MURDOCH HEARD FOOTSTEPS coming down the corridor toward the cell. The heavy tread could belong only to Constable Crabtree. The tiny panel in the cell door was pushed aside and he could see the constable’s eyes peering in. They looked amused.
“You can come in, George, I’m awake.”
Crabtree entered. He was carrying a mug of something, presumably tea.
“Thought you’d like this, sir.”
Murdoch scratched his leg under his trouser leg. “Who was in here last?”
“Old Joe Baxter, I think.”
“He left a lot behind.”
He took the mug and drank some of the tea. It was strong and tasted as if a cup of sugar had been dumped into it. It was also scalding hot and he winced.
“Did you get any sleep at all, sir?”
“No. But at least it made me more sympathetic toward our guests. I’m going to requisition a new pallet. Some rocks have wandered into this one.”
He yawned and looked around the small cell. There was a narrow bed, which had a straw mattress and an iron-hard blanket, a stool, and a bucket “What do you say to a couple of pictures on the walls, George? Tasteful. I’ll donate my portrait of Colonel Grasett. Cheer the place up a bit.”
“The prisoners might want to stay on if we do that.”
Murdoch scratched again. “Highly unlikely, even with decorations.”
He twisted his head, trying to get the kink out of his neck. “I’d better get out of here before the others start wondering what the hell I’m doing.”
“You’re not the first officer to doss down in one of the cells and you probably won’t be the last.”
“I should have gone to the Avonmore but this was the first place I thought of.”
Crabtree nodded. Ever tactful, he hadn’t yet inquired why Murdoch had come to the station in the middle of the night looking for a bed to sleep in.
“George, how did you and Ellen meet each other?”
If the constable was surprised by the question, he didn’t show it. “We’ve known each other since we were kids. Our parents were good friends. We played in each other’s back yards.”
“So, when did you know you were in love with each other?”
“In love? I can’t say exactly. We just sort of took it for granted that we would get married.”
“And you’re both Methodists, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you believe in mixed marriages, George?”
“You mean if the parties are of different religions?”
“Yes. What if one was, say, Roman Catholic, and the other was, say, Baptist? Do you think such a marriage would work?”
“That would depend, wouldn’t it?”
“On what?” Murdoch almost shouted out the question.
“I suppose on how important religion was to each person and how much they were prepared to compromise.”
Murdoch groaned. He felt as if he’d been drinking for two days, with his thick tongue and head. Enid and he had gone downstairs to the parlour but he knew, he could tell, he was not going to like what she had to say. And he hadn’t.
“I’ve been thinking and thinking, and difficult as it is for me to come to my conclusion, I have done so.”
“Yes?” His heart sinking.
“You would want me to convert to Catholicism and I could not do that. I would be disloyal to my husband’s memory and the solemn promise I made to him to rear Alwyn with Jesus as his Saviour. Therefore, I’m leaving. I’ve found another boarding house closer to the church.”
“And further away from St Paul’s, I suppose?”
He had to admire her – she’d shown more honesty than he had. Then, for the first time, she called him by his Christian name and the sweetness of it was almost obliterated by the hurt of what she was saying.
“Will, I must admit, I am growing very fond of you, but for both our sakes, it is better that these feelings do not continue.”
Murdoch fingered his bristly jaw. He needed a shave.
“I have been turned down, George.”
“By Mrs. Jones, sir? The Welsh lady?”
“That’s the one. She doesn’t think she can overcome the obstacle of our different religions. She also said, and I quote, ‘We have both suffered loss of a loved one. It is lonely we are. We must not mistake these feelings for real love. They may have been created by mere proximity.’ As if it would have happened with any man.”
Crabtree cleared his throat. “Forgive me, Mr. Murdoch, but she does have a point. Perhaps when she is living somewhere else, you can determine if you have found true love or not.”
Murdoch had to laugh at the solemnity with which his constable delivered this speech. “You’re in the wrong line of work, George. You should have been a minister.”
“I did consider that at one time, sir. But Ellen didn’t fancy being a minister’s wife. Too much scrutiny on you. I am assuming, by the way, sir, that you do intend to see Mrs. Jones when she is not under the same roof?”
“I don’t know. I hadn’t got that far.”
They heard steps outside and one of the young constables came to the door.
“There’s somebody here to see you, Mr. Murdoch. A Scotch lassie.”
“Who?”
“The boy with the braid down his back.”
“The Chinaman’s son?”
“That’s the one.”
“Did he say what he wanted?”
“Och, no.” He gave a dreadful imitation of Foon Lee’s accent.
“Give me a few minutes, then bring him down to my office.”
“Yes, sir.” He looked around the cell curiously. “Are you doing an inspection, Mr. Murdoch?”
“Something like that.”
He stood up and felt a sharp twinge in his lower back. “George, remind me from time to time, will you, that I am a grown man and I do not have to behave like a child in a temper.”
He’d yelled out at her, “If you consider I am too proximate, as you put it, I will go somewhere else.”
Crabtree grinned. “Why don’t I see if I can dig out a razor for you? Nothing like scraping at your face to make you realise you’ve grown up.”
Lifting the strands of reeds, Crabtree ushered Foon Lee into the cubicle. The young man bowed. Murdoch didn’t quite know how to respond but he sort of bobbed his head.
“Have a seat, Mr. Lee.”
Foon took the chair in front of the desk and immediately put his hands in the wide sleeves of his tunic. He was in his working clothes today, blue linen tunic and black wide trousers. Murdoch thought he seemed ill at ease, and was trying hard not to show it. Probably it was the first time he had ever been inside a police station. Murdoch suddenly had the sense of how it might look to the young Chinaman. Strange people, strange ways. He smiled, trying to put him at ease, then got self-conscious. Perhaps in China it wasn’t considered good manners to smile.
“You wanted to talk to me, Mr. Lee?”
The young man nodded or bowed, Murdoch couldn’t tell which it was. Maybe both.
There was an uncomfortable silence while they both looked at each other; Murdoch tried to appear encouraging.
“I have come concerning the matter of the constable who recently met with his death. On later reflection, my father has decided he is not utterly positive in his identification of the young woman accompanying the constable on that fateful night. In fact, on later reflection he has determined that the woman you, yourself, presented was more likely to be the one he had first seen standing behind the officer.” He paused to await Murdoch’s response, who, sensing there was more to come, didn’t say anything. Foon looked away and addressed the rest of his remarks to the wall behind Murdoch’s shoulder. “In the interests of helping the police officers in their quest, my father is, however, able to offer some information concerning the other woman. The ladyship who appeared at the inquest and said she was betrothed to Mr. Wicken.”
“Is he now? And what might that information consist of?”
“Her name is Mary Ann Trowbridge as she stated but her address is a deceit. She does in fact live on Sydenham Street. Her profession is of ill-repute.”
“I see. How does your father come to have that information?”
Foon coughed politely but still spoke to Her Majesty’s portrait. “This ladyship and my father had acquaintance at a previous time. Of an entirely chaste nature, of course.”
It wasn’t easy to read him through the thick dialect and the apparent lack of expression on his face, but there was a hint of resentment in his tone, a tightening of his lips.
“When was this chaste encounter?”
“A few months ago, I believe.”
“Did he mention at what number on Sydenham Miss Trowbridge lives?”
“Yes. She resides at number three hundred and thirty-four. The house with a blue door.”
Murdoch fiddled with his moustache. Foon was corroborating what Beulah had said. Apparently Miss Mary Ann was still active. It might make matters even harder for Mrs. Wicken and Isobel if this came out.
The Chinaman finally met his eyes. “Mr. Murdoch, would it be correct for my part to assume you will not need to mention my father? We are at the mercy …” His voice trailed off and Murdoch realised what a serious thing it was for him to come to the station.
“Does he know you have brought this information to me?”
Foon looked at him and his expression this time was revealing. “Can I say that my father would no doubt have approved, but I have not yet had the occasion to inform him. I chose to encumber myself with this errand.”
Murdoch held out his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Lee. You have performed your civic duty. I will follow up on this.”
Foon shook hands somewhat hesitantly. His fingers were cool, slightly damp.