Poor Tom Is Cold

by Maureen Jennings

  Clara took one of the armchairs close to the hearth and indicated he should take the other.

  “Were things satisfactory with Mary Ann?” she asked.

  “They were indeed. She was most credible. And adroit. There was a witness we didn’t expect. A Chinaman. He’d seen the constable with a young woman. Fortunately, he couldn’t tell the difference between one devil woman and another and swore it was Mary Ann. It made our case even more convincing.”

  “So I understand. The joke is that Mary Ann knew him. He has been one of our customers.”

  “Is that so?”

  “She is sure he recognised her and decided to help her out.”

  “I doubt it. He was probably just confused. Nevertheless, this leads precisely to what I wanted to talk about. Mary Ann must go somewhere else. I would like you to send her away. You have places she can go, I know you do. Wait …”

  He held up his hand to stem the protest Clara was about to make.

  “I will pay for any inconvenience to you and her.”

  “She is one of my most popular wenches.”

  “I realise that, Mrs. Doherty, and in a way I am asking this as a favour. It would be better if she were not available should anyone come looking.”

  He had not told Clara the reason he’d wanted Mary Ann to appear at the inquest and perjure herself, and she had not asked. She’d long operated on the premise that what a person didn’t know couldn’t hurt them. Any suspicions she pushed far away from her consciousness. Life was easier that way.

  “Well …” She pretended to think about his offer but she’d already accepted. It was true Mary Ann was popular but she created trouble with the other girls. She’d also had the temerity to laugh when Clara had approached her full of tenderness when she’d first arrived. It was time she visited Montreal.

  “As I say, this is going to cost me a lot of money.”

  “Name a figure.”

  “I won’t be able to get another girl for at least a week, that’s thirty dollars lost income right there. Then there’s the train fare to Montreal …”

  “I said name a figure. I have no interest in the particulars.”

  Clara had been about to inflate the expenses but she thought better of it. This man was too fly.

  “Forty dollars.”

  He took out a wallet and counted out the money. “I’d like to see her gone tonight.”

  “Tonight!”

  He added another five-dollar bill. “This will cover your losses. I’ll wait and accompany her to the train station myself.”

  “I don’t even know if there is a train tonight.”

  “There is. She can stay in a hotel until you have a chance to notify her new … employer.”

  He stood up. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Doherty. I’ll wait in here while she gets ready.”

  Clara took up the bills and put them in a porcelain box on the mantel. “It will take at least an hour for her to pack her belongings and to say good-bye.”

  “Make it half an hour and she and you get another two dollars.”

  “Very well.”

  Clara left. She closed the door behind her and rested against it for a moment. Then she spat into the cuspidor that was provided in the hall. Sometimes not even money could sweeten the shit she had to eat.

  Chapter Thirty

  THE YOUNG MAID ANSWERED Murdoch’s second knock. She was wiping her hands on her apron and gaped at him in a flustered way. Her eyes and nose were reddened. He wondered if she had been crying and if this was what happened to her every day. He smiled and touched his hat politely.

  “Hello, Janet. I’d like to speak to Mrs. Curran.”

  “She said she’s not at home, sir.”

  “Did she? I’m afraid I have to insist. It’s police business. Would you mind telling her that I’m here? I’ll make it right for you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She scuttled away, leaving him on the threshold, afraid to be so definite as to invite him in. He gave his feet a good wipe on the mat for her sake and stepped into the hall. The far door opened and Augusta emerged, Janet hovering anxiously behind her.

  “Mr. Murdoch, we were about to go in to dinner.”

  Murdoch tried to appear suitably apologetic. The house was quiet, but the way she spoke, you’d think the mayor and council were lined up two by two.

  “I insisted on seeing you, Mrs. Curran. Your maid did her job very well.” Janet looked so alarmed at his words that he was afraid he’d made things worse for her.

  “I’ll get back, ma’am,” she said.

  Augusta fanned her hand dismissively and the girl hurried off.

  “What is it you wish, Mr. Murdoch?”

  Tonight, she was wearing a black silk dress with grey satin trimming down the bodice and skirt. From what they’d told him before, he assumed this mourning attire was for her mother. Devotion or defiance?

  “There have been further developments in the Wicken case. I wondered if I could talk to Mrs. Nathaniel Eakin?”

  “Oh no. She is still … she is no better.”

  “Is she able to receive visitors?”

  “I believe not. We haven’t seen her ourselves yet.”

  At that moment, a man came into the hall. He was of medium height, stocky, with a thick grey beard that jutted from either side of his chin. He was wearing a burgundy velvet smoking jacket that even from a distance appeared spotted and stained along the lapels. Although there was no physical resemblance whatsoever to Murdoch’s own father, he was immediately reminded of him. It was the air that some men acquire when they have undisputed command over their domain.

  “Augusta, bring the detective into my study. What are you thinking of?”

  He held out his hand to Murdoch. “I’m Nathaniel Eakin. We haven’t met before.”

  “No, you were indisposed when I came last.”

  “That’s what they told you, was it?”

  “Father, you were …”

  He interrupted her. “I think you keep me from too many things that go on in this house. I’m as well as the next man.”

  He didn’t seem that way to Murdoch. His face had an unhealthy, shiny flush to it, and his eyes were carrying enough baggage underneath to fit a traveller.

  “Come this way, Mr. Murdoch.”

  The study wasn’t large but the walls were panelled in the English style from floor to ceiling. There were glass-fronted bookcases on two sides and in one corner was a closed rolltop desk. All the wood was a dark hue; the chairs were brown leather. However, instead of conveying the snug respectability of a gentleman’s library, the room was gloomy and oppressive. It reeked of cigar smoke.

  Eakin followed him in with Augusta close behind.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Murdoch,” she said.

  Murdoch took one of the big armchairs, Eakin the other. Augusta came behind her father and stood with her hand on the back of his chair. Murdoch couldn’t quite tell if she was using that as a shield or if she wanted to ensure her father was within reach. Eakin picked up a cigar that was on the table next to him. The ash was long on the end and he scraped it off against the dish. He obviously wasn’t concerned about tobacco smoke damaging his books, but Murdoch had the impression they were for show anyway. He waited until the cigar was relit and drawn, the end disappearing into the thicket of Eakin’s beard. Murdoch almost coughed. He liked a pipe himself on occasion, but this smoke was vile.

  “You were asking after my wife?”

  “Yes, I was wondering if I’d be able to talk to her.”

  “She’s in the loony bin.”

  “I know. Does she have any rationality at all?”

  Eakin studied the tip of his cigar. “Depends what you mean. She can form sentences, say words in English. But she’s gone mad. Why the hell would you want to talk to her?”

  “There are one or two things we want to clear up. We have a new witness who says that on Monday night he heard the sound of a woman crying. He thought it was coming from your ho
use and it was roughly in the same time frame that Constable Wicken died. At the very least, it indicates somebody was awake at that hour and may have seen or heard something.”

  Nathaniel frowned. “You think it was my wife?”

  “Possibly. The witness described the sound as cries for help. When I was here on Tuesday, I saw Mrs. Eakin. She cried out to me for help.”

  “She did not!” burst out Mrs. Curran.

  “She didn’t shout out loud, ma’am, but she did speak and what she said was, ‘Help me.’”

  Nathaniel put down his cigar, took out a large red handkerchief, trumpeted into it, then stuffed it back into his trouser pocket.

  “Well, it’s true, she moaned often enough.”

  “You can understand why I’d like to pursue this matter,” said Murdoch.

  “No, frankly I don’t.”

  “Two reasons. Perhaps Mrs. Eakin saw the constable going by. She could corroborate whether or not he was alone. Secondly, if he did hear these cries, he may have come to investigate …”

  He left the rest of the sentence, not wanting to fill in too much, waiting to see what would be their reaction.

  Eakin looked up at his daughter. “Well?”

  “Nobody came here.”

  “Is it possible you wouldn’t have heard, ma’am? Your chambers are on the third floor. You didn’t hear your stepmother calling out and it does seem that she was.”

  She thought for a moment and he had the feeling she was searching for the safest answer.

  “It is possible but not likely.”

  Nathaniel poured himself a generous amount of wine from a decanter on the side table and took a good swallow. “I don’t see the point of this, sir. Even if the officer did come to this house, which he didn’t, what does it matter? It don’t overturn the coroner’s verdict. The man took his own life and that’s all there is to it.”

  Murdoch decided to change tack. “As I said, there are one or two loose ends to the case. The more I know about Wicken’s last movements, the better.”

  Eakin took another drink of wine as if it were water. “You’re wasting your time here.”

  There was the merest slur to his words. Murdoch knew the signs, and in spite of himself, his body, which had its own wisdom, grew tense.

  “I’ll be able to determine that myself after I’ve spoken to Mrs. Eakin personally. And may I ask, what is wrong with her?”

  Augusta shifted uncomfortably and involuntarily smoothed the antimacassar that was on the back of the chair. Her father made a show of staring at Murdoch as if he were a likely candidate for a freak show.

  “She’s been taken up the loop, that’s what’s wrong. She’s gone batchy, barmy.”

  “Insanity has many faces, doesn’t it? My question has more to do with the form that your wife’s lunacy has taken.”

  “I thought you were a police officer, not a physician.”

  “Father …” Augusta tried to place a placating hand on Nathaniel’s shoulder. He immediately shrugged it off.

  “I would imagine Mr. Murdoch wants to know if Stepmother is a danger to herself or anybody else. Isn’t that right, sir?”

  Murdoch hadn’t actually been that clear in his mind as to what he wanted, but he nodded.

  “Is she?”

  Nathaniel drew deeply on the cigar; the end glowed red through the ash. He didn’t reply, his thoughts suddenly pulled away. His daughter answered.

  “Unfortunately, Mrs. Eakin suffered a tragic loss not too long ago. Her son by her previous marriage died suddenly of peritonitis. The doctor feels that the grief has caused a temporary derailment of her faculties.”

  “Derangement. You mean derangement, fool.”

  Nathaniel had come out of his daydream as vicious as a ferret from its hole. Murdoch smiled falsely. “I can see you’ve been a schoolteacher, Mr. Eakin.”

  “No, I have not. But any fool can use words properly if they want to. She’s had more education than I ever did. I never had the opportunity to continue past standard two even if I wanted to. I had to work. The family needed my wages.”

  Mrs. Curran attempted a feeble retaliation. “I hardly think he needs to know our personal history, Father.” Her fair skin flushed with humiliation but she continued to address Murdoch.

  “She began to suffer from delusions of persecution. She became convinced the child was poisoned and that she herself was in danger.”

  “Speak to the physician if you don’t believe us,” said Nathaniel. “He wrote the death certificate. Boy died from a burst appendix. Nothing could be done.” He gulped down the last of the wine. Then he leaned forward toward Murdoch, fixing him with eyes that were fast becoming bloodshot. “The thing is, Margaret knows this lot is against her and she mulled that over in her mind until she went batchy.”

  His daughter fluttered nervously. “Nobody is ‘against her,’ as you put it, Father. I, in particular, have tried to be welcoming. She would have none of it. She was so hostile from the very beginning.”

  “She was afraid. Stands to reason she would be. Here I was, a widower. Children grown. My daughter here is used to running the house. You know what women are like when another hen comes into the barnyard.” He made pecking motions with his fingers. “Cluck, cluck, cluck. Fact is, they’re all afraid she’s going to get one under her apron and claim their inheritance.”

  Murdoch was beginning to feel sorry for Mrs. Curran. She turned her face away and moved over to the hearth. There were neither mourning crepe nor festoons of black ribbon in this room, Murdoch noticed.

  “What was the name of the doctor who attended your wife?”

  In spite of what he’d said, he wasn’t at all sure this inquiry was going to yield anything, but Eakin was such a vile-tempered old sod, he didn’t want to let him off too easily. Nathaniel didn’t reply but began to puff on his cigar again. Murdoch knew the procrastination was a further attempt to intimidate him, to put him in his place, and he could feel his own temper rising. This man might have money and fancy himself a gentleman, but he had the temperament of a pugilist, and if he wasn’t careful, he, Murdoch, would take up the challenge, old man or not.

  Augusta answered for him. “Dr. Ferrier. He lives just across the road. Number three hundred and twelve.”

  Murdoch took out his notebook and wrote down the name and number.

  A gong started to mark out the hour and he saw that there was another clock on one of the shelves that was identical to the one in the parlour. The coins around her bosom gleamed in the firelight.

  He folded up his notebook, returned it to his pocket, and stood up.

  “Are you going out to the loony bin?” asked Eakin.

  “Yes, I’ll go tomorrow.”

  Nathaniel got to his feet and came over to him. He was a good head shorter than Murdoch, which meant he had to look up and Murdoch could smell the cigar and the wine on his breath.

  “What they should tell you is that my wife suffers from erotomania. Do you know what that means?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Well, you should write it down in your little notebook. It means as soon as she sees a pair of trousers, she’s going to lift her tail for you. She went for Jarius in the same way. And my son-in-law, her husband …” He jerked his thumb in Augusta’s direction. “I wouldn’t recommend you take her up on the offer. She’d do it for the butcher’s boy if he came by.”

  “I’ll take that under advisement,” said Murdoch.

  “Yes, I would if I were you.”

  Sullenly, he backed off. With a nod to Mrs. Curran, Murdoch left.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  MURDOCH JOGTROTTED ALL THE WAY to Ontario Street in an attempt to dispel his anger. His head was filled with fantasies, all of them violent, of what he would do to Nathaniel Eakin. When he’d finished smashing the man’s head against the floor for the second time, he slowed himself down. Yes, the old geezer was a horse’s arse but Murdoch knew the rage he’d stirred up didn’t totally belong with him. His
memory of his father shouting about his mother was a tight pain in his chest and he felt short of breath. “She’s a whore, a tart, cheap as a dish clout.” And more, words that he didn’t want to recall. She, silent as always, going about her task, head bowed in a way that made him, the boy, want to scream out, “Look up! Don’t lower your head like that.” But when he spoke to her afterwards, she wept, and his feelings of fear and pity became overlaid with contempt for her and a burning rage toward his father that even now made him hot. According to the local magistrate, his mother had died accidentally, while she was gathering shellfish on the beach. A slip, a hard knock on the head that rendered her unconscious, and she drowned. Murdoch had gone to the shore afterwards, trying to find the pool where she’d died. He couldn’t place it exactly but it didn’t matter, they were all shallow, no more than splashing deep. That made her death even more meaningless.

  “Evening, Mr. Murdoch.” His next-door neighbour, O’Brien, was going by. He had a sailor’s duffel bag slung over his shoulder and Murdoch assumed he was off once again to some exotic place. He turned and waved in the direction of his house and Murdoch could see his wife and children were crowded into the window. They all waved back with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Murdoch thought O’Brien had probably once again impregnated Mrs. O’Brien and they could expect to see child number nine.

  All the little faces were watching Murdoch now and he tried to give them a cheery smile. He resolved to pick up some more barley sugar sticks from Mrs. Bail’s confectionery as soon as he could.

  He let himself into the house and was greeted by the sight of his landlady and landlord.

  Arthur was walking slowly down the hall, Beatrice close behind as if ready to catch him. They both turned around to welcome him.

  “Evening, Will,” said Arthur.

  “What are you doing out here?”

  “Taking in the sights. I’m getting corns on my rear end from sitting so much. I thought I’d take a stroll. I’m pretending this is King Street. Any minute now I’m going to go in one of the fancy shops and spend a lot of money.”