Ruby raked out the ashes from the stove and shovelled them into her cinder pail. She worked quickly, not because she was late, she wasn’t, she never was, but because the kitchen was cold. A puff of fine white ash went up her nose and she sneezed. She returned some of the larger pieces of cinder to the bottom of the stove, laid strips of paper on top of them, then added kindling, not a lot, just enough to get the blaze going. She balanced chunks of coal on the wood. She already blackened and polished the stove and the coal and iron reflected to each other their hard shiny surfaces.
“You’re too particular,” Mrs. Buchanan had chided her, but Ruby knew she was pleased.
She took a match out of the box, struck it, and lit the paper. The flame jumped up immediately and licked at the dry wood and Ruby sat back on her heels and watched for a moment. Miss Georgina had shown her how to draw flames. Think of a holly leaf with its sharp points. That’s the shape. That and pine tree branches. She’d got Ruby practising on pieces of scrap paper and she was right. Add some logs, easier to draw than pieces of coal, and you had a believable depiction of fire. She’s a talented girl, said Mrs. Crofton, and Miss Georgina had ruffled her hair and said, What would we do without her? Ruby had flushed with pride. Sometimes in her secret heart, she pretended she was actually Miss Georgina’s child who had been snatched away at birth by the gypsies and that someday the truth would be revealed and she would claim her real family and they her.
She waited until she was sure the fire had caught, then closed the door.
Her next task was to drain the large teapot on the draining board by the sink and she got the strainer and poured the cold tea into a cup. Mrs. Buchanan believed the tea had medicinal qualities and used it to bathe her eyes.
Never squint, child. I used to have the eyesight of a fox but I squinted in poor light and now I’m as good as blind.
Not quite. The housekeeper’s keenness of sight was variable, or so it seemed to Ruby. She could detect a hurriedly dusted sideboard from across the room.
A clean house and a clean soul are side by side in God’s heart, she’d declare. Mrs. Buchanan was full of sayings and proverbs and offered them daily. Ruby never felt impatient with these repetitions. The words rounded and softened in her mind, pleasant as pebbles worn smooth by the waves rolling in on the lakeshore. She stored them like provisions.
Laying the table in the breakfast room was the next task, but she had plenty of time. Neither of the mistresses rose early in the winter, and Mrs. Buchanan took advantage of this and stayed in her warm bed until eight o’clock.
Old bones feel the cold much more than young ones, she’d declared.
Ruby picked up the heavy housemaid’s box. After her other tasks were done, she would come back to light the kitchen lamps and make the room bright and cheerful for the housekeeper. No sense in doing that now.
At the end of the sink, Ruby had tucked a dish of water out of sight under the window ledge. Whenever she was alone either coming into the kitchen or leaving, she dipped the tips of her fingers into the water and touched her forehead and chest. A girl at school had told her that Papists did that when they went to church and they asked for God’s blessing. You were supposed to have magic water, but Ruby had collected rain water from the barrel in the garden, thinking that it would be almost as good. Now she said her own prayer.
“To Lord Jesus and particularly to your mother, Mary. Please keep me safe and in this house forever until I am an old lady. Please keep Mrs. Buchanan in good health and also Mrs. Crofton. Please help her with her bunions.”
She dipped her fingers again in the water and wiped her forehead. She needed as much power as she could get.
“Please, Jesus, will you especially take care of Miss Georgina. She is so good and she doesn’t mean any harm, she truly doesn’t. Please ask your mother to protect her and keep her secret safe.”
Even admitting Miss Georgina had a secret was frightening to Ruby, but she thought that in the silence of the sleeping household she could say it to Jesus at least. She needed to unburden herself somewhere.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The chill winter morning air had hit Murdoch’s lungs as soon as he stepped outside and he savoured it. He put thoughts of Enid out of his mind. He was struck by what Arthur had said and he felt an awareness of his own health he hadn’t had before. He hurried, driven by the cold, aware that he could move fast if he had to, that his legs responded. He was a little breathless by the time he reached the station, but he knew that would soon pass. His body worked.
He entered the warm, snug hall of the station. Sergeant Gardiner was on duty and Constable Callahan was already at the telegraph and telephone desk.
“Early, aren’t you?” Murdoch said as he walked by on his way to his cubicle.
“I’m just trying to keep ahead, sir. Do you want I should bring you a cup of tea? I am not yet officially on duty and you know what it’s like trying to get a cuppa when the duty shift changes.”
“Indeed I do. They should start coming in any minute now. So yes, in answer to your question. I like it hot, strong, and sweet if you please.”
“Sounds like you’re talking about an amour, Murdoch,” chipped in Gardiner. “Are you holding back on anything?”
Murdoch liked the sergeant and usually didn’t object to getting into randy banter with him. This morning, however, he was in no mood for jokes and innuendos about his love life.
“If I am, I’ll tell it to the rushes first, sergeant.”
Gardiner looked puzzled, but Murdoch didn’t give him an opportunity to say any more. He hung his hat and sealskin coat on the peg by the door and went through to his office. The constables who were on the morning shift would soon be arriving for their inspection. Hales, the patrol sergeant, would make sure they were “all present and correct,” then he would march them out to the different beats to replace the bone-chilled, hungry constables on the night shift, who had probably been counting the minutes for the past three-quarters of an hour.
Once in his private space, Murdoch felt a little better. He took some notepaper from his desk drawer, dropping a kiss with his fingertips on the photograph of Liza as he did so. He found writing out his thoughts and impressions helped him when he was on a case. These were for his use, and were not the official notes he handed in to Inspector Brackenreid. Where to start? No avoiding now; no letting softer feelings interfere with rationality.
Amy Slade. He had been taken aback when the schoolteacher had entered the boarding house, but she had made no secret of her address. Her explanation that her fellow boarder, Seymour, had recommended him was reasonable. But what if there were more to it than that? Murdoch could not imagine Miss Slade being a liar, but he forced himself to examine the possibility. Possessing and taking pornographic photographs certainly constituted an illegal activity. What if Seymour was implicated and she wanted some way to draw attention to this without revealing her identity? If she had a typewriting machine, she could have written the letters, which definitely showed evidence of education. By her own admission, she hadn’t told Seymour the precise nature of her visit to Murdoch. Was she somehow in Seymour’s thrall or afraid of him and thought the only way out was in this covert manner?
He wrote a large no beside that note and underlined it. Nothing he had observed about Miss Slade fitted that notion. She was one of the more independent-minded women he had met in a while. And poor Seymour! Here he was, entertaining the idea that Charlie indulged in a perverted sexual appetite. Murdoch sighed. He wasn’t on as sure ground here. Men were capable of splitting off their sexual fantasies and activities and keeping them in some dark secret place while on the surface they lived exemplary lives.
He removed Liza’s photograph from the drawer and stared at the blurry face. She’d held strong opinions about the question of sexual activity and the law. If two grown-up people in their right minds want to do weird and unnatural acts with each other, let them. But if coercion is involved or any misuse of children or animals, I th
ink they should be prosecuted and the punishment should be severe.
He remembered being shocked when she’d said that, wondering how on earth she even knew of such things as “weird and unnatural acts.” He’d finally asked her and she said she’d read about it. He smiled ruefully. If women had been allowed, she would have studied law. What an odd mixture of conventional and radical thinking she’d held. She had insisted they wait until marriage before consummating their love according to their church’s dictum. He’d agreed but how he regretted that now.
He returned the photograph to the drawer. Thinking about Liza seemed to affect the way he felt about Enid and he found it hard to shake off vague feelings of discontent. What a shock it had been to see Enid Murdoch.
Then there was Miss Amy Slade. He halted. What the hell did he mean, And then there was Miss Amy Slade? He hardly knew her. Besides, he wasn’t the kind of man who could dally with one woman while promising himself to another. Was he promised to Enid? He didn’t feel like answering that question. He glanced up at the portrait of a young and pretty Queen. Even the Queen of India and the Empire was not spared grief. She had been a widow for a long time now and showed no signs of coming out of mourning.
Impatiently, he pulled the notepaper closer. He hadn’t got very far with the notes he was supposed to be making.
The talk with Arthur had deeply affected him, as had finding out that the Kitchens were leaving. Nobody had said as much, but it was highly unlikely that Arthur would come back. Murdoch rested his head in his hands. What would it be like if Arthur were to recover? If he and Murdoch did race each along the edges of the lake? Like all impossible dreams, this one brought a sense of almost unbearable longing.
There was a tap on the wall. Through the reed strips, Murdoch could see Constable Crabtree.
“Come in, George.”
Crabtree poked his head in. “The inspector wants to see you right away.”
Murdoch didn’t move. “Did he say why?”
“No, except to come at once.”
Murdoch stood up. “At once, it is.”
Crabtree hesitated. “Are you all right, sir? You look a bit peaked.”
“I’m well enough, thank you. But I feel as if I have been listening to the hooves of equis nocti drawing closer. The sound can make a man grow pale.”
“Yes, sir. He does seem in rather a foul mood, I’m afraid.”
Murdoch smiled at the constable’s misinterpretation.
“Fair or foul, give me Inspector Brackenreid any day. He is mortal after all.”
Slightly cheered by his own humour, Murdoch followed Crabtree out into the corridor.
Brackenreid handed him a piece of paper.
“Take a look at this, Murdoch. Different twist.” He made no attempt to hide his sneer.
Murdoch unfolded the letter.
Dear Sir. Your acting detective, William Murdoch, is not doing his job. He is not ‘acting’ at all but sitting on his buttock while Sergeant Seymour continues unpunished. If this matter is not dealt with the entire station will be shamed.
“So what do you say, Murdoch?”
“I wonder if the writer was referring to the left or the right?”
“What?”
“The left or the right buttock, sir. That I am allegedly sitting on.”
Brackenreid flapped his hand. “That’s got nothing to do with it.”
“I presume the letter came with the first post, sir?”
“Yes. The early worm gets the bird.”
Murdoch glanced up at him, not sure if he was trying to be witty. Clearly not.
“Quite so, sir. I’ll take this and compare it with the others, make sure they are by the same writer.”
The inspector stared at Murdoch. “Of course they are the same. This one is typewritten.”
“I just don’t want to make any assumptions. I’m wondering how the writer knew that I had been assigned to the case.”
Reluctantly, Brackenreid conceded the point. “It doesn’t necessarily mean anything. You are the only detective here. It is only logical you’d be given the case.”
Murdoch wasn’t entirely satisfied with that explanation but he nodded.
“Acorns from mighty oaks do drop, as you might say.”
Brackenreid sniffed. His face was normally florid, but this morning it seemed to have taken on a purplish tinge. He had all the signs of a man suffering the aftermath of overindulgence.
He drummed his fingers on his desktop. “I am inclined to agree with the letter writer on one thing, Murdoch. You aren’t doing enough.”
“May I point out I have only been on the case since Tuesday, sir. Less haste more waste.”
That jest sailed right over Brackenreid’s head. “Maybe so, but it’s not the only place where you’re dragging your feet. I haven’t seen any progress on the Smithers situation.”
“We’ve questioned everybody, sir. We have no leads.”
Brackenreid waved his hand impatiently. “I’m sure the woman lost the damn brooch herself, but she called three times yesterday and insisted on talking to me. The telephone is a menace in the hands of women like that. You’ll have to go over or send one of the constables and see if you can appease her. Arrest somebody.”
Murdoch couldn’t believe he was serious but in this mood he was. Definitely not the time to tell him about the photographs.
“I’ll do what I can, sir.”
Brackenreid leaned forward on his desk. “Let’s put it this way, Murdoch. If you do find out the po-faced sergeant has been up to no good, he will have to pay back every penny he’s getting now for sitting on his arse at home.”
Murdoch got to his feet. “If that’s everything, I’ll get going, sir.”
The inspector swivelled around in his chair so that he was facing the window, his back to Murdoch.
“I want a full report by Monday. On both cases.”
Back in his cubicle, Murdoch took the two other letters out of the file and spread them on the desk, studying each one with the magnifying glass. As far as he could see the latest one had been typewritten on the same machine as the others. The tone was certainly similar. Educated, school-marmish almost. “Buttock,” not “arse” or “rear end” or “duff.” And his full name. This letter was aimed much more at him than Seymour. He drew in his breath angrily. Who the hell was playing around like this? And where should he start searching? He supposed the only lead he had, if you could call it that, was the faintest suggestion that Seymour was indeed up to something. Whatever it was, the anonymous letter writer knew enough about the sergeant’s life to accuse him. It made sense then, that by following in the sergeant’s footsteps, or one of his friends at the lodging house, he might find the writer. And what if the sergeant was doing something against the law? What then? Presumably Murdoch would be forced to charge him. He didn’t relish that task. What sort of impact would that have on Miss Slade, who considered Seymour one of the most honourable men she had ever met?
There was a tap on the outside wall and he could see Crabtree’s shape through the strips.
“Yes, George?”
The constable stepped into the room. “There’s a telephone message just come in for you, sir. From Dr. Bryce. He’s over at the morgue and he’d like you come over right away.”
Murdoch frowned. “Did he say why, or am I just to admire his finesse?”
Dr. Bryce enjoyed being called as a medical examiner and had no compunction about boasting about his skill.
“Apparently somebody found a body in a trunk on the lake and there’s no doubt it’s a homicide.”
“In that case, I will indeed go right away.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Dr. Bryce was a tall man, with a bald head and a heavy moustache. He had an air of confidence that was perilously close to arrogance, but Murdoch rather liked him. In spite of his brusque manners, he cared about what he was doing and the fact that the bodies he was dissecting had once been living human beings. Not all physicians behaved i
n that way.
As soon as Murdoch entered the room, the doctor called out to him. “We’ve got a nasty business on our hands, detective. Come and have a look.”
Murdoch walked over to the table where Bryce was standing, a blood-stained apron covering his elegant grey worsted suit. There was a small steamer trunk on the table with the lid open.
“I don’t know how much I can do right now,” the doctor continued. “The body is still frozen. It’s stiff as a board. We can’t even get it out.”
Murdoch peered into the trunk. Inside was the body of a young man, stark naked, his knees bent up to the chest and his arms folded across each other. His head was pushed sideways. For a brief moment, Murdoch was puzzled why the youth looked familiar, but then with a jolt, he realized it was the same boy who had been in the stereographic photograph. He wasn’t wearing the turban, but there was no mistaking him.
“Is he one of yours?” Bryce asked.
Explanations weren’t necessary at this point, so Murdoch was evasive. “I haven’t met him before. I’ll have to take Bertillon measurements to see if he’s in our criminal system.”
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