A Lesson in Love and Murder

by Rachel McMillan

  Tipton smiled. “I know. But no one outside this office must suspect foul play. That muckraker DeLuca from the Hogtown Herald is sniffing about with that cameraman of his. Those two always seem to be two steps ahead of us. I know you are friendly with him. I am asking you to keep our speculations to yourself.”

  “But, sir, these are not accidents, and the public has a right to know. To be aware of the danger to their safety. Letting people know will also save the Toronto Rail Commission from embarrassment. They don’t deserve to have the guilt of these blasts on their consciences.”

  “I am ordering you to say nothing to the press. This is coming directly from Mayor Montague,” said the chief. “He wants to show that the city will not be prey to these anarchists and their vicious antics. Especially with the arrival of Emma Goldman so imminent. He wants us to stand by and help the public not to panic.”

  Jasper sighed. Tipton had been in Montague’s pocket for years. It was one of the reasons Jasper didn’t trust the chief, though he had little choice but to follow his orders. But he had never before been asked to lie. “This is not the first time Montague has steered us in the direction of hiding information, sir. Those Irish girls were swept under the carpet. Two more girls almost died, and a murderer nearly went free! We both know his methods aren’t… ”

  Tipton slammed his glass down on his desk. “Forth, I know you’re one of the good ones. I know you’re honest and you believe in the badge you wear. But what good does it do to take the moral high ground when it means negative ramifications in the future? Budget cuts? Divisional downsizing?‡ That just means more crime in the future. No, we need to toe Montague’s line. Keep his silly morality squad and whatnot. We can play the man’s game, can we not?”

  Tipton picked up his glass again and took a long sip. “Montague especially hates that DeLuca fellow and his stupid little paper. The man’s a menace, no matter how pretty his wife is. I know she’s a friend of yours, but you don’t have to be guilted into saying anything when he pesters you like a mosquito.”

  “Sir, I don’t feel comfortable lying. If Ray DeLuca outright asks me for information… ”

  “Don’t get near enough to him and you won’t be put on the spot. Keep your Sunday school manners intact, eh?” Tipton nodded, agreeing with his own point. Then he waved his empty glass in Jasper’s direction. “You get down to that scene. You’re the man I trust to calm that panic and keep things in order. Take Jones with you.”

  Jasper nodded and turned to leave. But his hand froze on the doorknob. “Sir, may I speak freely?”

  Tipton raised an eyebrow. “Go ahead.”

  “Nothing good will come of our playing Montague’s game. This city is his stage, and we are all puppets. It’s money and power he wants, and he’ll get it at the expense of everyone—businessmen, officials like yourself, even the women and immigrants he preys upon. Something bigger is coming. These anarchists who have been holding rallies in the city—they see through his game. There will be more violence. More explosions. The people are hungry, and they think Emma Goldman and her crowd can give them the voice they want. And they’ll take any means to get it.” Jasper shook his head. “You’ve been in this job a long time. Surely you see that Montague is not the ally you want him to be.”

  “Forth, there is so much about the workings of this city that you don’t understand. How old are you, anyway?”

  “Twenty-seven, sir.”

  “You’re young. I’ve been at this longer than you’ve been alive. Keep to your task. You’re a good officer and a good man. You leave the big fish to me.”

  * * *

  *He was bold to say this. Usually when someone mentioned breeding, Merinda would reply, “Breeding? What am I now, a cow to pasture?”

  †This was not the first time—nor would it be the last—Jasper Forth was on the precipice of a moment of wooing, only to be struck dumb by her cat eyes boring into him.

  ‡Jasper couldn’t help but wonder why the chief insisted on talking about administrative matters when there was a trolley car sputtering into flame nearby, full of injured passengers. But there were many things he didn’t understand about his supervisor, so he kept this opinion to himself.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Bloody Trolley Blasts Rattle Toronto

  The law students at Osgoode Hall in their spit-shone shoes and starched collars were in for a smoky shock this morning when an explosion at the intersection of Queen and University blasted a streetcar to smithereens. Chaos ensued with the arrival of the medics as well as the fire brigade, who attempted to dispel any last threat from the fiery, singed streetcar. The seriously wounded were immediately attended by medics and taken to nearby St. Michael’s. The deceased, shrouded with black cloth, were immediately removed to the morgue.

  The Hogtown Herald

  Another one.” That was all Ray DeLuca could say to his jack-of-all-trades assistant, Skip McCoy, as they surveyed the wreckage of the trolley. Skip had already been on the scene when Ray arrived panting. The second explosion in a week. Wires stretched like jagged limbs from the car’s carcass, bursts of flame flickered, and debris soiled the landscape.

  They walked among the chaos, the medics, and the officials, hearing among ripples of gasps charges against faulty wiring. Six seriously injured passengers were quickly transferred to St. Michael’s Hospital at Victoria Street. Ten bodies lay in a row, already covered in cloth. Ray could hardly tear his eyes away.

  Skip and Ray wove their way through the panicked crowd, smoke stinging their eyes, medics maneuvering stretchers while the police bellowed or pressed whistles to their lips. Ray, who prided himself on being as quick as a fox when it came to sidling up to a scene and making it to the midst of the action, was surprised that Skip had beaten him to the scene of some of the events of the highest magnitude in the past few weeks.

  Skip was the first to catch an anarchist group circling around the embassy in a raucous rally the day before Emma Goldman arrived. Skip was the first on the scene at Queen’s Park when the trolley workers first picketed for an upcoming strike. Skip was beating Ray at his own game. Usually Skip trailed Ray wherever he went and took excellent direction. But now?

  Ray shoved his way through the line of fire brigade officers, nearly stumbling over an injured young man. On the far side of the wreckage, a tall, broad-shouldered man assessed the damage.

  “Jasper!” Ray called, jogging the last few steps between them, being careful to avoid the wiring, steel rods, and bricks.

  Jasper Forth ran his hand over his face. He looked tired. His usually pleasant and open countenance was shaded with fatigue and concern. He put a hand on Ray’s shoulder, slightly shoving him back. “I’d be careful. A few fires are still burning.” He looked around.

  Ray’s brow furrowed. “I feel like we’re reliving this accident. Osgoode Hall was what—three days ago?”

  “The two most tragic accidents in our rail history,” Jasper said blandly.

  “Faulty wires?” It was more a question than a statement in Ray’s voice.

  “Indeed,” Jasper said uncertainly. He led Ray from the worst of the damage and toward bustling Bathurst Street. Even though the intersection was barricaded, people still bustled around, many leaning through the police lines to take a closer peek.

  It was a popular streetcar route, taken by hundreds of Torontonians daily. Ray knew as he looked at the shocked faces that the strangers around him were wondering how it had happened—and how it might happen again.

  “Jasper, you look like a hare at the end of a rifle point. Stop peering around so skittishly!”

  Jasper blinked tears from his eyes, and not for the first time. Just before Skip moved to the other side of the collision, he made a remark under his breath. Ray replied that it was probably just the film of smoke stinging the constable’s eyes. Despite his recent promotion to detective, Jasper never seemed to be able to keep his entire emotional range from his broad, bright face. Now, Ray saw, he was aching for the senseless loss
of innocent life.

  A long silence stretched between them. Ray shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “It’s news at least.” Ray thought aloud before he registered how callous the statement sounded. “Last week all I had was the Mackay-Bennet boat finding more of those Titanic corpses and moving them to Halifax for burial.” Jasper said nothing, staring ahead. Ray continued, saying lightly, “And some delegate preferring turbot to trout at a dignitaries’ dinner at the King Edward.”

  Ray could almost taste the smell of smoke on his singed clothes as they moved even farther to the side of the street. He realized he hadn’t even gone home for a change of shirt the night before. No wonder the damp fabric stuck to him. The evening before, he was still up to his ears in facts and theories from the Osgoode Hall accident, putting together pieces of a puzzle. Death statements, witness accounts, historical statistics of the railcar’s history.

  Come to think of it, he had failed (again) to telephone Jem and tell her he’d be late. That is, he’d failed to send a message with Kat or Mouse, the urchins who sometimes worked with Jem and Merinda. The guilt gnawed at him—guilt for more than his silence. He hadn’t been able to pay the electrical bill, and their telephone had been cut off the week before.

  He straightened his face so Jasper wouldn’t be plagued with one more thing to worry about and turned his attention back to the matter at hand. Shaking his head, he observed, “So highly unlikely it was an accident.”

  “Our station could have used you years ago. You have a better pulse on criminal activity in Toronto than most.”

  Ray grimaced. “I can’t tell whether that’s a compliment or not.”

  “It’s a compliment. From me. Not from Tipton. Reason I’m so on edge is because he forbade me to talk to you.”

  “And why is that?” Ray said, knowing the answer even as he asked it.

  “Tipton is under Montague’s thumb, and Montague hates you.”

  “No love lost there.”

  “I’m not supposed to tell you I suspect these accidents to be intentional.”

  “And yet here we are.” Ray smiled.

  “I found something last week at Osgoode.” Jasper reached into his pocket “And it caught my eye because it was so unusual. It could be anything, any scrap, really. But I thought it was of interest. Then, earlier, after spending too much time plying tweezers through that blasted rubble, my eye caught on something.”

  He extracted two squares of plastic and held them out to Ray. Ray unwrapped the package and found a small wire that he held up with inky fingers. He squinted. “You have a very good eye to see these with all of that going on.” He inclined his head in the direction of the explosion. The wire was slight and black, charred really, but shaped in the most interesting knot. Ray set the piece down and attempted to mime the slight fingers that might have tied such a small, thin wire so intricately.

  “I don’t know what it means yet.” Jasper ran his fingers through brown hair still matted in the shape of the hat that he now dangled tiredly at his side. He didn’t stand on ceremony when it was just the two of them watching Skip’s bulb flashing, the medics loading vans to the hospital, and the passersby and witnesses dispersing to be questioned or sent home. “But something about it seemed odd.”

  “How did you ever see that amidst all those wires and things?”

  “Something Merinda said once, probably. From that Wheaton fellow.* ‘Stop looking for what you expect to find.’ It inspired me to widen my gaze.”

  Ray gingerly rewrapped the small knotted wire and handed it back to Ray.

  “No. Possessing this could land me back on traffic duty, but I’d like you to keep it. You see more of the city than I do. If it’s something, maybe you’ll notice it too. But don’t come by the station. Tipton would be furious if I were even seen talking to you. We’ll find somewhere to talk.”

  Ray folded it into his breast pocket, patting its space emphatically.

  Jasper smiled gravely. “I feel like a heel. Betraying Tipton’s trust. Going behind his back. Even dragging you into this. I’ll have no excuse if he catches us.”

  “Jasper, we’re allies. I need you on my side. I don’t have many friends, but I trust you. You can trust me too.”

  “I know that.”

  “And I am your friend, whether or not Merinda Herringford is speaking to you at any given moment,” Ray added lightly.

  “I wish I had her pluck. Would make everything easier.”

  “There are many ways to show strength, Jasper.”

  A ruckus across the street erupted, with Tipton at the center and camera bulbs flashing. Ray recognized a few reporters from the Globe, each trying to inch closer over the singed steel. He had no interest in a statement from the chief. Ray and Jasper exchanged a look.

  “Interesting,” Jasper said slowly. “I spoke to him earlier, and he made no suggestion that he would grace us with his presence.”

  Ray smirked at Jasper’s tone.

  Leaving Jasper and spotting Skip meandering closer to Tipton and his statement, Ray turned in the direction of the Hog. It was a long walk but preferable to finding a cab amid the insanity and commotion. All the trolleys had stopped immediately, and a dozen empty streetcars sat abandoned and unmoving on their tracks.

  Finally at his desk, hair damp with perspiration, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, he thought about betraying Jasper’s trust. It would make for an easy headline and spare several sheets of paper from a crumpled toss at the overflowing wastebasket. Leading Detective Constable Suspects Foul Play.

  He muttered in his first language, kicked a few overturned crates, and almost swept his typewriter from his desk to the floor. Then, immediately remorseful for the thought, he stroked the Underwood gently. Some nights it was his dearest friend.

  He stared at the telephone. Made to pick it up. Then remembered the service had been turned off at home. Poor Jem. What a husband he’d turned out to be.

  Jem deserved a stable home, matching dishes, and a happily-ever-after. But lately he’d been returning home to find her asleep fully clothed on the sofa in the front room, clearly waiting for him with a book open on her chest. If she had nicely set the table with flowers from their overrun garden and her one good lace tablecloth, it made him feel like a cad for days. What did he have to say for himself?

  Of course he loved her. Loved the way she set the pace for ironing out their little spats and misunderstandings, results of their whirlwind courtship and an uprooting of their two worlds they were trying to graft together. Sometimes the barrier between them seemed greater than one of language, but then she’d look up at him as if he was the force that pulled in her tide and spun her earth. He didn’t deserve any of it, really.

  He flipped open his pocket watch. He hadn’t noticed so much of the evening had ticked away with few words to show for his tired brain. He yawned and ran an open hand over his face, and then he focused his eyes on the picture inside. His sister, Viola, and his little nephew, Luca. His chest constricted as it did whenever he thought about her. When he worried about her. Was she cold? Did she have somewhere to stay? Was her good-for-nothing husband, Tony, providing for her or just hitting her again? Did Luca have enough to eat?

  He grabbed his hat from the rack. When he started drifting into panic about Viola, he knew he would get no more work finished for the evening and it was time to head home.

  * * *

  *M.C. Wheaton, author of Guide to the Criminal and Commonplace, Merinda’s detection manual of choice.

  CHAPTER THREE

  A proper matron’s place is in the home, and she should devote her hours to its upkeep. It is her sphere and her haven. As such, she should commit to making it as habitable as she can: not only to ensure her husband’s comfort, but also for her own sense of personal pride and accomplishment. The best brands from the grocers, the sweetest smelling soaps and conditioners, are only a few ways in which she can transform her bower into a sort of garden.

  Flora Merriweather, Guide to D
omestic Bliss

  Jem fluttered about with a duster and then scrubbed at the dishes. She looked at her termination letter again and hugged her arms around herself. She brewed a pot of tea and held a steaming untouched cup to give her hands an occupation rather than trembling. So fixated was she on listening for Ray’s key to turn in the lock that she almost dropped her cup when it finally did.

  She straightened her back. She knew Ray would be tired. Probably in a horrible mood after a sleepless night the night before and from who knows what he had seen while pursuing his story.

  Ray came in and gave her a slight smile that stayed in his eyes rather than spreading across his mouth. Nonetheless, his eyes couldn’t help but flicker a bit when he saw her, even if his face was tired.

  “I’m sorry,” he said by way of greeting. He leaned down and took her hand softly, turned it so her palm was facing up, and gave her a light kiss at the wrist. Then he sank into a chair without even removing his coat.

  “What are you sorry for?” She sipped her tea and offered him a cup that he refused.

  “I didn’t send any message.”

  “I saw the evening edition.” Jem brightened. “You did such a wonderful job! And those photographs Skip snapped made me think I was there. How did he get so close?”

  “I should’ve called,” Ray said. Something in his face had changed at the mention of Skip’s name, and he chewed the side of his lip thoughtfully.

  Jem wrung her hands. She had practiced. Even in front of a mirror. And now, sitting in front of him, the words caught in her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment and then exhaled. “Ray, I… ”

  Ray looked up at her tone. “What’s wrong?” He leaned forward in his chair.

  “I lost my job.”