Night's Child

by Maureen Jennings

  Murdoch had taken out his notebook. “Who is in the household, Miss Crofton?”

  “My mother, Mrs. Buchanan, our housekeeper, and our maid, Ruby.”

  “Her last name?”

  “Adams.”

  “How long has she been in your employ?”

  “About six months I suppose, surely that is irrelevant.”

  “Would you mind checking your files to see if the card is still there?”

  “Of course it’s there. Why on earth would it not be?”

  “The brother of the girl in question says she had several photographs in her possession and some of them were mourning cards. Unfortunately, he didn’t know where she obtained them. There is an older sister who is in service, we don’t know exactly where. The girl has disappeared and is supposedly staying with her.” Murdoch closed the notebook. “I would like to speak to your maid, if I may.”

  Georgina lit another cigarette. “I can assure you, Mr. Murdoch, we are not harbouring any lost child. We have a small household, and unless she is stowed in the water closet, I have not seen her.” She puffed again and stared at him. “I do hope you believe me?”

  Murdoch thought her distress seemed genuine, but he wasn’t about to assume it was all righteous indignation. Not yet, not by a long shot.

  “It isn’t a matter of whether or not I believe you, ma’am. I would like to talk to Ruby Adams.”

  “In other words, you don’t take my word.”

  “I’m a police officer, Miss Crofton. It’s my job to be thorough.”

  She flushed at his response. “Very well, but I cannot permit you to speak to Ruby. She is timid enough as it is and speaking to a policeman would frighten her out of a week’s growth. We have worked hard to bring her to the point she is now. Besides, she is not the girl you are looking for. Ruby is an orphan. She had no family connections whatsoever. She came with excellent references and has never given a moment of trouble.”

  “I must insist, ma’am.”

  “Very well, if you must.” She got up and tugged on the embroidered bell pull beside the fireplace. Mrs. Buchanan came in through the curtains so quickly, Murdoch wondered if she’d been eavesdropping in the hall.

  “Ah, Hannah. Is Ruby in the house?”

  “No ma’am. She is out on an errand.”

  “Ah, there you are, Mr. Murdoch. She isn’t here. She is probably gone for the morning.”

  He turned to the housekeeper. “When do you expect Ruby to return?”

  “Like Miss Georgina said, she has gone for the entire morning”

  “A long errand.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Miss Crofton extinguished her cigarette. “Hannah, will you go to the studio and look in my filing cupboard. I need to know if the Dowdell photograph is still there. That’s Dowdell. You can bring it here.”

  The housekeeper left with the air of one who has won a victory. The bird gave a soft peep, and Georgina took yet another cigarette from the box and lit it. Murdoch thought that the action covered up the woman’s uneasiness. She had dropped all pretence of polite manners and they sat in silence until the housekeeper returned.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The curtains were shoved aside and Hannah returned. “Is this what you wanted, Miss Georgina?”

  She handed her mistress a folder.

  “Yes, that’s the one and, see, Mr. Murdoch, the card is safely within.” She reversed it. “And not defaced, needless to say.”

  She gave him the photograph and, aware of the intensity of the housekeeper’s curiosity, he compared it to the one he had.

  “The image in this card seems somewhat lighter than yours, Miss Crofton.”

  “Really?” She held the two cards side by side. “Yes, you’re quite right. You’ve got good eyes. The process of development is a delicate one and sometimes I will lighten or darken a photograph by exposing it for various periods of time. That card is more exposed than mine.”

  “Is that significant?”

  “It is possible that the copies I sold to the Dowdell couple were exposed to that degree, I don’t really remember.”

  “But you did develop them all at the same time?”

  “Yes. I always do, unless my client wants to order more.”

  Murdoch handed back the card. “I’d like to see your studio, if you please, ma’am.”

  “See my studio? What on earth for?”

  “He wants his photograph taken,” muttered Mrs. Buchanan.

  “I feel that the girl is in grave danger, morally and perhaps even physically. It is most important that I track her down.”

  “What’s he talking about?”

  “Never mind, Hannah, I’ll explain later.” Georgina looked at Murdoch. “I quite understand your concern, detective, but I fail to see how visiting my studio will in any way further your investigation.”

  Murdoch stood up. “Allow me to best determine that, Miss Crofton.”

  “Very well.” She stubbed out her cigarette in the silver dish and took a gulp of her chocolate. “Hannah, we’ll be all right, thank you. Mama will be needing her breakfast soon, I’m sure.” She swirled her way out of the room, leaving Murdoch to follow like a lackey. Mrs. Buchanan brought up the rear, then reluctantly left them to go back to the kitchen.

  The studio was on the second floor of the house, facing onto the park. This time mirrors weren’t necessary to give the illusion of spaciousness; the room was genuinely large. Two deep windows gave plenty of light, but Murdoch saw that the room was also equipped with electric lights.

  “Here we are, Mr. Murdoch. My den of iniquity.”

  He didn’t particularly like Miss Crofton’s flippant tone. “I don’t know how it can be that, ma’am, considering how many angels are watching over you.”

  In the corner of the room were at least a half a dozen plaster sculptures of angels occupied in such angelic tasks as playing the harp or praying. There were even a couple of fat cherubs suspended by wires from the ceiling. Georgina looked discomfited and waved her hand in the direction of the large easel that was in the centre of the room. “My speciality is painting people who have passed on. The families often like me to include depictions of heavenly beings.”

  Murdoch indicated a raised dais near to the window. There was a plain upholstered chair in the centre, behind it a frame with a neck brace for holding the subject immobile. The rather ghastly image of a corpse being so propped up flashed through his mind but he thought it was more likely Georgina used it for restless children. There was a camera on a tripod in front of the dais.

  “Do you take stereoscopic pictures, ma’am?”

  “Not any more. They don’t really suit my clients.”

  “Where do you keep your props? I assume you stock the usual plants, birdcages, leopard-skin rugs, and so forth.”

  “I use very little. My subjects rarely desire any elaborate photograph. A simple back cloth and the chair is all I need. I transpose the photograph to my canvas and I can add whatever I wish. And as I said, most of my work is done outside of the studio.”

  At the far end of the room were two doors. “Where do those doors lead, ma’am?”

  “One leads to the servant stairs, the left one is the dark room. And don’t ask if you can look in there because you can’t. I am developing some prints.”

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Crofton, I must check.”

  He strode over to the doors, ignoring her protests. The left door did open onto a small room that was completely dark. It smelled strongly of what he presumed must be developing fluid. The door let in sufficient light that he could see a clothesline with several pieces of paper pegged on to it. He snatched one off the line. It was a photograph of a woman lying in a bed. The peacefulness of the position made it obvious he was looking at a corpse. He replaced the print and closed the door.

  Miss Crofton glared at him. “You have probably ruined my photographs, sir, and they are irreplaceable.”

  “I apologize, ma’am,” he said and o
pened the second door. It led to a narrow uncarpeted flight of stairs. If Miss Crofton was guilty of creating pornographic images, she had to be doing it somewhere else because in this room there was nowhere to store all the elaborate sets he had seen in the stereoscopic pictures.

  “Are you satisfied, Mr. Murdoch? I can understand your concern about a young child who is presumed to have defaced one of my photographs but I am completely at a loss to know why you seem so determined to implicate me in the sordid situation. I am not responsible for what people do to my pictures.”

  Murdoch took out the photograph of Leonard Sims. “Would you take a look at this photograph, ma’am?”

  She had to hold the card close to her face and he saw her look of shock and the quick recovery.

  “Do you recognize the young man?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. He did some work for us recently. I’m afraid I don’t remember his name, Simpson or something like that.”

  “Leonard Sims.”

  She pursed her lips. “That is possible. I see that somebody has drawn a black border around the card. Is that wishful thinking?”

  “What do you mean, ma’am?”

  “He was a thoroughly unpleasant young man. Quite untrust-worthy. I gave him the sack. I suspected he was a deviant and I assume from his pose, I was right.”

  “He is, in fact, dead. He was murdered.”

  Her hand flew to her mouth. “God forbid. I truly did not mean to be flippant, Mr. Murdoch. Even Mr. Sims cannot deserve such an end.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Why are you asking about him, Mr. Murdoch?”

  “At the moment, I know almost nothing about the young man and I need to find out whatever I can. This card was also in the desk of the girl I mentioned. She likely inked in the black borders. I fear she may know what happened to him. And if that is the case, she is in grave danger.”

  “Poor child.”

  Georgina’s response seemed genuine, but Murdoch was puzzled about her reaction to the Sims card. It wasn’t only the response of somebody being shown a photograph of someone she had known. That would elicit more curiosity than the flash of fear he’d seen in her eyes. She was hiding something, but for the life of him he didn’t know what it was.

  “Do you know where Sims lived?”

  “No. I don’t. He was here only for one day.”

  “He didn’t mention any friends to you, or family?”

  “Mr. Murdoch, you will probably see me as a callous and indifferent employer, but I had virtually no conversation with the young man. I told him what we needed and what his wages would be and that was that.”

  “Did he do the job?”

  “Not well but yes, he did do most of it. Mrs. Buchanan paid him, and off he went.”

  Murdoch wasn’t sure quite how to proceed and he might have taken Miss Crofton at her word if at that moment, a sudden flash of sunlight hadn’t gleamed on something on the far side of the room. Tucked into one corner was a brass birdcage. He’d totally missed it when he first looked around. He got to his feet and walked over to it.

  “Do you use this as a prop, ma’am?”

  “Yes, I do. My little bird won’t sing. I thought a larger cage would help but it hasn’t. I use that empty one now as symbolic of the soul’s flight from its earthly imprisonment. It is very popular.”

  Murdoch took Agnes’s photograph from the envelope and compared the two cages. He thought the Crofton one was richer but it was hard to tell. They could be the same. He came back to Georgina.

  “Miss Crofton, I’d like you to sit down if you please. There is something more I must show you.”

  If she was as innocent as she appeared to be, he didn’t want her to faint, or pretend to faint for that matter. Reluctantly, she did as he asked and perched on a paint-splattered stool near the easel. He stood beside her and handed her the envelope.

  “These other two photographs were also in the girl’s desk. Please take a look at them, but I warn you they are most graphic.”

  Her reaction to the Newly-wed photograph was a quick blink, but when she peered at the picture of Agnes, she recoiled and put the card down.

  “If a grown man wants to make a complete exhibition of himself by not wearing his trolleywags, that is his business, but the child…who would do such a thing, Mr. Murdoch?”

  “Who indeed? Do you recognize the girl, Miss Crofton?”

  “Of course I do not. How could I?”

  “Her name is Agnes Fisher.”

  “That means nothing to me.”

  She quickly returned the stereoscopic cards to the envelope and handed it to Murdoch, not meeting his eyes. “I can hardly comprehend that you have made a point of searching my studio, Mr. Murdoch. Surely you cannot for a moment believe I am in any way involved in the taking of these disgusting photographs?”

  Her face was quite pink, but he couldn’t tell if it was from indignation or embarrassment. She might dress like a Bohemian and smoke like a man but underneath it all she was no doubt a well-brought-up woman who had never before in her life looked at such explicit scenes.

  “As I said, Miss Crofton, I am afraid for the safety of this girl. I have to find the photographer and that means I cannot afford to stand on ceremony. If I have offended you unjustifiably, I apologize.”

  She turned away from him and he could see she was trembling. “Please leave me, sir. I presume you have seen all you need to see. You can let yourself out.”

  Short of getting a warrant to search her entire house, there was nothing much more he could do. He walked over to the door.

  “I am at Number Four Station on Parliament Street. If there is anything else that comes to you that you might think is helpful, please send for me.”

  He’d half expected Mrs. Buchanan to be in the hall ready to leap on him, but there was no one.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Ben Fisher was seated across the table from Ralph Tibbett and he’d just finished mopping up the gravy on his plate with a crust of bread.

  “You liked that, eh?” Ralph beamed at him.

  “It was good. That’s the second beef pie I’ve had this week,” added Ben, who thought that might impress Ralph.

  “That so?” Ralph took a silver case from his pocket and removed a slender cigar.

  “The truant officer bought me one,” said Ben.

  “Really?” He had Ralph’s interest now. “I’ve never heard of a truant officer standing a boy to a beef pie. When did that happen?”

  Ben picked up something in Ralph’s tone and he began to feel uneasy. He’d been presenting his story to make himself look clever, but he thought it unwise to let drop that Murdoch was a police officer.

  “He came to the house looking for Aggie.”

  “What exactly did he say?” Ralph clipped his cigar and lit it with a match.

  “Aggie fainted in class and Miss Slade our teacher was worried about her so she sent this man. But Aggie weren’t home so he couldn’t talk to her.”

  “Talk to her about what?”

  Ralph held the cigar between his teeth, which made him look as if he was grinning, which he wasn’t. The boy shrank down in the seat.

  “I don’t know. Just why she’d fainted, I suppose.”

  “Does Aggie ever have good old chins with you, Ben? You know, sister to brother heart to hearts?”

  “Not our Aggie. Pa says she don’t have two words at a stretch in her head. She’s a quiet one.”

  Ralph was studying him and Ben began to find it hard to breathe. “Didn’t she ever mention that she helps us out as well?”

  “No, sir, never.”

  “Well she does and does very good too. She models for my employer. She’s a pretty girl, your sister, and he uses her in certain photographs. You know, dressed like a shepherdess or an angel looking down on a baby. Did she never show you the pictures?”

  “No, sir. I ain’t seen anything.”

  “You wouldn’t fib to me, would you, Ben? These pictures are what�
�s considered private property. Some people want them all to themselves. They don’t want anybody gawking at their own private pictures. You can understand that, can’t you, Ben?”

  The boy had no idea what he was talking about but he nodded vigorously.

  “Did this man from the school mention pictures?”

  “No, sir. He just said that Aggie was in trouble and he wanted to help her.”

  Ralph knocked off some ash on the edge of the table and Ben saw it land on the bare plank floor. There was no carpet, no cloth on the table either. Ralph had said that his employer was a wealthy man but nothing about his apartment revealed that. In fact, Ben would have thought he wasn’t much better off than they were by the look of things. He wished he hadn’t agreed to come, that he was safely in his desk at school, making foghorn noises. He’d been practising and he thought Miss Slade would be pleased by his rendition. But he had been here with Ralph since this morning and, except for the beef pie, it had been a boring time. He’d been left to wander around the studio. He could stand boredom, however, he was used to it, but since Ralph had returned, the atmosphere had changed. He hadn’t raised his voice or looked angry, but Ben’s heart was pounding. He scurried around in his mind trying to find the words to appease him. What did he want to hear? Everything he said seemed to make matters worse.

  “What kind of trouble is Aggie in, Ben?”

  “I don’t know, sir. Maybe she has a bun in the oven.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Momma used to faint when she had a bun in the oven.”

  Ralph grimaced. “And how many buns did your mother bake before she passed away?”

  Ben wasn’t sure what he meant. Ralph scowled, his voice impatient. “Babies. How many babies did your mother have?”

  “At least three that I remember. The last one got stuck in her belly, which was why she died.”

  “Indeed. How tragic. But Aggie isn’t married. How could she have a baby inside her? You know you have to be married in a church before that happens, don’t you, Ben?”

  In fact, Ben knew that babies were made in a hot bed where they incubated like eggs and that if a girl grew fat and had a baby without having a husband, she was a wicked girl and would go to hell. Martha had explained it all to him one day. She had been instructing him on the necessity of not touching a girl until they were married in the eyes of God because if he did he would go to hell and have his member chopped off by the devil.