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BEFORE DETECTIVE JACK Winston had a chance to sit down at his desk at the station, Constable Thomas Miller bounded toward him.
“Good morning, Miller. What have you discovered?” Miller’s eyes widened at Winston’s question. “You look eager to tell me something. Reading people’s cues is a useful skill for you to develop. After we conduct our next interview, let’s compare our observations.”
The constable coloured and stepped back. “I’d appreciate that, sir.” Miller grew taller as he spoke. “I think I’ve found something.”
“What is it?”
“We may have a third man. Missing, I mean.”
“Who?”
“The son of a local businessman, similar in age to Chase and Huntington. He disappeared about two years ago. Before Huntington.”
“Why do you think he’s connected?”
“He drowned in False Creek. My younger brother is a paper boy, and he remembered shouting the headline.”
Winston bristled at the mention of the press. “Did you tell him about our cases?”
“No. He mentioned it during last evening’s meal when I said we were working on the Huntington and Chase cases. I changed the subject before he could ask any questions.”
“Good man.” Winston clapped Miller on the shoulder. “We don’t need the press scaring up panicked crowds, so best steer him off the topic if it comes up again.” And Winston did not need reporters reminding him of his failing to solve the current case.
He let his hand drop from Miller’s shoulder. “Chase isn’t dead yet, Constable. We’re not even certain his disappearance is related to Huntington’s.”
Miller lowered his eyes. He needed more encouragement than Winston realized. “Go ahead and find out what you can about this man. Did your brother recall any details? The man’s name? Whether his family is here? Where on False Creek he was found?” Miller brightened before him and began noting his questions. “I will see if we have files on the case. And you could review the newspaper record at their offices.”
Miller left for the newspaper offices and Winston set about finding the police records. Though other forces were adopting systems to organize their files, Chief Philpott had shown little interest in such modernization. He favoured action and saw no value in dwelling on past cases. Winston disagreed with his uncle on this point, preferring to keep meticulous notes in his case files, a practice he would certainly continue now that he’d learned how valuable Riley found them.
At the front desk, Winston reviewed the logbook for 1895, which he found squeezed between 1890 and 1892. Reports of missing men appeared in each month, unsurprising given the transient nature of the city. It was easy for someone to spend a few days or weeks preparing for a journey to the mines and then slip away without paying for the supplies they had ordered. Among the entries for June, a reference to a body in the water stood out. Winston noted the name and date, hoping the file room offered more.
Seeing the state of the so-called file room, Winston realized why the desk sergeant smirked when he’d directed Winston to the small cupboard. At least the files were behind a door, even if it was unlocked when Winston found it. The chief constable’s position on record keeping meant the files capturing the force’s decade of operation comprised a dozen boxes standing in four columns. Winston kicked a pile of boots and clothing heaped between the boxes, grimacing at the unpleasant cloud of stale air he’d released. He lowered a box to the floor and pushed it out of the cupboard to escape the smell. Had an animal died in there? Winston nudged the door closed with his foot.
Squatting beside the box, he lifted the lid and grabbed a handful of the pages within. His disappointment grew as he fanned them through his fingers. They spanned multiple years, and none were sorted by case. Why bother documenting a case only to forget about the notes? When Miller returned, he could sort through this information. And perhaps Riley would have ideas on creating a functional filing system.
Winston returned the box to the cupboard, closing the door with more force than necessary. At his desk he smoothed a fresh sheet of paper with his hand and started a list of what he knew about each missing man.
Huntington: unmarried and possibly serious about Jane, a neighbour’s maid. Worked for Huntington and Shipley (father’s law firm). Twenty-five yrs. Lived in city fifteen yrs, always on Haro Street in the West End. Drowned May 1897.
Chase: married. Twenty-eight yrs. Worked for Pacific National Railway. Lived in the city for three months in the West End. Missing May 1897.
Business partners in new clothing shop. Yet to open. Out of money?
Winston circled the last question. In a third column, he left space to write the name of the man Miller had mentioned.
Found drowned June 1895.
The similarities between the men’s lives struck Winston again. What did the new man share with Chase and Huntington?
At the constable’s greeting, Winston looked up, straightening his waistcoat. “Thomas. You were fast.”
The constable pulled a chair beside Winston’s desk. “I ran into a bit of luck at the paper. They were happy to let me review old editions.”
“No questions about what you were looking for?”
“No. I thought it best not to volunteer the information, either.”
“What did you discover?”
“I found several other missing men, a few with similarities to Chase and Huntington.”
Winston’s heart started to race, recalling the entries he’d found in the logbooks. Could this lead to solving multiple disappearances?
Miller pushed a piece of paper filled with several columns of written notes to Winston. “I noted each man, when he went missing, the circumstances, and when the story appeared in the newspaper, in case you want to look again.”
“Very good, Miller. You have an eye for organization. And I have a task for you. Before we get to that, which of these is the most like Chase and Huntington?”
The constable ran his finger across the page, pausing and tapping it. “This one, sir. They’re similar.” He leaned toward Winston. “Harold Collins, the son of a wealthy businessman. He disappeared following a late evening walk. His family initially thought he’d run away, abandoning the position he had recently taken at his father’s firm. He’s the one my brother remembered.” Miller drew his finger down the notes he had made on Collins. “The paper characterized him as ‘fond of leisure’ and ‘uninterested in work.’ Rather an odd characterization, don’t you think, sir?”
Winston nodded, motioning for him to go on.
“The medical examiner ruled accidental drowning, and the paper speculated Collins could not manage without his family’s support, seeming to imply that he may have taken his life. The medical examiner conducted no further investigation.”
“The family didn’t insist?”
“No, it seems not, sir.”
“Why did you think this case was related?”
“Huntington, Chase, and this man, Collins.” The constable tapped the page again. “They have similar backgrounds and were of a similar age.” Miller rubbed the tip of his nose with his finger. “It does seem odd the family didn’t pursue an investigation.”
Winston recalled his own family’s muted reaction to his brother’s disappearance. “Possibly, but if the decision was accidental death—drowning, in this case—what is there to investigate? Did the article mention who the medical examiner was?”
Miller shook his head. “No, but it would have been Cole, wouldn’t it?”
Winston bit his lip to keep from speaking. Cole was one link between all the men, but given their backgrounds, no doubt there were others.
“So you are doubtful there’s a connection?” Miller asked.
“I’m not sure.” Winston sat back. “Did they have similar interests? Maybe belonged to the same organizations? I wonder if anyone connected to Huntington or Chase knew this other man—” Winston raised his eyebrows at Constable Miller.
“Collins, sir. Harold Collins.”
Winston inhaled. “Collins? The shipping family? Are they still in the city?” He wrote Collins’ name on the page he’d been filling.
“Yes, they are in overseas transport. The mother died last year, but his father is here, I believe.”
“I will see if Mr. Collins can recall who his son might have known, or any detail the newspapers left out.” Winston looked at Miller, then at the piece of paper between them. “Considerably more time passed between Collins and Huntington than between Huntington and Chase. Perhaps we are seeing connections that don’t exist.”
Winston slipped a folded piece of paper out from under the edge of his desk blotter and opened it. “The chief has suggested someone we should speak to. Then I want you to return to the station and visit what I will optimistically refer to as the file room. Its contents, as far as I can tell, are completely disorganized. Please see if it contains anything useful while you organize it. I should hate to miss another connection because it’s stranded in a sea of useless information.”
“I will, sir.”
“Thanks to your research this morning, you’ll have names to look out for. While you sort, I will see Mr. Collins about his son. But first, let’s speak with Mrs. Spectre, the woman Philpott recommended.”
A SMALL HAND-PAINTED sign confirmed Winston and Miller had found the premises of Mrs. Melodia Spectre, Spiritualist.
Miller sniffed when he saw the sign. “We are speaking to a psychic? The chief constable sent us here? She’s a crook, surely.”
“Your skepticism surprises me. As a police officer, you must keep an open mind.”
“And I do, when gathering evidence and considering suspects. Not when dealing with someone seeking to take your money for the privilege of predicting a vague future that is bound to come true for nearly everyone.” He held his hands up as if they cupped a ball. “You will die,” he chanted, and dropped his hands. “It’s nonsense, sir. Pardon my forwardness, but I’ve watched my mother spend more money than anyone should on this kind of parlour trick.”
“Perhaps it’s not all trickery. Philpott must have some reason for sending us to her.” Winston knocked on the door. He scratched at the flecks of paint that had transferred to his knuckles, straightening at the sound of footsteps approaching from behind the door.
A woman wrapped in colourful silks held the door open. “You’re late, Detective.”
Miller looked to Winston, who shrugged. “You must be Melodia Spectre. Did Chief Constable Philpott tell you to expect me?”
When she shook her head, the fabric almost appeared to change colour as it swished around her. “I have not spoken with Lawrence in some time. But I knew you would come today.” While she spoke in her singsong voice, her hand danced in front of her as if she were smoothing the air. “Please, enter.” She held the door open.
“Thank you, madam.”
“How convenient you married a man named Spectre. For your line of business, I mean.”
Winston fired a look at Miller for his rudeness.
She turned to the constable. “Have you had a bad experience with seers, young man? I make no false claims and want only to share what I glean from what I learn.” The policemen followed the woman through the house to a small sitting room. Columns of books crowded the room. A path led through toppled stacks to a round table and four chairs. Melodia Spectre cleared a pile of books from one of the chairs for Winston to sit. “What money I earn, I spend on books.”
“Do you have regular clients, Mrs. Spectre?” Winston asked.
“Melodia will do. What you are really asking, Detective, is whether I see clients here, correct? I prefer not to. Visiting their homes allows me to really see them.” She narrowed her eyes at Miller. “And how can I play games if the home is not mine?”
“You mean visiting your clients allows you to figure out how better to separate them from their money.”
“Constable,” Winston hissed. “That is quite enough. Mrs. Spectre—Melodia—has been recommended to us by Chief Philpott.”
Miller lowered his eyes, leaving Winston unsure whether the constable’s face darkened with shame or anger.
“It’s quite all right, Detective. I am used to questions. And your constable is correct. You can deduce much from the home a person keeps. Do you not find this in your own work?” She picked at the lace cloth covering the table. “For example, what do you surmise from my home?”
Winston surveyed the clutter of the space, its atmosphere close and humid. A heavy smell of mildewed paper permeated the room. “I’m afraid we haven’t come to compare detection techniques. Chief Philpott suggested we come to see what information you might have about men who have gone missing recently. One, Walter Huntington, was found drowned near False Creek. The other, Edmund Chase, remains missing.”
Melodia splayed her fingers out and pressed her palms into the table. “I sense their souls.” She narrowed her eyes and looked at Winston. “You will find the other,” she rasped.
Gooseflesh formed on Winston’s arms. “Alive?” Had the room’s temperature dropped?
“The men died for love.” The lights in the room flickered.
Miller pushed his chair from the table, its legs scraping against the floor. “Sir, this is foolish. She has said nothing that will help us find Chase or solve Huntington’s death.”
“Murder,” Melodia whispered. “They were murdered.”
“How do you know?” Winston suppressed a flash of defeat—another failure on his horizon. He leaned toward the woman, matching her tone. “What more can you tell us?”
She closed her eyes and her body assumed unnatural stillness. After uncomfortable moments of silence, Winston reached for her hand. At his touch, the lights blinked again. Melodia moaned and slumped forward.
“Really, sir. This is an act.” Miller knelt beside the table and ran his hand under it, avoiding the woman. “She must have some mechanism to control the lights.”
Winston stood to bring his fingers to Melodia’s neck. “She is alive.”
“Of course she is.”
“Should we move her?” Winston pointed at a couch covered in books.
Miller reached for her shoulder and shook her, eliciting a moan. “She’s coming around.”
Gasping for breath, the woman raised her head. “Gentlemen, I must apologize. My visions happen so quickly, but rarely do they so completely take over.” She pushed hair from her face and into a comb with shaky hands. “There.” She released a slow breath.
“What did you see?” Winston asked gently.
Melodia cocked her head. “Water. And I felt love, Detective. Deep, deep love.” She placed one hand over her heart and reached to place the other over Winston’s.
He pulled away, rubbing at a tingle in his chest where she had touched him. “Thank you, Melodia. We have taken enough of your time. If you think you’ll be all right, Constable Miller and I will take our leave.”
She nodded, and the policemen left her sitting with her hand still resting on her heart.
Outside, Miller scrubbed his hand over his face. “What was that, sir? Forgive me, but you saw it was all an act, right? Her dramatic movements so you don’t see her other hand under the table. Even if she’s never been in a home, it’s easy enough to pay a maid to answer questions ahead of time so it appears she has the gift of sight.”
“I witnessed a woman who believes she felt something. And who am I to say she didn’t?” Winston moved the constable along the sidewalk, away from the woman’s house. “Whether what she felt has anything to do with our cases remains to be seen. Remember, Mrs. Spectre did not share when Chase’s body would be found. Until it is, we may yet find him alive.”
“You have to admit, sir, ‘killed for love’ is rather vague. I could set up a business telling the future with similarly detailed predictions. They would prove right enough of the time to convince people I’m genuine.” He looked at Winston, searching. “Why are you so eager to believe her?”
The journal and Winston’s mysterious link to Riley pulled at him. “Why are you so eager not to, Constable Miller? We cannot discount something simply because we do not understand it.”
ONCE THEY ARRIVED AT the station Miller set off to tackle the file cupboard. Chief Philpott was elsewhere, leaving Winston free to head to the offices of Collins Shipping, a few blocks to the east of the station, at the foot of Main Street. Outside the building, the street hummed with people and horses moving in all directions.
Winston paused, closing his eyes to listen to the shouts, the hooves, and the cartwheels. He inhaled deeply as he resumed walking, noting a chorus of smells—some pleasant, like the aromas from the pie stand on the corner, and some not so pleasant, like those emanating from the piles of horse dung in the streets. Would Riley hear and smell similar things? Did her version of the city feel as wonderfully vibrant as this?
Inside the single-storey building that housed Collins Shipping, Winston noted a different hum than that on the street. Men sat at desks surrounding a central table, upon which lay a map. Behind the table, against the wall, a man monitored a telegraph machine, every so often handing a paper to an older boy, who in turn took it to a man at one of the desks. This man recorded something, then handed the page back to the boy, who brought it to the table. Winston observed this flow of activity for a couple of moments, then approached the man seated at the central table.
The slender man looked up from his low seat. In front of him, nearly covering the table’s entire surface, figurines of small boats dotted a map of the Pacific Ocean. He moved one after reviewing the document the boy had just given him. He looked at Winston with narrow eyes. “Yes?”
“I am here to see Mr. Timothy Collins.”
The man’s gaze flicked to Winston and his neat suit. “Is he expecting you?”
“I shouldn’t think so. I am with the police.” Winston reached into his pocket to find his identification card. The seated man reviewed it and looked again at Winston. Finally, he stood and walked away, saying nothing. He knocked on one of the heavy doors at the back of the room and disappeared within.
After a few minutes, the man returned. “This way, please.” He motioned for Winston to follow but did not look back to see he was doing so. He retraced his path to the offices against the wall. At the middle door, the clerk knocked twice, paused, then turned the knob. A large man sat behind a wooden desk that appeared much too small for the size of the room. He tilted his head at the clerk. “Thank you, Bennett.” The large man stood and reached his arm out, welcoming Winston. “I understand you are with the police,” he said.
Winston stepped forward and introduced himself. “I would like to ask you about your son, Mr. Collins.”
“A little late, aren’t you?” Winston found no frustration or dissatisfaction in the man’s tone.
“Yes, I realize he has been dead for two years. But we have a similar case.”
Collins raised his eyebrows. “Another dead young man?”
“Two young men. The first missing, then found drowned, and another man who remains missing.” Melodia Spectre’s words rang in Winston’s ears.
Collins pointed at one of the two wooden chairs in front of the desk. “I’m not sure how I can help. But if you think I can, please ask me your questions.”
“I’m hoping to learn a little about your son’s habits, where he spent his time, who he spent it with.”
“This information about my son. It will help your present investigation? Do you think his death is related?”
Winston leaned forward. “It could be tremendously helpful.”
“I don’t see how; Harold’s death was ruled accidental. I can tell you my son was a bright, though lazy, young man.” Mr. Collins shifted in his chair. “It’s true, I know; most young men are the same. Harold managed to avoid work in nearly any form.”
Winston remembered the way the newspaper had described the younger Collins. He was almost certain he was looking at the man who had provided the characterization.
Collins stared past Winston for a breath before bringing his gaze back to meet the detective’s, his face softened with grief. “Please do not think I am ill-natured. I speak out of guilt. I fear I drove him away.”
“Sir, I apologize for reminding you of something that saddens you.” Heat prickled Winston’s ears at having to ask this man to recall unhappy memories.
“I feel his absence acutely. As did my wife before her passing.” He turned his head away. “Harold may not have been travelling on the path I had hoped for him, but he was my son. And losing my hopes, however unrealistic they may have been, given my son’s nature, is something I will not forget.”
“I understand. Can you tell me with whom he spent his time?”
“He spent much of his time in drinking establishments—and not the finer kind that have opened recently. No, he frequented the darker sort, where few questions are asked and fewer answered. As for with whom he spent his time, it was anyone who would drink with him, and preferably anyone who would pay his tab. For all of his faults, my son was careful about spending my money.”
“Did he cheat others?”
Collins shook his head. “Not to my knowledge. He played cards, sure, but he was, as far as I know, honest when playing.”
“Any names?”
“None I can recall. He did not share much about his companions.”
“He worked here, with you?”
Collins sighed, wiping his face with the side of his hand. “For a time. He resented the pressure I put on him to join me here at the firm. I built this legacy for him.” The man swallowed. “Now I have nobody.”
“You and your wife had only one child?”
“I have a daughter. She’s married and returned to Toronto.” Collins tapped his index finger on his desk. “It broke my wife’s heart when Harold died. When she followed our son, there was little to keep our daughter here.”
“Mr. Collins, can you answer questions about your son’s life? The day-to-day?” Winston softened his voice.
The tapping stopped. “There is no one else who can.”
Hating having to pick at the man’s wounds, Winston leaned toward Collins. “Does your family have a physician?”
“Doctor Cole.”
“And Doctor Cole treated Harold?”
“Of course.” Collins resumed tapping.
“Are you a member of the Vancouver Gentlemen’s Club? Was your son?”
The taps came faster as Collins puffed his chest. “I was president when I welcomed Harold into the membership.”
“When was that?”
The taps ceased. “Shortly before he died.”
“Did your son have any romantic attachments?”
Collins focused his gaze out the window. “Nothing of note, Detective.”
“Your tailor, sir. Have you used him long?”
Collins tilted his head. “For several years now.”
“His name?”
“Sharp. How are these questions relevant, Detective? Are you in need of a physician? Or a suit?”
Winston crossed and uncrossed his legs, searching for how to proceed. “I’m not presently in need of either’s services, but am relatively new to the city, and—” He cast his gaze around the room, lingering on a painting of a seascape. “And I trust your recommendations.” He moved to sit squarely in the chair. Sharp and Cole again. Yet when Collins had arrived in the city, there were few others who provided these services. Was he looking for connections that did not exist?
Collins waved his hand. “Well, I hope the names help, however you use them.”
“One more question, if I may, sir. Were you satisfied with the investigation into your son’s death?”
A crease formed in Collins’ brow as he considered the question. “I would have preferred a different outcome. But I had no concerns with Doctor Cole’s findings. I’ve known the man for years.”
Another drowning victim examined by Cole. Surely not unexpected of the medical examiner. And yet.
Collins rose, signalling the end of the interview.
Winston’s chair scraped the floor as he stood. “Mr. Collins, thank you again for your time this morning. Please accept my apologies for any unsettling memories I have forced you to recall. You’ll appreciate, I’m sure, that your answers are valuable to the investigation.” Winston stopped himself as grief darkened Collins’ face.
Mr. Collins opened his office door. “This may be my son’s contribution to life—aiding a police investigation long after his death.”
*
THE WINDOWS OF SHARP’S Fine Goods and Tailoring rattled when Winston knocked, earning a stern look from a woman passing by. Winston tipped his hat to offer his apology. A red-faced Sharp opened the door. “Detective Winston. Was that entirely necessary?”
“I wasn’t sure how well you can hear when you’re in your back room, Mr. Sharp,” Winston said as he entered the shop.
Sharp’s face was pinched with worry. He locked the door behind Winston. “Is something wrong?”
A flash of anger coursed through Winston. He tried to tamp down his frustration. “Mr. Sharp, I do not particularly care to be lied to. Especially when it is part of an investigation.”
The man blanched. “Lied to? By whom?” He pointed to himself with a shaky finger. “Me?”
“Messrs. Chase and Huntington were much further along in their plans than you let me believe.”
“How am I to know what they’ve been up to?”
“Did either man share his plans with you?”
“No.” Sharp let a breath escape. “Not directly. Come to the back.”
In the brighter back room, Sharp continued. “Huntington had been working on designs.”
“I saw one when I was here before. It slipped out of one of your books when you looked something up.” Winston’s voice was calmer, softer.
“Yes. And they were good. Better than someone who had a passing interest in tailoring. I daresay he was talented.”
“And that worried you?” Winston leaned into his hands on the work table between him and Sharp. “He was a threat?”
“I didn’t think so, and I would have taken him on as an apprentice. But when I told him this, he announced that he didn’t need me. He’d found another partner who would work with him to build a business.”
“Chase.”
Sharp offered him a curt nod.
Winston leaned closer. “And how did you feel? About Huntington rejecting you?”
“Huntington’s designs were good. But I still believe most people would prefer their clothing to be made to their specifications.” Sharp paused, picked up a pattern piece from the table. “In time, however, if enough people embraced their idea, yes, I may have lost customers.” Sharp shifted behind the work table and met Winston’s eyes. “I realize this makes me a suspect, but I am not so callous I would harm a man over business.” The slight man sniffed.
Winston could not imagine him overpowering a large boy, let along a grown man. He scratched a thought into his notebook. “But you knew how far along they were in their plans?”
“They weren’t as far as they’d hoped. I overheard them, at the Gentlemen’s Club.”
“When was that?” Winston asked.
Sharp tilted his head as if searching for the memory. “About a week before Huntington disappeared. They were discussing money and how they were running out of it.”
“Which made you...” The question hung in the air.
“When I heard them, I knew they weren’t going to be a problem for my business. You need more than great designs to be successful. They hadn’t thought through the challenges of starting, and they’d run out of funds.” He shook his head, sadness tugging at his features. “It really is a shame that Huntington is dead. He had a good eye.” Sharp opened and closed his mouth. Winston waited for him to continue.
After a moment, the man cleared his throat. “What will happen to his designs? I’d be happy to take them. If they’re just going to be thrown away, I mean.”
Winston tucked his notebook into his pocket. “I’m not sure what will happen to Huntington’s designs, but that decision will likely rest with his mother. You’re welcome to make your offer to her.”
WINSTON RECOUNTED HIS conversations with Collins and Sharp to Miller over a beer. “What do you think?” he asked.
“Interesting, sir.”
“Which part, Thomas?”
Miller sipped his drink. “Ignoring Mrs. Spectre’s contributions, as they are really of no value, Sharp, the Gentlemen’s Club, and Doctor Cole have come up again.”
“This isn’t a surprise. Think about the growth in this city. Until relatively recently, there were few doctors living here. The same is true of tailors; Sharp told me there are only two. And there’s only the one men’s social club, although Philpott mentioned that another club may open soon.” Winston took a long draw on his beer. “Watch. These small circles of connection will quickly change as this city continues to grow.”
“A prediction, sir?” Miller smirked and raised his glass at Winston.
Winston held his hand in the air. “All right, Thomas. You have made your position on Mrs. Spectre quite clear. Let’s move on. What do we know about the names that keep appearing in these cases?” He tore a paper from his notebook and drew a vertical line bisecting it. “Collins, Huntington, and Chase knew the same tailor, doctor, and possibly others through the men’s club. Did you find anything more in our file room to connect them?”
Miller frowned. “I organized a few of the boxes, but what I’ve seen isn’t particularly useful,” he said.
“Okay. Let’s leave them for now. What links the men?” He echoed Riley’s question. “Chase is new to the city, whereas Collins and Huntington were considerably more established before they disappeared.”
Miller pushed his empty glass aside. “Chase had less time to meet people. Does that mean those he knew in common with the others are important?”
“Anyone the three gentlemen had in common is important. Let’s look at each man individually again.”
Winston counted off his fingers. “Huntington wasn’t particularly happy as a lawyer, at least according to both Sharp and Bright, Huntington’s partner. If the tailor is correct, Walter was considering abandoning the profession completely.” He pointed to the paper. “Who would that impact?”
“His mother? She is so proud of her son.”
Winston narrowed his eyes. “Proud enough to stop him from pursuing a dream?”
“Surely not. She seems devoted to him.”
“True. And I keep going back to his shoes. A mother would have ensured her son looked perfect,” Winston recalled. “Mrs. Huntington didn’t kill her son and had no reason to kill Edmund Chase. Or Harold Collins, if his death is in fact related to the others.”
“We’ve assumed they’re connected, sir, but what if the similarity ends with the men disappearing? Chase could cross his threshold any minute. Shouldn’t we be looking for him?”
Winston sat back and raised his glass to his lips. Thomas was right. He was wasting his time. He brushed the side of his pants to feel for Ellis’s stone. “You’re right. We should focus on him.”
Miller sat up and a smile of appreciation crossed his lips briefly. “Chase was last seen at work around midday, and nobody found it unusual. Was he often absent from work? And his colleagues didn’t care? Or were they angry about having to fill in for him?”
“Good. What about the missing time? Where did he go?”
“Do you suppose he had a mistress?”
“Possibly.” Winston tried to picture another woman in Chase’s life. Had the Chases lived in the city long enough for him to start up with a mistress? Mrs. Chase mentioned that something had unsettled her husband, but his letters to his mother explained that. No, it was unlikely that Chase was seeing another woman.
“What else do we know, Thomas?”
Miller leaned against the chair. “Chase and Huntington were starting a business. Which they needed money for. Might they have borrowed from someone unsavoury?” Miller counted another point using his fingers. “Was their business a threat to Sharp?”
Winston drummed his fingers on the table. “He didn’t come across as feeling immediately threatened. But what about Rupert? He’d lost a maid to Chase. That hardly seems a provocation to do the man harm. And he lacks the passion one needs to murder a man, seems to me, but if he had harboured a secret love for Louella Chase, maybe that was enough. Like Melodia Spectre said...” He held up a hand. “Put aside how you feel about her profession.”
“Such as it is,” scoffed Miller. “But I see your point. Are you satisfied with Rupert’s alibi?”
“Let’s not strike him from our list yet.” Winston sipped his beer. “What about Cole? He’s come up as connected to the men.”
“Why would he kill them?”
“I don’t know.” Winston settled his gaze off in middle space, recalling Cole’s post-mortem examination of Huntington’s body. “Though I have little experience being in the autopsy room, I left feeling as though Cole had overlooked something, or at least knew more than he chose to share. Huntington is due to be buried the day after tomorrow. I will go to the funeral home to see his body tomorrow.” He hung his head in his hands. “Are we heading down the wrong path, Thomas?”
“We haven’t wasted time, sir. Except maybe with Mrs. Spectre.”
“It’s been a long day. We’ll tackle this with fresh heads tomorrow.”