Let Loose the Dogs

by Maureen Jennings

  “I’m afraid he’s too upset. He does feel a little feverish,” she said to Murdoch.

  “Does that mean he is not going to go back to his own room?”

  She looked abashed. “When he has these fevers, he doesn’t sleep.”

  “Which means in this bed and not his.”

  “I’m sorry, Will. It is just that he is used to having me all to himself.”

  Alwyn was watching Murdoch through tear-laden eyes. His distress was genuine, and Murdoch was torn between feeling completely aggravated at the boy and understanding how threatened he must feel.

  “It was time for me to leave anyway. Alwyn, bring me my trousers from the chair.”

  The boy did so, Enid hovering anxiously nearby. She handed Murdoch his other clothes, indicating he should get dressed behind the screen.

  When he emerged, Alwyn was already in the bed, sitting high on the pillows while his mother stroked his head. Murdoch grimaced. He had the sense he was not the first man in history to witness the bond that exists between mother and son and to feel excluded by it.

  Chapter Forty-five

  THE STREET WAS DESERTED, and the pavement was black and slick in the light of the street lamps. On impulse, Murdoch headed up to Gerrard Street to the jail. He’d gone there earlier from the Manchester, but the guard had refused to admit him.

  “No visiting after six.” Murdoch hadn’t met this guard before. He contemplated making a fuss but decided against it. Frankly, he didn’t know what he could bring to tell Harry. That Delaney wasn’t such a saintly fellow? That wouldn’t surprise Harry. His own encounter with Mrs. Bowling and the innkeeper’s confession were still to be assessed in his mind. At this stage he didn’t want to reveal anything to Harry that would raise unjustified hopes.

  The two cell wings were in darkness and only a single gas sconce sputtered in the entranceway. He wondered if his father was lying awake on the hard cot, afraid to lose what little time was left to him.

  Murdoch wasn’t sure how long he stood outside the jail, but suddenly he realised his teeth were starting to chatter. He turned away and headed for home. He wasn’t quite as lighthearted as he’d been yesterday, the boy’s interruption had seen to that, but there was still a glow of warmth around his heart that made him impervious to the biting cold wind that was soughing in the trees. He’d been carrying on about the major impediment between him and Enid being their different faiths, but now he was beginning to wonder if it wouldn’t rest more in the presence of an intensely jealous boy. Murdoch smiled to himself. Poor Sprat. He could hardly blame him. He vowed he’d try to do more to win him over. Every lad needed a father. And that thought brought with it such a pang it was as if he had breathed the cold air into his soul.

  He was hurrying along Wilton Street as if he were going to work. He was late because he hadn’t been able to find his collar. Hastily, he wrapped a scarf around his bare neck, hoping that the inspector wouldn’t notice. Suddenly, directly in front of him, he saw Eliza. She was moving slowly, looking into shop windows in a way that she never did in real life. He was filled with intense joy, and he ran up to her, calling out, “How could you not tell me you hadn’t died?” She shrugged with an indifference that stabbed him to the heart. “I’ve met somebody else,” she said and there was suddenly a man at her side. She had her arm linked through his. He smirked at Murdoch with all the smugness of assured possession. Murdoch’s happiness that Eliza was alive turned immediately to a hot rage. “No!” he yelled, but the sound wouldn’t come out, and she and her escort turned away and continued their walk. “No!” he screamed, but the cries were still so choked they could not be heard.

  Murdoch woke up. He couldn’t tell if he had been actually shouting out loud or not. A pale strip of daylight was showing beneath his window blind. He looked at his alarm clock. Ten minutes past seven. He was surprised he had slept as long as he had. He listened. From the back room downstairs, he heard Arthur coughing, and he gauged the severity of the sound. Bad. The cold, damp air was hard on him. He could hear Beatrice talking. Her voice was, as usual, calm and reassuring. She never for a moment conveyed despair, and ever since Murdoch had been living with them, she had not given up hope of finding some treatment that would bring about a cure. He thought Arthur would have died many months ago if she had not been ministering to him.

  His room had grown cold in the night; and although he was warm underneath the quilt, he wanted to get away from the misery of his dream. He got out of bed and dressed as fast as he could, wondering if Enid was awake and, if she was, what was she doing?

  He went downstairs and headed for the kitchen. Beatrice came out carrying a tray. There was a delicious smell of frying bacon in the air.

  “Good morning, Mr. Murdoch. I’ve just started your breakfast.”

  “Thank you. Here let me take that.”

  She relinquished the tray. The jug of cream and a bowl of eggs was Arthur’s breakfast. This was a reputed cure that he had been taking for some time now. Six fresh eggs stirred into a glass of milk with its heavy cream. Beatrice indicated a small brown bottle.

  “We’re going to try this as well. It’s iodine I got from the chemist. Mrs. O’Grady said she’s heard it works wonders.”

  She opened the door to what was essentially both bedroom and sitting room for the Kitchens. The front small parlour was converted into a dining room for her lodgers. Once again, that meant only Murdoch now that Mrs. Jones had moved out. He knew that most nights Beatrice made up a cot in the kitchen for herself, but by morning it had been tidied away.

  The smell from the disinfectant bucket filled the room, which was very cold. The window was kept open so that Arthur could get fresh air.

  He was propped up in his Bath chair, wrapped in a blanket. He wore a nightcap and today gloves against the cold.

  “Ah, good morning, Will. Welcome to Siberia.”

  “What? It’s positively sweltering in here.”

  It was a feeble attempt at humour, but he was rewarded by Arthur’s grin.

  “You must be burning up yourself then if you think that. There’s something going about called Welsh fever. Quite debilitating. You’d better watch out.” He glanced at Murdoch with a sly look.

  “Now, Arthur! Don’t tease,” said Beatrice, but she, too, smiled expectantly.

  “If there is such a thing, I must say, it has not affected Mrs. Jones, who is in excellent health.”

  “I’m glad of that. Here you go, Arthur.”

  She poured out the cream, added the raw eggs, then dripped some of the iodine into the glass.

  Arthur drank the mixture down in a few big gulps. It was the only way to do it.

  His face was grey this morning, and the skin was stretched tightly across his cheekbones. The receding flesh was making his teeth prominent, and the shape of his skull was coming through more and more visibly. He coughed uncontrollably, and Beatrice reached for a fresh strip of linen from the bedside table. He spat into it and she quickly dropped the bloodied cloth into the bucket.

  Arthur lay back on his pillow. His chest was heaving as he tried to breathe. Beatrice calmly took his hand in hers.

  “I’m just going to start Mr. Murdoch’s breakfast. I’ll …” She was interrupted by the sound of knocking at the front door. “That’s probably the bread man. He’s coming earlier and earlier.”

  “I’ll see to it,” said Murdoch.

  The truth was that he was only too glad to get out of the room. Sometimes he found the sight of Arthur’s struggle almost unbearable. It was like being forced to watch a man drown while you were a mere two feet away on the shore but unable to do anything about it.

  The rapping sounded again, and he opened the door with some irritation. On the threshold was standing a constable, whose enormous bulk filled the doorway. It was his fellow officer, George Crabtree.

  “George! What are you doing here at this hour?”

  “Good morning, Mr. Murdoch. I’m sorry to intrude at a time like this and so early in the
morning, but Inspector Brackenreid would like you to come down to the station on a rather urgent matter.”

  “What urgent matter?”

  “I’m afraid he didn’t say, sir. He just asked me to fetch you right away.”

  “Do I have time for my breakfast?”

  “I rather doubt that, Mr. Murdoch. He said he wanted to see you in his office in fifteen minutes.”

  “Well, we’d better hurry then. I’d hate to disappoint our good inspector. He clearly has a high opinion of our abilities to get from the station and back in that amount of time. Let me tell Mrs. Kitchen.”

  Murdoch turned around but his landlady had come out into the hall, and he explained the summons.

  “No lodger of mine is going out on a cold morning like this without a bite of breakfast in his stomach. You can wait for one minute at least.”

  She went back to the kitchen.

  Murdoch, in the meantime, started to put on his coat and hat. “Any guesses as to what he wants, George?”

  “Apparently he had an early visitor. I was in the back room and didn’t see him arrive, but he was in the office when I went up to answer the bell. The inspector didn’t say who he was or why you were being summoned at this sorrowful time, but the man must have something to do with it.”

  Mrs. Kitchen returned with a sandwich wrapped in grease-proof paper and handed it to Murdoch.

  He thanked her, put it in his pocket, and left with Crabtree. Once outside, they started a fast jogging trot up the street.

  “What did the fellow look like?”

  “I didn’t really get a look at him. He was standing with his back to me and was looking out of the window.”

  “Tall? Short? Fat?”

  “Sorry, Mr. Murdoch, it was such a glimpse. I’d say he was quite slim and on the short side.”

  “By ordinary standards, George, or compared to you?”

  Crabtree grinned. “Ordinary standards.”

  They were at the station. The lamps shone into the grey morning, and Murdoch felt the familiar pleasurable response to the sight. He realised he would be glad to get back to work.

  “Just a minute, George. Let me get my breath. I don’t want the inspector to have the satisfaction of seeing me panting. He might get an inflated sense of his own importance.”

  He would have liked to have taken a bite of his sandwich, but he knew it was going to be greasy, and he didn’t want to see Brackenreid with bacon fat smeared all over his face.

  “All right, Constable Crabtree. Let us face Caesar.”

  They went into the station where Sergeant Seymour, the soberfaced desk sergeant, greeted him. “He’s waiting for you,” he said with a grimace, indicating Brackenreid was in a mood. Not unusual, but depending on its severity, there was always the hazard that the station would be rocked back on its heels with his unreasonable demands and the laying out of fines and charges for petty misdemeanours.

  “Give me your sandwich, I’ll keep it warm, and I’ll mash some tea,” said Crabtree. “Come and have some when you’re done.”

  “Hold on a minute. There’s a package come for you,” said Seymour. He reached under his desk. “Strange fellow brought it in. A priest of some kind; couldn’t even speak English properly.”

  Curious, Murdoch examined the parcel. On the front was the convent’s insignia.

  “Hold on to it for me. If I don’t return, I’ve willed all my effects to my landlady.”

  He hung his coat and hat on one of the hooks on the wall and went upstairs to the inspector’s second-floor office. There was a serviceable rush carpet on the stairs, but outside the door there was a strip of luxurious Axminster carpet. Even though the station was in need of repairs, Brackenreid refused to acknowledge it and spent money on furnishings that enhanced his own position.

  Murdoch knocked on the door. He could feel his pulse was faster. What the hell was the reason for this urgency?

  “Come!”

  He entered the room. Brackenreid was seated behind his desk, and his visitor was seated in the sole easy chair in front of him. In what seemed to Murdoch a staged effect, the man was holding a newspaper in front of his face. The air was blue and pungent with cigar smoke. It could have been a gentleman’s club rather than a police inspector’s office.

  “You asked to see me, sir,” said Murdoch.

  Brackenreid drew on his cigar before answering. He waved his hand in the direction of the other man.

  “You know Mr. Pugh, I understand.”

  Chapter Forty-six

  MURDOCH COULDN’T SAY he was really surprised. Once he was confident that Pugh was not Enid’s suitor, he suspected the man was also doing a little investigating of his own. He assumed he was a genuine reporter getting ready to write something sensational when Harry was hung.

  “Good morning to you, Mr. Murdoch. No hard feelings, I hope?”

  “About what?” asked Brackenreid.

  “A little contest that Mr. Murdoch and I engaged in. I assure you, sir, the secret is all a matter of physics. I use your weight against you by actually pushing downward on the stick.”

  “I for one have no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Pugh, but let’s get to the matter at hand, shall we?” He scowled at Murdoch as if he were the one meandering. Scowling at Murdoch, however, was his typical expression.

  “I sent for you because Mr. Pugh here has brought a most grave matter to my attention.” He brushed some ash from the front of his jacket. “I realise that you are, er, under some duress as it were, but I felt nevertheless it was imperative we clarify some things. You have been trespassing, Murdoch, and I’d like to know why.”

  “I do not know what you are referring to, Inspector.”

  Whether it was Murdoch’s tone of voice or memories of previous encounters, Brackenreid seemed to think it prudent to turn toward Pugh.

  “Perhaps you could explain.”

  “Certainly. Mr. Murdoch, I have to confess I have not been altogether honest with you.” He grinned. “But then we were both masquerading under false pretenses, weren’t we, Mr. Williams?”

  Murdoch nodded, waiting. Pugh cleared his throat. “Yes, well, the point is, you see, that I am not a book salesman as I have been pretending to be. Like you, I am a detective, a private one with the Hoskin Agency. You may have heard of us?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  Murdoch did not add that much of what he had heard had not enhanced the agency’s reputation.

  Pugh took a leather folder from his jacket pocket and removed two bills.

  “Mr. Murdoch, take a look at these two-dollar notes. One is genuine; one is counterfeit. Can you tell me which is which?” He held them in front of him, ever the showman.

  Murdoch moved closer. The bills both had portraits of the Marquis and Marchioness of Lansdowne on the front, and both were creased and grubby. He chose the dirtier one.

  “This one is counterfeit.”

  Pugh couldn’t quite hide his chagrin. “Yes, well done. But you must admit you had to study them carefully. It was not immediately obvious that it is a forgery. In the normal business of commerce, it would pass unnoticed. They are the work of truly expert engravers.” He replaced the notes in the folder. “For the past year, I have been employed by Mr. Cockburn of the Dominion Bank. They have become aware of a steady increase of counterfeit money, all two-dollar bills, circulating in the city. As you can imagine, it is a very difficult task to trace the source of queer money as it can pass through literally a dozen hands before being detected. However, I have finally discovered what I believe has been a primary source of distribution. In other words the engravers themselves. I was on the verge of making an arrest when my birds were flushed. Phit! Scared away by a wily fox who was poaching on my land, as it were. All my work for nought.”

  Again he paused, his cigar held aloft. Murdoch shrugged.

  “Mr. Pugh, you are an excellent magician, but perhaps it has affected your ability to be direct. I do not know what in Hades you are talking about.
”

  Pugh smiled, not offended by these hot words. “Quite right, Mr. Murdoch. Circumlocution becomes ingrained. To the point then. What I want to say is that this summer past I had narrowed down my search. I won’t bore you with the details of how I followed my trail; suffice it to say I ended up at the Manchester tavern….”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Why so, Mr. Murdoch?”

  “Vince Newcombe is no queer pusher.”

  “I must admit he does appear to be a jolly, well-meaning sort of fellow, but come sir, as a police officer you know how money can tempt the most honourable men to mischief.”

  “Where would he print them? Unless it’s remarkably well hidden, he doesn’t have a press.”

  “You race ahead of me, sir.”

  Brackenreid interrupted. “Let him tell his story, Murdoch. You’d do well to listen closely.”

  Murdoch would have liked to have sat down. While the other two were seated, he felt like a naughty schoolboy being reprimanded. Pugh must have become aware of this discomfort because he stood up and walked over to the window. Leaning against the sill, he drew on his cigar.

  “I will admit for a while I did not know if the bills were coming from his tavern because of the turnover of money that takes place there, or if he was more directly responsible. Mr. Newcombe, as you are aware, on occasion runs betting matches. He pretends they are friendly contests for sport only, but of course that is not the case. Money is wagered, and therefore many notes are passed among the Fancy. In August I got myself a dog so I could participate in the match, and I made a careful record of what money was passed along by what person. As it turned out, my suspicions were quite justified. Delaney had in his possession eleven two-dollar bills of which eight were queer.”

  He turned around but his back was to the light, throwing him into shadow so that his expression was inscrutable.

  “Not counting myself, only two other people had passed along bills of two-dollar denomination. I had marked all the money I myself exchanged, so it was a simple matter to determine where the false currency had come from.”