WEARILY, MURDOCH HEADED FOR Ontario Street and the comfort of Mrs. Kitchen’s parlour. He was cold and hungry, his back ached from walking so long, and the pain in his jaw was all-consuming. Between them, he and Crabtree had questioned virtually every household member on Wicken’s beat, but nothing significant had come of it. Many of the people were familiar with the young constable; some of them were sincerely distressed. One or two of the women wept openly. “Such a nice, polite young man,” cried Mrs. Jackson, who was the cook at a grand house on Gerrard Street. But she hadn’t seen him since the end of the summer when she’d been sitting on the front veranda, it was so scorching that day. “Madam allowed all us servants, even young Eddie, to come outside after evening chores. Very kind it was. The constable went by and we joked at him. He looked so hot, he did, in his uniform.”
Most people tried to be helpful, would have manufactured information if they could, but essentially nobody told him anything new. Nobody other than Mr. Lee had actually seen Wicken or his companion. It was a night when everybody was as snug as they could be in their own houses.
Lamps were lit along the street, the macadam black and slick in the rain. Not for the first time Murdoch wished he were coming home to Liza. Closely following on that thought, however, like a herding dog on the heels of a sheep, was an image of Enid Jones, the young widow who was also a boarder at the Kitchens. Under different circumstances, Murdoch had to admit he would have been paying court to her but she was a devout Baptist, he, a Roman Catholic, although not so devout. Those differences of faith seemed irreconcilable.
He was passing one of the big houses on Wilton Street. The curtains were not drawn and he could see into the front sitting room. Two men, one about his own age, were lounging in their armchairs in front of the fire. They were wearing claret-coloured smoking jackets and he saw them both, in unconscious unison, take a protracted luxurious pull on their respective cigars. The furnishings were opulent and the room was golden from the bright firelight. Murdoch knew the two men slightly, knew they were both lawyers and that the son had joined his father’s firm. He felt a sharp stab of envy. He walked on by, realising it wasn’t the affluence of the men that he was jealous of, so much as the feeling of security surrounding them and how comfortable they seemed to be in each other’s company. He hadn’t thought about his own father in a while, deliberately keeping his memories as buried as possible, but he wondered if he was even still alive. The life of a fisherman was a dangerous one, after all. However, he assumed somebody would have informed him of any catastrophe.
Murdoch didn’t particularly like his own envy. He’d seen too much of it in his father and had experienced over and over again the man’s rancour, his unrelenting jealousy of his own son. Once again his thoughts flew to Liza. If she had lived they would be married by now, probably with a babe, and he himself would have been struggling with the complexity of fatherhood.
Oh, but I would have wanted it. The words were so strong in his mind, he thought for a moment he’d said them out loud. At times, his grief at her death seemed as fresh as ever. He looked for her in the women he passed on the street, dreamed of holding her in his arms, dreamed that she wasn’t dead but merely gone away. After those dreams he awoke angry; after the loving dreams he awoke aching.
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.”
“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 count, 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.