“We haven’t finished our conversation to my satisfaction.”
“Are you threatening me, sir?”
“If you like. And I will go further if necessary. Mr. Newcombe, will you lock the door, please?”
Although he looked uneasy at this turn of events, the innkeeper obeyed and remained by the door. Murdoch released Blackstock’s wrist.
“All I require are the answers to some simple questions. If you have a clean conscience, you need have no fear.”
“Of course I have a clean conscience. Why shouldn’t I?”
“Why indeed? Now then. I understand you left the tavern at the same time as Mr. Craig and his son?”
“Yes. And they have confirmed that under oath.”
“They merely stated that they went into their house and left you apparently walking towards Yonge Street. However, it would have been easy for you to turn back and go into the ravine. You weren’t that far behind Delaney. What’s to say you didn’t catch up with him? There’s nothing easier than to get hot about a cheater when there are high stakes. You challenge him, you lose your temper, and as he turns away from you, you hit him with a piece of wood. He falls to the ground. You get out of there as fast as you can. And wait to see if somebody else will take the blame.”
Blackstock gaped at Murdoch. “Are you insane? I did no such thing.”
“It’s not that far-fetched; don’t pretend it is. You are a respectable professional man, but you’re also a gambler. You were drinking that afternoon. Perhaps your judgement was affected. Maybe you didn’t even realise Delaney was dead when you fled.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Murdoch picked up the bell. “Would you like to come forward and make a statement?”
“There is no point. The case is closed. As far as I am concerned, the guilty party has been apprehended. Any testimony I could have made would not have affected the verdict at all.”
Murdoch stared into Blackstock’s eyes. He believed him. The other man sensed his change of attitude and relaxed a little.
He got up and went to a cupboard underneath the window behind him. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I have to take a tonic for my health.”
He poured himself a full glass from the bottle, and gulped it back. Dabbing at his mouth, he returned to his chair.
“You say you are conducting an investigation on behalf of the family of the convicted man?”
“That’s right.”
“You must be working for Murdoch’s son then. He listed one daughter, who is in a convent, and a son, who was last known to be a lumberjack.”
Murdoch fenced the question. “So you admit to being conversant with the case?”
There was silence for a moment, and he saw the conflict on the barrister’s face. Blackstock mopped up again. “To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t mind making a clean breast of the whole thing.”
Murdoch sat back in his chair. “Please do.”
“When I read about the murder and the detaining of the Murdoch man, I thought the least I could do was to ensure he had a fair trial. No, wait, sir. It is not at all what you were imputing just now. I did not want it known to the public that I had been present at your establishment, Mr. Newcombe, but that is the extent of my prevarications. I suggested to Clement to take on the case. He is not a showy fellow, but contrary to what you believe, he is competent. I assisted him to the best of my ability when he needed it. However, I have to assure you, Mr. Williams, it was not complicated. I don’t think it would have mattered very much who represented Mr. Murdoch.”
Blackstock picked up a frame photograph from his desk and held it out to Murdoch.
“I do realise I must seem like a shabby sort of chap, but I have more than just myself to consider. That beautiful woman is my wife, Emmeline. The little infant is my son, Algernon the third.”
Murdoch took the picture. It was a studio portrait. An impeccable Blackstock was standing beside his wife, who was seated, an infant in christening robes and bonnet in her arms. She was very young, perhaps not more than twenty, with fair hair, elaborately coiffed, and she was elegantly and fashionably dressed.
“As you can imagine, Mr. Williams, I …”
He didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence. There was a sharp knock on the door.
“Algie, open up.”
Newcombe unlocked the door, and Emmeline Blackstock herself swept in.
“Why have you got the door locked, Algie?” She stopped when she saw her husband’s visitors, but Murdoch thought it was a calculated hesitation, a brief concession to social etiquette. “I beg your pardon, I didn’t realise you were busy.”
Blackstock hurried over to her and took her hand. “We’ll be finished in a moment, dearest. I’ll join you in the carriage.”
But the lovely Mrs. Blackstock was not going to be fobbed off so easily. She knew who was important and who wasn’t. “Little Nonny is wailing like a banshee. He so wants to see his poppa.”
She turned to bestow a pretty smile on Murdoch. He could see Newcombe was ready to bolt out of the door, but something about Madame Emmeline infuriated him. She could not be considered an exceptionally pretty woman, but he had never before seen anyone so gorgeously dressed. Lush ostrich feathers bobbed at the crown of her pert hat, and her walking suit was a soft golden velvet with a trimming of dark fur at the hem and waist. There was an insert at the bosom of ivory-coloured leather, which looked as if it was sewn with small precious stones. That piece of apparel alone would have cost more than Murdoch earned in three months, and that was a conservative estimate.
“I’m afraid Nonny will have to cry a little longer, madam,” he said. “Our business is not yet concluded.”
One might have thought from her shocked expression that he had suddenly started to unbutton his trousers. Blackstock, on the other hand, suddenly reacted like a cornered fox. He positively jumped into action.
“Mr. Williams is quite right, my dearest. Please wait for me in the carriage, and I will be there momentarily.”
He was almost shoving her out of the room, and in the upheaval she dropped the dainty fur muff she was carrying. Murdoch picked it up and handed it to her. She looked into his eyes for a moment. Whatever she saw there seemed to alarm her, and she made no more resistance. Blackstock closed the door behind her and pulled out his handkerchief. At first Murdoch didn’t realise that it was not only sweat Blackstock was wiping away, but also his tears. He glanced over at Newcombe, who gave a little shrug of embarrassment. However, Murdoch wanted Blackstock to squirm some more so he said nothing else, just sat waiting for him to recover his composure.
“You were saying, sir? As I can imagine …”
“I, er, well, you saw her …”
“I saw that your wife is accustomed to luxury. I assume she would not approve of any habits that would jeopardise her style of life. Is that what you wanted to say?”
“Yes,” whispered Blackstock.
Chapter Thirty-eight
FR. LEBEL CLUTCHED AT HIS WIDE-BRIMMED HAT, which was in danger of sailing off his head in the gusting wind. He regretted now that he hadn’t caught a streetcar along King Street, but he practised little economies whenever he could. His parish was small and not a wealthy one, consisting largely of French Canadian tanners who had formed a community in the vicinity of the church. They didn’t even have their own building yet but were using the former Methodist Church that was on that spot and which had been abandoned for the more splendid cathedral on Church Street. This never ceased to disturb Fr. LeBel, who said to anybody who would listen he felt like a cuckoo, who he understood were too lazy to build their own nests but simply borrowed those of other birds to lay their eggs. His congregation listened to his homilies on this subject with impassivity. They were struggling mettre le pain sur la table, and for the moment they were content to worship in the old church, especially as the bishop had come down from Montreal to bless the site.
After putting in a brief appearance, the sun had retreated and the
afternoon had turned grey and cold. There were fewer pedestrians than usual. Nobody was out for a stroll the way they were when the weather permitted, admiring the shop windows of the fancy stores that lined the lower end of King Street. However, there were two or three carriages waiting on the street. Fr. LeBel frowned in disapproval. The horses were glossy and well fed, but they stamped and blew air from their nostrils that was white as smoke. In his opinion it was far too cold to keep the poor beasts standing still like that while their mistresses were pampered and fawned over by sales clerks. The coachmen were muffled from top to toe with heavy fur coverings, but it was the horses he pitied. He decided to make it the point of his homily this Sunday, even though there was not one of his parishioners wealthy enough to keep a horse and carriage. He could extrapolate into the sin of vanity he supposed, although he had dealt with that recently.
As he approached the corner of Church Street, he had to wait for a moment, clutching his hat with one hand and trying to pull his cloak tighter to his body with the other. The wind bit at him savagely. On his right was St. James Cathedral, its soaring copper spire dulled in the gloom. Fr. LeBel said a brief prayer for the souls of the unbaptised who worshipped there. This church disturbed him with what he considered its flagrant imitation of a Roman Catholic edifice. The devil often took a pleasing shape to tempt the faithful into sin. He hurried on.
Every two or three days, it was his task to go to the general post office on Toronto Street to collect mail. Many of the people of the parish used his church as an address because it was easy for their relatives to remember. Also, they didn’t have to worry about losing precious letters or parcels at the lodging houses where so many of them lived.
The priest had his head bent so low, he couldn’t see where he was going, and suddenly he almost collided with a woman who was coming out of one of the shops. She had a long, silver fur stole wrapped around her face, the little fox head sitting on her shoulder.
“Pardonnez moi, madame,” he said, but he was not oblivious to her expression of dismay. With his long, black cloak and wide-brimmed hat he knew, as far as she was concerned, he was a bizarre figure.
The shop from which she had emerged was known as the Golden Lion. Beautiful tall glass windows faced onto King Street, and above the arch of the doorway was a crouching lion cast in brass. Two floors were above that and on top of the pediment was another huge lion striding confidently into air. It was gilded and in summer the sun burnished it like gold. Fr. LeBel could not understand why a lion should be chosen as a symbol for a dry goods store, and he didn’t approve of this either. However, the height of the upper lion meant it could be seen from afar, and it drew many customers. Visitors to the city were usually taken to the store so this magnificent example of Toronto affluence could be boasted about.
He continued on his way with the uncomfortable awareness that the woman with whom he had almost collided had pulled the fur close around her chin as if to protect herself against a pestilence. Fr. LeBel said another prayer to protect himself from the malevolent thoughts of those outside the true faith.
He turned north on Toronto Street heading toward the post office, which was at the end of the street. In spite of the cold journey, the priest enjoyed collecting the mail. The post office never failed to remind him of his Parisian birthplace with its tall, paired columns, recessed windows, and ecclesiastical dome. The fine stone carving over the lintel was the English Royal Arms, so he avoided looking at that. To the left was a wide canopy shading a side door. When he had first arrived in Toronto a year ago, he had inadvertently entered by that door only to find it was intended for the ladies and opened onto a private room where they would not be disturbed. Amidst smiles tinged with contempt he had withdrawn hastily, gathering his soutane in his hand to lift the skirt above the mud.
Today he went in the main entrance, glad to be in the warmth. He hurried over to the wicket, where a postal worker sat waiting for customers. The priest was relieved to see it was Mr. Langley on duty, a man he knew.
“I would like to ’ave the poste for the church, if you please,” he said, careful to pronounce his words clearly so as not to give offence.
The other man checked one of the cubby holes behind him. “You have a package today, Father, from Montreal.”
Fr. LeBel accepted the small number of letters and signed the chit.
“Somebody will be happy,” said Mr. Langley.
Chapter Thirty-nine
QUINN’S FRIEND JOSEPH TURNED OUT TO BE A TALL, straight-backed waiter with the gravity of an undertaker. He was dressed in a black jacket with a neat white bow tie and black trousers. Murdoch took him to one side and, out of Newcombe’s hearing, explained who he was. The waiter nodded.
“I’ve been expecting you, sir. I will do the best I can.”
He led them to a table by the window and pulled out a chair for Murdoch to sit, then walked around and did the same for Newcombe. Then, with an almost inaudible murmur of “I will bring menus,” he sidled off and disappeared behind the protecting screens at the far end of the room.
“The man could pass for a lawyer if he took off his apron,” said Murdoch. The innkeeper grinned at that and relaxed a little.
Murdoch had overridden Newcombe’s protests and insisted on taking him to the Rossin House Hotel, which was at the corner of York Street and King.
“It’ll cost a week’s wages,” said Vince.
“I don’t care. Let’s see how the swells live for once. My money’s as good as theirs. Besides, I’ve been promised a discount. It should only be three days’ wages.”
Reluctantly, Newcombe complied, but added a sly comment about always wanting to taste the pork cutlets he’d heard about to see if they were as good as Maria’s roast pig.
At the moment Murdoch was having to battle his own discomfort. The Rossin House Hotel was one of the finest the city had to offer. The dining room was long and full of light from the tall windows along one wall. Cleverly, the opposite wall was hung with equally tall mirrors, which doubled the feeling of size and brightness. The polished oak floor gleamed in the gaslight. Murdoch glanced over at the mirror and grimaced. They had been relieved of hats and coats at the door, but his brown suit looked old and he knew there was a stain on his collar by the chin. Newcombe, however, had dressed in his best clothes for his trip to the city; and although he would never have been mistaken for a swell, he was respectable in a navy suit and striped silk four-in-hand.
“This is the most nobby place I’ve been in,” Vince whispered, as if they were in church.
Murdoch looked around. Underneath each mirror was a marble shelf on which stood a blue Chinese vase filled with rushes. Each table was covered with a white damask cloth, and the cruet set looked as if it was solid silver. The dining room was quite full, the soft murmur of voices interwoven with the sound of a small string quartet. He had no idea where the musicians were. Perhaps behind the screen.
I’m going to bring Enid here, he thought to himself, although he suspected she would be even harder to persuade than Vincent had been.
Joseph returned carrying what seemed to be municipal declarations, leather bound with a tasselled marker of gold silk. He opened each one and handed it to Murdoch and Newcombe, respectively. Then discreetly he disappeared.
Newcombe stared at the menu. “Are we expected to eat all this?”
“I don’t think so. We can choose what we want from each section.”
The first course was SOUP AND FISH.
“I like fish. I think I’ll have the mock turtle soup to start off with.”
Newcombe laughed. “It’s not made from fish stock. Heaven knows why it’s called mock turtle. It’s made from stewed calf’s head. Can be tasty if it’s done properly.”
“Hmm. In that case I’ll go for the salmon trout and oyster sauce.”
Newcombe chose the same. Next listed was BOILED AND ROAST followed by ENTREES. Murdoch settled for the leg of mutton with caper sauce, and Newcombe took the corned beef and
cabbage. Unfortunately, to his disappointment, pork wasn’t offered, and they each decided on fillet of venison larded with wine sauce.
“I’m starting to feel like a lord of the manor,” whispered Newcombe. “I’m going to throw the bones to the peasants.”
“To the peasants!” exclaimed Murdoch.
They both laughed, incurring the curious glances of a man and woman who were seated nearby. Murdoch had read that the Rossin House Hotel was frequented by the wealthier class of American tourists. Well then, they were now having an opportunity to observe two of the poorer class of natives.
“Come on, Vince. We haven’t got halfway through yet. What ornamental do you want?”
“I don’t know. What’s buffalo tongue décoré au verdure?”
“Tongue that’s gone mouldy, but they’re fancying it up. You’d better take the game pie à la surprise.”
“I hope it’s a pleasant surprise.”
Joseph returned.
“May I recommend the wild turkey with parsnips and boiled potatoes?”
“You may and we accept,” said Murdoch, and he relayed their other choices. Joseph collected the menus and went off again.
“I was hoping I could keep mine,” said Newcombe. “I wanted to show it to Maria.”
Murdoch expected they would have to wait for a long time for the meal, but that was not the case. Joseph soon came back carrying a large tray, which he set on a carved wooden table against the wall. Then he leaned over Murdoch and removed the heavy damask table napkin from the water goblet where it had been elegantly folded. With a movement worthy of a matador, he draped it across Murdoch’s knees. He was about to go around the table and do the same for Newcombe, but the innkeeper forestalled him and snatched the napkin from the glass and dropped it in his lap. Murdoch hid his grin.
The trout was cooked perfectly, flaking away to the touch. They both ate it quickly.
Joseph must have had a spy hole in that rear screen because Murdoch had hardly put down his fork when the man was at his side. He put fresh plates in front of them.
Let Loose the Dogs Page 23