Night's Child

by Maureen Jennings

  At that moment the door behind Ralph opened and a chubby man with a red face came in. Close behind him was a young woman whose fair hair was hanging loose and unbrushed about her shoulders. To Ben’s intense discomfort she was not wearing proper clothes, only a red silk gown that gaped open at the neck and looked as if it might come undone at any minute. Ben had never seen such a garment before but he guessed this was what well-to-do ladies wore in their bedrooms. Martha had told him as much on one of her infrequent visits after she had gone into service. She said her mistresses both wore silk gowns in their bedrooms and no stockings or shoes. They had thick carpets to walk on so they didn’t get cold.

  “What’s this about being married? He’s a bit young to have a trouble and strife, isn’t he?” The man’s voice was loud and should have sounded friendly but didn’t. He had a funny way of pronouncing his words that Ben had heard occasionally at the market. He was from over the pond, he knew that. Ralph almost stood up.

  “Afternoon, sir.”

  “Who’s this woeful scrap of badness?”

  “This is young Ben Fisher that I told you about. He’s just had some good grub and we was having a chin about this and that.”

  Ben knew at once that Ralph was afraid of this new man and that he had to be even more careful what he said. Then to his dismay, the young woman walked over to Ralph and, plopping herself into his lap, kissed him hard on the lips.

  “Hello, Renaldo, my pet. I missed you.”

  Ralph gave a warning glance in Ben’s direction and the girl giggled. “Oops, sorry. I forgot…Mr. Tibbett and I are long-lost cousins,” she said to Ben. “What you might call kissing cousins.”

  Her words were slurry, and except that she was so young and clean and in a red silk gown, Ben would have thought for certain she was hickey.

  The man leaned and caught the girl by the wrist. Ben saw her wince but she didn’t protest.

  “Clara, my dear. Go and make us all a nice pot of char. Be quick. A very important customer is due in an hour.”

  She got up promptly and walked to the door, staggering and almost colliding with a brass birdcage that was standing in the corner. There was no sign of a bird, Ben had made sure when he came into the room.

  Not even waiting until the door had closed behind her, the man spoke to Ralph.

  “Miss Clara is trying my patience.”

  Ralph nodded. “She’s certainly becoming a handful.”

  The other man put his forefinger against his temple. “A note to self. Do not allow Clara to have any of her, er, her cough syrup until the evening.” He smiled at Ben. “In case you’re wondering, little titch, I find it helps to say, ‘Make a note to self.’ Keeps everything tidy in my idea pot.” He tapped himself again a couple of times. “I’ve got a lot of business matters to keep straight. Now what were we saying? Oh yes, the boy getting married.”

  Ralph smiled a false smile. “What we were talking about was actually Ben’s sister, Agnes. Seems like a truant officer was visiting the house because Aggie was taken ill at school. According to our laddie here, this man says Aggie’s in some kind of trouble and he wants to find her so he can help.”

  “That so?” Uninvited, he picked up Ralph’s cigarette case and helped himself to a cigarillo. Ralph lit a match for him.

  “Did he say what kind of trouble, young Ben?”

  “No, he didn’t, sir.”

  “Aggie fainted in class and Ben was worried that she might be having a baby, which was why I was explaining to him that that weren’t possible. Aggie ain’t got a husband.”

  The man drew on his cigarillo and watched the red-hot ash eat into the paper. “That’s right, never mind her being so young, she’s what the reverend would describe as ‘pure.’” He chuckled. “At least I hope she is. I can’t go around photographing girls to be angels if they aren’t pure. That right, Mr. Tibbett?”

  Ralph was lighting up another cigar and Ben could have sworn his hand shook. Without even being conscious of it, the boy eased himself away from the table so he would be free to run if a fight broke out.

  “Tell me, young fellow, did this helpful officer have a name?”

  Ben felt a shiver of fear run up his back. “I don’t remember, sir.”

  “What did he look like then? Was he an old dodgy codger dressed in a black suit?”

  “Oh no, sir. He wasn’t old.”

  “But he had a beard for sure and a bald head?”

  “No, sir. No beard, but he did have a moustache and he wasn’t bald at all. He had wavy hair.”

  “A carrot top, I’ll wager?”

  Ben laughed. He seemed to be pleasing the man now. “Not at all. His hair was dark brown, sort of like mine.”

  “Ah. Was he as tall as me?”

  “Not much taller, sir. About as big as Mr. Tibbett.”

  The man nodded at Renaldo. “Anybody you recognize?”

  “No. Do you?”

  “Maybe. Then again there are a lot of coves look like that. The point is if they’re sending truant officers to the house, it’s time we found Aggie ourselves. Poor girl might need our help and I’ve come to look on her as a daughter.” He felt in his inside pocket and took out a paper bag. “Ben, I’m partial to sweeties and this bag is full of them. Here.” He shoved one across the table to the boy. “Where might we find your sister, Ben?”

  “I don’t know, sir. She hasn’t been home for the last two nights. Nor at school neither.”

  If telling this got Aggie into trouble but meant Ben had less of it, he didn’t mind.

  “Sometimes we have to work late into the night,” the man continued. “In which case your sister has been known to stay here with my good wife in charge. But she wasn’t working yesterday.” He tapped his finger. “Think, Ben. Where might she be staying?”

  “They have a sister who’s in service,” interjected Tibbett. “Didn’t you say she was with her, Ben?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s where she is most likely.”

  “That so? Where’s your sister work, Ben?”

  Ben hardly paused. It was one thing to risk Aggie’s ire, another entirely to aggravate Martha. He had sworn with a blood oath, painfully inflicted, that he would never tell anybody where she was.

  “I don’t know. sir. She didn’t want Pa dunning her for her wages. She told Aggie but not me.”

  “Any guesses then?”

  “I think the house is one of the grand ones up in the end of the city. Where the bridge is.”

  “Bloor Street, you mean?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bloor Street wasn’t far, not far enough at all, but it was the first place he thought of.

  “You’re not fibbing me, are you, Ben?”

  Ben looked him in the eyes in the way he had perfected over the years. “No, sir. Never. I’d tell you if I knew.”

  The man grunted. “All right then.” He leaned forward and wiped off a speck of pie crust from the side of Ben’s mouth. “I can’t abide fibbers, little titch. I’d never hire anybody to work for me if I didn’t think I could trust them. Honest and close-mouthed, that’s the kind of boy I like. Are you that kind of boy, young Ben?”

  He hadn’t moved his finger and he was pressing it hard into Ben’s cheek. His eyes were the colour of the lake in winter.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He let him go and held out the bag of candies. “Have a sweetie.”

  “What are we going to do about the girl?” Ralph asked, and again Ben trembled at his tone of voice.

  “Do? We’ll do nothing. She’s probably tucked away nice and safe with her loving skin and blister. I don’t think we need worry. She’s a quiet girl. Isn’t that right, little Ben?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The man shook the bag of sweets. “If Aggie shows up at your house and you come and tell me, or better still bring her with you, you can have the whole bag.”

  Ben made himself look happy about that.

  The man scrutinized him for a moment, then he said, “Now, m
y lad, did Renaldo, that’s what we call him here, did he tell you about our little business proposition?”

  Tibbett answered, “No, I haven’t said anything yet.”

  “Well then, here’s the story, young Ben. A gentleman we know likes to see photographs of boys who are all dressed up like princes. He’s an odd cove, I’ll give you that, but who am I to judge? He’ll only look at boys that are small like you and refined, just like you. Is there any boy at school that you could bring over for a test? I warn you, the gentleman nor me will not tolerate any rowdy rough boys who’ll boast to everybody what they’ve been up to. The fellow must be a quiet sort, bit on the shy side if you like. Like princes are. And he must be able to keep a close mouth, just like you. This gentleman is very particular about his affairs being private. Now if you can bring us such a lad, young titch, you will get a whole bag of sweeties between you and a dollar for you alone. How’s that suit you then, good deal, wouldn’t you say, Renaldo?”

  “The best. I wish I got as much when I was a calf.”

  “So, Ben, old son, is there any lad you know of who might suit us?”

  Ben thought. He didn’t have any friends to speak of and the only one he ever really got along with was Emmanuel Hart and he wasn’t at all small and refined. But there was a boy. He was younger, small and dark-haired, and he hung on the fringes of the playgroup and the groups of rowdy boys just the way Ben did.

  “There’s a boy I could bring. I take him home from school sometimes. His ma works because he doesn’t have a pa.”

  “Poor laddie. That might make him all the more willing to earn a bit of dash to help his ma. What’s his name, this cove?”

  “He’s from Wales. He’s got a funny name. It’s Alwyn Jones.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  By the end of the day, Murdoch was tired and discouraged. He felt like a dog in a revolving cage, plodding on but going nowhere. He’d had the satisfaction of hauling Fisher out of bed but the man was so full of liquor, he was incoherent. Murdoch had only managed to shake out of him that he didn’t know where Martha or Aggie were, and he had to accept that.

  A prim clerk at the Globe newspaper office told him that they had no records of past transactions. If the account was paid that was an end to it. Why should they clutter the office with unnecessary pieces of paper? Murdoch had considered giving her an answer, but the question was rhetorical and the woman of middle age, so he swallowed his irritation and left.

  Seymour had agreed to interview the people to whom the Dowdells had sent mourning cards and Murdoch went to check on the remaining photographic studios on his list. He offended several of them by asking about “naughty” pictures, but nobody admitted to having photographed such a thing, and they all seemed to be sincere. He made a brief stop at the Sackville Street School just as Miss Slade was entertaining the class by whistling a lively waltz that made him want to practise a few reverse turns in the hall. She came out to him right away. Neither Agnes nor Ben Fisher had been in school. Promising he would come to the boarding house that night, he left to seek out the final three studios on his list. By dusk and the lighting of the street lamps, he had checked off the last studio.

  Briefly, he was undecided as to whether to go directly to the lodging house to see if Seymour had any luck, or to go after he had visited Enid. He’d promised her he would redeem himself and come for the supper he’d missed the day before. That promise won out and he trudged off to Mrs. Barrett’s house.

  Enid opened the door and he knew without asking that this was another evening when the landlady was not at home. Enid was wearing her best blue silk taffeta dress and her hair was freshly and elaborately pinned. If he didn’t know better he’d think she had applied a touch of rouge.

  “My you look lovely, Enid,” he exclaimed.

  “This is in the way of a celebration. I received a banker’s draft in the amount of ten dollars today from the competition.” She lowered her voice. “And Mrs. Barrett is away to her sister’s for two days.”

  Murdoch stepped into the hall, caught her in his arms, and gave her a hearty kiss.

  “More cause for celebration.”

  “She was in an uncommonly good humour and she has given me permission to use the dining room.” Enid smiled at him. “She got a notion in her head, how I don’t know, that I would be entertaining some of my fellow competitors and I did not disabuse her.”

  He kissed her again. “Clever wench.”

  She took his hand and began to lead him down the hall. “Alwyn is in bed. I’m afraid he might be sickening for something, he has been so low and quiet. Perhaps after we’ve had our meal you could go up and say goodnight to him. That might cheer him up.”

  Murdoch thought that the only thing that would cheer up Enid’s son was if he gave up all claim to her affections. He flinched. That was coming soon.

  Enid ushered him into a dining room crammed with heavy dark furniture. She had lit a good fire and all the lamps in an attempt to make the room bright and welcoming but nothing could overcome its ugliness. The tablecloth at least was a white damask and Enid had laid it with her own china.

  “Sit down and I’ll bring in the dishes.”

  He took his place at the table and she left with a slight swish of taffeta and a waft of essence of roses. Murdoch leaned his head in his hands. Enid was making it clear that she welcomed his love but she was leaving the country and he couldn’t see any future for them. And that was separate from the confusion of feelings he was having for her and Amy Slade. He grinned to himself. Maybe he was being entranced by the charms of the whistling waltzes, the way he’d heard Indian fakirs entranced snakes.

  Enid opened the door carrying a tray loaded with covered dishes. “You’re looking quite peaked, Will. You’re not ill as well, I hope.”

  “No, not at all. I’m just tired and cold and foot sore and I seem to have spent a wasted day. I’ve made no progress in the case I’m working on. Although I did deliver the letter to Mr. Callahan, and it did the trick. Thank you very much for your help.”

  She smiled with pleasure. “I’m happy for that. Now, look you, I’ve made a roast of pork with boiled potatoes and cabbage, so I hope you have a hearty appetite.”

  He clutched the knife and fork in his fists, held them upright, banged them on the table, and proclaimed, “I have stomach of lion.”

  He tucked in to the meal and had eaten about two mouthfuls when Enid said, “I’ve never seen Alwyn so dispirited. I’m worried that something happened this afternoon.”

  “Hmm?” said Murdoch, his mouth full of potato.

  “One of the boys at school sometimes accompanies him home for me when I have to be out. I know you think I mollycoddle him, Will, but I feel more easy in myself if I know he is with somebody.”

  Murdoch nodded. He did think that, but he wasn’t going to bring it up now.

  “The other boy isn’t much older than he is really so they can play together. I give him five cents and something to eat and the poor chappie is always after asking me if I’ll be out.” She poked at a piece of cabbage on her plate. “According to Alwyn, instead of coming here as they usually do, Ben took him to a photography studio.” She stopped, seeing his expression. “Will, what’s the matter?”

  “Did you say Ben?”

  “Yes, Ben Fisher. He goes to the same school.”

  “My God.” Murdoch pushed back his chair. “I have to talk to Alwyn.”

  “He’s probably asleep by now. Please tell me what’s the matter, you’re frightening me.”

  He stared at her. “Enid, did Alwyn mention the name of the studio?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “Where was it?”

  “I, er, I don’t know. I wasn’t paying a lot of attention.”

  She was preparing the meal in anticipation of his coming, Murdoch realized.

  “What has happened? Did you receive a complaint? Did the boys break something?”

  “No, nothing like that.” Murdoch leaned forward an
d touched her hand. “What did Alwyn tell you?”

  “Nothing at all. I think he regretted even saying where he’d been. But when I pressed him, he said he’d promised not to talk about it. Heaven knows why. All he would say was that he was supposed to be a prince and he was to wear some nice clothes.”

  She shook her hand free from Murdoch’s. “Will, you have a face like thunder. What is wrong?”

  “Enid, a few days ago, a schoolteacher came to me because she found a photograph of one of her pupils hidden in a desk. It was vile. The girl is Agnes Fisher, Ben’s sister. She wouldn’t say a word to Miss Slade and now she has vanished. She could be in grave danger and I’ve been trying to track down the photographer.”

  Enid’s hand was at her throat. “Are you trying to tell me that my son has been used in the same way?”

  “Let’s talk to him.”

  They hurried up the stairs to the little box room. There was a lamp turned low on the dresser.

  “I’ll wake him,” said Enid. Gently, she called to her son and he stirred. She sat on the bed and said something to him in Welsh. He shifted to a sitting position, but seeing Murdoch, he shrank back into his pillow and spoke to his mother anxiously. She answered in English.

  “Mr. Murdoch isn’t angry at you, Alwyn. He is troubled about a case he’s working on and he wants to ask you some questions.”

  “What sort of questions?” The boy’s eyes were large and dark in the shadowy light.

  Murdoch perched on the end of the bed and tried to make his face less frightening.

  “Your mamma was telling me about you and Ben Fisher going to a photography studio this afternoon. Where was it, Alwyn?”

  “I don’t know, Ben took me.”

  “But you must know where you went. Was it north up to Gerrard Street? South to King Street? Where?”

  Alwyn whimpered. “I don’t know. We were playing with the snow in the gutters and I was just following Ben.”