Poor Tom Is Cold

by Maureen Jennings

  “No, you’ve got to believe me …”

  Shelby spun her around so she could pin Peg’s arms to her sides but, as she did so, Peg arched her back and her head jerked upward. She caught the attendant under the chin, causing her to bite through her lower lip.

  Another attendant rushed in, sized up the situation at once, and ran over to a cupboard near the door. She took out a restraining jacket.

  “No!” shrieked Peg. “I’ll be good. I swear. I won’t fight.” Miss Shelby ignored her and forced her arm into the sleeve of the jacket. Murdoch could only watch helplessly while the other attendant assisted, and within moments, Peg was fastened into the restraining jacket and the strings tied behind her back. She was crying now, tears she could not wipe away. “Please, please let me out. I’ll be good, I promise. I’m sorry.”

  “Bit late for that, isn’t it?” said Miss Shelby grimly. Her white bib was spattered with blood from her bitten lip and Murdoch pulled out his handkerchief and gave it to her. He felt dreadfully responsible and wished he had never attempted the interview.

  “Come now, Mrs. Eakin,” said the attendant and they began to lead her away. Peg looked at him beseechingly over her shoulder, just as she had that morning. “Help me,” she said.

  Augusta Curran seated herself in the reception room of the asylum. There was another woman visitor in the next room who was talking to an elderly inmate. Augusta tried not to look at them, although she glimpsed some affectionate exchange. Another woman, who was wearing the institutional uniform, was down on her knees by the door, scrubbing the floor. There was a sharp smell of carbolic in the air. Augusta hoped she wouldn’t meet up with anybody she knew. She had hired a cab to bring her to the asylum, but she’d got him to let her off two blocks away so he wouldn’t know her true destination. As a result, her cloak was wet and the hem of her skirts was muddy from dragging through puddles on the way. She sat, chilled and miserable, clutching her basket on her lap, staring ahead. She thought it was most unfair that she was the one sent to deliver the bad news, but Frank flatly refused and Jarius claimed the sight of him or Peter might inflame Peg’s already unstable mind. “Do your duty, Aggie. There’s a good girl. And why don’t you make her one of those lemon cream tarts she likes? It might make the visit go a little easier.”

  Jarius had sent Cullie off on some silly errand, which meant Augusta had to do the baking herself, and although he kept her company and tried to soothe her with sweet words and compliments, she resented it.

  She had been waiting about ten minutes when the door to the reception room opened and a woman in the severe blue dress of a nurse came in. She was dark-complexioned, strong-featured, and had an indisputable air of authority.

  “Mrs. Curran, I’m Miss Bastedo, the matron.”

  “How do you do?”

  The matron sat down in the chair next to her. “I regret to say that Mrs. Eakin has had a bad spell. She is still quite unsettled and we think it better if she doesn’t have visitors at the moment.”

  “What sort of bad spell?”

  “A police detective came to interview her. Unfortunately, I had no idea it would upset her as much as it did. She became quite hysterical and she has had to be restrained.”

  “I knew he shouldn’t have come. He insisted. He doesn’t realise how unstable she really is.”

  “I am of the opinion that any mention of death completely unnerves her,” said Miss Bastedo. “It brings back her memories of the sad demise of her son. We must be very careful what we say to her and only discuss the most cheerful topics until she is much stronger. It will be wise not to mention the illness of Mr. Eakin at this point.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Perhaps you could come back in two or three days? We have every confidence she will be quite improved by then.”

  “Yes, yes, I will.” Augusta was eager to make a good impression on the matron, as she had an uneasy feeling Miss Bastedo did not approve of her. She took a cake tin out of the basket.

  “I brought her a lemon tart.”

  “You can leave it with me. I will make sure she gets it.”

  Augusta thanked her and took her leave. She was only too glad not to come face to face with Peg. The woman terrified her.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  IN PART BECAUSE DETECTIVE MURDOCH had declared the blow to the attendant was an accident, Peg was released from the restraining jacket and had been given only a mild chloral sedative. She had fallen into a restless sleep where images surfaced and sank and surfaced again. Shelby dabbing at her cut lip, glaring at her; Mr. Murdoch in his long coat, brown eyes troubled as he talked to her; Miss Bastedo, grave-faced, telling her that Augusta had come to visit, although Peg was certain she hadn’t actually seen her.

  She could hear somebody moaning, oh, oh, but she couldn’t sort out what the sound was. The cry was sharp and Peg sat up in bed.

  Emma Foster was also sitting up. She was clutching at her stomach and it was she who was moaning. Suddenly, she vomited on the coverlet.

  “Oh, oh,” she groaned and another spasm gripped her. The vomitus was mixed with blood. She cried out and rolled onto her side, the violent momentum sending her crashing to the floor. Peg jumped out of bed and rushed over to her.

  “Mrs. Foster! What is it?”

  The old woman couldn’t answer but lay thrashing in spasms that shook her entire body. A rush of watery diarrhoea came from her bowels. The smell coming from her was vile. Peg looked around desperately for something to use, and as she did so, she saw the cake tin sitting on the bedside cupboard. It was black with red and white flowers painted on it. The last time she had seen it was in the kitchen of the Eakin house. The knowledge stabbed at her chest, so that for a moment she could hardly breathe. Hurriedly, she pried off the lid. Inside was a cream tart, one large piece missing. Panting now, she bent over the sick woman.

  “Mrs. Foster, did you eat the tart?”

  But she knew she had. One of the attendants must have put the tin in Peg’s cupboard and Emma had stolen it in order to help herself to some of the delicacy.

  Both Miss Anderson and Mrs. Mallory were sitting up.

  “One of you, bang on the door for Reid.”

  Miss Anderson started to sing “We Will Gather by the River” and Mrs. Mallory pulled the quilt over her head, whimpering.

  Peg got up and ran to the door. “Mrs. Reid! Help!” She heard footsteps outside the door, saw the attendant’s alarmed face in the window, and the key was turned in the lock and the door flung open.

  “What on earth …?”

  She saw Mrs. Foster’s plight and rushed over to her. The floor was slippery with vomit and blood and she gasped as she trod in it.

  “She’s been poisoned,” cried Peg. “She ate some of the tart. Look!”

  Reid waved her hand. “Never mind that now. Go and fetch Miss Corley as fast as you can. She’s in the sitting room.”

  “It was meant for me.”

  “Nonsense. Please do as I ask, Mrs. Eakin.”

  Suddenly, Peg felt as if her mind were functioning on its own with no connection to her body. The fragile sense of security that had been growing while she was tucked away in the asylum shattered like glass. She was safe nowhere. She had to escape.

  She ran from the bedroom. Outside in the corridor, the wooden warning flag in the ceiling dropped down. Reid must have pressed the electric button in the room to signify there was trouble. Peg knew an attendant would be coming soon. The only place to go was the dining room directly across from her. She tried the door and it was unlocked. Quickly she slipped inside and leaned against the door, listening. The blood was pounding in her ears, making it difficult to hear anything else. She tried to will herself to be calm. She didn’t have a lot of time before Reid realised she hadn’t done as she was told.

  Even through the closed door she could hear Mrs. Foster’s cries.

  The dim room was unlit but she could see sufficiently to make her way over to the dumb waiter, which was in t
he far corner. She slid open the doors and pulled hard on the rope that brought up the lift. It was light and came up easily. For a moment, as she gazed into the small cupboardlike space, her resolve almost failed. Now! Do it! She climbed in, hoping desperately it would hold her weight. There was barely enough room but she curled up tightly, and except for a slight shaking, it held. She pulled the doors closed. As soon as she did, she was in pitch darkness. A wave of fear grabbed her but she forced herself to concentrate on the task. She caught hold of one of the ropes and began to pull hard, hand over hand. With a creak, the lift began to descend. There was another access on the second floor but she pulled steadily past it, her arms aching in the cramped space. Just one more floor to go. At last, with a bump, she reached the kitchen level. There was no handle on this side of the doors and she scrabbled at the wood, trying to open them, breaking her fingernails. She was sweating, fighting back panic. She couldn’t get out. Could she breathe? Was there enough air? There was a sharp pain in her back from being bent over but there was no room to move around. Finally, the doors yielded sufficiently for her to make a space wide enough to get her fingers through. Then she wriggled her hand in and she could push the doors back.

  She had gambled on the fact that there would be nobody working in the kitchen at this hour, but she didn’t know for certain. However, the place was in darkness. Stiffly, she climbed out of the lift and immediately fell to the ground as her knees gave way. She knelt on the floor, listening. There were no sounds of racing footsteps, no voices calling an alarm. She stayed where she was, crouching like a dog. She had no idea where she would go even if she did manage to get out of here. She’d seen all too clearly the expression on the detective’s face. He had been kind but she knew he thought her mad. She should have been calm, talked reasonably, but the shock of what he said was too much. She had been waiting for Wicken to come and she was sure he was investigating her accusations as he had promised. She sank even lower to the floor. She couldn’t struggle any more. It was all too big for her. They were too powerful.

  Probably only a minute had elapsed but she felt as if she had been lying here on the flagstones for a long time, her cheek pressed against the cold surface. If only she had some proof. Something more than the word of a deranged woman against that of a respectable family. Bitterness was like bile in her mouth. They were hypocrites all of them. Nathaniel, Frank the cheater, and especially Jarius Gibb. She sat upright. Jarius’s diary! Shortly after Charley died, desperate, she had started to prowl around the house whenever she had the opportunity, looking for evidence. She already knew of the existence of Jarius’s journal, because one evening she went to call him to dinner and accidentally interrupted him. He was writing in a ledger and he closed the book at once. “I do value my privacy, Stepmother.” Words said in a tone so biting, she had shrunk away. After that, she’d observed him and his habits. She knew how often he left late at night, how furtive he was. Not too long ago, she had decided to risk going back to his room. She’d found the key under his chair and unlocked the scribe’s lap desk. The ledger was his private diary and what she read there made her face burn with shame. He had recorded the events of her entry into the household and had not tempered his utter contempt for her or his dislike of her son.

  She had the sense he wrote down everything that happened. Surely there would be something there that would help her, something revealing she could show to the detective who had come today.

  She got to her feet, shivering. None of the ranges were lit, waiting for the early morning workers to rake them out and start them up. It was easier to see now, and frantic, she looked around for something she could use. She was barefoot and clad only in her nightgown. Thank God. Over by the door was a row of hooks for the kitchen workers to hang their coats and hats. There were two things, a pair of felt slippers and a rubber waterproof cloak. She thrust her cold feet into the slippers, which for that moment seemed as luxurious as anything she had ever worn. The waterproof was too long for her and dragged on the floor but she had to use it.

  Hurry, hurry. She ran over to the window and pushed up the sash. There were no bars. Encumbered by the heavy waterproof, she climbed over the sill, dropping quickly to the ground, soft and muddy from the unrelenting rain. She almost lost one of the slippers in the dirt and she took them both off and stuffed them in the pockets of the waterproof. Barefoot, she ran toward the path that was just visible in front. She knew it must lead to the stables and the far end of the garden. Not too distant, there was a dark tree, leafless now but broad and thick-branched. She halted here, panting and gulping for air. From the shelter of the trunk she peeked toward the building. Lights were lit on the east wing where she’d come from, but so far, the rest of the institution was in darkness. They wouldn’t want to sound an alarm yet. They’d search the ward first. She might have at least an hour before they realised she had got out. She set off again. She had to be careful as she approached the stable, because she knew there would be one or two men sleeping there, but she got past without incident and then she was at the wall. There was a low iron railing along the top, making the entire height about eight feet. She stopped again, breathing hard. A ladder. There must be a ladder. She turned around and jogtrotted to the shed that was at the edge of the vegetable garden. Against the wall she could see a tarpaulin that was draped over some long object. Almost crying with the hope of it, she fumbled with the rope that was tying down the end. Her fingers were clumsy with cold but she finally undid the knots and was able to pull back the covering. There were three ladders underneath and she tugged at the one uppermost. It was heavy and difficult to move but her fear gave her strength and it finally slid free. She dragged it to the wall, hoisted it up, and climbed up. The top rung reached just below the iron railings that surmounted the wall. Here she hesitated, looking down the steep drop. But she had only one option. She held onto the railing, hoisted herself up, and swung one leg over so that she was balanced astride on the narrow toehold. For a moment, she swayed dangerously but she clung to the railing and began to lower herself until she was dangling. She let go and landed awkwardly on the muddy ground. She had to wait a moment to get her breath, then she got to her feet and put on the slippers. They were useless for protection against the wet but they would make her less conspicuous. Head bent into the pelting rain, she set off as fast as she could manage around the outside of the wall toward Queen Street.

  The macadam pavement was black with rain and the streetcar tracks glistened in the flickering gas lamps. There was not a soul abroad. She pulled up the collar of the waterproof to hide the fact that her hair was unpinned and began to walk away from the asylum. She could not allow herself to think what would happen if her plan didn’t work – if Jarius was at home. Her teeth were chattering uncontrollably and her entire body was trembling. But she was out.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  EDDY TINGLE BLEW HARD INTO HIS GLOVE, trying to get some warm air onto his fingers. His thoughts about his passenger were becoming decidedly unchristian. She must have been gone for a good ten minutes by now. Had he been conned, he wondered? She didn’t look too respectable but she spoke good, sounded like a lady’s maid, which is what she said she was. She’d flagged him down on Queen Street, practically weeping with the relief of seeing him.

  “I was afraid I would have to walk all the way home,” she said. “I’ve been watching my sister, who is poorly from childbed, but I’ve got to get back. My mistress doesn’t even know I’m out. I’ll be dismissed without a letter if she finds out. But what could I do? She’s my only sister and all alone except for the one girl to tend her.”

  This had poured out of her, unasked. Tingle hadn’t really hesitated. He was going that way home anyway and another fare was gravy on the pie. Not that he completely believed her story. She was a bedraggled scrap of a girl without hat or gloves. More like she was visiting a sweetheart, had a quarrel, and ran out all of a huff.

  “Where do you want to go?”

  She gave him an addr
ess on Gerrard Street east of Parliament.

  “It’s extra charge after midnight, you know.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “Hop in, then.” And she had jumped right fast into his cab. He got a bit of a trot out of Blackie and they were up at Gerrard in about a half an hour. Just as they were approaching the number she had given him, she opened up the small trap in the roof of the cab.

  “Cabbie, I’ve just discovered I have left my purse at my sister’s house. You will have to wait while I go in and get some money. How much is it?”

  “It’s fare and a half after midnight and you were also in the second zone. That makes it three dollars.”

  He pulled up in front of the house. It was set back a bit from the road and looked quite grand. His passenger got out of the cab and scurried off, her long cloak dragging on the wet pavement.

  She went through the gate, walked quickly down the path, and disappeared around the side of the house to the servants’ entrance. Tingle waited. He gave her enough time to get in, go to her room, which would be on the third floor, get her money, and come right out again. He tucked his hands between his knees under the beaver throw that covered him. He was ready for a kip. He didn’t like night fares, but earlier, he’d picked up a gentleman outside the National Club on Bay Street and brought him out to the west end of the city. Swell of a fellow, evening dress, cloak, but full as a soldier. He’d delivered him to a house on Jane Street and left him to the not-so-tender mercies of his wife. Tipped well but it made for a long night. So this girl’s fare had seemed a bit of a blessing. Until now. Blackie shifted restlessly. He wanted the comfort of his stable. Stiffly, Tingle climbed down from his perch. Time to investigate Miss Lady’s Maid.

  He followed in her footsteps through the gate and around to the back of the house. There was not a light to be seen, the household was asleep. He tried the back door but it was firmly locked. He banged hard on the door. “Anybody at home?” Bang, bang. “Hey, in there!”