ALL THE CURTAINS WERE DRAWN at the house with the blue door. A cast-iron lantern was fastened on a bracket to the side of the porch. It was placed so that no direct light fell on the person who might be standing there. Cunning. Murdoch opened the gate, which screeched a warning, and walked up to the door. There was a heavy brass knocker he thought at first was carved in the shape of a lion’s head. As he lifted the ring, however, he saw that the design was that of a woman’s face with snakes writhing from her brow. He thumped hard.
Almost at once, the curtain across the windows to his right lifted slightly. He couldn’t see who was looking out but he smiled pleasantly so as not to frighten them. After what seemed a long wait, the door opened, barely a crack, only sufficient for him to glimpse a tiny woman, soberly dressed and sharp featured.
“Yes?” She scowled at him.
He touched the brim of his hat politely. “I was wondering if I could speak to Miss Mary Ann Trowbridge. I understand she lives here.”
“Who are you?”
Murdoch hesitated, not sure whether revealing his identity at this point would get the door closed in his face. He felt squeamish at the idea of pretending to be a customer, however.
“My name is Murdoch. I’m an acting detective at number four station. I’m pursuing an investigation and I would like to talk to Miss Trowbridge.”
She didn’t look impressed or alarmed. “What sort of investigation?”
“I’d prefer to discuss that with her.” “She doesn’t live here anymore.” She didn’t relent from the frown.
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know. I’m not the post office keeper.”
The woman’s hair was pulled up tightly into a knot at the top of her head, accentuating her rather prominent ears. What he could see of her dress was a drab brown. She made him think of an elf, but without the endearing qualities one usually associated with the fairy world. She also was a kindred spirit to Beulah.
“Is there anyone else I can speak to then?”
“No.”
Fortunately, he was saved from more aggravation by somebody speaking from the hallway.
“Emily, you are letting in the worst draft. Either invite the gentleman in or close the door.”
The woman addressed was obviously about to follow the second injunction but Murdoch quickly got his knee in the way. He pushed his way forward across the threshold.
A young woman was standing at the bottom of the stairs. She was full fleshed and her white diaphanous gown was cut to reveal a considerable amount of bosom and bare arm. Her abundant brown hair was loosely pinned, her lips and cheeks rouged. She was Murdoch’s idea of a whore.
She smiled. If the doorkeeper was a bad-tempered elf, this young woman was a flower fairy. At least in the dim light. He touched his hat again.
“Excuse me, ma’am, for disturbing you, but I am a detective and I would like to come in and ask a few questions.”
The smile vanished and she looked alarmed.
“I, er …” She glanced over her shoulder for help and yet another woman appeared. The hall was becoming crowded. She was older, statuesque in build, magnificently corseted into a pearl-grey silk gown. The ivory satin draping her bosom would have done credit to any mantelpiece. Her full chin was pushed into further roundness by the high lace collar. Exactly what he imagined a bawdy house mistress would look like.
“Emily, what is the trouble here?” She spoke with complete authority and the gatekeeper stepped back a pace. The young woman also moved halfway up the stairs but stayed to watch.
Again Murdoch introduced himself. “I would appreciate some of your time, ma’am.”
He saw her consider all of her choices, then she smiled. Her teeth were startlingly white, and faultless. He was reminded of Dr. Stevens’s denture display case. She held out a mittened hand, leaning across Emily as if she were a piece of furniture.
“How do you do? I’m Mrs. Clara Doherty.”
He took her hand, a little uncertain as to what was expected of him. She was wearing a large emerald ring on her index finger and the gesture was almost papal. He refrained from kissing it, however, and half-squeezed, half-shook the palm.
“Please come in. We can talk in my chambers.” Her accent was quite English.
He wasn’t sure how he was going to get past the recalcitrant servant without embarrassment to both of them, but Mrs. Doherty saved him.
“Emily, I’m sure Mr. Murdoch needs something warm. Bring us some Turkish coffee. Is that agreeable to you, sir?”
Murdoch nodded appreciatively. His search for Mary Ann Trowbridge was introducing him to some exotic culinary tastes.
“Give me your things,” said the housekeeper and he obeyed, struggling in the confined space to divest himself of his sealskin coat. Finally he was free and she took the coat and hat and trotted off down the hall, where she dumped them on a tall oaken stand. The young woman, who had giggled prettily during this transaction, was still watching, but with a quick nod of the head from her mistress, she too left, ascending the stairs with a certain degree of melodrama and her dress lifted well above ankle height. The effect was marred, however, by her need to sneeze violently. She didn’t let go of her skirt but sniffed back whatever snot she could.
“Mr. Murdoch?” Mrs. Doherty said.
He blushed, annoyed at himself for being distracted.
“This way.” She pulled aside a red velvet portiere to the left, opened the door, and ushered him in. He immediately banged his shin against the corner of a low table that seemed to be placed directly in the doorway. Mrs. Doherty sailed ahead, navigating an astounding amount of furniture – lamp tables, plant stands laden with large potted ferns, purple plush armchairs. She took a seat on one of the couches by the fireplace and indicated he should sit across from her. The carpet was thick, fawn coloured, patterned with large pink and yellow roses. Mrs. Doherty glanced at his feet and he was aware that his boots were wet and he shifted like a schoolboy. He’d conducted many interviews in his career but he didn’t remember feeling so ill-at-ease and clumsy. He didn’t know if it was his own consciousness of his lack of sexual initiation or if Mrs. Doherty had perfected the art of keeping the male half of the population off balance.
“I know that Mary Ann Trowbridge lives here. I would like to talk to her.”
His harsh tone apparently startled Clara, who had obviously been intent on keeping up pretences as long as she could. She frowned.
“I’m afraid she’s moved out.”
“When?”
“Yesterday, as a matter of fact. But I must insist you explain yourself, sir. Why do you want to speak to her?”
Her voice changed; the false English intonation dropped away.
“As you no doubt are aware, Miss Trowbridge testified recently at an inquest into the death of a young constable. The investigation is not complete and I would very much like to ask her some questions.”
She chose to look affronted at his lack of manners.
They were interrupted by Emily, who without a knock or any other warning opened the door and entered the room. She was carrying a silver tray on which sat a silver coffeepot and two cups and saucers. They were delicate but normal size, unlike the ones at the Avison house.
“I’ve just took out some plum cake, shall I bring it in?” she asked Clara.
Murdoch would have dearly liked some plum cake, as his stomach had been growling for the last hour, but he had offended Clara by his lack of tact and she was punishing him. There was a stiff silence while Emily put down the tray on the sideboard, shoving aside a porcelain lamp that tinkled musically as the crystal droplets shook. She poured out some dark, thick liquid into the china cups and handed one to Clara, the other to Murdoch. Then she herself took a seat on the couch beside Mrs. Doherty, who immediately sipped avidly at her drink. Murdoch tried his. The brew smelled all right, but tasted so harsh and bitter he almost spat it out. He was aware Clara was watching him.
“Hm … hm.”
Surprisingly she smiled her perfect smile. “I prepare the essence myself. I have heard there is none quite like it.”
Murdoch nodded in acknowledgment, not sure how he was going to swallow the rest of the poisonous brew. He felt as if he had lost a layer of skin off his tongue.
“Horrible stuff,” said Emily. “Burn a hole in your stomach.”
Mrs. Doherty ignored her and he wondered again what the status of the bad-tempered elf was in this household. Not servant surely. She took too many liberties.
His hostess opened a drawer in one of the plant stands that was on her right. She took out a small silver flask, unscrewed the top, and held it out to him. “A little brandy, Mr. Murdoch. It is a very dull morning.”
He wouldn’t have broken the fragile truce even if he’d taken the pledge.
“Thank you, ma’am. A spot would go down well.”
Emily snatched the flask from Clara’s hand and poured a generous shot into his cup. She then added a much smaller amount to Mrs. Doherty’s cup. Murdoch tasted the coffee again. The brandy definitely improved the flavour and he managed to gulp back most of it.
He heard the faint sound of a bell ringing from the rear of the house. Emily immediately stood up. “I’ll leave you to your business,” she said, and she gathered up the two cups, put them on the tea tray, and left. As soon as the door had closed, Mrs. Doherty bent over, fished beneath the skirt of the couch, and pulled out a wooden pail. She took off the lid.
“Would you care for a sweet?”
“No, thank you, ma’am.”
She paused, scrutinised the contents of the pail, and selected a bright pink egg-shaped candy.
“Now, sir. You were saying?” asked Clara. The English inflection was back in place, slightly muffled by the crackling of her chewing. He decided to come in on a more oblique tack.
“Are you acquainted with Mr. Sam Lee, a Chinaman?”
She didn’t speak until she’d finished off the candy egg. “No, I am not.”
“He says he has been a visitor here.”
“Is that so? Unfortunately, Mr. Murdoch, as all of my friends will tell you, I have a most appalling memory. In my capacity of music teacher, I see many people but I could not tell you who they are. If we were ever to meet on the street, I do not acknowledge them. I regret to say, I will probably forget you, yourself, tomorrow.”
So that was going to be her line, was it?
“But you do remember Oliver Wicken? He was engaged to Miss Trowbridge.”
“How extraordinary. But these days young women are so independent. They don’t share their lives at all, not the way we used to when I was a girl.”
Murdoch was certain she had never been young, that she had sprung fully dressed and bejewelled out of her father’s head.
“You are saying he never came here to see her?”
“No, he did not.”
“What is your relation to Miss Trowbridge?”
“She is my niece by marriage.”
He leaned forward, trying to force her to look him in the eyes.
“Mrs. Doherty, at the inquest which is under the jurisdiction of Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, Miss Trowbridge produced a letter supposedly from her aunt. She named her as a Mrs. Avison. That good lady has informed me that they are not related and that, in fact, Miss Trowbridge was her maid some years ago. Her name then was Trotter. It seems that the poor girl was got in the family way and was dismissed.”
“How unkind of her employer.”
“Madam, I must remind you we are dealing with the law. This is very serious. It seems that your niece produced a document which was a forgery. She will be open to charges.”
“I understand that.”
Frustrated, Murdoch stood up, although there wasn’t very far to move.
“You are saying, unequivocally, that you have no knowledge of a constable named Oliver Wicken or any engagement that existed between him and Miss Mary Ann Trowbridge?”
She shrugged and delicately probed underneath her dentures to remove a fragment of icing. “I am saying that, with such a bad memory as I have, I am utterly unreliable as any sort of witness.”
He knew he would not shake her. Even in such ridiculous lies she was imposing.
“Why did Miss Trowbridge leave your house?”
Again the shrug. “She was a little bored with Toronto. She has relatives in Montreal and it seemed more exciting to her, I presume. She rarely confided in me.”
He returned to the couch, sat down, and took out his notebook.
“Where is she staying in Montreal?”
“Alas, Mr. Murdoch, I don’t know. She never said.”
He closed the notebook with a snap. “Was Miss Trowbridge at home on Monday evening?”
“Yes, I believe she was.”
“All evening?”
He’d made a move she hadn’t expected. She bought time by sifting through the candy pail.
“I cannot say for certain. I was rather unwell; I retired early.”
A yellow egg was popped into her mouth. More crunching.
“Did you say good night to your niece?”
“Yes, of course.”
“What time was that?”
“I cannot be precise.”
“Just within an hour would help. Eight o’clock? Nine?”
She hesitated, trying to sort out the least compromising answer. “Perhaps closer to nine. As I say, she is an independent young woman. She must have slipped out, not wanting me to worry.”
“Would you have forbidden her if you had known?”
“Of course. Which is why she was probably so cautious. I doubt anyone else would have seen her.”
“In other words, nobody will deny or corroborate her statement?”
“I suppose you could put it that way.”
She offered him the candy pail.
“Can I tempt you?”
“No, thank you.” He waited for her attention. “Miss Trowbridge said under oath that she met with Wicken the night he died.”
“Indeed!”
“But I have a witness who says he saw the constable in the company of a different woman at that exact time. His fiancée.”
“Really? Another? Is he setting up to be a bigamist?”
“I don’t think so. I believe he had only one, the young woman who met him on his beat. You see, according to my witness, Miss Trowbridge is a prostitute.”
He’d wanted to shock her but she was ready.
“There are always people ready to smear a young woman’s reputation.”
“And yours then, ma’am. My witness says that you run a bawdy house here and that Mary Ann Trowbridge is one of your doxies.”
She smiled; she was on safe ground here. She’d dealt with this before. “As I already said, I am a music teacher. I run a music academy for adult students. People are only too ready to gossip.”
As if to validate her statement, a piano started up from somewhere in the house. The sound was execrable, out of tune and spasmodic.
She was as implacable as the stuffed couch she sat on. Murdoch sat forward.
“Mrs. Doherty. At this time I am not too interested in how you earn your living. I am more concerned with trying to find the truth about what happened to Oliver Wicken. Let me put it this way. I will give you until tomorrow evening to locate the current whereabouts of Miss Mary Ann Trowbridge. If I receive that information in good time, I will not proceed any further with the complaint we are going to receive about you and the music academy. Is that clear?”
For answer, she reached over and pulled at a bell rope that hung beside the fireplace.
“I will ask Emily to see you out.”
He didn’t move and they faced each other like two opponents across a chess board. She lowered her gaze first. “I’ll think about what you have said, Mr. Murdoch. If I do obtain the information you need, I will send a messenger to the station.”
“Number four, the northwest corner of Parliament Street and Wilton.”
The door opened and the housekeeper came in carrying his sealskin coat and hat. He took them from her and headed for the door, negotiating his way around the chairs. Mrs. Doherty and Emily both watched him.
There was a lamp beside Nathaniel’s bed, the wick turned low. The old man’s face was dark with shadows, but there was a glisten of saliva dribbling from the corner of his mouth. His eyes were open. Jarius leaned over the bed, placing his hands on either side of Nathaniel’s head as if he would embrace him. He stared into the unmoving eyes.
“I don’t know if you can hear me or understand what I am saying but I don’t care. Listen to this, Nathaniel. It is time you died. You should have gone years ago. You won’t recover from this, don’t even hope that you will. So it is time to make right some wrongs. You are going to make a new will.”
The old man made grunting sounds in his throat and his eyelids flickered.
“Does that little fart mean you understand me? I dearly hope so. I want you to make your last journey knowing the truth. You can take it to hell with you because that is surely where you are going.” Jarius picked up the cloth that was on the pillow and wiped away the dribble. Then he bent down until he was so close, it was almost a kiss.
“I hate you! You think I loved you but you fooled yourself. I have never for one moment felt any feelings toward you other than disgust. You destroyed my mother, my dear mother, as surely as if you had put a revolver to her temple. She wanted to die because her life here was unbearable.”
He caught Nathaniel by the chin and jerked his head higher.
“You do understand. I can see that you do. You look shocked. I don’t know why you should be. We reap what we sow. You are fond of proverbs, aren’t you? Spare the rod and spoil the child. Waste not, want not. Lots of them, all impressed on my bare backside.”
Nathaniel made a feeble attempt to move his head away but it was impossible. Gibb squeezed his chin even tighter. “Frank hates you too, but you probably know that. The surprise must be me.”
He let go and stepped back, pulling aside the quilt. “You stupid, revolting old man. At your age, to think you could still stop your beak in some poor woman.” With a tug, he lifted the nightshirt. “Look at you. A chicken gizzard has more life in it than that.” He leaned over him again. “Listen to me good, Nathaniel. Your little jade was as light heeled as they come. She wanted to hump with me from the moment she came in the house. And she did. She slipped between my sheets many a night when you were snoring. Oh, she is as willing a tit as I’ve ever had. She was spent over and over. Quite wore me out. I only told you the half of it.”
It was all lies, of course. Peg had done no such thing. Except for the single desperate visit to his room, she had kept her distance. Jarius had enjoyed contemplating which course of action he would take. Tell the truth and make the old man face his mistake, or send him to eternity with a lie to make him squirm. The latter had seemed more likely to inflict pain.
The gurglings from Nathaniel’s throat were louder. Jarius smiled. “Don’t like to hear that, do you? She’d almost convinced you she was innocent, hadn’t she? Well, take it to your grave, dear Stepfather. May it torment you for all eternity.”
He reached inside his waistcoat and took out a folded sheet of paper. “This is your new will. I have written it out according to your instructions. I’ll read it to you.”
He opened the paper, shook it in mock seriousness. “This is the last will and testament of Nathaniel Joseph Eakin Esquire of 295 Gerrard Street in the city of Toronto and the county of York. Being of sound mind … Debatable, but never mind, I’m going to predate it. I hereby bequeath my goods and chattels in the following manner. To my beloved children – I call that a poetical conceit – To my beloved children, Francis John Eakin and Augusta Louisa Curran, I leave the sum of one thousand dollars each. Not what they are hoping for, of course. To my wife, Margaret Eakin, I leave likewise the sum of one thousand dollars, to be used for her care and maintenance as long as it is necessary. Don’t worry, she won’t need that much longer. I leave to my faithful servant, Janet Cullie, the sum of two hundred dollars. See how kind you are in your dotage, Nathaniel. Now here’s the nub. To my dearest stepson, Jarius Gibb, whom I have ever loved and been loved by as a son of my own flesh and blood. That’s good, isn’t it? Another poetical conceit. To Jarius, I hereby leave my estate and all money that does accrue from the same, my insurance policies, and savings bonds. A goodly sum, Stepfather, thank you. Nobody would have suspected you had such a fine dowry. I welcome it, and as we both know, it is only fair and just that it go to me. Augusta has her own husband to take care of her, Frank would piss it away on whores and horses within a month, and dear Stepmother won’t have any need. So there we are.”
He had brought in his scribe’s lap desk and he opened the lid, took out a pen, and dipped it in the inkwell. Then he lifted Nathaniel’s flaccid hand and wrapped the fingers around the pen.
“Sign here.”
Slowly, he drew the old man’s signature on the paper. “Good, that will do nicely.”
He blew on the ink to dry it, then replaced the paper in his pocket. “I know what you’re thinking, Stepfather, but I have taken care of that. The date on the will is two days ago. Before you became incapacitated. How fortunate for us that you had the foresight to take care of your affairs. And I know Frank won’t balk at getting one thousand dollars. That is better than a rope necklace.”
He bent over and kissed Nathaniel on the cheek. “Good night, Stepfather. Sleep well.”
He left, closing the door as softly as if he were leaving a nursery. Good. He was fairly certain the document was watertight, but just in case, there was one more thing to take care of. It was time some member of the family went to visit the unfortunate Mrs. Eakin.