by Sharon Rowse
And Emily was right; the address was neither difficult to find nor Mary Pearson’s. The current owner had rebuilt after the fire, and had been in residence for a total of nine years.
He had never heard of Mary Pearson.”
“You see, it was safe enough,” Emily said as they left. “Now shall we have another look at that bonnet?”
Clara shot Emily a look that said she saw right through her. Then she linked their arms and began to walk briskly in the direction of the milliners.
Ten minutes later, they were surrounded by bright, frothy confections, with feathers and wisps of netting everywhere. At the tinkling of the door chimes, the young shop clerk hurried over to them.
“Good morning. You came back,” she said to Clara with obvious delight. “Did you decide on the bonnet after all?”
“I need to look at it again, as I brought my material,” Clara said, bringing out a small swatch of silk.
“Perfect. Please let me know if I can be of assistance.”
“Actually, while Clara considers the color, perhaps you could answer a question or two?” Emily said with a smile. “I did manage to find Mr. Morgan’s aunt the other day.”
“Oh, I’m glad,” the saleslady said. “Was she of any help?”
“She was most helpful. But unfortunately the address she gave me was an old one, so I still need to speak with Mr. Morgan. Have you any further suggestions as to where we might look for him?”
“I’m afraid not,” was the reply. Then, “Oh, isn’t that bonnet marvelous on you!”
“Thank you,” said Clara, doing a little twirl to show it off.
Emily tilted her head to one side as she considered her friend. “I like it even better than I did the other day,” she decided. “I think you must buy it, Clara.”
“Then I shall,” Clara said. “And perhaps I’ll have my photo taken in it. I do wish you could remember something that would help us find him,” she finished, handing the bonnet to the saleslady.
“You know, I think I may have seen an advertisement about having photos taken,” the saleslady said, pausing in writing up Clara’s receipt.
“Really? And was it Mr. Morgan who advertised?” Emily asked.
“It might have been. It was several months ago, but I remember thinking it was odd.”
“Odd?”
“Well, Mr. Morgan had just started with Butler and Resnick. I don’t know when he’d have time to take photographs.”
“And do you recall where you saw the ad?” Emily asked.
“I think it was a flyer, in one of the shop windows. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it when you were in the other day.”
It didn’t sound particularly useful, Emily thought.
A flyer would be long gone. Along with Mr. Morgan, it seemed. She didn’t put much faith in Mrs. Morgan’s claim he’d gone to Harrison, though. “Have you any idea which shop it might have been?”
She frowned, tapped her pencil against her forefinger. “No, I’m sorry. But I passed by on my way to the store.”
“On Sixth Avenue?”
“Possibly, or along Seventh…”
As Clara paid for her bonnet, Emily thanked the salesgirl most sincerely.
They found the flyer in the window of the bakery on Sixth. Faded lettering and curling edges said it had been there for quite some time. Morgan’s name was listed, and a telephone number.
Emily made careful note of the information.
“What now?” Clara asked. “I’m freezing, Emily. We need to get out of this wind.”
“After we call him,” Emily said.
She had seen one of the new, bright red telephone booths at the end of the block. Clara stood in a doorway out of the wind while Emily phoned, since with their wide skirts, the booth was not big enough for both of them.
The number rang hollowly. Emily was just about to hang up when it was answered.
“Hello?”
A man’s voice, quick and a little shallow, as though he’d hurried. “Is this Mr. Morgan?”
“Who’s asking?”
He sounded anxious. It had to be him. “I am Emily—Richards. I would like to have a formal photograph taken for my fiancé, and your work has been highly recommended. Is this Mr. Morgan?”
“Yes, I’m Morgan,” he said, some of the tension gone from his tone.
“And you could take such a picture for me?”
There was a pause, then Morgan said, “A formal photograph? Yes, I can take one for you, but it will have to be this afternoon. And I’ll require payment in advance.”
He must need money. “That would be perfect. Where and when?”
“Number seven Begbie Street, at three o’clock. The studio is on the second floor.”
“Very well. I will see you at three.”
There was no answer, only the click of the phone disconnecting. Emily considered it thoughtfully.
“That seemed almost too easy,” she said to Clara as she rejoined her. “I wonder if he will actually keep the appointment this afternoon?”
Clara had compressed her lips, and she was giving Emily the look that said she was about to be lectured to. “Emily, are you mad? This man is a suspect in a murder. Mr. Granville has told us these people are dangerous. You yourself said that this man’s aunt made you nervous. And now you’re proposing to see him on your own?”
“Not at all. You will be with me, will you not?” Emily said, just to see her friend’s expression.
Clara’s face flushed and she seemed to be having trouble forming words.
Emily smiled and patted Clara’s arm. “Do you think Mr. O’Hearn could be here by three o’clock? If we told him were had an opportunity to meet with a man that the police want for questioning? We could meet him at that little café that serves such wonderful cocoa.”
Now Clara looked intrigued. “Do you have the number for the World?”
Just before three, Emily followed Tim O’Hearn up the narrow stairwell to the second floor of number seven, which was indeed a photography studio. The morning’s thick clouds had cleared and the pallid sunlight reaching in through the studio’s south-facing windows provided just enough light to see by.
The room was large and open, with shelves along two walls and equipment stacked randomly. A fading sign identified the establishment as Gladstone and Son, Photographers. Except for the harsh stink of chemicals, it seemed deserted, even abandoned. There was no sign of A.J. Morgan, Jr.
Four steps into the room, Mr. O’Hearn came to an abrupt halt.
Emily stopped too, and Clara bumped into her from behind.
“What is it?” Clara whispered.
“I don’t know,” she whispered back.
Mr. O’Hearn’s gaze was fixed on the far wall.
Her eyes followed.
At first she couldn’t see what he was staring at, but then her mind registered something wrong with the stacks of equipment along the far wall.
As she stared into the dimmest part of the room, she realized that backdrops and lights had been over-turned, and tins and jars swept off the pine shelving. Either there had been a struggle, or someone had been very angry.
“Stay here,” Mr. O’Hearn said in an undertone as he began to make his way through the mess.
Ignoring the command, Emily followed, careful not to trip.
His gaze was focused downwards.
“What are you looking for?” she asked softly.
He jumped. “I thought I said—oh, never mind. I’m trying to see what happened here.”
Emily’s gaze had moved past him and fixed on the shadowy wall. “Is that…?” she began, and found she could not finish, mutely pointing.
Mr. O’Hearn spun around and as he did so, the electric lights overhead came on, bathing the blood-spattered wall in clear light.
Emily had to force back a scream. She pretended not to hear the curse that Mr. O’Hearn uttered.
“I found the light switch,” came Clara’s voice. “Does that help?”
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There was no body, only drying blood, overturned equipment and dark puddles of noxious-smelling liquids.
Mr. O’Hearn was determined to report the whole matter to the police, though Emily had wanted to telegraph Granville first. She then insisted on accompanying him to the station house, despite his protests.
The police station, in a temporary building near just off Columbia, was easy to find. Once the patrolman at the front desk understood why they were there, he ushered them into a small office with an even smaller window looking out on yet more construction. They were offered chairs and cups of very bad coffee.
The detective in charge, a Mr. Moore, listened to the story of the appointment for a portrait, and their discovery at the studio with a startled and somewhat wary expression. When they finished, he looked at them consideringly for a moment.
“Morgan is dead,” he finally said. “Beg pardon for the shock, ladies. I’ll need to know when you last spoke with him.”
Emily felt suddenly cold, and she could hear Clara drawing in a sharp breath.
A cold hand slipped into hers and she held it tight.
She’d been dreading this news from the moment she’d seen the blood spatters, but hoped she was wrong. She hadn’t known how much until this moment.
Even though she hadn’t known Mr. Morgan, even though he’d probably been less than honest, the news that someone she’d spoken to just hours ago was now dead was overwhelming. She clutched her friend’s hand harder.
Mr. O’Hearn pulled out a pencil and notepad. “When did this happen?”
“An hour ago. Maybe less,” the sheriff was saying.
That was what it meant to be a reporter. You had authority to ask questions about everything that happened, and people gave you answers. But there was still the reality of dealing with bloodstained rooms and death.
“When was it you talked to him?” the sheriff continued.
“I spoke with him,” Emily said, concentrating hard so the words would come out without wavering. “It was just after ten this morning.”
“And he was alone then?”
“He gave no indication otherwise, just agreed to the appointment.”
“How did he die?” Mr. O’Hearn asked.
“Shot.”
“And the weapon?”
The detective regarded his busy pencil with suspicion. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m a reporter, with the World. I’m covering this story.”
“With these ladies along?”
“They asked me to meet them to give a man’s opinion on a portrait. We certainly never expected to find blood and mayhem in the studio. The link to my ongoing story is purely coincidental.”
“Coincidental, is it?” Detective Moore gave him a skeptical look.
“I assure you it is. But since I’m here, and happened across the scene of the crime, would it be possible to view the body?”
Moore looked shocked.
“The ladies would remain here, of course,” Mr. O’Hearn hastened to assure him.
“I’m afraid not.”
“But…” Mr. O’Hearn began, then seemed to change his mind. “Did you find anything on the body? Anything unusual, I mean?”
“No. Not unless you consider a laundry ticket unusual.”
“Which laundry did he frequent?”
That earned him another considering look. “Why?”
Mr. O’Hearn shrugged. “It adds local color.”
“You’re not thinking of investigating this death yourself, now are you?”
“No. I’m just looking to capture the details that bring the story to life for our readers. Human interest, you know.”
“I see. In that case, it was Chang’s on Eighth.”
Mr. O’Hearn extended his hand. “Thank you for that. We’ll be on our way now.”
“You told the sheriff you wouldn’t investigate Morgan’s death,” Clara protested as they stopped on the muddy path outside the laundry shop. It was one of several poorly built buildings along a narrow street still lit by gas lanterns in New Westminster’s Chinatown.
“The public has a right to know,” O’Hearn said with a grin and a wink.
“I hope they speak at least a little English,” Emily said as she followed him into the steamy interior, which was filled with a babble of rising and falling tones.
They did, or at least one of them did. But no one remembered Morgan.
“Early twenties, medium height, brown hair and eyes,” Emily said, remembering the shop girl’s description.
It wasn’t much to go on, and it brought forth another round of shaking heads. Another dead end.
Too bad they didn’t have a photo of Morgan. It was so much more effective than describing someone you’d never met. That thought led to another, and on an impulse, she pulled out Mary’s photo. “Do you know this woman?”
The photo was examined carefully, and what seemed to be a conference held. Emily felt a moment of hope, dashed when the man with the longer pigtail shook his head. Then the shorter man nodded just as vigorously.
“Do you know her?” Emily asked him.
He said something to the other man in quick tones.
“He say she look different, but eyes still same,” they were told.
“She may be older now. This…” Emily said, tapping the photo. “Is five years old.”
“Ah.” He turned, spoke with the first man, nodding as he listened to the response. “Yes, she come here, sometime. Not soon.”
“Do you know her name?”
Another conference. This time, the answer was no.
“Does she come here regularly?” O’Hearn asked.
Blank faces met his look. He rephrased his question. “Is this lady,” he indicated the photo Emily held, “here on a Monday? A Wednesday?”
“Ah. No. Different day.” He conferred with his fellow countryman. “She collect laundry for other lady.”
“She collects another lady’s laundry?” Emily asked. Perhaps Mary was working as a maid. “Do you have a name for the other lady?”
Another conference, and the first man brought out a black bound ledger book and flipped through the pages. Emily caught a glimpse of neat columns of incomprehensible symbols. She was impressed by the orderly pages, particularly when contrasted to the chaos of heat, steam and stacks of clothing around them.
He seemed to have found the page he sought, and was running a finger down it. The finger stopped. “Missee Laynor,” he said.
“Do you have an address for her?” O’Hearn asked, notepad at the ready. But that, it seemed, was too much to hope for.
“When was she last here? What day?”
“Tuesday. Week ago, then four-five more.”
“Four or five weeks ago last Tuesday?”
Both men nodded. Emily thanked them and turned to go.
As soon as they were outside, Clara asked “What now?”
It was O’Hearn who answered. “I’d suggest we visit City Hall, see if they have records for a Laynor.”
“Why not just check the telephone listings?” Emily asked.
“We could, but since few households actually have a telephone, the city records are a better bet.”
“Oh.”
When they reached the city hall, housed in yet another temporary building, the clerk was inclined to be suspicious of their request to see the property rolls, until Mr. O’Hearn explained he was a reporter with the World and mentioned a murder investigation. Then he was more than helpful.
Escorting them to a long table in a dusty side room, he disappeared, then returned with a large stack of the ledgers they’d asked for.
Some time and no little degree of eyestrain later, Emily looked up from a list where she was not finding Laynor to see Clara watching her, one finger marking her place in a slim paperbound volume. The look in her friends’ eye told her she was up to something. She waited to be told what.
“Emily, I’ve been thinking about something. Our houseboy has trouble wi
th his ‘R’s’. So does your Bertie. They come out more like ‘L’s’. So I thought Laynor might be Raynor. And I found a listing,” Clara said.
She put the phone book she was holding in front of Emily, opened to the R’s, and pointed. There was one Raynor listed.
Mr. O’Hearn moved to stand beside Emily and together they flipped through the ledger she had been reading to the appropriate page.
One Raynor.
“That’s brilliant, Cl—Miss Miles,” Mr. O’Hearn said. “I’ll need to interview her.”
“I think you mean ‘we’, do you not, Mr. O’Hearn?” said Emily firmly.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Wednesday, January 17, 1900
“Emily, you are going to fail your typing class,” Clara said as they walked briskly towards the interurban station. The streets were crowded with carriages and delivery wagons at this hour, and the sidewalks thronged with workers and shoppers as Vancouverites began their day.
“Miss Richards will assume I have my monthly. She may lecture me on the importance of reliability in a typewriter, but she won’t ask embarrassing questions.”
“Emily!” Clara said, casting a shocked look around them.
“Don’t worry, no-one is listening. And it isn’t as if you don’t have them too, so stop pretending to be shocked.”
“I’m not pretending!”
And judging by the pink in her cheeks, perhaps she wasn’t. How odd. Emily had thought that such prudery was limited to her mother’s generation, though come to think of it her sisters weren’t much better. “I wonder where Mr. O’Hearn is?”
“I’m sure he’ll be here momentarily,” Clara said, straightening her newest bonnet and patting at the curls that surrounded her face. “The tram isn’t due for another ten minutes.”
“Stop fussing, Clara. You look very nice, but this is a murder investigation, not a fashion show.”
Clara drew in a quick breath, letting it out in a puff of indignation that hung in a frosty cloud for a moment. “We’re supposed to be looking for Mary Pearson. I don’t want anything to do with murder, Emily Turner. Seeing that poor man’s blood was bad enough. I may have nightmares for weeks!”