Night's Child

by Maureen Jennings

  “Sometimes sympathetic silence is the best comfort,” he said.

  “Perhaps.”

  They were silent, each in their own thoughts. Finally, Amy said, “Did you do any better with your investigation?”

  “Not at all.” He relayed to her what had happened. “Let us hope that Seymour did better.”

  At that moment, they heard the hall door open.

  “That must be him,” said Amy and she went to the door. “Charlie, we’re up here.”

  Seymour came hurrying up the stairs and into the room.

  “Will, good news. I’ve identified the baby in the picture.”

  “Well done. Who is it?”

  Seymour handed his piece of paper to Murdoch. “They were my last visit, would you believe? They’re a young couple and the babe was their first child, a boy. When I went into the parlour, I saw the photograph immediately. They’ve got it in a fancy silver frame on the mantelpiece. Their name is Dowdell, Geoffrey and Sophie, and the photographer they used was a woman, Miss Georgina Crofton. She lives on Gerrard Street.”

  “Did you ask the Dowdells if they knew Martha or Agnes Fisher?”

  “Of course. They said they didn’t. They can’t afford to keep a regular servant. I also threw in the name of Leonard Sims, but nothing there either. Here’s their address. The other two people on my list had not had pictures taken.”

  Suddenly, Murdoch couldn’t help himself and he had to stifle a yawn. He stood up.

  “It’s too late to call on Miss Crofton tonight. I’ll go first thing in the morning.”

  “I hope it leads somewhere,” said Amy.

  “So do I. I’m sorry we’re not making faster progress.”

  She met his eyes. “Do you think Agnes has come to harm?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He wished he could say he was certain the girl was safe but he couldn’t, and there was something about Amy Slade that precluded platitudes. She looked so pale and tired, his heart went out to her. “If I may say so, Miss Slade, I think you should retire for the night. You have been most helpful.”

  “What shall I do now?” asked Seymour.

  Murdoch fished in his pocket and took out the list he’d made of photographic studios.

  “You can start checking on these tomorrow. I’ll join up with you as soon as I can.”

  “John seems to have deserted us,” Amy said to Seymour. “I’m worried about him. He was acting so strangely when he saw the photographs.”

  Seymour shrugged. “He gets that way sometimes. You don’t always know what will set him off. And they weren’t the easiest pictures to look at. I’ve known him vanish for one or two days at a time. It’s as if his memories press in upon him and all he can do is move like a homeless dog.”

  Murdoch offered his hand to the schoolteacher. “Thank you again, Miss Slade.”

  She smiled at him rather mischievously. “You seem in a hurry to leave, Mr. Murdoch. Don’t tell me you have another duty to perform.”

  He could feel himself blush. “Not a duty, ma’am, but a prior engagement. And I’m terribly late as it is.”

  “I hope your friend will forgive you.”

  “So do I.”

  “You will keep us informed of your progress, won’t you?” Amy asked.

  For a split second, Murdoch wasn’t sure what she was referring to.

  “Yes, of course. Good night to both of you. No, don’t worry, Miss Slade, I can let myself out.”

  He left them, aware that Amy was gazing after him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  It was past ten o’clock by the time Murdoch arrived at Enid’s lodgings. He almost expected her to have gone to bed, but there was a light showing at her window. Having no desire to rouse Mrs. Barrett at this hour, he made a snowball and threw it at the window. Immediately, the curtain was pushed aside and Enid waved at him, mimed to him to be quiet, and disappeared to open the front door.

  Neither spoke as he entered the house and Enid’s welcome was decidedly on the cool side. He went to kiss her, but she avoided him with more warning mimes. Murdoch felt a stab of guilt as it was obvious Enid had been anticipating his arrival for a long time.

  She closed the door to her sitting room behind them with a little snap.

  “I was worried, Will. I expected you at five o’clock.”

  He didn’t remember specifying a particular time but certainly ten o’clock was well past arrival time.

  “I’m sorry, I’ve been working on a case and I had to trudge all over the city to do my interviews. Is Alwyn asleep?”

  “Most certainly, he is. He tried to stay up as late as eight o’clock to see you, but he couldn’t.”

  Another little piece of fiery coal on his head. Murdoch thought Enid had got the matter of reproaches down to a fine art.

  “I’m sorry,” he repeated.

  They were keeping their voices low, which made it difficult to have a flaming row although Murdoch felt that’s what Enid wanted.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked with excessive politeness. “You must be cold and hungry.”

  Coward that he was, Murdoch didn’t feel like explaining he was still full of pig’s feet stew so he just shook his head.

  “I’m not hungry, but tea would be nice, thank you.”

  Enid went to the fireplace to fetch the kettle. While she was making the tea, trying to create a distraction to ease the tension and also because he needed her help, Murdoch took his notebook from his inner pocket.

  “Enid, I’ve solved that issue of the anonymous letters. Sergeant Seymour is involved with a labour organization, which he’s not allowed to be, and the letter writer knows about it. I don’t want Charlie to lose his job, so I’ve decided to see if I can scare off the fellow. Will you type something for me?”

  “Surely you don’t mean tonight? I might wake Mrs. Barrett.”

  “I doubt that. Isn’t this the evening she spends with her sister.”

  Enid blushed fiercely at being caught in her little lie, and Murdoch thought he’d made matters worse by tripping her up like that. He reached over and pulled her gently into his arms.

  “Please don’t punish me, Mrs. Jones. I am so happy to see you and if there had been any way of informing you I would be late, I would have done so.”

  She leaned against him stiffly, not yet ready to yield, but he didn’t let go, nuzzling his chin against her hair. Finally she turned her head and looked into his face. He was surprised to see she had tears in her eyes.

  “Oh, William, I wish it could have been otherwise.”

  He knew she didn’t mean just the tardiness of his visit but there was nothing he could say. If he made her a proposal of marriage, she would have to return to Wales first and even though with her in his arms he was hot with desire, he knew that he could not pretend a depth of feeling he didn’t have. Again he was twisted with guilt, and he kissed her urgently to compensate. She responded slowly at first but more and more passionately. Finally she was the one who broke off the embrace. The brightness in her eyes was unbearable and he reached for her again but she caught his arms.

  “Alwyn is fast asleep. If we stay here he is less likely to hear us.”

  She went to the door, turned the key in the lock, and practically ran back to him. He drew her to the hearth and they lay down on the rug. A bed would have been more comfortable but at that moment Murdoch would have been happy to lie on bricks.

  Because of the urgency in both of them, the connection was over rather more quickly than he wanted but they nevertheless lay for a while on the rug, until, arm aching, he levered himself into a sitting position. She stayed there with her head on the cushion he had pulled down when they started. He’d loosened her hair and it hung untidily about her face. She was flushed and he saw that her cheek was reddened from rubbing against the roughness of his chin. She smiled up at him.

  “Did you say you had some work you wanted me to do?”

  They both laughed, which led to more kisses
.

  Finally, he leaned back and grabbed his notebook.

  “I wrote it out.”

  She yawned and, pulling on her robe, got to her feet and went over to the typewriter. She sat down, inserted a clean sheet of paper in the machine.

  “I’m ready, sir.”

  He placed the notebook where she could see it. She read through what he’d written and glanced over her shoulder at him in surprise.

  “Goodness me, is this true?”

  He shrugged. “It could be.”

  “Is it addressed to anybody in particular?”

  “Inspector Brackenreid.”

  She grinned. “I see. What’s sauce for the goose is good for the gander.”

  “Precisely.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  In spite of the improved feelings between them, Murdoch didn’t stay at Enid’s much past midnight. A rug on the floor was hardly conducive to a good night’s sleep. He slipped away into the quiet streets. The lamps had been extinguished, but the snow reflected light enough to see by. He trudged past the darkened houses, where an occasional lamp revealed a late bedtime.

  When he entered his house, he paused as he always did to listen to sounds coming from Mr. and Mrs. Kitchen’s quarters. All was quiet, and Murdoch hoped Arthur was having a rare peaceful night. The first shock of their announcement had subsided, and Murdoch wished fervently the move to the fresh country air of Muskoka would bring Arthur health.

  Once in his room, he undressed quickly. The fire Mrs. Kitchen always built for him had died to glowing embers and the chill of the winter night had seeped in. Shivering, he jumped into bed, wishing not for the first time there was a warm body waiting for him to lie next to. And again, he cursed himself for not insisting on marrying Liza sooner. He had never experienced her undressed body pressed against his and the regret of that tormented him. He thumped his pillow, rolled on his side, and deliberately tried to wrench his thoughts away from the past and back to Enid and her generous embrace.

  He closed his eyes and immediately felt sleep slip away. Damn. He knew what that signified. He tried to lie still but he couldn’t, and the tossing and turning began. He sat up to check the alarm clock on his dresser. It was already two o’clock. He thumped the feathers in his pillow and buried his face in it. Arthur Kitchen had once told him that the best cure of insomnia was loving conjugal connections but clearly that wasn’t proving true. He’d just had loving connections and he was still wide awake. Arthur may have advised love for insomnia, but Father Fair, the priest at St. Paul’s, on the other hand, said the best cause of a good night’s sleep was a pure conscience. Murdoch decided that what was keeping him awake was guilt. He sat up again, trying to decide if it was worth it to light a pipe. It was. He reached for his Powhatan, stuffed it with tobacco, lit it, and drew deeply on the stem. What the hell was the matter with him? He’d never describe himself as a randy tomcat, but he did seem to be having divided feelings yet again among three women; one was deceased to be sure but the other two weren’t. And to one of those, he had made promises of the flesh that he didn’t think he could keep. The shadow of Liza was present at the best of times when he was with Enid, but now someone else had come into the picture. He couldn’t get thoughts of Amy Slade out of his mind.

  “And it’s not just the pantaloons,” he said aloud, punctuating his words with a puff of his pipe. What then? She was pretty enough, but he’d encountered women who were as attractive and he had hardly given them a second thought. Well, to be honest, maybe a second or even a third thought, but nothing like this. He’d just come from intimacy with Enid and like a sly fox his fantasies had slipped away to Miss Slade and the notion of kissing that full mouth. No, that wasn’t accurate either. Yes, he would like to hold and kiss her, he wouldn’t deny that, but there was something else netting his thoughts. He wanted her good opinion. He wanted her to smile that bright smile at him. He wanted those cool grey eyes to look into his with admiration. Murdoch groaned and puffed away some more. What was he, a green boy mooning over the first girl he’d met? He couldn’t remember ever feeling like this about Liza. Their love had been immediate and reciprocal and he’d never doubted that she was his only and complete love. But was he deluding himself? What if she’d lived and they married and then he found himself hankering after somebody else? Was that the kind of man he was? Wanting what he couldn’t have, then losing interest when it was his? Why didn’t he want to marry Enid Jones, a woman he had been pining after for months?

  He realized he was biting so hard on the stem of his pipe he was in danger of snapping it off. His and Enid’s difference in religion was a big obstacle but not insurmountable, and he was aware that she had been engaging him less and less in doctrinal discussions lately. If she converted to Catholicism, any priest would agree to the union. Mixed marriages were not unheard of. No, he couldn’t make that an excuse. There were other reasons floating at the back of his mind as to why he couldn’t marry her. What the hell were they? Was he a man incapable of monogamy? He had become engaged to Liza only a few months after they had met and until she died of the typhoid seven months later, he could honestly say he had not been concerned about any other woman he’d encountered no matter how attractive she had been. But that faithfulness had not been put to the test of time. Would it have lasted? There was no answer to that of course except self-knowledge and at this moment he felt a stranger to himself, doubting everything.

  Damn, damn. He put his pipe down and swung his legs out of bed. Above the headboard hung a brass crucifix, so familiar he hardly noticed it any more. Now in the dim light, he thought Christ was looking down on him in disappointment. He padded over to his dresser and for the first time in a long while, he took out his rosary. He threaded the beads through his fingers. The wooden beads were smooth and cool to his touch. His mother had given him the rosary when he was six years old on the occasion of his first communion. The crucifix and chain were of silver, the beads olive wood and he knew she had scrimped for months to save enough money to pay for it. He smiled to himself. He had secretly hoped to receive a bag of marbles even though he knew a rosary was the typical gift. Poor Mamma. He never thought about her without pity and the old stirring of anger that she had died so miserably.

  He went to the foot of the bed and dropped to his knees. His inclination was to say the Sorrowful Mysteries, but he thought he’d be better served tonight by acclaiming the Glorious Mysteries. He held the silver crucifix and murmured, “I believe in God the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven…”

  He continued, the rosary a path of prayer that he followed. At the end of the second decade, he stopped. What was the point of repeating prayers that seemed empty to him? He was not connecting with God’s presence. Unbidden, memories jumped into his mind: of saying the rosary in the evenings with his mother and Susanna, Bertie joining in with shouts of Happy Christmas, no matter what the season. Harry, his father, was never a part of these sessions, and so the telling of the beads was a moment of happiness, more like a game really, especially when he was younger and he was learning to recite the prayers perfectly. His mother had always been so pleased when he got it right. Susanna soon overtook him though and nothing could match her fervency and accuracy. Poor Cissie. All his family had gone now except for Harry, and Murdoch doubted he would ever in his lifetime have fond feelings for his father.

  He fingered the small medallion on the rosary, a depiction of Christ holding out his arms to a child. Murdoch thought about Agnes. The priest had told Murdoch at one of his infrequent confessions that he was becoming too worldly and not contemplating the workings of heaven, but he felt powerless to stop the drift away from his faith. Faced daily with Arthur Kitchen’s slow and painful death Murdoch had asked, Where is God’s will in this? Priests didn’t like questions like that and he’d been sent packing with a heavy penance to perform.

  He got to his feet, stiff from the cold hard floor, and returned the rosary to its velvet bag in the drawer. He heard Arthur cough downstairs a
nd the murmur of Mrs. Kitchen’s voice as she ministered to him. So much for Arthur’s peaceful night.

  Murdoch climbed back into bed, rubbing his feet together to warm then. Perhaps it was a blessing that Enid was called back to Wales. He knew he could never be with a woman if he had any doubts at all. It was a dishonourable thing to do. But then what? Would he start to court Miss Slade? He grinned in the darkness. He didn’t know what her religious beliefs were, but they weren’t likely to be anything conventional. And that thought was quite reassuring.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  She was in a house crowded with people. They were on shelves along each wall and all of them were dying. They were coughing and crying, calling for water. It was bitterly cold and right through the centre of the room there was a river, filthy and black and moving fast. She was searching for little Patrick, and even above the din she could hear him calling to her from the next room. She walked beside the rushing water, knowing that one false step and she would fall in. She was trying to move as fast as she could, but her limbs were so heavy and cold she could hardly put one foot in front of the other. Then she was at the door. All she had to do was go through and she would be able to get Patrick and they would be safe. But a man was there, sitting on a high stool. He had a stick that he thrust out in front of her. She tried to tell him that she needed to go through to her child, but no words would come out of her mouth. The man paid no attention but began to push her backwards with the stick. She could see the pleasure this gave him. She couldn’t fight him and felt herself falling into the icy river. The foul water flowed up her nostrils and into her mouth and she thought she was going to choke on the stench of it.

  Mrs. Crofton’s cries brought Georgina running into the room.

  “Hush now, hush. It’s all right. I’m here, hush.”

  Mrs. Crofton was gasping for air, her hands clawing at her throat as if she were drowning.

  “Ruby, dearest, fetch a damp cloth,” Ruby had been asleep on a cot at the foot of the bed and she got up hurriedly and went to the washstand. Georgina stroked her mother’s face, uttering soothing noises as she did so.