“Is this everybody in the house?” asked Murdoch.
“No, there’s Mr. Eakin, our father, but I’m afraid he is indisposed. Besides, I’m sure he could not help you. He always takes a sedative at night. Nothing would wake him.”
“Anyone else?”
“There’s Mr. Jarius Gibb. You must have met him. He’s the foreman of the coroner’s jury. He is our older brother.”
“Stepbrother,” interrupted Eakin. “His mother was a widow when she married our father. Unfortunately, she did not live too much longer afterward. Father married for the second time. This Mrs. Eakin, Harmony by name and nature, was our mother.”
He was offering this information in a chatty way that Murdoch found odd. As did his sister, obviously, because she frowned at him.
“Frank, really! I doubt that is relevant to the officer’s enquiry.”
Murdoch had a vivid image of the two of them as small children ready to squabble at any moment. But that early animosity seemed to have hardened into mutual disdain.
He addressed Eakin, trying to be as delicate as he could. “And your wife, sir? She was in the house last night, I assume.”
“Who?”
“Mrs. Eakin, the lady who …” He waved vaguely in the direction of the door.
“That’s not my wife. She’s married to my father. As I said, Mother died last year. My father married again this April. Quick you might say. Properly speaking, the woman you saw is my stepmother, young as she is.”
There was a strange sound from Curran, and Murdoch could have sworn he had guffawed and stifled it immediately. He looked over at Curran but he was sitting in the shadows behind the light and he couldn’t see his expression.
“Mrs. Nathaniel Eakin was indeed in the house,” answered Augusta. “But as you saw, she is dreadfully ill. Her doctor has been forced to commit her to the provincial lunatic asylum. I doubt she would be aware if Beelzebub himself visited us.”
Her tone was sharp. No love lost there, Murdoch thought.
“Do you have other servants?” he asked.
“Only Janet, the girl you saw. We hire extra help as we need.”
Murdoch felt a twinge of pity for the young servant. He could imagine the amount of work that was foisted on her.
“I assume your husband has spoken to you about the tragedy I am investigating, Mrs. Curran?”
“My brother told me. But I thought the coroner declared him a suicide.”
“We won’t know anything for certain until after the inquest. That is why I am conducting this investigation.”
“’Scuse me.” Frank got up and went to the fire. He grabbed the poker and gave a recalcitrant piece of coal a couple of good thwacks. Flames leaped out. He stayed where he was, watching the fire.
“I am interested in any information you can give me,” said Murdoch. “We think the constable died some time between midnight and one o’clock. Did any of you hear anything?”
“I for one am a very sound sleeper,” said Augusta. “I heard nothing at all.”
“Where is your bedroom, ma’am?”
“On the third floor. My husband and I have a suite there.”
Murdoch nodded at Curran. “What about you, sir?”
“Not a peep. I sleep like the dead.”
“You were on the third floor as well?”
Augusta looked at Murdoch as if he had said something quite rude but his guess was right.
Curran chuckled in embarrassment. “Not last night I wasn’t. I snore. Keeps my wife aggravated. I was in the stable loft. Better.”
“So was I,” added Frank. “I have a room there so I can keep an eye on the horses. I didn’t hear anything except them farting.”
This remark was obviously intended to offend his sister, who took the bait.
“Frank, how many times must I ask you not to be so coarse?”
“That’s not coarse, Aggie. It’s a fact of nature. Horses fart all the time. Noisy buggers.”
Any further argument was halted by the mantel clock which began to announce the hour in such a deep-toned gong, it was impossible to speak. Involuntarily they all looked in its direction. It was a massive bronzed piece, more than two feet high, and the clock face nestled in the middle of the bust of a smiling woman, rather Roman in appearance. Her hair and collar were lavishly hung with imitation coins and the word “Fortune” was embossed on the base. As the sound died away, Murdoch closed his notebook, picked up his hat, and stood up.
“I won’t keep you any longer. What time might I catch Mr. Gibb?”
“He works at the city offices. He issues marriage licences. He is usually home by six o’clock.”
“Either I or a constable will come back then. For now, I’ll just have a word with your servant before I go.”
Frank Eakin grinned. “Janet’s a fanciful girl, Mr. Murdoch. Don’t take everything she says as gospel. She believes in ghosts. She’s always going on about hearing them wandering round the house.”
“I’ll take that under advisement. Where would I find her, ma’am?”
Augusta stood up. “I’ll take you. She should be in the kitchen.”
“We’ll get back to the stable,” said Eakin. “You won’t want us any more, will you, Officer?”
“Not for now.”
At the door, Mrs. Curran paused and apparently speaking to nobody in particular, she said, “It won’t be necessary to leave the lamp lit.”
Her husband hurried to obey and blew out the light. The sour, smoky smell of the extinguished wick wafted on the air.
Murdoch left with a feeling of relief. Being with this family was like sticking your hand in a wasp’s nest.
Chapter Ten
PEG THOUGHT SHE MUST HAVE BEEN in the bathtub for a very long time but it was hard to be sure. There was no clock in the room and her memory of coming here, of being put into the tub, was not quite real, as if she had been dreaming violent, vivid dreams. However, her eyes were focusing properly now and even though her head felt as if she were inside a blanket, she was no longer under the influence of the sedative. She knew she was in an institution.
She shivered. The water had cooled to the point of discomfort. She turned her head. There were three large bathtubs in the room and she was in the middle one. On her left was a woman whose face, with its well-defined nose and chin and good wide brow, showed some refinement of features. She wasn’t young but her hair was still brown and abundant, braided and pinned into a crown on top of her head.
“Hello,” said Peg softly.
The woman’s eyes were closed and she didn’t respond.
“Good girl.” The woman in the other tub had spoken loudly. “You’ll go to heaven, my dear.” Her hair was white and stringy and Peg could see there were large bare patches on her scalp, the skin showing pink.
“Hello,” she said.
The woman looked over at her but her eyes were blank and unseeing. Suddenly she burst into harsh crying. Peg could offer no comfort but the tears stopped as abruptly as they’d begun and the woman started to sing a cheerful hymn.
All three women were in the same position. A canvas cover was stretched across the iron tub. There was a hole for the patient’s head; the rest of the body was completely immersed. There was a canvas harness which sloped backward and Peg was fastened to it by a strap at the waist. Her arms were tied at the wrists and her legs were similarly restrained at the ankles. The bonds weren’t tight but she couldn’t slip out of them. Even if she had been able to get loose, she knew she wouldn’t be able to lift the canvas cover because it was tied to rings at the side of the tub.
Somebody will come soon. Keep calm, keep calm.
But the panic swept over her and she couldn’t stop it bursting out of her mouth.
A woman in attendant’s uniform came hurrying in. She was large and her features were strong to the point of being masculine but her expression was kind. She clucked sympathetically.
“What’s this now?”
“Let me out,
please let me out.”
“Are you cold?” the attendant asked.
“Yes, yes, I am. Can I get out?”
“I’ll just warm up the water a bit and that’ll feel better. All our ladies show great improvement after a time in the tub. Wish I could do it myself; my beaters get real sore at the end of the day.”
“I don’t care a frigging toss about your feet. I want to get out of this goddam tub.”
The woman wagged her forefinger. “Nasty words like that won’t get you anywhere except into trouble.”
Peg felt a wave of terror pinch her stomach. This attendant seemed quite kind really but she was like all of them. If you offended, retribution was inevitable. Sometimes it was angry and overt, more often subtle. Small withholdings. Leave her there longer, just fifteen minutes longer in the solitary room. Fifteen minutes that would make the difference between sanity and madness.
She tried to gain back some control. “I’m sorry, truly I am. Please forgive me. I didn’t mean it. I was …”
She was interrupted by her neighbour bursting into sobs again. The attendant nodded over at her.
“Don’t worry about Miss Anderson. She’s quite harmless.”
“Why is she crying like that?”
“She is afraid she won’t go to heaven. She was a missionary most of her life.”
She went over to the white-haired woman and leaned over close to her face.
“Why don’t you sing us another hymn now, Miss Anderson? I do dearly love to hear ‘Waiting by the River.’”
Almost without pause, the woman changed from crying to singing. Her voice was hoarse but the rendition was tuneful, years of habit still strong. The attendant came back to Peg and turned on the taps at the end of the tub.
“Is that better? Do you want it hotter?”
“No, thank you. I’m sorry I was so rude. What is your name please?”
“Trayling.”
“How long have I been in here?”
“In the bath or in the asylum?”
“The bath.”
Trayling consulted the steel watch pinned to her grey apron. Peg noticed the swell of her large breasts which seemed soft even beneath the starched bib. Her sleeve was rolled up past the plump forearm and her skin was freckled and reddened from the water. Peg had to fight hard to keep back a rush of tears. The attendant reminded her of somebody but she couldn’t quite recover the memory. It was somebody who had appeared in her dreams many times. Familiar yet unidentifiable, like a place you know you must have visited some time in the past, but cannot name. She’d been told a neighbour had delivered her to Dr. Barnardo’s orphanage when her mother disappeared and she thought it might be her she dreamed of.
“You were admitted this afternoon. Dr. Clark thought a bath would calm you and you’ve been in here for two hours. He wants you to stay for at least three.”
She must have seen the fear because she picked up a sponge from a basket beside the tub, and dipping it in a bowl of cool water, she wiped Peg’s brow.
“Best thing is not to fight so. You’ll feel better before you know it.”
“What is going to happen to me?”
“That’s for the doctors to decide. If you act like a good Christian woman, no cussing like you did just now, do what you’re told, and you’ll soon be allowed to go home.”
“And if I’m not good?”
“Then you’ll have to stay in here with all the other lunatics.”
As if in answer, the woman who hadn’t said a word up to now burst into loud laughter. They could hear her splashing her feet in the water. Trayling clucked her tongue disapprovingly.
“Mrs. Stratton, stop that noise. You sound like a heathen if ever I heard one.”
She got up stiffly from her stool, rolled down her sleeve, and started to dry her hands on the piece of holland towelling on the chair. She smiled down at Peg. “I’ll leave you for now. See if you can get some rest.”
She left, her clogs splashing against the water-splattered brick floor.
Peg was so afraid again, she felt nauseated. Her mouth was dry and she wished she had asked for a drink of water. She didn’t want to call again, though. She couldn’t risk using up the goodwill that the attendant was showing toward her. She lay back, her eyes open wide, looking at the ceiling, which was stained with watermarks from the steam. She forced herself to be calm, to think.
Her memories were returning and at first she wanted to shy away from them, to get lost in the fog of the drug.
No! Think. Get it back.
They’d broken down the door. It had splintered when somebody, Frank probably, wielded an axe. They had all come in, Dr. Ferrier behind them with his black bag. He had talked to her, she remembered that, but she didn’t know how long that had taken. He had turned away to his bag, and when he faced her again, he was holding a syringe. She had screamed and kicked it out of his hand. Then Frank and Peter had held her in the chair and Dr. Ferrier got another syringe.
At that moment, she had stepped out of her body and stood to one side, watching. The two men holding her were exerting painful pressure and Frank was cursing because she was fighting so. “I must ask you to temper your language,” said the doctor, and she thought what an old-fashioned expression that was. The woman who was struggling to get free was very strong and could easily throw them off if she wanted to but somehow she was being slowed down. She was falling asleep; she was so tired she couldn’t help herself.
If you go to sleep now you will die, said the separate self. She moved further away from her body as if she were actually floating near the ceiling. She saw the other Peg tied to the chair with some binding the doctor had brought with him. Then they were carrying her downstairs.
Don’t give in. Stay awake.
But sleep was inviting – safe and irresistible. They were outside. She saw Cullie and was sorry the young servant was afraid. Then she was looking at a tall man in a fur hat and a long coat. He had a dark moustache and his eyes were noticing. The Peg in the chair spoke to him.
Help me. Please help me.
He was worried. “I’ll help you,” he said, although his lips didn’t move.
“Psst, you, new woman.”
She turned her head to the left. Mrs. Stratton was watching her.
“Yes?” She tried to make her voice friendly.
“Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Mrs. Harold Stratton of Chatham, Ontario. What is your name?”
“Margaret Eakin.”
“Are you married?”
“Yes.”
“Children?”
“Ye-no. That is, I did have a son but he died.”
Mrs. Stratton gazed over at her; her eyes were fierce. “Murdered, was he?”
Peg turned her head away as abruptly as if she had been struck.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, he was.”
Chapter Eleven
WEARILY, MURDOCH HEADED FOR Ontario Street and the comfort of Mrs. Kitchen’s parlour. He was cold and hungry, his back ached from walking so long, and the pain in his jaw was all-consuming. Between them, he and Crabtree had questioned virtually every household member on Wicken’s beat, but nothing significant had come of it. Many of the people were familiar with the young constable; some of them were sincerely distressed. One or two of the women wept openly. “Such a nice, polite young man,” cried Mrs. Jackson, who was the cook at a grand house on Gerrard Street. But she hadn’t seen him since the end of the summer when she’d been sitting on the front veranda, it was so scorching that day. “Madam allowed all us servants, even young Eddie, to come outside after evening chores. Very kind it was. The constable went by and we joked at him. He looked so hot, he did, in his uniform.”
Most people tried to be helpful, would have manufactured information if they could, but essentially nobody told him anything new. Nobody other than Mr. Lee had actually seen Wicken or his companion. It was a night when everybody was as snug as they could be in their own houses.
Lamps were lit along t
he street, the macadam black and slick in the rain. Not for the first time Murdoch wished he were coming home to Liza. Closely following on that thought, however, like a herding dog on the heels of a sheep, was an image of Enid Jones, the young widow who was also a boarder at the Kitchens. Under different circumstances, Murdoch had to admit he would have been paying court to her but she was a devout Baptist, he, a Roman Catholic, although not so devout. Those differences of faith seemed irreconcilable.
He was passing one of the big houses on Wilton Street. The curtains were not drawn and he could see into the front sitting room. Two men, one about his own age, were lounging in their armchairs in front of the fire. They were wearing claret-coloured smoking jackets and he saw them both, in unconscious unison, take a protracted luxurious pull on their respective cigars. The furnishings were opulent and the room was golden from the bright firelight. Murdoch knew the two men slightly, knew they were both lawyers and that the son had joined his father’s firm. He felt a sharp stab of envy. He walked on by, realising it wasn’t the affluence of the men that he was jealous of, so much as the feeling of security surrounding them and how comfortable they seemed to be in each other’s company. He hadn’t thought about his own father in a while, deliberately keeping his memories as buried as possible, but he wondered if he was even still alive. The life of a fisherman was a dangerous one, after all. However, he assumed somebody would have informed him of any catastrophe.
Murdoch didn’t particularly like his own envy. He’d seen too much of it in his father and had experienced over and over again the man’s rancour, his unrelenting jealousy of his own son. Once again his thoughts flew to Liza. If she had lived they would be married by now, probably with a babe, and he himself would have been struggling with the complexity of fatherhood.
Oh, but I would have wanted it. The words were so strong in his mind, he thought for a moment he’d said them out loud. At times, his grief at her death seemed as fresh as ever. He looked for her in the women he passed on the street, dreamed of holding her in his arms, dreamed that she wasn’t dead but merely gone away. After those dreams he awoke angry; after the loving dreams he awoke aching.
Poor Tom Is Cold Page 6