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THE WINDOWPANE AT SHARP’S Fine Goods and Tailoring rattled when Detective Jack Winston knocked. After a moment, a finger appeared, moving the blind sideways to reveal a bespectacled eye. Winston held his identification toward the eye. “Mr. Sharp.” The finger disappeared, and the blind returned to place. “We are the police.”
“Yes?”
“Mr. Sharp?” Winston pushed the door, finding it locked.
“We do not open until eleven, sir. I ask you to return during operating hours.”
Winston pulled a watch from his waistcoat pocket. “We have questions about an investigation.” Winston offered his identification again. “I have with me a uniformed officer who will stand here until you answer my questions. Or you can let us both inside so I can ask them now, and you may open on time.”
The door opened, bells jingling overhead. Before Winston could enter, a small man pushed his head through, looked in both directions, and pulled it back inside, leaving the door ajar. Constable Thomas Miller closed the door behind them, setting the bells off again.
“Your questions are for me?” As the man spoke, Winston looked over his head to the bolts of fine fabric lined along the wall, intended, no doubt, for the wives of railway executives and other businessmen transplanted to the city. Despite the city’s population growth, most men were labourers on the new railway or in the shipyards. Others passed through on their way to mines or forests north of the city. Given the transient populace, Winston wondered at the shop’s success. Then he spied several rolls of denim and the rugged cotton favoured at the docks and in the mills. Deeper into the store, wrapped packages—the fine goods in the shop’s name—sat neatly on shelves.
“One of your customers, Mr. Sharp.” Winston handed his hat to Miller, leaving the junior officer stationed at the door. The detective approached Sharp, now standing between a long wooden counter and a wall of drawers. A dark curtain hung against the wall to one side.
“One of my customers? Wanted by the police?” The tailor stepped backwards.
“I want to make sure he’s not in trouble.” Sharp stepped farther away from Winston and pushed at the side of his glasses. Winston leaned closer to the shopkeeper and lowered his voice. “Are you nervous, sir?”
“Nervous? No. I am—as I hope you appreciate—uncomfortable with sharing information about my customers. They rely on my discretion.”
“I’m sure they do.” Another pause while Winston turned in a tight circle. “Why is it they need your discretion? Your customers must be proud of frequenting your shop.”
The shopkeeper stiffened, face reddening. “Of course they are proud. But I do not disclose what they have purchased or how much they spend. It is a matter between them and me.”
“Agreed, Mr. Sharp. However, I think you may have information to help me understand a little more about one of your customers. He is missing, though he visited your shop before he disappeared. Walter Huntington. He ordered a set of fine gloves. His mother recently picked them up.” Winston gave Sharp a knowing look.
“I remember.” The man stepped forward. “Very fine.” Sharp nudged his glasses again. “He was particular about the fabric.”
“Is this typical?”
Sharp peered over his frames at Winston. “How much do you know about fabric, Detective?”
Winston acknowledged the man’s observation with a nod. “Had you sold him anything before? Perhaps something similar?”
Sharp narrowed his eyes. “I must check my records.”
“It might give me an idea of the person for whom the gloves were intended. They are not for his mother, and he has no sisters.”
The shopkeeper pushed his glasses farther up his nose. “Oh, I believe they were for a young lady he had met. If I recall, he described her as having arrived in the city only months ago.” He rubbed the side of his eyebrow. “He might have mentioned Barclay Street, one of the grand homes there.”
“Barclay.” Winston wrote it down in his notebook, picturing the leafy green street close to Huntington’s home. “Thank you, sir; you have been helpful.” The man had surprised him with how much he’d divulged, since he reportedly prized discretion. Winston decided to try his luck. He looked up to catch the shopkeeper’s eye. “It would be even more helpful to learn about Mr. Huntington’s buying habits. I imagine you keep details about your transactions.” Winston stepped toward Sharp.
“Yes, quite detailed.” Sharp scurried behind the counter, bent down, and re-emerged with a large ledger in his hands. He placed it on the counter. “I note everything for each customer.” The shopkeeper flipped the pages back and forth, muttering under his breath. He settled on a page with a few lines of written entries.
“Mr. Huntington first purchased—oh, a lovely item.” Sharp looked up. “He acquired a delicate piece of jewellery in September. He returned at the end of the year for a second piece, and last month for the gloves.”
“Did he say if he intended the gifts for the same recipient?”
“I couldn’t say for certain. But my guess is that he did. Mr. Huntington collected the items himself. He wanted to present them to her rather than have them delivered.”
“Is that unusual?”
The shopkeeper pursed his lips. “I mean nobody in particular, you understand, though some of my customers have need of more discretion than others.”
Winston made another note, then returned the notebook to his pocket. “Thank you again, sir. For your time, and your attention. I shouldn’t need to call on you further, but I trust you will continue to be helpful if I do.” Sharp walked Winston toward the door. The bells chimed, and Miller stepped away from the door as it swung open to reveal a tall, well-dressed man.
Sharp reached in front of Constable Miller for the door. “Doctor Cole, I was not expecting you until this afternoon.”
“Yes. Sorry, Mr. Sharp. I need to collect my order now, if you can accommodate me.” He stepped into the shop.
The tailor turned to look at Winston, his eyes widening with an unspoken question.
“It’s nice to see you again, and outside the morgue,” Winston said to the man in the doorway. “I’m investigating a disappearance and wonder if you might have treated the man.” In the six months since he’d arrived in the city, Winston had met with Cole twice to review the doctor’s findings after he had performed post-mortem inspections for the police. Seeing him out of context reminded Winston of the doctor’s reputation as the physician of choice for many of the city’s prominent citizens.
The doctor smiled at Winston. “Would you come to my home, Detective Winston? My office is there, and I can access my files if needed. Or would you prefer I come to the station?”
“Thank you, sir. Your home will be fine. What time will you be there today?”
A slow blink. “I’m not sure I can tell you much. But I will be there this afternoon. If today does not work, you will find me there most days. I will share what I can. I’m on Thurlow Street, opposite the hospital.”
Winston tipped his head toward Cole. “I know the family will appreciate your time, Doctor.” He reached for the door and looked back into the shop. “Mr. Sharp, thank you.”
Outside, Winston replaced his hat, watching the now-lively street while he reflected on the information he had just learned. It wasn’t much. “Constable Miller, let’s take a streetcar to Barclay Street and find the woman Huntington kept from his mother.”
AFTER KNOCKING ON FIVE doors and learning little, Winston waved Miller over to join him before his approach to the next house. “The maid I just spoke with said we might have luck here. Did anyone across the street speak with you?”
“They did, but what they shared is of little use, sir. A few people socialized with Huntington, but none frequently, it seems. Those who know him agreed he was a quiet man, nothing particularly remarkable about him.”
“Did you get the sense any of them might know more than they let on?”
Miller shook his head.
“Very good. I’ll continue here, after which I will go to Doctor Cole’s house. During our brief encounter this morning, I sensed our conversation might be more productive if I meet him alone. Can you return to the station now? Write up what you’ve learned this morning.”
“I’m not sure if I’ve learned anything.”
“You might find something occurs to you when you review your notes. And it’s best to have complete records of the investigation. Note the addresses you visited and what was reported at each. I will see you at the station later this afternoon.”
Miller waved his goodbye.
The cheeks of the maid who answered the door reddened as Winston described Huntington. “Have you any news, sir? About him?” Her eyes betrayed more than a passing interest.
“How do you know him, Miss ...?” Winston asked.
“Jane, sir. I’m just Jane Stewart.” She tugged at her cap at the back of her neck. “He’s ever so kind, and I’ve been worried.” She looked down, no longer meeting Winston’s gaze.
“Miss Stewart, how do you know Mr. Huntington?”
Her focus on her shoes forced Winston to lean in to catch her whisper. “He...we...it was at the park. He remembered me from the house and was so polite. Walter had dined with the mister and missus. One day we crossed paths by the pond. He invited me to join him for a picnic.” She looked up. “He saw me as a person, more than a maid.” Her deep brown eyes twinkled as she spoke of Huntington, no doubt what had caught Walter’s attention.
“Did he dine at the house again?”
“Maybe before I started, but I’ve only served them once, almost a year ago now. They go through the book, making sure to dine with everyone in it annually. Walter and his mother, they were part of a large dinner.”
The book Jane referred to was likely to be the local roster of prominent families. Winston’s mother had a similar fondness for keeping tabs on other members of what she called “the better class.”
“But you met him again? Unchaperoned?” Winston understood now why the missing man kept his interest in Jane from his mother. Walter did not share his mother’s clear views on class and society.
Jane blushed. “Yes. We met several times, always at the park.” She reached into her pocket and produced a small bundle of tightly wrapped cloth. “He gave me these.” She unwrapped the cloth to reveal a gold hatpin and brooch. Though simple, their quality was obvious, and each likely cost more than she earned in half a year.
“Thank you for showing me. They are lovely.” She tucked them away and lowered her head. “Miss Stewart, when did you last see him? Mr. Huntington?”
She pressed her toe toward the doorstep. “The day he disappeared.” She swallowed before raising her head slowly. “He said he had hoped to give me something else. When we walked at the park next.”
“Walter has been missing for some weeks now. Why didn’t you come forward? To say that you’d seen him?”
“Who would believe me?” Was she right? Would she have been dismissed by police?
“What time did you see him? Where?”
“He was passing by the house. Sometimes he walked by here in the evenings. I tried to be outside most evenings, running kitchen scraps to the back garden, or whatever needed to be done. Annie, she’s the other maid here, she doesn’t mind letting me do those jobs.”
“Did she know about you and Walter?”
“We never talked about it. She’s worked here longer, so she enjoys giving me the tasks she doesn’t care for.”
“Isn’t there a houseboy to take out the scraps?”
Jane straightened. “Of course there is. But he is happy to have a minute to talk the cook into giving him an extra bun.”
Winston smiled at the image. “And you weren’t concerned about Walter seeing you carrying a mucky bucket?”
“I get the work done quickly, then linger on my way back to the house. Other maids from other houses are often out at the same time.”
“Exchanging a little household gossip? What time is this, usually?”
“Just before eight o’clock. We’re nearly done our day’s work. Sometimes there’s a funny story to share. Walter would whistle as he walked, so I would know if he was here. It wasn’t every night, but I saw him that night.”
“What did he say to you, do you remember?”
“Just that he was going to meet someone that night and he was planning to show me something.” She bit her lip.
“You’re sure he said he was going to meet someone? Did he say who?”
She pushed a strand of hair under her cap. “We spoke for only about a minute.”
“Was that usual, such a short visit?”
Jane nodded. “I couldn’t be too long from the house.”
“Even with the gossip?”
She smiled. “Even then. Maybe a few minutes longer if the mister and missus were dining elsewhere and we didn’t have a big meal to clean up. But that night they ate here, so I needed to go.” She shivered. “It was cool that evening, too. I wanted to get back inside. And Walter wouldn’t have wanted me to catch a chill.” Her eyes glistened, and she wiped the corner of her eye. “Every night since then I’ve stood in the alley, waiting to hear his whistle. D’you think you’ll find him, Detective Winston?”
“I hope so.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “I hope so too.”
A deep rumble reminded Winston he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He thanked Jane for her time and checked his pocket watch. Finding Jane and questioning her had taken longer than expected. Doctor Cole would be available tomorrow. Much better to speak to him at the start of the day, without the distraction of patients. Winston found a pie seller and walked back to the station to capture notes about the day’s progress.