Poor Tom Is Cold

by Maureen Jennings

  However, over the past few months he had found himself actively seeking for a sweetheart. He had started dancing lessons, taken to it quite well really, even though his only dancing partner at first was the instructor himself, Professor Otranto, who took the lady’s part. Then in the summer he’d attended his first mixed class and met a young woman who worked at the music store on King Street. She had seemed most receptive toward him until she discovered he was Roman Catholic. She was Methodist. “My father would disown me. And I’m all he’s got now,” she had said sadly. As a result, Murdoch had given up his dancing classes, reluctant to see her there and be tantalised by what he couldn’t have.

  And now, stronger all the time, were his feelings for Enid. Would he change his faith in order to fit with a woman’s? He tried to be honest with himself, sighed, and had to admit, fair or not, he couldn’t see himself doing that. He’d never even set foot in a church other than a Catholic one. In that respect he’d been thoroughly indoctrinated by the priests of his childhood. About time I gave this some thought, he said to himself, again not for the first time. But later, not when his head was pounding, not when the rain had washed all colour from the world, and certainly not on the same day a fine young man had been ripped from life before he’d even lived much of it.

  As he approached the house, he experienced a rush of pleasure. The lamps were lit in the front parlour and he knew Mrs. Kitchen would have his supper waiting for him. She prided herself on being a “plain cook,” which meant that the meat was often overdone and the potatoes boiled into tastelessness, but he didn’t mind. Since he had moved in with the Kitchens three years ago, they had become dear friends. The closest thing to a family he had ever known. He opened the door and entered the narrow hall, also well-lit tonight. He had hardly taken off his hat and coat when his landlady came hurrying out of the kitchen.

  “Oh my, what dreadful weather. Come and get yourself warm this minute. The fire’s going in the parlour and your tea is all ready. I’ll bring it right in.”

  Murdoch blew on his cold hands.

  “I forgot my gloves this morning.”

  Then he noticed that the chenille curtains across the rear door were lowered.

  He nodded in that direction. “How’s Arthur?”

  “A bit poorly. This damp weather is hard for him.”

  She took his astrakhan hat from the coat tree where he’d hung it and shook off the rain drops. “I’ve minced up some lamb for you and mashed potatoes. And I’ve boiled up the rutabaga. I thought you’d be glad of soft food. I’m sure that tooth is bothersome. I don’t suppose you’ve had it tended to, have you?”

  “I confess I have not. Cowardice won out.”

  “I’ll bring you some more clove oil.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. K. Can I go and see him?”

  “Of course. He’s been brooding too much. See if you can take his mind off things.”

  As he lifted the curtain aside, Mrs. Kitchen said, “He asked me to close them, said the draft was bothering him. Fact is he’s wrapped up tight so I don’t know what it could be.”

  The ever-present worry about her husband was close to the surface tonight. Usually, she acted as if he were suffering from a bad head cold that would clear up before long.

  She returned to the kitchen and Murdoch went into the room.

  Arthur Kitchen was wrapped in a tartan blanket, sitting in his wicker Bath chair. He seemed to be asleep, but at Murdoch’s entrance, he opened his eyes and grinned with pleasure.

  “Hello, Will. You’re late tonight. Something happen?”

  “I’m afraid so. I’ll tell you about it after my tea.”

  They both knew Mrs. Kitchen wouldn’t let them talk until Murdoch had been properly fed. But he valued their chats and both the Kitchens loved to hear about his experiences with what Arthur termed “the fascinating diversity of the criminal strand in the fabric of society.” Arthur almost never went out and certainly hadn’t stirred from home during the entire last six weeks of wet, chilly weather.

  “How’s your tooth?”

  “Making itself known. You’ve been a bit poorly today, Mrs. K. said.”

  Arthur nodded and suddenly coughed. He had a cloth which he held close to his mouth, but Murdoch could see how much blood he expectorated. There was a fetid odour in the room that not even the bucket of carbolic Mrs. Kitchen had placed in the corner of the room could disguise. The window was closed tonight. Another deviation from the usual routine. Even in the bitterly cold winter months, Mrs. Kitchen had kept the window open in the hope that fresh air would arrest the progress of the disease. She tried out every treatment she heard of and Murdoch couldn’t tell whether it was, in fact, the efficacy of these cures or her desire that had kept Arthur alive this long.

  A fire was burning in the hearth but there was only one lamp lit on the mantelpiece and the room was gloomy. He was about to offer to light a lamp when Mrs. Kitchen came in. She was carrying a jug and a glass.

  “Good heavens, what are you doing sitting in the dark like this?”

  Arthur shrugged listlessly.

  “I’ll light the sconces, shall I?” asked Murdoch.

  “Yes, please, and those two lamps on the sideboard. Poor light is unhealthy.”

  Murdoch set to and Beatrice poured water from the jug into the glass.

  “Here you are, Arthur. Drink it right down.” She saw the bloodied rag and whisked it away into the bucket that stood beside the chair. She handed her husband a fresh piece of cloth.

  “Mrs. O’Brien’s niece has a friend who was completely cured of the consumption by drinking several glasses of hot water every day. We’re going to try it,” she said to Murdoch.

  “Mother, it’s a good thing my kidneys aren’t in the same condition as my lungs. I have to make water on the hour every hour.”

  “Arthur! Mind what you’re saying.”

  Mrs. K. treated Murdoch the same way she treated the priest – as if their ears must be kept pure from any reference to body parts or functions and, God forbid, any obscenity.

  Arthur sipped the hot water, then immediately went into a fit of coughing. This time the fresh cloth was filled. The water had spilled all over him and Mrs. Kitchen wiped at the blanket. There was blood there too.

  “I’ll get another glass. Won’t be a minute.”

  Arthur shook his head. “No, Mother, please. I can’t.”

  “Of course you can. It was too hot was the problem.”

  “I thought it was supposed to be hot,” he whispered.

  She ignored his remark, shaking her head in disapproval as if he were being a finicky child.

  “Mr. Murdoch, your tea will be ready in just a minute.”

  “Has Mrs. Jones eaten yet?” Murdoch kept his voice as casual as he could, knowing his landlady’s avid interest.

  “Yes, she was down at six. She has a big piece of work to do.”

  “Another legal brief?”

  “I believe so. Such a hard-working young woman. She hasn’t stopped all day.”

  She held out her hand for the empty glass. “I’m going to bring you some of Arthur’s medicine. It’ll help you sleep until you get that tooth looked after. If I may say so, you look quite exhausted.”

  She left for the kitchen. As soon as the door closed, Arthur turned to Murdoch and gave him a wry grin.

  “There’s something makes you sleep better than any laudanum and it’s natural.”

  “What is this, a riddle?” asked Murdoch, pleased by the revival in his landlord’s spirits.

  “No riddle. I’m referring to conjugal relations. The best cure for insomnia is to have connections with the woman you love.”

  Murdoch could feel himself blushing like a green youth. Arthur had never spoken so personally to him before.

  “I am assuming from your expression this is not a joy you have yet experienced, Will?”

  “Well … I …”

  Murdoch thought his passionate but unconsummated caresses with Liza didn’t c
ount, and before her there had only been awkward fumblings with a neighbour’s daughter when he was seventeen.

  “I must say I don’t have the interest right now,” continued Arthur. “But I miss it. So I am being so bold as to give you some advice, Will. Don’t let the differences get in the way.”

  Murdoch was confused as to what he meant by that.

  “She’s a good woman, no matter that she’s Baptist. Still young. Her face lights up whenever she sees you.”

  “You’re referring to Mrs. Jones?”

  “Who else? I saw the way she was at the police games when we were all watching the tug-of-war.” He spoke in a good imitation of Enid’s lilting Welsh accent. “What does the blue marker indicate, Mr. Murdoch?” Ha. She didn’t care a jot. She just didn’t want you paying attention to that other young woman.”

  Mrs. Kitchen came in and overheard these last words. “He’s better off without that one. Flighty, I thought. Here you go, Arthur.”

  While she stood over him, Arthur drank all the hot water. This time he didn’t cough it back. “There, you see!” said his wife.

  “I’ll go and change into my slippers,” said Murdoch, glad to escape any further talk about his love life.

  Mrs. Jones’s room was at the top of the stairs, across the landing from his. Her door was closed but he could hear the rapid clack of the typewriting machine. Her face lit up, did it? His too probably. But what on earth was he going to do about it?

  The clove oil and the vinegar compress had relieved the toothache somewhat, and although he could hardly stop himself from yawning, Murdoch felt better. He and the Kitchens were in their sitting room. All three of them were tucked under covers, as Mrs. K. had opened the window. Arthur’s mood had swung in the opposite direction, typical of a consumptive. Murdoch had just finished telling them about Wicken’s death and the subsequent round of questioning he and Crabtree had gone through.

  “How’s the latest arrival?” asked Mrs. Kitchen, referring to the constable’s newborn son.

  “Healthy as a horse and growing like a weed according to George.”

  “That’s good.”

  Her husband glanced over at her and Murdoch knew they were both thinking about the son they had lost so many years ago. He had lived for only three weeks.

  “When’s the inquest going to happen?” asked Arthur.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Your Inspector Brackenreid isn’t going to be too happy if the inquest comes in with a suicide verdict. Not on his force.”

  Arthur carefully removed a dried pansy from the waxed paper where it had been pressed and started to glue it onto a strip of stiff cardboard. He was helping his wife make bookmarks. She earned a little money by selling handmade articles to the fancy-goods shop on Queen Street.

  “I feel sorry for his sweetheart. Poor thing, having that on her conscience. Suicides are always hardest for the survivors,” said Mrs. Kitchen.

  “Not as far as the Lord is concerned,” said Arthur.

  Beatrice selected an ivy leaf for the bottom of the bookmark. “Of course. But I do wonder why she would reject such a nice young man.”

  Mrs. Kitchen had never met Wicken but it was enough for her that Murdoch had liked him and that he had had a widowed mother.

  “I’ll light a candle tomorrow for the sake of his mother. How ever she will cope I don’t know. She won’t get any insurance compensation, will she?”

  “Not if the verdict is suicide.”

  Murdoch yawned again.

  “Off to bed with you, this instance,” said Mrs. Kitchen.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He pushed away his blanket.

  “I put the portable oil heater at the end of the landing. Why don’t you leave your door open and you’ll be warmer. And don’t forget to take two spoonfuls of the syrup. It’ll make you sleep like a baby,” said Beatrice.

  “That or the other thing I mentioned,” added Arthur.

  Mrs. Kitchen looked at him with curiosity. “What other thing?”

  “Nothing,” said Murdoch. “He means counting the rosary beads.”

  “Really? That shouldn’t be so boring as to put us to sleep though, should it?”

  Mrs. Kitchen was very devout, especially when it suited her.

  “You’re quite right, Mrs. K. But toothache or not, I think I’ll be out the minute I put my head on the pillow.”

  He shook hands good night. Arthur’s skin was hot with the fever but at least he wasn’t moping.

  Murdoch left them and went to his room. Enid’s door was slightly ajar and he could hear the sounds of sleep from her and the boy. He undressed quickly and got into bed but he closed his door. He thought that even drugged with laudanum he might be kept awake with what the priest would call impure thoughts.

  Chapter Twelve

  CULLIE KNOCKED ON THE DOOR SOFTLY. On damp days such as this one, Jarius liked to take a foot-bath before bed in the conviction that it kept away colds and influenza. She had brought up the pitcher of water.

  “Come in.”

  She could hear the impatience in his voice and she shrank. Jarius never shouted at her or slapped her the way Frank did, but she was more afraid of him than anybody else in the household. Whenever she had a task to do, like build up the fire or, as now, bring him hot water, he never allowed her to get on with it but sat watching. She sensed something in that scrutiny not exactly malevolent, but not kind either, and her nervousness always made her clumsy.

  She entered the room. He was sitting by the fire, wrapped in his shawl, already undressed for bed. His nightshirt was pulled up to his knees, exposing his spindly calves.

  “Ah Janet, good. I’ve been waiting.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Gibb, I had the water bottles to fill for Missus.”

  He waved his hand, indicating she should pour the water into the enamel bowl that he’d placed by his feet. She came closer but, as she poured the water, it splashed over his legs.

  He yelped. “Damn it, girl, what are you doing?”

  “Oh I’m sorry, sir, I …”

  “Get a cloth.”

  She put the pitcher on the floor and scurried to the washstand by the bed to fetch a towel. He didn’t take it from her but pointed at his legs.

  “Wipe them off.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She dabbed at the pale, hairy shanks, all too aware of the parted knees protruding from the flannel nightshirt. Jarius made no attempt to assist her or to do it himself.

  “That’s enough. Finish pouring the water and be more careful.”

  She tried again but he didn’t move back, which forced her to bend closer to the bowl on the floor. This time she managed not to splash. He eased his feet into the water. Gibb was of middle age but his feet were old man’s feet, his toes bent, reddish corns on the joints. Janet hovered beside him waiting for her release.

  “Where’s the mustard?”

  She gasped. “I, er, I-I’m sorry, Mr. Jarius, I’ll go get it.”

  “No! It’s too late now. Remember next time.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The girl squirmed in her misery.

  Jarius hitched his nightshirt up his thighs. He was looking into the fire, not at her, and when he spoke his voice was quite gentle.

  “I hope you weren’t too frightened by the police officer today.”

  “No, sir. He was very kind. Not frightening at all.”

  “I see. That explains it.”

  She waited but he didn’t seem as if he were going to continue. The silence was unbearable. Like a fly caught in a web, Janet could only hold out for so long.

  “Beg pardon, sir. What does it explain?”

  Now he looked up at her. “My sister tells me you had a lot to say to the kind detective. You seem to have told him all sorts of things about the family. Unnecessary things.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Jarius. It sort of burst out. He asked me to tell him anything I could.”

  Gibb reached over and caught her hand. He started to stroke it with his
thumb.

  “Janet, you are a silly girl to imagine gossip is of any importance to the police. But tell me truthfully, what exactly did you say?”

  “Nothing really, sir. Just that there’d been a big row on Saturday night and that Mrs. Eakin had shut herself up in her room. Wouldn’t eat nor drink.”

  He continued to stroke the back of her hand and his touch burned.

  “Did you by any chance also load the poor man’s ear with why there was a quarrel?”

  “No, I didn’t. If you remember, Missus sent me out of the room when it all started.”

  “Quite so. Was the detective at all curious?”

  “I can’t say especially. He listened to everything and wrote down things in his book.”

  Jarius released her hand.

  “I’m sure that is the last we will see of him, but if by chance he does come back, you will be more discreet, won’t you, my dear? You will keep family matters to yourself from now on.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean no harm.”

  “Of course you didn’t. Now get off to bed with you. It’s eleven o’clock.”

  Janet curtsied and headed gratefully for the door. Her legs were trembling. In fact she did know what the quarrel was about because she had listened at the dining room door. But she hadn’t told Murdoch that. Her mistress had insisted on being present during the interview and she knew, if she had told everything, she would have been dismissed sure as houses.

  She was just about to close the door behind her when Jarius called out.

  “Janet, you forgot to bring me my writing box.”

  He indicated the scribe’s desk that was on the dresser. She hurried back and he waited for her to place it in his lap.

  “Thank you, my dear. Good night.”

  “Good night, sir.”

  She hurried off.

  Jarius waited a moment, then fished under the chair cushion and pulled out a flat leather pouch. He untied the thongs, removed a key, and unlocked the lid of the desk. He took out his ledger and the fountain pen. Then momentarily distracted, he watched the fire. As a child he’d sat like this many an evening, making up stories about the castles and cliffs he saw in the glowing coals. He had created that imaginary world to escape from the misery of his life. A mother who was never well, hardly ever laughed that he could recall, and who demanded from her young son an emotional sustenance he could not provide. His eyes were starting to itch and he looked away. Then, taking up his pen, he began.