. Newcombe had provided.
“That evening was no exception. Walter’s little daughter was taken ill. His wife brought her in. Quite hysterical she was, but Maria is as close to being a nurse as makes no mind. Jess, that’s Walter’s wife, is one of those women who’s as nervous as a sparrow. Always worried little Sally is sick. She overwatches that child something fierce. She’s even worse now since she lost the one she was carrying a few months back. Right after the murder it was. Some people thought it preyed on her mind like it can do with women. Maria was carrying when Mahogany died.” He sighed and rubbed his hands across his bald head. “The babe came to term, but was terrible sickly and didn’t live to see out the week, bless his soul.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Yes, he was our only one. Couldn’t seem to get any others. Perhaps that’s why I love these little dogs so. They’re like my children.” He got to his feet. “Give me your plate. There’s a raisin pudding for a sweet.”
Murdoch held up his hand in protest. “I can’t eat another morsel; I’ll burst.”
Newcombe grinned. “I’ll get Maria to wrap some up for you to take with you. Her pudding is a favourite with the customers.”
“Thank you, I do appreciate that. Just a point of clarification if you don’t mind. Mrs. Lacey arrived after everybody had left the barn, did she?”
“That’s right. There was a storm coming up and they all cleared out in a hurry except for Mr. Pugh.”
“Would she have come shortly after then? A few minutes? Half an hour? An hour?”
Newcombe shrugged. “Can’t tell you that. Jess went straight in to Maria. Like I said, everybody does.” He shook his head, but it was obvious how proud he was of his wife.
“And Walter Lacey, where was he after everybody had left?”
“He stayed to clean up the barn. He’s not ascared of rats, dead or alive. I’m lucky to have him. I must admit they do make me squirm. And for all the fact she’s laid out more people than you can count, my Maria won’t tolerate a rat within ten feet of her.”
Murdoch indicated the glass box with the monstrous stuffed rat. “Can’t say I blame her.”
“No, none of us knew anything until young Phil came running up to the door, yelling his head off that his pa was dead. It’s a wonder the whole street didn’t turn out, he was yelling that loud. Maria tried to keep Jess in the back, knowing how highly strung she is, but she had her hands full with the lad, who was screaming like a stuck pig.”
“I suppose Walter tended to his wife then?”
Another sharp glance from Newcombe. “He had to go and fetch the constable.”
Murdoch didn’t want to press him. He sat back, rather uncomfortably full. “Bad business all round.”
“It was. Not that I’ve suffered, I must admit. Folks get a morbid curiosity about murder. I’ve even had people coming up from the city asking to see the bloodstains. Anyways, let me get this plate back to Maria. I’ll bring in the sweet and see if you can eat it.”
He left with the now light tray, and Murdoch took the opportunity to loosen his belt a notch. He had a closer look at the stuffed rat. All was quiet from behind the screen; no puppy nightmares.
Newcombe came back into the room leading a scruffy grey terrier on a leather leash.
“Thought you might like to meet the dog that caused all the trouble. This is Havoc.”
Murdoch peered at the terrier. Its brown eyes were partly hidden behind its hair, but they seemed keen and intelligent.
“Hello, little fellow. Too bad you can’t talk. You could have the truth confirmed in a second.”
Hearing voices had awakened the brood, and two of the puppies waddled out from their den. Immediately they came over to investigate the newcomer. Havoc lifted his lip and snarled. One of the pups halted, the other mistook this signal or foolishly decided to ignore it. He continued to approach Havoc and lifted his nose to the older dog’s muzzle to sniff at him. So quickly Murdoch didn’t even see what happened, the puppy was flipped onto his back and Havoc was astride him, growling into his face. The pup squealed in fright. Tripper heard and before Newcombe could take action, she came rushing from behind the screen to rescue her pup. Teeth bared, she slammed her body into Havoc, knocking him off. There was a whirl of barking dogs as he retaliated or tried to get out of the way, Murdoch couldn’t tell which.
Newcombe jerked on the leash, pulling Havoc up on his hind legs. “Tripper, leave it!” The bitch, feet planted, barked ferociously for a few more moments; Havoc, almost choking, answered her in kind.
“I said, leave it!”
Reluctantly, Tripper backed away, grabbed her pup, still squealing, by the scruff of its neck, and carried it back to the den.
“My Lord, he is
a mean little brute,” said Murdoch.
“To be fair, in this case, that little titch got what he asked for. Havoc warned him, and he wouldn’t listen. Dogs are very strict on manners. But Tripper, of course, will protect her own to the death if she has to. He wouldn’t have stood a chance.”
“Would he have hurt the puppy?”
“It’s hard to tell. Probably just wanted to scare him a bit. But you never know. Some males will kill the young ones at the blink of an eye. Here, make friends with him.”
He thrust a dried piece of bacon into Murdoch’s hand, who crouched down to offer the tidbit. Havoc took a cautious sniff and gulped down the bacon. Murdoch reached out his hand and tried to pat the dog’s head. At once, Havoc curled back his lip, showing impressive canines. Murdoch jumped back.
“He is a bad-tempered cuss, isn’t he?”
“It’ll take time, that’s all. Here, try again.” He handed Murdoch another piece of bacon.
Havoc swallowed it hungrily, but Murdoch didn’t make any attempt to pat him this time.
“There you go then,” said Newcombe, and he handed the leather leash to Murdoch. “He’s all yours.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t keep him. He’s a good ratter, mind you. I’ve been using him in the barn. But Tripper wouldn’t get along with him. As you’re representing the family of his master, it makes the most sense that you take him. It would be a pity to put him down.”
Murdoch was spluttering out his protest when the door opened, letting in a rush of cold air. Two men came in. One was an older man, elegantly dressed in a long, checked overcoat and brown fedora; the other man was wearing bicycling clothes. The lower half of his face was wrapped in a woollen muffler, and he had on large racoon gloves against the cold.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Newcombe,” said the older man, and he tipped his hat courteously to the innkeeper and Murdoch. “Brisk out there. Very brisk.”
“Come in and get yourself warm, Mr. Craig, Mr. Pugh,” said the innkeeper. “Where’s your lad this afternoon?”
“He’s gone courting, I believe.”
“Miss Delaney?”
“Yes. A very fine young woman, very fine.”
He spoke with a pronounced English voice that sounded affected to Murdoch, although perhaps it was normal for the other man.
“Here you are, Newcombe. The broadsheet I said I’d do for you.”
He handed the innkeeper a sheet of paper. Newcombe studied it with delight.
“Excellent piece of work, Mr. Craig. I do thank you. Look, gentlemen, what do you think of this?”
He held up the paper and Murdoch saw it was an announcement of a forthcoming “Yuletide party, complete with puddings and mulled wine. Sign up now. Only one dollar.”
“Would you print up two dozen copies for me? I’ll hand them out to the customers.”
“I’ll have them ready by tomorrow.”
Newcombe took the broadsheet and fastened it to the mantelpiece by using the clock to hold it down.
“A bargain if I may say so, Mr. Newcombe,” said Pugh. “I’ll be here.”
Both men moved closer to the hearth to warm themselves, each glancing at Murdoch with polite nods of greeting.
“It’s good chance that you came just now,” said Newcombe. “This gentleman and me were having a chin about the Delaney case.”
“Indeed?” said the Englishman. “Is there anything else that can possibly be said?”
“Sentence was received day before yesterday. He’ll be hung Monday morning.” “Shame that,” said Pugh.
“Shame he’ll be hung, do you mean?” asked Murdoch. He hadn’t meant his voice to be sharp, but it was and Pugh blinked.
“I suppose I did mean that. The whole thing shouldn’t have happened. Tragic. Good man lost to the world.”
“You must be referring to Mr. Delaney not Harry Murdoch,” said Craig. “We can certainly do without his kind.”
“What kind is that, if I may ask, sir?”
Before Craig could answer, the innkeeper intervened. “Gentlemen, allow me to make introductions. Mr. Craig, Mr. Pugh, this is Mr. Williams. He is a reporter, and he’s writing an article about the case.”
“Indeed?”
“Indeed, sir.” Murdoch was struggling to calm down. It wasn’t going to help his investigation to rile these men.
Pugh took off his glove and offered his hand. “Good afternoon to you.”
Murdoch retrieved his fingers from the bruising squeeze. “And you, sir. I admire your courage to take your wheel on such a day. I put up mine two weeks ago.”
“It’s not too bad if you dress warm. What do you ride?”
“A Singer.”
“Good wheel. Mine’s an Ideal.” “That’s good, too.”
He put out his hand to Craig, who accepted without much enthusiasm.
“What’s your paper?” asked Pugh. “Beg pardon?”
“Who’re you writing for? The News? The Globe?”
“Er, none so important. Just a small paper.”
“Which one? Try me, I know all of them. Is it the Orange Banner?”
Blast! thought Murdoch. He could see the man was testing him, but why he was so persistent, he didn’t know. Once again, Newcombe rescued him.
“He’s keeping it confidential. Less prejudicial that way. Isn’t that right, Mr. Williams?”
Murdoch nodded. Pugh seemed satisfied by that answer but didn’t let go of the topic.
“Have you got a slant? You don’t think the fellow was innocent, do you?”
Murdoch shrugged, on safer ground. “I’m trying to keep an open mind. As for a slant, as you call it, I’m going to let that emerge.”
One of the puppies decided to test the world again, and he came out from behind the screen. Havoc jumped to his feet on the ready.
“Oh, dear. Glutton for punishment, aren’t you,” said Newcombe, and he picked up the puppy, gave him a kiss on his nose, and popped him back at the instance Tripper came to investigate. “You know where you are with dogs,” he said. “Food, warmth, and respect is all they want. Not like men.”
Craig smiled. “That sounds as if it could be the tack you need, Mr. Williams. The mysterious complexity of human nature. Tell me, Newcombe, are you raising more champions with this lot?”
“I have every expectation of so doing, sir.”
Somehow the little incident released the tension in the air. Pugh sat down on the opposite bench; Craig stayed in front of the fire.
“Are you ready for your dinners?” asked Newcombe.
“I am. What about you, Mr. Pugh?”
“Wouldn’t miss it. But a pint of your ale would go down smooth first off. I got up a thirst coming up the hill.”
“I’ll take your hats and coats, gentlemen, and I’ll fetch the brews,” said Newcombe. “In the meantime, please help yourself to cigars. There’s a new box on the mantelpiece.”
Murdoch waited until the two men were settled again. “I wonder if I could ask you gentlemen some questions as you were both present on the evening in question. Our good host here has been most forthcoming, but it always helps to verify statements.”
Craig took a cigar and began the ritual of sniffing it, licking the end, and so forth. “Made a statement, did he? I thought you were just chinning with him. You make it sound like some sort of official inquiry.” Behind the affable English manners, Murdoch sensed something sharper, something wary as a fox near the chicken coop.
“Figure of speech only, Mr. Craig.” He didn’t give the man a chance to argue further. “I understand that you, sir, left here with your son and a Mr. White, who has not been seen since. You were right on the heels of Delaney, but I assume he had already got as far as the ravine and you didn’t see him – or anybody else for that matter.”
Craig blew out some odiferous smoke. “It is so long ago and, frankly, was of so little moment at the time, I can hardly remember. But I do know my son and I took leave of Mr. White just in front of
our house, which is on Summerhill Avenue. He was heading for Yonge Street to see if he could find a cab. He didn’t have his own carriage.”
“I am intrigued by this person, White. Apparently he did not reply to any advertisements to come forward as a witness. Do you know who he is?”
“Not at all. Hadn’t clapped eyes on him before.”
“Some swell from the city, if you want my opinion,” said Pugh. “Between you and me, Vince Newcombe has a good thing going up here. Them’s high wagers. Nothing to sneeze at. Delaney was the big winner of course.”
“And you the gracious loser, Mr. Pugh,” said Craig. “Our friend here didn’t win a single bet, Mr. Williams, but he didn’t complain at all. One would almost think it didn’t matter to him.”
Pugh flushed. “Course it mattered, but I’m not going to whinge and moan when all was fair and square, won by better dogs.”
“It would be hard not to find a better dog than your poor beast, Mr. Pugh. I don’t think he is quite suited to ratting. The rodents seemed to frighten him out of his wits.”
Pugh laughed. “You’re right about that. But I thought I’d give it a try.”
Murdoch thought Pugh was ill at ease with this conversation, but at that moment, Newcombe returned with two tankards of beer.
“Pork’ll be ready in a trice.” He addressed Murdoch. “Mr. Williams, I told young Phil Delaney I’d bring up one of the pups to show him. Flash is the sire, and I already promised them they could take one of the litter if they liked. Would you like to come up with me? Maria is going to take good care of these two gentlemen.”
Murdoch stood up. “Thank you, Mr. Newcombe, I’d be happy to. And may I have the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Newcombe and giving my compliments on the splendid meal in person?”
“She’d like that I’m sure. Come through here.”
Murdoch got his coat and went to follow his host out of the taproom. At the door he stopped. “What about the dog?”
Havoc was lying down with his nose on his paws, watching him. He looked forlorn, a scrap of a dog with his dull, rough coat.
“Better leave him here for now. He won’t get along with Flash.”
Let Loose the Dogs Page 11