I THOUGHT I MIGHT as well have a look in at the Paradise, as it was on my route back to the Arcade.
The temperature had climbed even higher, and I felt as if I was trying to suck oxygen from air reluctant to yield it up. It took me twelve minutes to reach the Paradise. Hilliard had said Mr. Gilmore was a regular customer, and that made sense as the café was directly on the way to the office.
The lineup of men had vanished, presumably into the café. I pushed open the door and entered. A bell tinkled merrily, and a few of the customers looked up to see who had come in. The space was long and narrow with a single long table down the centre and individual small tables along both walls. It was full and noisy with chatter, a mix of men and women, though mostly men. There was a delicious smell of cooking food. Two large over-head fans whirred. Hilliard Taylor was behind the serving counter, accepting money from a rather down-and-out-looking customer.
A pretty young woman in a staid black maid’s dress and white apron walked toward me.
“Good day, madam. Here for lunch?”
“Actually, I’d like to speak to the owner, please.”
She gave me a fast head-to-toe scan then nodded toward Hilliard. “That’s him over there.”
He saw me, but made no acknowledgement except for a slight raise of his eyebrows. He wasn’t expecting me this early. I edged over to him and waited while he fin-ished counting out change for his customer. A table was squeezed into the corner, where two men were playing chess. A large, ornately framed mirror hung behind the counter, and I watched the reflections of those behind me. There was no doubt the Paradise catered to a poorer class of people. For the most part, they were scrawny and shabby. Several of the men were hunched over their soup bowls. They were eating quickly, as if they hadn’t seen a meal for a while and weren’t sure if they would see any more soon.
The café itself was anything but shabby. There were white cloths on the tables, the dishes looked of good quality. The walls were painted yellow, a paler colour than the outside trim but also sunny and bright.
“Can I help you?” Hilliard asked. He evidently wanted to keep up the pretence that we hadn’t met before.
“I understand you can use an extra hand here. I’d like to offer my services.”
I noticed one of the chess players look up at us.
“Have you got waitressing experience?” Hilliard asked. He was trying to suppress a grin.
“I do.”
“Excellent. When can you start?”
“Any time.”
“How about tonight?”
“Sure. I can do that.”
“Done. Come back at half past three. I’ll show you the ropes. We have three dinner sittings. First is at five. The others are at six and seven.”
Another customer was waiting to pay. The chess man appeared to be still paying attention to me. I was rather enjoying my new role.
“I’ll need to know what wages you’re offering.”
“The usual. Fifteen cents an hour to start. You’ll get a raise after three months if your work is satisfactory. Five cents a fortnight deducted for the uniform. You can expect to put in forty-eight to fifty hours a week when we’re busy.”
“And gratuities? Do I share them?”
He chuckled. “This is not a clientele that hands out gratuities. If anybody does, you get to keep it.”
I was glad this exchange was all for show. Who the heck could live on those kinds of wages?
“Sounds good to me. I’ll be here.”
“And your name is?”
“Frayne, Charlotte Frayne.”
I began to retreat toward the door, but before I could get past the chess players, the one who’d evinced such interest caught me by the arm. He stood up.
“Excuse me, miss. I’m one of the owners. My partner should have introduced us if you’re going to be work-ing here.”
He was smiling at me, but his eyes were angry. Hilliard came from behind the counter at once.
“So sorry. Miss Frayne, may I introduce my partner, Mr. Wilf Morrow.”
The other chess player sneaked in his chance to move a piece.
Hilliard indicated a poster pinned to the wall. It was announcing an upcoming chess competition.
“Among other things, Wilf is also a chess whizz,” said Hilliard. “Probably the best in the city.”
“Ha. Flattery will get you everywhere.” Hilliard’s comment seemed to mollify Wilf. His voice was raspy, as if he had laryngitis.
Another customer had come to the counter, and Hilliard excused himself to tend to him. Before I could leave, Wilf sat down, leaned back in his chair, and surveyed me from head to toe. Less obtrusively, I did my own scrutiny.
The most obvious thing about him was his thick thatch of fair, curly hair. It sprang out of his head in an electric sort of way. He had a short, bristly moustache that didn’t suit him. His best feature was his blue eyes. They would have been nicer if he weren’t angry with me. For what reason, I didn’t know.
“I must say, you don’t look as if you are out of work, Miss Fane. Exactly why are you in need of a job?”
“The name’s actually Frayne. Charlotte Frayne. Like a lot of people these days, I was suddenly turfed out on my ear. They could get the same help for less money.”
“What did you do?”
“I worked in an office.”
“Doing what?”
“Fetch and carry position.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Hilliard was listening intently. It might scuttle our proposed arrangement if I didn’t pass muster with his partner. So far I wasn’t sure I was going to make it.
Wilf frowned at me. “We’re not an office. What have you got to offer us?”
“I’m experienced, for one thing.” I allowed myself a cheeky grin. “And, like I said, I’m very good at fetching and carrying.”
“We could get ten women in a minute for the job. And at less wage. What else do you do?”
I glanced down at the chessboard.
“Beautiful set you’ve got there.”
It was indeed exquisite. The chess pieces were polished wood, and each seemed to be individually carved. Wilf’s opponent was an older man with a sun-darkened, weather-beaten face and shrewd but sad eyes. He wasn’t paying attention to me but was focussed only on the chessboard before him.
I was surprised when he said, without looking at me, “Wilf makes them himself. He might sell you a set if you ask him nice.”
Wilf guffawed. “She won’t know how to play, Pete. I’ve yet to meet a woman who could tell a knight from a bishop unless he was in the bedroom.”
I was stunned by Wilf’s statement. How about that for provocation?
Pete glanced up at me in embarrassment. I leaned over Wilf’s shoulder.
“Speaking of bishops, if you move your rook to bishop three you can put Pete in check. He won’t get out of it.”
Wilf gaped at the board. His shock was immensely satisfying.
As I headed for the door, I tapped Pete on the shoulder. “Sorry. It’s not that I wanted you to lose, but the move was too obvious not to mention.”
“Anytime,” said Pete, flashing me a grin.
I looked at Wilf, who was still studying the board. “I’ll see you later, Mr. Morrow.” Then I turned and, with a wave at Hilliard, I left.
In ten minutes, I reached the office. I felt like a wet dishrag. Mindful of the warnings in all the newspapers about heatstroke, I went straight to the sink and splashed water on my face and wrists. Stockings off again, buttons undone, I began to feel more human. I soaked a tea towel in water, draped it around my neck, and went to my desk. I had just sat down when the telephone rang. I answered it on the first ring. It was Mr. Gilmore.
“Ida has regained consciousness,” he said abruptly. His voice was tight and strangled.
“Thank goodness.”
I had no chance to continue.
“She is still not really lucid. The detective tried to question her, but with no success.”
I was at a loss for words.
“Do you realize what this means, Miss Frayne?”
I wasn’t able to answer fast enough.
“She cannot exonerate me.”
“I’m sure nobody suspects you, Mr. Gilmore. That would be too ridiculous.”
“Would it?” He paused. “I was sitting at her bedside. She opened her eyes, saw me, and started to scream. A detective was also in the room.”
“Oh, no!”
“I’m afraid so. She wouldn’t stop. The nurse rushed in to calm her down, but couldn’t. Finally the doctor gave her a sedative, but she appeared not to recognize me. I was not her beloved husband, I was somebody to be feared.”
“What does the doctor say?”
“He says she is having a delayed reaction to the trauma. I told him she has had bouts like this before. I’m not sure that anyone believed me.”
“But Mrs. Gilmore will recover?”
“The doctor could not give me that reassurance. In his words, ‘All we can do is hope.’” He paused. “What if she doesn’t, Miss Frayne? Not only will I lose my dear Ida, I will be under suspicion of having attacked her.”
I could hear him struggling for his equanimity.
“Try not to dwell on that, Mr. Gilmore. We are an inves-tigating firm, after all. We will find out exactly what happened.”
“I hope so.”
I was tempted to ask him about the hour for which I was unable to account, but decided this wasn’t the time. However, I had underestimated him. He went straight to it.
“I’m sure the police detective asked you if you could provide an alibi for me.”
“He did.”
“You are probably wondering what I was up to that it took me so long to get home.”
“Yes, I was so wondering.”
“The weather, I’d say. I walked down to the lake and sat by the beach to cool off. I took much longer than I anticipated.”
“Did you explain this to the detective?”
“Of course. He didn’t believe me.”
I could not answer Mr. Gilmore in the manner he was expecting, as I wasn’t sure I did either. He had seemed in a big hurry to check on his wife. Having worked for a year now as an investigator, I knew only too well there could be a dozen reasons he’d changed his mind about going straight home. Unfortunately, in similar circumstances, they were rarely above board.
I heard someone in the background calling his name.
“I must go, Miss Frayne. I will leave a message with our answering service about the situation here.”
He hung up.
I wiped my face with the wet towel. I felt terrible about all of this. I wasn’t closing my eyes to the facts. Mr. Gil-more’s demeanour was not merely odd. It was very unlike the man I had come to know professionally. Could the unaccounted time be as simple as he’d said? A walk to the lake?
Given Wilf Morrow’s remark about my appearance, I thought it might be a good idea to change my clothes into something evincing a salary a little less fortunate. Besides, Gramps would be happy to have me at home. He never complained, but I knew he got lonely when I was away for long stretches of the day. A significant incentive for me to work with Mr. Gilmore had been that my hours were flexible. Even if I was out on a case, he didn’t mind if I took time to look in on my grandfather.
I reached for my damp stockings, wondering if I could be so bold as to walk home with bare legs?
I’d missed the sound of footsteps in the hall. The first thing I knew was the rattle of the mail slot. An envelope dropped into the letter box. The handwriting was all too familiar. Even from my desk, I recognized it.
Same bold handwriting, but this was addressed, “Miss C. Frayne. The Yonge Street Arcade. 3rd floor. Suite B. Toronto.”
Not bothering to put my shoes on, I ran to the door, opened it, and went into the hall. There was no one in sight. Fast as I could, I raced to the stairwell at the far end. It, too, was empty. The postman must have already reached the bottom. In bare feet, I galloped down the stairs to the exit door, which opened into the arcade itself. There were a few people strolling about. All very normal, calm-looking people. There were literally a dozen places the postman could have gone, including outside to Yonge Street. A few of the passersby gave me curious glances. I can only imagine what I looked like, without stockings or shoes. I turned and climbed back upstairs.
I waited until I was inside the office before I opened the envelope and took out the one sheet of paper. The message was direct.
Hope she dies. One less breeder of Jews. The same thing could happen to you unless you break off all connections with the filth.
I took the first letter out of the drawer and placed both envelopes and letters side by side. They had obviously been written by the same hand. The letter addressed to me did not have any tea stain and looked a little cleaner, but it too had been torn from a top-opening school note-book with lined pages, slightly faded. I examined the new epistle through my magnifying glass. There were no overwrites on this one, but the writing had been done with a fountain pen, medium width nib. The envelope didn’t reveal much more. Except for the name, the address was exactly the same on both. Did the writer know my first name and omitted it? Or did they not know what the C stood for? Rather important information.
The most obvious and most sobering fact about the second letter was that the writer knew what had happened to Mrs. Gilmore. How? The possibilities at this stage were limited. A neighbour? A police officer? The attacker himself?
I placed the original letter in an envelope and sealed it. I did the same with the second letter and locked both of them in my desk drawer. Mr. Gilmore had been keen to destroy his letter, but I was not so inclined. After my initial feeling of shock and fear, I was angry. I was not going to let this go. The feeling of security in the office that I had taken for granted these past two years had been shattered.
It was getting to be too late to consider going home, changing, and then back to the café in time to arrive at half past three. I’d have to return as is, wearing clothing that identified me as gainfully employed. I reached for the telephone to call Gramps and warn him it might be a while before I came home.
Not long after I had started to work with Mr. Gilmore, I’d had a telephone installed in my house. The machine was totally new to Gramps, and he never used it himself to call anyone. He viewed it with the suspicion of an old soldier who was confronting a strange-looking parcel that might blow up at any moment.
After four or five rings, he answered.
“Yes?”
As usual, he shouted into the phone, not because he was hard of hearing but because he thought that was the only way to make himself heard over the distance.
“Gramps. How many times do I have to tell you? You must answer by giving the number. Main 7425.”
“Why do I have to do that? You know who you’re calling, don’t you?”
“I could be a stranger.”
“Who? Nobody calls here except you. The others are wrong numbers or people trying to sell me something. Just got one about an hour ago.”
“Wrong number?”
“Yep. A man. He wanted to sell me an insurance policy. I told him I didn’t need it. I was properly insured, thank you very much. I said my beneficiary would be left well off.”
“What? You told him all that?”
“I was having him on. Irritating bloke. He’s called before. Thinks I can’t tell.”
“When did he call before?”
“Ages ago. But I’ve still got my marbles. I knew it was the same bloke.”
“What did he sound like?”
“How should he sound? Like a man trying to sell me insurance.”
Gramps was exasperated. I knew he wasn’t going to be able to tell me the fine points of the strange caller. Educated? Old? Young? In his mind there were only two kinds of people: the English and the others.
“Why are you ringing, Lottie? I’m in the middle of listening to my program. According to the farm news we’re going to have a terrible harvest. The fruit is rotting on the trees. The ground is so parched, nothing is growing.”
“I’d hoped to get home early, Gramps, but I have a new assignment that I have to go to. I wanted to make sure you’ll be all right.”
“Of course I’ll be all right. Don’t rush around. It’s too hot. What’s your assignment? Not another irate husband, I hope?”
“No, not this time. It’s to do with theft.”
“Ha. It’s a miracle every house in the city isn’t being robbed, given the state of unemployment.”
I headed him off before he could go galloping into one of his rants about the government.
“There’s some cold chicken in the icebox, Gramps. And there’s some salad left you can have with it.”
“Don’t worry about me. Mrs. Johnson said she’d come by and fix something.”
Mrs. Bertha Johnson was a widow who had moved into our neighbourhood two months ago. She had expressed a lot of sympathy for my grandfather’s lonely state and made a point of coming over when I was working late to keep him company and make dinner. She seemed to be coming over a lot. Frankly, I didn’t know quite what to make of her.
“Go back to your program, Gramps. I’ll try not to be late.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll manage. By the way, I made up another Mary had a little lamb joke.”
My grandfather loved making up jokes. Some of them execrable, some funny.
“I told Mrs. Johnson, and she almost split her sides laughing.”
“Did she? That must have been painful.”
“What?”
“Never mind, Gramps. Go ahead. Tell me the joke.”
“All right. Here we go. Mary had a little lamb who thought it was a pig, and everywhere that Mary went, that lamb became a ham.”
I groaned. “That’s awful.”
“Bertha thought it was hilarious.”
“Different funny bones, I guess.”
“She’s a good woman, Lottie,” he said huffily. “We enjoy a laugh together.”
His response didn’t make me any happier.
“I don’t think I’ll be too late home, Gramps. Have a good evening.”
“I’ll leave you the leftover chicken.”
We hung up.
I gathered up my things, forced myself to put on my stockings, and headed out.
I checked the hall before going to the stairs. It was deserted. My neighbours all had their doors closed. Business wasn’t jumping. I thought about asking Mr. Patchell, the onions man, if he’d seen anybody come to my door, but I thought it was a waste of time.
THE PARADISE WAS CLOSED between three o’clock and five o’clock (after lunch and before dinner), and I had to ring their bell to gain entrance. Hilliard Taylor came hurry-ing to open the door.
“Miss Frayne. Come in.”
“Am I still hired?”
“Yes, of course. You impressed Wilf. That’s for sure. The other two are happy to go along with my recommen-dation.” He stepped back. “Conal is upstairs working on one of his paintings. Wilf has gone out. Eric is in the kit-chen preparing the dinner plate. Come this way and I’ll introduce you.”
I trotted after him, and, as we went past the counter, he grabbed an apron that was hanging on a hook.
“Would you mind putting this on? It will put them in the right frame of mind.”
Wilf had taken exception to the way I was dressed, so it was a safe assumption that Hilliard was trying to make sure my image was different for the other two partners. I slipped on the apron.
“Would you roll up your sleeves?” he said.
I did. I also undid the buttons at my collar. Now I was ready to tackle anything.
THE KITCHEN WAS HOT, but there was another big overhead fan going, which made things bearable. Eric was standing over the sink, peeling potatoes. The naked ones were halved and dropped into a massive pot on the stove. He turned and gave me a pleasant smile when he saw me.
“Hello, Miss Frayne. Welcome. Hill told me you’d be filling in for a while.”
Hilliard slapped him on the shoulder. “This is Eric Fenwell, chief cook, partner, all-round good fellow.”
Like Hilliard, Eric was a tall man. No stereotype of the jolly, red-cheeked cook. He was thin and lean, with a long, narrow face; he didn’t have much hair left, and the stragglers were grey.
“Whatever you’re making smells good,” I said, ever agreeable.
“Simple vegetable soup. I’m just adding to it for the dinner sitting.” He kept on with his task, but addressed me over his shoulder. “Did Hill fill you in about our camp days? Every Wednesday we have one.”
Hilliard answered, “Not yet.”
“What’s a camp day?” I asked.
Eric picked up another potato and peeled it rapidly. The peeling he dropped into a bowl that seemed to have various tag ends of vegetables in it.
“You tell her, Hill. You’re our chronicler.”
Hilliard shrugged. “We call it that to commemorate our time in a pow camp during the war.”
“That must have been tough.”
“Tough is a mild word for it, Miss Frayne,” said Eric. “We were being steadily starved to death. A bowl of so-called soup was dished out once a day. Really it was the leftover water from the boiled potatoes that the guards had had for their dinner.” He grinned at me. “Don’t worry, that’s not what we serve on our camp day.” He gave the soup a brisk stir. “This is potato soup as it should have been.”
Unasked, Hilliard picked up a potato from the basket and started to peel it. He took up the tale.
“We were young men, healthy and hearty until we were captured. It didn’t take long before we were skeletal.” Play-fully, he poked Eric in the ribs. “Hey, pal, you still could do with a bit of meat on your bones.”
“I try, but it won’t stick.”
“You’d better stop digging those ditches then.”
They laughed at the shared joke I could guess at.
“We had to work,” Hilliard said. “Hard physical work. At the end of the day we’d be marched back to the camp, to our bowl of hot water, a slice of black bread every other day.”
“Ugh. Don’t remind me of the bread. I think it was made of sawdust.” Eric scowled and dropped a sliced potato with some force into the pot. It splashed up hot water.
“We ate it anyway. Amazing what you’ll eat when you’re starving.”
I frankly didn’t know what to say. All I could do was look sympathetic.
“You were in the same camp, I take it?” Hilliard had already given me this information, but I thought it might be a good idea to maintain the fiction that I was a com-plete stranger. And I must admit I was gripped by a strong desire to let them both know somebody was interested in what had happened to them.
Eric started to busy himself scrubbing down the cutting board. Hilliard peered into the pot. “That’s probably enough, Eric. Let’s add more carrots.”
Without waiting for Eric to agree, Hilliard picked up a handful of cut carrots from a bowl on the counter.
“Hey, who’s the cook here?” protested Eric.
Hilliard returned the carrots to the bowl. “Okay. You are. Sorry.”
“Go and sit down. Finish the story.”
Hilliard pulled out a chair for me at the table. He sat down across from me.
“There were four of us, all Canadians, and we formed a bond, a pack you might more accurately call it. Me, Eric here, Wilf Morrow, whom you’ve met, and Conal Pierce. Actually, Conal’s Irish, but he had immigrated to Canada just before war broke out, and he joined up. To fight for the Empire.”
Suddenly, Eric put both hands on the counter and leaned forward. He began to cough, a hard, dry coughing that shook his frame.
“What’s up?” Hilliard asked. “Are you all right?”
“I think I need a break. I should go out for some air.”
Immediately, Hilliard jumped up and went over to him. He put his arm around Eric’s shoulders.
“It’s too hot to go outside. Why don’t you have a lie-down upstairs? I’ve got the fans going, and it’s not bad up there. I’ll call you in an hour.”
“All right. Pop the shepherd’s pie in the oven. Low heat. The gravy’s ready. Just needs heating up.”
“Got it.”
For a moment, Eric didn’t move, then he straightened up. He nodded over at me. “Sorry, Miss Frayne. I’m not contagious, honest. The heat’s getting to me. See you later.”
He was heading for the door when he stopped and grabbed a tattered book that was on the shelf above the sink.
“Recipes,” he said to me. “ I’ve got to find something that doesn’t need much oven.”
He left.
Hilliard went back to the counter and picked an onion out of a wire basket. He began to slice it into chunks.
“I just don’t know if it’s better never to bring up the past or if by sharing it we can let it go.”
“It’s hard to tell sometimes. Does Eric always react like that when you talk about the camp?”
“Not always, but it does happen.”
He let go of a deep sigh. I could see why finding out what was happening to the café was so fraught for him. He reached into the basket and took out another onion.
“As Eric said, we were slowly starving. We would lie on the bunks in those fetid barracks and, to keep ourselves sane, we’d share stories about food. Meals we’d eaten back home, the taste of things we loved to eat. I think that’s where the idea of a café was first conceived. We vowed that when we started the café, we’d include those special meals, but we’d also have a camp day when we’d reproduce the food that we were served. We wanted to educate the public as to what it was like.” He fell silent. I waited.
“Of course, we couldn’t really do that. Who on earth would voluntarily choose to pay for a bowl of soup that was mostly water with the occasional piece of rotten meat thrown in? Instead, we make a version of that food. The potato soup is delicious. The black bread is a favourite. It’s been a while now, so mostly the customers aren’t curious as to why we call it camp day. They just like the soup and the bread.”
“What are some of the special favourite meals?”
“The ones we’d remember when we were lying on that flea-ridden mattress trying to do whatever we could to survive, you mean?”
“Yep.”
He wiped tears away with the back of his hand. “Damn onions.”
I gave him a moment to get his pesky watering eyes under control. Before he had the chance to answer, the kitchen door swung open and Wilf Morrow entered, followed by a man I hadn’t yet met. They were both heavily under the influence.
When he saw me, Wilf beamed.
“If it isn’t miss chess whiz. I should tell you, madam, that I did make the move you suggested, and my opponent capitulated. I had two dollars riding on that game, so I thank you.”
He gave me an ostentatious bow, sweeping his hat off.
“You’d have seen it yourself in a minute,” I answered modestly.
Hilliard added the last onion to the pot on the stove and lit the gas.
“Introduce Conal,” he said to Wilf. The tender moment had vanished.
“Yes, sir. I was about to.” Wilf indicated the man behind him. “Miss Frayne. This is Conal Pierce. He is the fourth member of this illustrious quartet. Don’t let the fact that he is Irish and therefore, ipso facto, an ignorant, probably drunken, peasant deter you from making his acquaintance.”
Conal didn’t seemed bothered by the insult, and I got the feeling this was what passed for regular banter between them. He gave me a shy nod. He was definitely the shortest of the four of them and, although they must all have been close in age, he looked a lot younger. He had dark hair, blue eyes, and prominent ears.
“Glad to meet you, Miss Frayne, I understand you will be helping out for the next little while.”
He had retained an Irish lilt to his voice.
“Conal has finally finished his next masterpiece,” said Wilf. “Mr. Pierce, unveil if you please.”
“Certainly.” He pronounced it, Shertainlee.
He was carrying a wrapped parcel under his arm, which he placed on the table.
Wilf said to me, “There is no doubt Conal here is a genius as lofty as any that hang in the Louvre. Unfortun-ately, the world at large has not yet recognized this fact.” He gave the other man a rather hard slap on the back. “Do not despair, Conal. Your time will come. Let’s have a look at what you’ve done.”
Again, the Irishman seemed unperturbed by the banter. Hilliard was busy dealing with the soup. There were a couple of pans on the stove that had dough in them. He put them in the oven.
“Where’s Eric,” asked Wilf. “Why are you playing mom?”
“He was tired out. I sent him upstairs to have a rest.”
“Good idea. I think I might do the same.”
“Oh, no, you won’t. You’ve got to set up the boards for tonight’s contest.”
“Our new helper knows chess. She can do it.”
I didn’t have a chance to respond. Hilliard snapped at his partner.
“No. It’s your job. Conal, are you going to show us your masterpiece or not?”
“Sure. I was just waiting for you two to stop bickering.” He gave a mock pout. “I will not throw my pearls before swine.”
Wilf drew himself up in mock belligerence. “Who are you calling a swine, peasant?”
Hilliard directed a smile at me. “Don’t mind us, Miss Frayne. We go on like this all day.”
“I hope you don’t expect me to join in,” I said in my sweetest voice.
All three of them stared at me. Hilliard recovered.
“Of course not. Now, Conal. Unwrap your damn paint-ing and let’s get on with the job of bloody running a successful café, shall we.”
Stumbling a little, Conal did as he was told.
I can’t say if the canvas that emerged could have been called a masterpiece, but it was without doubt one of the most striking and troubling works I’ve seen.
At the centre of the painting was the figure of a man who appeared to be tied to a post. His head had fallen forward, onto his chest, and his body was slumped. In the background were rows of huts. All the colours were sombre except that one of the windows in the nearest hut was lit. The light was blood red.
“What do you think, Miss Frayne?” Conal asked.
I wasn’t sure how to respond. Probably there were paintings out there that were better executed, more technically skilful, but this one had captured some raw feeling that seemed to leap from the canvas and grab the viewer by the throat.
Hilliard and Wilf were both regarding the canvas. I was trying to muster up some answer, but Hilliard spoke first. His voice was low.
“We’ve got to let it go, for God’s sake. You, me, Wilf, Eric. We must let it go.”
“Can’t you paint some nice daisies or petunias, even cute puppies?” Wilf said, but the joke went flat.
Conal began to rewrap the painting. “My apologies, gentlemen. I didn’t want to upset the apple cart.”
Hilliard grabbed his hand. “Stop it.”
I’m not sure how the situation would have resolved itself, but, at that moment, a man walked into the kitchen. I recognized him; he was the defeated chess player, Pete.
“Where’s Eric? There’s a pal of his wants to come in and talk to him.”
“We’re busy right now. Who is it?” Hilliard asked.
“It’s the detective fella. Name of Murdoch.”
I caught the warning glance that flashed between Hilliard and Wilf.
Pete surveyed the group. “What’s up with you lot? You look like you dropped a dollar and picked up a dime.”
Hilliard took charge. “Wilf, go and rouse Eric. Conal, put your painting somewhere safe for the time being. We’ll talk about it later.”
He reached over and ruffled the other man’s hair. “Don’t fret, there’s a good chap. You’ve done a super painting. It’s just that …” His voice trailed off.
Conal had a stricken expression on his face. “I know, I know. We should have done with all of that.”
I was contemplating jumping in the deep end and asking them what the hell it was they should have done with, but Pete spoke first.
“I’ll go and set up the chess set.”
He scuttled out of the kitchen, passing Eric at the door. His face was crumpled from sleep. Wilf was right behind him.
“I understand Jack Murdoch is asking to talk to me. What shall I do?” Eric’s question was aimed at Hilliard.
“Don’t leave the poor chap frying on the sidewalk. Bring him in. He’d probably like some cold lemonade.”
I was feeling like a fifteenth wheel, if there’s such a thing. Hilliard addressed me.
“Miss Frayne. You must be wondering what sort of group you’ve got yourself mixed up with. Don’t worry. Most of the time we’re all as sane as the next man — which isn’t saying much these days.”
I was uneasy with the fact that Detective Murdoch was on the premises. I didn’t want my undercover persona to be flushed out before I’d even started. None of the other three partners needed to know I was a private investigator, and Murdoch might mention it.
“While they’re dealing with the law, why don’t you show me around the kitchen? You might need me to chop vegetables or scrub the floor or some such.”
Eric looked at me. “This is my domain. You’ll be out front with the customers.”
“Maybe playing chess,” said Wilf with what sounded like false heartiness to me.
Eric turned to Hilliard. “Hill. You didn’t give me an answer. What shall I say to Jack?”
“I suggest you find out what he wants first before worrying about what to say to him.”
“If it’s to do with the café, you and Wilf should be present.”
“And Conal,” said Hilliard.
The man in question had finished wrapping his painting and was sitting by the table. He didn’t seem to be part of the conversation at all. Hilliard walked over to him.
“Con, I promise we’ll have a proper look at the painting after closing. It looks stunning to me.”
“And to me,” said Wilf. “Great job.”
“What are we talking about?” Eric asked.
“Con’s finished another painting,” answered Hilliard.
“Oh. That’s good. Now I suggest we go and have a chat with Murdoch. All of us. Even you, Conal.”
They began to file out of the kitchen. Hilliard came close to me.
“Perhaps you could come too, Miss Frayne. You never know what you might pick up on.”
Frankly I didn’t know what to do. He was the client, after all. I didn’t have a chance to tell him I’d just met Murdoch. Wilf still seemed ambivalent about my employment, even though I was concentrating on sending out innocuous, sweet vibrations. Neither Eric nor Conal seemed to care. But Hilliard was right. I might pick up valuable information.