Let Loose the Dogs

by Maureen Jennings

  “See, what did I tell you?” interjected her mother.

  “Philip’s poppa has passed away. I don’t think it could have been last week, Nan.”

  “I know that. It was a long, long time ago. Philip has a sweetheart, but his poppa was very cross and swatted him.”

  Without turning around, Murdoch took another twenty-five-cent piece from his pocket and held it up. Mrs. Bowling managed to hold her tongue.

  “His poppa swatted him because he had a sweetheart?”

  Nan shook her head vigorously. “Oh no! Not for that. He doesn’t know. Philip is my brother, and he tells me.”

  “He’s lucky to have somebody to talk to. I had a sister, but she has gone to heaven.”

  Nan leaned forward and planted a wet kiss on his cheek. “You must be sad. Philip was very sad when he come, but I bolstered him again and we played with the dogs. The other dog wasn’t as nice as Flash.”

  “What dog was that, Nan?”

  “I forget his name, but he wanted to bite me.”

  Mrs. Bowling couldn’t hold back any longer, and she approached the two of them. “I told you, she don’t have any sense.”

  “It’s not true then? Philip Delaney wasn’t here that night?”

  “Of course he wasn’t. He does come over on occasion. He’s as much a child as she is. They are good companions. Nan thinks that makes them brother and sister. She likes the dog, and they play together. But she’s got it mixed up. She does that.”

  To prove her point, she leaned toward her daughter. “Nan, tell the gentleman what day this is?”

  Happy for the attention, the girl grinned. “It is March tenth. In seven days’ time it will be the birthday of the Lord Jesus, which took place on December fifth more than twenty years ago.”

  “And did Philip bring Flash over to see you this week?”

  “He came yesterday.”

  Mrs. Bowling shook her head. “He hasn’t been here for a while.”

  Nan looked over at her mother, and her expression was sly. “You didn’t see him, Momma. You were asleep. He did come yesterday. He brought a puppy, a baby dog. We played tag, and Flash fetched every one of the sticks I threw for him.”

  “That must have been fun,” said Murdoch. “I’ve met Flash, and he likes to run. But it wasn’t this puppy you saw in the summer, was it?”

  “No.”

  “What colour was the other little dog Philip brought? The nasty one?”

  “She doesn’t know,” interjected Mrs. Bowling.

  “I do, Momma. It looked like ashes. I called it Ashes, but that wasn’t its real name.” She looked solemnly at Murdoch. “Momma won’t let me play in the woods anymore. She says I’m too big. I used to play all day long. I got sweeties.”

  Whatever she’d said made her mother angry. “There she goes, lying again. I’ve never let her play on her own. She needs watching all the time. What sort of mother would let a big girl with no sense like her go wandering off?”

  The girl was shrinking back on the couch, watching her mother intently. Murdoch stood up. He didn’t think he was going to get any more information, and he didn’t want to make Nan’s life more difficult than it already was.

  “Thank you for answering my questions, Nan. You have been very helpful. Thank you, Mrs. Bowling.”

  He walked back to the sink, noticing that the money was no longer on the table.

  The wounded chicken was gasping, and gently, he picked it up. Both Mrs. Bowling and Nan were watching him. He touched the brim of his hat in acknowledgement and left.

  By the time he got to the bottom of the hill, the bird was dead, and he buried it under a mound of ice-rimmed leaves.

  Chapter Forty-two

  ALTHOUGH THE MANCHESTER HAD JUST OPENED, the taproom was already almost full. Unlike the Bowling cottage, the smell in here was salubrious, wood smoke mixing with roasting pork. The wall sconces blazed with light, and a fire was crackling in the fireplace. Murdoch stood for a moment at the threshold, but Vince Newcombe, who was at the serving window, saw him and shouted out a greeting. “Will, come on in.”

  There was a smattering of applause, which momentarily disconcerted him until he realised it wasn’t for him but for Mr. Patrick Pugh, who was standing by the hearth. There was a small circle of space around him, and several customers were watching. Apparently, he had just completed some kind of magic trick.

  Newcombe indicated Murdoch should go to one of the fireside benches and he did so, making his way through the cluster of topers, who at this point were friendly and thirsty. The innkeeper drew a tankard of ale and brought it over.

  “Mr. Clarry, move your rear end in a few inches and let Mr. Williams sit down.”

  The elderly man, whose face was completely obscured with a full, old-fashioned beard and bushy side-whiskers, slid over good-humouredly, and Murdoch squeezed himself in beside him.

  “Good evening to you,” he said.

  “Likewise,” replied the old man.

  Newcombe placed the tankard in front of Murdoch. “You look like you could use this.” He nodded in the direction of the man by the fireplace. “Mr. Pugh is honouring us with some entertainment.”

  Pugh heard him and grinned an acknowledgement. The streak of white hair at his temples was particularly vivid in the firelight.

  He approached Murdoch’s neighbour. “Mr. Clarry, I heard you complaining yesterday that you didn’t have two quarters to rub together. Is that right?”

  “Certainly is. I’m not as young as I used to be. Can’t work.”

  In spite of these words there was something complacent in the old man’s voice that belied what he was saying.

  “You’re giving us a nailer, Mr. Clarry. I’d say you are a rich man indeed.”

  Pugh reached forward and under the man’s full beard. He pulled out a shiny silver dollar. “My, my, a strange place to put your savings … and what’s this?”

  Another coin appeared magically from behind Clarry’s right ear. “Good gracious, you’ve got at least two dollars tucked in here,” said Pugh, and removed another coin. To everybody’s amusement, Clarry reached up and pulled at his ear lobe as if it was a teat full of silver. “Ah, here’s another,” said Pugh, and he removed a fourth coin from Clarry’s left ear. He addressed his audience. “I’d say Mr. Clarry could easily pay for a round, don’t you?”

  A chorus of yeahs and whistles was the answer. “Give me the money then,” said the old man. “I’ll be glad to treat.”

  “Sorry, can’t do that. Finders keepers. But I tell you what, if you can find those coins, they are yours.”

  It looked as if Pugh had dropped the silver into his pocket, they had heard each coin clink as he did so, but he turned his pockets inside out and they were empty. Clarry stood up. “I’m going to pat you down then. Here let me out.” This remark was addressed to Murdoch, and he shoved him a little. Murdoch knew that Mr. Clarry wasn’t too happy at being tricked.

  Pugh stepped back. “Tell you what. Winner take all on this next trick. You win, I pay. I win, you pay. Agreed?”

  “What is it?”

  “I am going to bet that I can cut right through your wrists, through flesh and bone, using only a silk handkerchief. Let’s see them.”

  Clarry held up his hands. His knuckles were knobby, the skin leathery, and his wrists thick. Pugh turned over his right hand to look at the palm. “A farmer, I see.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Are you game then?”

  “Just as long as you leave my goolies intact. My wife wouldn’t like it if anything happened to them.”

  There was a loud jeering from the other customers. “Whooee. You’re dreaming, Jonah. She hasn’t seen them in years,” cried out one of the men, almost a twin of Clarry with his beard and rough farmer’s complexion.

  “Come on, men. Give him a chance,” called out Newcombe, ever the host. “Let’s see the trick.”

  Pugh spun around. “Does anybody have a silk handkerchief they can lend me? I�
��d prefer a clean one. You, sir. Yours will do.”

  A younger man was seated at the opposite bench. He was wearing a corduroy jacket and trousers and a black slouch hat. Around his neck was knotted a bright blue-and-yellow handkerchief. He shrank back. “What are you going to do with it? I just bought it.”

  “Fear not. It will be returned to you intact, sir, or I myself will pay twice the cost.”

  Pugh wasn’t to be denied, and the man undid the handkerchief and handed it over. Underneath he revealed a red flannel collarless shirt.

  “What did this cost you? Twelve cents?” asked Pugh. “No! Twenty-five.”

  Pugh ran the handkerchief through his fingers. “You were robbed, sir. But never mind. It will do. Now where’s my vict–I mean my helper. Mr. Clarry, show me your wrist. Either one will do.”

  Clarry held out his right arm and pushed back his sleeve so that his wrist was exposed. Pugh twisted the handkerchief into a rope and began to wrap it around Clarry’s wrist.

  “I must tell you gentlemen I have performed this trick for the best English society. Prince Albert himself assisted me.”

  The men watching him groaned and banged on the table to express their disbelief.

  “Tell us another, Pugh. You’re as full of wind and piss as a whore’s belly,” said one man.

  Pugh worked fast and knotted the handkerchief tightly.

  “Clasp your two hands together if you please, sir, so there can be no doubt of my authenticity.”

  Clarry did so and the rest of the men went quiet. Pugh’s voice was commanding.

  “I am now going to draw up this handkerchief by means of magic right through the flesh. Keep your hands tight together, sir.”

  Pugh took one end of the handkerchief in each hand. “One, two … no wait, this is a particularly difficult trick to do. I wouldn’t mind a little assistance. Count with me. ONE. TWO.” The men joined in and on a loud “THREE,” Pugh pulled the handkerchief, still knotted, up through Clarry’s wrist. “Ha!” He waved it in the air, while they all clapped; then he tossed it over to its original owner.

  Clarry was examining his wrist. “How the devil did he do that?”

  Murdoch didn’t respond. During the trick, he saw for the first time that the clever Mr. Pugh was missing the tip of his middle finger on the left hand! He took a drink of beer. What the hell did that mean? He couldn’t believe there were two men in his sphere, both of whom were identically maimed. But Billy had sworn that the man spying on Murdoch was pale and nondescript, rather fat, with a moustache. Quinn’s dog procurer was described in the same way. He stared at Pugh, who was slaking his thirst from one of the mugs now offered to him by his admiring audience. He was clean shaven, slim in his brown guernsey and dark trousers. But a false moustache was an easy disguise to assume, as was padding. It had to be the same man. But what the hell was he doing? Why all the subterfuge?

  Suddenly, Pugh looked over at him, and their eyes met. For a moment Murdoch feared he could even read minds.

  “Listen up, you topers. One more entertainment. For the round. Brain versus brawn. Mr. Newcombe, may I avail myself of your good broom?”

  “Of course. Help yourself.”

  Pugh picked up the corn broom that was leaning against the mantelpiece. “I am going to show you an amazing feat. As you can see, I can never be called a big man. Five feet, three inches in my boots is all I can claim. But I am going to ask the assistance of a much taller and stronger man to see if he can push me over using this broom. You, sir, next to Mr. Clarry. Mr. Williams, isn’t it? You look like a fit man. Will you come up and participate in a little fun?”

  “Why not,” said Murdoch, and he got to his feet. He was trying to be nonchalant, but he felt tense and angry. The little rat wasn’t going to get the better of him if he could help it.

  Wagers immediately began to be placed, coins and dollar bills slapped down on the tables. Murdoch heard them call out.

  “Three to one on the conjurer. I’ll give you five against.”

  Murdoch had a hazy sense that he was not getting a lot of favour.

  “Hold this broom horizontally like so across your chest. Now, I am going to make things easier for you. I will oppose you using only my one thumb, like so.”

  Pugh placed his thumb lightly on the broom handle. “Now, Mr. Williams, push me over. If you can!”

  Murdoch pushed hard on the broom. He knew there had to be a catch in it, but he didn’t care. He’d enjoy seeing the cocky rooster sprawling on the floor. That didn’t happen. Pugh remained upright, his thumb touching the broom. “Harder, Mr. Williams. A young lady could do better.”

  Murdoch felt himself flush, and he pushed again. There was a strong resistance on the other side of the broom. Pugh started to whistle merrily, his position unchanged. Murdoch tried again. He was proud of his strong legs and back. With a grunt, he put his back into it, but the resistance was even stronger.

  The men called out, “Get on! Shove him over! Go!”

  Finally, Murdoch had to stop he was so out of breath. He stepped back, panting.

  “Do you concede the match?” asked Pugh.

  “No. One more try.”

  “Very well. I will make it even easier. I will stand on one foot.” He did so, tucking his left foot across his right calf. “Now go.”

  Murdoch took a deep breath and pushed as hard as he could. Nothing happened. Pugh didn’t move an inch. The men were cat-calling. He had to stop.

  “Concede?”

  “No!”

  At that moment Newcombe stepped forward. “This is a man who won’t give up until the Other place freezes. Come on, Mr. Williams, you’ve been fairly beat. Or unfairly. It was good entertainment, and the next round is on the house.”

  He indicated Walter Lacey, who had been leaning through the bar window watching.

  “Walt here will fill up your mugs. Once only, so don’t think you can gulp ’em down and get seconds.”

  There was a surge as the men closest to the pumps went for their refills. Newcombe patted Murdoch on the shoulder. “I’ve seen him do it before. It’s a trick, but devil take me if I know how he does it. He’s withstood men even heavier than you.”

  Pugh had tossed back a glass of whiskey, and he wiped his hand across his mouth. He grinned at Murdoch. “They may have been bigger but none as stubborn. Shake on it, sir.”

  He held out his hand. Murdoch went as if to accept the handshake, but instead he caught Pugh by the other wrist and twisted his hand around palm side up. “You’ve had an accident I see, sir.”

  “Ah yes. Not serious, thank goodness.”

  He pulled his hand away and held up the truncated finger. “A snake bit me when I was a boy. I got between him and my infant sister, who was cooing on the grass.”

  “Ha!” exclaimed one of the topers, who was nearby. “I thought you told us last week that you was stamped on by a wild buffalo. You was caught in a stampede, and you was rescuing a little puppy dog at the time. He said that, didn’t he, Vince?”

  Pugh didn’t give him a chance to reply. “Both are true, my dear sir. I have lost the tip of my finger on two separate occasions.”

  “Carry on like that and you won’t have anything left.”

  More laughter and Pugh bowed in acknowledgement. Murdoch felt completely at a loss, and he struggled to control himself. He didn’t know how to break through the man’s composure, and he was burning to do so. If he had an excuse, he would have happily asked him to step outside, but he knew he was being unreasonable. The crowd broke up into smaller groups, and Murdoch took his seat on the bench. Pugh sat on the other end next to Mr. Clarry. Newcombe brought three foaming tankards.

  “On the house.”

  “Where’s Mr. Craig tonight?” asked Pugh, wiping foam from his lip with the back of his hand.

  “Haven’t seen him yet. Or James. They’re late.”

  “Oh, didn’t you hear?” said another man nearby. “I was by there this afternoon with my delivery. Mr. Craig’s mo
ther’s been taken poorly. She lives in America somewhere, and he and his lad have had to go off to see her.” His voice dropped. “She might not live to see Saturday.”

  “Have they all gone? The entire family?” asked Pugh, and Murdoch could feel the sudden tension.

  “No, just Mr. Craig and his son and the aunt who lives with them. Missus isn’t that well either, and Miss Adelia is staying to look after her.” The man looked over at Pugh, slyly. “If that’s what’s worrying you.”

  Pugh shrugged. “Well, she is a mighty pretty lady.”

  He stood up and fished some coins, regular fashion, from his pocket. “In fact, I think I should go and pay her a call. Offer my sympathies.”

  Grabbing his hat from one of the hooks by the door, he left.

  The baker winked at the other men. “I’d say he’s a smitten man, wouldn’t you? That was one of the fastest exits I’ve seen since my dog got the scent of the bitch down the road. Mr. Pugh’s tool was practically dragging on the ground.”

  “Watch your tongue, Driscoll,” interjected Newcombe. “I won’t have decent women talked about in that fashion.”

  “Hold on, Vince. No aspersions on the young lady. I was referring only to our fast friend.”

  “That’s as may be, but I won’t tolerate coarse language in here and you know it. What if my Maria was to come in and hear you?”

  Driscoll shrugged, unperturbed. It was obvious that he considered overhearing vulgarities went with the territory, and if they were going to run a tavern they must know that.

  Murdoch gulped down some of the sharp-tasting ale. Was Pugh upset at the thought that Miss Craig might have left? If he was courting her, surely he wasn’t also chasing Enid Jones? Damn. He didn’t know if he should go after him. But if he did, then what?

  Suddenly his eyes met those of Walter Lacey, who was leaning in the open window to the bar. The barkeeper had been scrutinising him, he realised. Murdoch considered himself to be adept at reading unspoken thoughts on other men’s faces, but he couldn’t quite fathom Lacey’s expression. Not malevolent exactly, but as intense as a wolf watching its prey. He felt a stab of anger at being the object of this stare, and he tipped his finger to his forehead. Lacey looked away, quickly wiping some nonexistent spilled beer from the counter.