| |
WINSTON SAT AT HIS desk at the station, the copies Miller had made of the men’s diaries spread in front of him. A city map was pinned to the wall. Pins marked the men’s homes, offices, social clubs. Different-coloured strings showed the routes they typically travelled. There were frustratingly few points of intersection.
“I guess it’s a sign the city is growing if everyone doesn’t know everyone else.”
Winston turned to Miller, offering him a smile for his observation. “My thoughts exactly.”
“Well, it would make things easier, wouldn’t it?”
Winston ran his finger over a blue string stretched between two pins. “Possibly not, Miller. Having only a few common threads might be easier. We can start by focusing on them, rather than having nothing, or everything, in common.”
“They lived in the same neighbourhood. Did they frequent the same shops, butchers, bakers, anything?”
Winston considered this. “Their household staff might, but the men themselves? I doubt they performed such tasks. Let’s explore these connections.” Winston pointed to three intersections of string. “Here and here.”
“Church?”
“No. One was Catholic and the other Anglican.”
“Are Mrs. Huntington and Mrs. Chase acquainted?”
“Possibly.” He drew a line between the women’s names in his notebook, a flash of heat reminding him of his mistake with Riley’s name. “Best not to assume anything. Keep asking your questions.”
“Employer?”
“Law and accounting. I will check, but I do not think Huntington’s firm did any work for the railway. But as professionals, both men needed a tailor.” Winston pointed to another string of connection. “They also saw Doctor Cole.”
Miller raised his eyebrows. “Doctor Cole, the city medical examiner?”
“The same. His city duties do not keep him busy enough. He has a small practice in the West End.”
“How far back have you compared, sir?”
Winston moved his hand in a wide circle over the map. “This is three months, since Chase arrived here.”
“Not much overlap.”
“No, but enough for now. We can speak to the tailor and the doctor. I have already spoken with Cole about Huntington, so I won’t need to trouble him for long. Rupert, Chase’s boss, mentioned the names of others at the Gentlemen’s Club the night Chase disappeared. Can you follow up with them, see if any of them saw him leave, and find out if they knew Huntington?”
Winston pointed to the pile of papers on the desk. “Is there anything in the letters? Have you finished transcribing them?”
“Yes. Last night.”
“Anything interesting?”
“They are regular letters. Nothing of particular interest.”
“The one from the railway, the one the maid saw Chase read?”
“It confirmed an upcoming payment due for a property. I’m not sure why they would have sent it to his home address. Must have been a clerical error.” Thomas handed Winston two packets wrapped in brown paper, shaking the one in his left hand. “These are the originals.”
Winston handed the copies back. “Give them another read, Miller. Note anything mentioned that may be important to us, especially anything that is mentioned multiple times. And let’s not be too quick to dismiss the railway’s letter as an error. I’m off to Sharp’s.”
A FRESHLY PAINTED SIGN hanging above the entrance to Sharp’s Fine Goods and Tailoring glistened in the morning sun. Bells chimed as Winston pushed the door.
“Yes?” Sharp stood behind the counter, setting his scissors down on a dark fabric. His voice had a trace of an accent, drawing the single word into two syllables. “Do you need a suit?” He assessed Winston with an eager eye until he recognized the detective. “Oh. It’s you. Again.”
“I’m seeking more information on both Mr. Walter Huntington and another of your customers, Mr. Edmund Chase.”
“Huntington?” The tailor shook his head and looked away. “A tragedy.”
“Yes, we have—ah—located him. Mr. Chase is also now missing.”
Sharp’s eyes widened and he took a step toward Winston. “For all its beauty, this is a rough place. I do not know this Chase fellow, and you already know Mr. Huntington was a client.” The tailor closed his eyes for a moment.
Winston let the silence hang between them. He had observed people were uncomfortable with silence and were inclined to fill it with useful information.
“He was quite interested in my work. He would linger, asking questions. Walter knew about fabric, more than some tailors I’ve met.”
“What did he ask about?”
Sharp ran his hand over a bolt of cloth. “How to choose the right material for a project. Suppliers.” His hand stopped. “How to design patterns.”
Mr. Bright had reported Huntington sketching. Was it a clothing pattern? “Did Mr. Huntington show you his designs?”
Sharp glanced away. “No.”
“Did he say why he asked all these questions?”
“He wanted to become a tailor.” As he spoke, Sharp smoothed the fabric once more.
Winston leaned forward. “You’re certain? He had recently qualified to be a lawyer. He’d inherited his father’s firm.”
“He appeared to care little for his legal life. Last time he was here, he asked about apprenticing.”
Why hadn’t the tailor shared this before? What was he still hiding? Winston placed his hand on the counter. “Do you recall when you saw Mr. Huntington last?”
“Walter came by weekly. Sometimes more frequently. Just for an hour or so, at the end of the day.” The tailor pursed his lips and motioned for Winston to follow him past a dark curtain hanging to the side of the counter.
The room appeared to be the tailor’s workshop. Light from an overhead pane of glass filled the space. Fabric-filled shelves added a warmth that was missing from the front of the shop. Sewing machines sat at the ends of a long table. Between them lay a large piece of fabric with papers resting on top. Sharp quickly rearranged them, and a pant leg took shape. He paused, looked at Winston, and moved the papers to their original positions.
“I prefer to sew back here,” Sharp explained. “It’s easier to see, and I’m less likely to be disturbed.” As he spoke, the tailor visibly relaxed.
“You didn’t mind Mr. Huntington spending so much time here? Is such behaviour usual for your customers? What did he do?”
“Asked questions.” He pointed to the fabric in front of him. “I saw no harm in letting him cut patterns, perform little jobs. He was pleasant enough company.”
“He was starting his apprenticeship?”
Sharp shook his head. “He was too old to start, really. This isn’t a skill you learn overnight.”
“Was Huntington skilled? Did he have natural skills for the work?”
“I don’t know. He was passionate and creative, both useful qualities in this trade. We hadn’t settled on terms; I wasn’t convinced yet that it was a good idea.” Sharp coloured. “I had to think of my reputation.”
“Is that why you didn’t mention any of this to me when I was here earlier?”
Sharp shrugged, palms up. “It didn’t seem relevant.”
“It’s all relevant, Mr. Sharp.” Winston heard the edge in his voice. “Now, what do you know about Edmund Chase?”
“Chase?” Sharp shook his head. “I haven’t any customers named Chase.”
Winston looked at his notes, then at Sharp. “Your name appears in his address book, and his diary has an entry suggesting he visited your shop.”
“Here?” Winston followed the tailor to the front room, where he removed a book from a shelf behind the counter. A crumpled drawing slid out when Sharp opened it. He flipped the paper over and tucked it back in. “Wondered where that had gotten to,” he said.
The action sparked a memory for Winston. Mr. Bright had seen Walter crumple the sketch he’d observed him drawing. The same? “Are you expanding into women’s clothing, Sharp? That looked like a dress.”
Cheeks reddening, Sharp pursed his lips. “It doesn’t hurt to dream, Detective,” he muttered while running his finger down a page. “Ah. Right, here it is. Mr. Chase was here only once. He wanted shirts. He was to return for another fitting—this week, in fact.” The man’s right hand tapped the book as he spoke, the other gesturing freely.
“You said he wasn’t a customer.”
“No money had changed hands, Detective. I have never forgotten a customer, but you only become a customer when you buy something.” Sharp opened and closed his mouth.
“And?” Winston asked, impatient. “What else, Mr. Sharp?”
“Chase asked me about women’s clothing and whether I might be interested in partnering with him. Said he had a plan to open a shop.”
“How did you respond?”
Sharp stiffened. “I refused.”
“And you thought Chase’s plan a threat?”
“Not really.” He pressed his palms into the counter. “My customers want their clothes made for them, not to buy something ready-made.” Sharp cast his gaze at the order book, the corner of the crumpled page sticking out.
“Mr. Sharp, did Walter Huntington give you that drawing?” Winston nodded toward the hidden page.
Sharp pushed the book away. “He may have given me one. As I recall, it wasn’t finished.” He locked eyes with Winston and brushed the front of his jacket. “And what I saw was rather pedestrian.”
“Your other customers, from whom you receive money, do they provide you with enough business?”
“Enough.” Sharp waved at the fabric rolls that lined the walls. “Though, as you can tell, I do not limit my work to formal suits. There are two of us, Detective. We have two tailors here in the city. And we have more than enough work. We may need a third soon.” Sharp handed Winston the morning’s paper; the headline announcing the opening of a grand theatre. “I expect there will be no shortage of men seeking formal wear.”
“You were at the Gentlemen’s Club the night Chase disappeared. Do you recall speaking to him?”
“I’m at the club most nights. Most members are, and you’ll find many members are my clients. The club is invaluable to me. I spoke to several people. It’s expected at a social club.”
“Chase. Did you speak to him?”
Sharp coloured. “Not directly. But I remember seeing him speak to Cole. I thought I saw Chase leave with Rupert, but I may be confusing the evening with another. I’ve seen them together often.”
“And Huntington and Chase. Did you see them together?”
“As I said, Detective, it’s a social club, though I don’t make a habit of tracking who is social with whom.”
AFTER LEAVING THE TAILOR, Winston walked until he found himself near Doctor Cole’s home. He knocked on the door and waited. Minutes passed, and he knocked again before a housemaid answered the door and stiffly announced that the doctor was unavailable.
“While people often instruct their maids to say they’re out when they simply wish to be left alone, I am with the police.” Winston showed her his warrant card. “And I’m certain Doctor Cole will speak to me if you let him know I’m here.”
Her eyes widened as she considered whether to obey her employer or the policeman. After a moment she took a breath. “I cannot disturb him, sir. He’s unavailable.”
“I will wait, then. Is he with a patient?”
Again she paused, looking at her shoes. “No, sir.”
She reluctantly took a step backwards, and though it was not an invitation to enter, Winston took it as one and moved past her into the house. “You can tell Doctor Cole that I didn’t allow you to close the door.” She led him into the sitting room and gestured at a chair. He remained standing and turned to look at her. “How long have you known the doctor?”
“Since November last.”
Winston clasped his wrists behind his back, inspecting the stark decor of the room. “Does anyone else live here? A wife?”
“No wife, but he has a daughter, Miss Liza.” She took a breath and looked over her shoulder. “She is unwell.”
“Unwell?”
She lowered her voice. “She doesn’t leave her room often. Me or Mrs. Stone—she’s the cook—bring her food upstairs, but the doctor, he’s so good to her, he feeds her himself.”
“How often do you see her?”
“She comes downstairs to get a book—she reads more than anyone I’ve ever seen. And I hear her moving around in her room. But I’ve never seen her leave the house.” The maid jutted her chin at the window behind Winston. “Miss Liza asked me about it once, the world outside. Doctor Cole won’t let her leave because he says she hasn’t enough strength.”
“The girl’s mother is—”
“Oh, she’s dead, sir.” The maid looked down and moved her fingers across her body in a quick sign of the cross. “Many years ago, Mrs. Stone told me. Doctor Cole never speaks of her.”
“How old is his daughter?”
“She’s eleven or twelve.”
Not much younger than the girl standing in front of Winston.
“She is small. Smaller than others her age. And pale.” The maid looked at him sharply, as if remembering herself. “I shouldn’t be telling you all this. I must get back to work.”
Winston held his breath. The maid shuffled backwards and looked over her shoulder again. “Thank you for your time, miss. I will wait here for the doctor.”
She bowed her head, leaving Winston alone in the room.
He looked around. Like most dwellings in Vancouver, the house had been built recently. The furniture, simple and tasteful, appeared new. Two wingback chairs sat opposite a low table. A door across the hall was closed, likely leading to a study or possibly to where the doctor saw his patients. Underfoot, a rug covered much of the floor. The walls bore no art or other wall hangings, revealing little of the doctor’s personality. Poking his head out the door of the sitting room, Winston identified the dining room, judging by the chair and table corner framed by the open door. He guessed the room beyond the dining room would be another sitting area or a library, perhaps, with a kitchen and pantry making up the rest of the living space on the floor.
A pleasant humming filtered into the room, presumably the maid as she went about her tasks. Winston listened to her tune, pulling his journal from the satchel he had recently started carrying. He would spend these few minutes writing to Riley while he waited.
May 14 ’97
Hello, Riley,
I am writing this as I sit in the home of Doctor Cole. His name appears in the address books of both Huntington and Chase, and I want to speak to him about any other connections he might be aware of between the men. I interviewed him previously in relation to Huntington, and at the time I had no reason to ask about Chase. I’ve just come from Sharp, the tailor’s, and I wonder, do you—
The door to the house opened, and Winston heard a muffled conversation between the maid and a male voice. He closed the journal and returned it to the satchel, standing as Cole entered. “Hello, Doctor Cole. Your maid was kind enough to let me sit here while I waited for your return. She said you were unavailable.”
“Indeed I was, Detective Winston.” He extended his hand and smiled warmly. “How can I help you?” Cole straightened a chair but remained standing. “I’m afraid I haven’t yet finished the report on Huntington, but you will have it as soon as I complete it. Expect it tomorrow or the day after.”
“Actually, we have a missing man: Mr. Edmund Chase. He, like Huntington, has your name in his address list. Was Mr. Chase also one of your patients?”
“Chase? Yes, I have a new patient by that name.”
“It could be him. Have you seen him in the last three weeks?”
“No. But I do recall his name coming up a while ago, nearly two months gone. I cannot recall the circumstances.”
“I understand. But to confirm, you have not seen him since then?”
“Correct. I have not seen him as a patient since then.”
“And it was just the one visit?”
“Also correct.”
Winston pulled papers from his satchel. “Do you know why he wrote your name in his diary for an appointment two days before he disappeared? Had he made an appointment he did not keep?”
The doctor’s eyes narrowed. “Not that I recall. I can check my patient records, but I typically remember my recent patient visits.”
“Do you take your own appointments? How do patients arrange them?”
Cole took a step back. “Some send a servant with a message. I don’t yet have a telephone, though a few of my wealthier patients do. Others know my hours and simply show up. I’m not one to rely on formality, especially when it comes to health.”
Winston replaced the papers. “Can you describe the man?”
“We did not spend time together socially, Detective. He asked me about a medical concern. I provided him my counsel.” Cole rubbed at his nose. “I can tell you he was younger than I am.”
“Is, Doctor Cole. His status is missing at present.” Winston shook his head. “Not dead.”
“Right.” Cole pursed his lips. “He is younger than I am.” The doctor bristled at the correction.
“Your records, Doctor. Can you check those now?”
Cole pulled his watch from his pocket and frowned. “Let’s move to my study, where I keep them.”
“Thank you.” Winston followed him across the hall, where Cole pulled a key from his pocket. “Are you concerned about security?” Winston asked.
The doctor turned to Winston. “Not particularly. Why?”
“It’s rare to find a locked door inside a home.”
“Oh? I keep medicines and files about my patients in here, Detective Winston. I am sure you can appreciate that I want to keep those secure.” Cole ushered Winston into the room.
“I understand. Do you have a family, others whom you might wish to keep from this room?”
“A family? Yes. I have a daughter. She lives with me here. Her mother passed away several years ago.”
“I am sorry to hear that, sir. Such a loss must have been difficult.”
“Yes, it was. Thank you. My daughter knows not to enter my study without my permission.” Cole’s shoulders rounded slightly. “Actually, she rarely ventures into this room at all. She is—” He waved a hand to dismiss the rest of his sentence.
Winston bit the inside of his mouth, wishing he could spare this man further pain.
The doctor opened a desk drawer and removed a leather-bound book. “When did you say the man disappeared?”
“His wife reported him missing two days ago. He had an entry in his diary for an appointment with you for two days before that.”
“Hmm.” Cole flipped between two pages. “Yes, there he is. How strange I have no memory of a missed appointment.” The doctor scooted forward on his wheeled chair to look at the book more closely. “Oh yes, I remember now. He had a conflict. He sent a note over in the morning asking to reschedule. I’ve made a notation.”
“Did he reschedule?”
The doctor flipped to another page. “Yes. I saw him two days later.”
Winston looked up. “He was here the day he disappeared? You didn’t think to mention this? His disappearance was in the paper.” Winston watched Cole’s colour rise.
“I did not—I thought you were speaking of a different man. The day was a busy one.” The doctor’s face softened. “My daughter is unwell, Detective. She had had a bad day, and I spent much of it caring for her.”
“I wish her a rapid recovery,” Winston mumbled, shame flushing his cheeks.
“Thank you. She is much improved today.”
“Might I speak with her?”
The doctor’s eyes narrowed. “Her condition improves, but I’m afraid she cannot see anyone.” Cole waved at the air. “Anyway, I don’t know what she could contribute. I saw Chase here.”
“In this room?”
“No, my patient room.” The doctor indicated the right wall with a nod of his head. Winston realized he’d missed the door when he entered. He did not remember seeing a corresponding door from the hallway.
“Can you tell me anything of your conversation with Chase that would help me? What time did you see him?”
The doctor leaned back in his chair. “I cannot get into specifics about our conversation, but when we spoke, he was in good spirits. He arrived here at half past two in the afternoon. He left by three.”
Winston noted the times in his small notebook. He scanned the few pages before, looking for a note he remembered having taken. “Do you recall how he arrived here? Did he walk?”
“I didn’t notice. Sorry.”
“And you’re sure of the time?”
“My records are accurate.”
“I don’t doubt it, sir. I am sure you can appreciate that I need to be thorough. Chase is missing, and you are among the last to see him. I thank you for your time today, sir. And I hope your daughter’s health improves.”