OLIVIA AND ED WERE WAITING for him in the front hall.
“You’d better hurry up, we don’t have much time,” said Olivia. “There’s sure to be a long queue already.”
“I’m ready. I just have to change coat and hat with Ed.”
“What’s he going to do now?”
“He can stay in my office.”
“That’s a laugh. Ed in a frog’s job. Let’s hope he won’t have any plungers to deal with.”
“Don’t worry, all he’s going to do is sit there and shut up.”
Clearly Olivia was a mite jealous of Ed’s change in status, even if it was pretend. As for him, he was beaming and when Murdoch slipped on the dirty-looking hat and the long, heavily stained coat, he could see why. Even with the sealskin coat, Ed was definitely getting the better end of the exchange.
Leaving him safely ensconced behind the desk with a copy of the chief constable’s annual report to keep him occupied, Murdoch and Olivia set out for the depot. She had softened toward him again and chatted away as they walked up Parliament as fast as he could manage.
“Ed and I are thinking of getting hitched this summer.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in marriage?”
“Who told you that? It’ll be good for business and Tim needs a father as he’s getting older.”
She seemed oblivious to the fact that her business as she called it was on the other side of the law. Murdoch had promised them a pardon if they helped him and he hoped he’d be able to honour that promise.
“We’ll invite you,” she added.
The depot was at the corner of Parliament and Oak Streets on the front steps of the Methodist church. The queue of applicants was already about twenty strong and Olivia and Murdoch slipped in at the end. A trestle table was set up in front of the church doors and two well-dressed ladies were standing behind it with aprons over their fur coats and soup ladles at the ready in their hands.
“Where’s your pail?” Olivia hissed in Murdoch’s ear.
“I didn’t think to bring one.”
She smirked at him triumphantly. “No good at this, are you? Good thing I have mine.”
He glanced around and saw that all the other people in the queue were carrying enamel or tin pails of various sizes and shapes. The majority of the applicants were women. Behind him an old lady, wizened and toothless, muttered to herself and avoided his glance. She was carrying a blackened iron pot. In front of him was a coloured girl, about ten years old, who had a scarf tied over her summer bonnet for headgear. There were only two other men in the entire group, one middle-aged and bone thin, who shifted restlessly from side to side as he waited, the other younger and fierce-looking. He stood slightly apart from the others, ashamed of being in such company.
“Do you see the girl?” Murdoch asked Olivia.
She shook her head. “Not yet.”
The church doors opened and two men came out carrying a large, steaming soup pot between them, which they hoisted onto the trestle table. The queue stirred and shuffled forward. The women who were serving were friendly and brisk.
“Give your dockets to Mrs. Heller as you come up,” called out one of them. “Hurry up now, get it while it’s hot. Hold up your pail, there’s a good girl.”
This was addressed to the ten-year-old. She received her dollop of soup, covered it with a tin lid, picked up two slices of bread from the bin, and hurried away. Her pail wasn’t that large and Murdoch wondered how many people it was supposed to feed.
From where he stood, the soup smelled good and the eagerness with which the applicants in the queue stared at the pot confirmed they felt the same.
Suddenly, Olivia nudged him with her elbow. “There she is, over there.”
A young woman with a plaid shawl over her head was walking slowly up the road. She had a pail in her hands, which were ungloved.
“What do you want me to do?” Olivia whispered.
“Nothing at the moment. Just get your soup. And let her get hers, then we’ll talk to her.”
He could see the woman scanning the group and he ducked his head. He didn’t want anything to frighten her away and he could feel his heart beating faster in anticipation. She might hold the key to the murder.
She joined the end of the line just as Olivia and Murdoch were moved forward. He was so obviously in pain the two women serving at the trestle table smiled on him with sympathy.
“He forgot his pail,” said Olivia as she held out hers for her serving. The older of the two women, a sweet-faced matronly woman, reached down and brought out an enamel bowl from a box beside her.
“You can use this, but you’ll have to eat your soup here.”
Mrs. Heller intervened, “Do you have your docket?”
Murdoch groaned to himself. He’d forgotten all about that. “No, I don’t.”
She frowned at him, her good humour vanishing, a woman who was wise to the ways of paupers. “You did receive one, I hope?”
“Well, I, er –”
“’Course he did,” Olivia jumped in. “He’s on Reverend Howard’s list, if you want to check.”
“We don’t go by lists,” said the woman. “You have to present us with a docket.” She reached into a cloth bag on the table and pulled out a white slip of paper. “It looks like this.” She’d raised her voice as if he had suddenly become hard of hearing.
Olivia turned to Murdoch and snapped, “You’d forget your head if it was loose.” She swivelled back to the church woman. “I’ll vouch for him, missus. He hurt his back chopping wood and I think it affected his brain.”
Some brave soul from the rear of the queue shouted out, “What’s the hold up?”
The older matron hesitated, then nodded at her companion. Ungraciously, Mrs. Heller seized the bowl and spooned half a ladle of soup into it. Olivia’s pail was filled next and they picked up their bread and moved away quickly from the line, making their way over to one of the benches by the curb. Most of the people in the queue left immediately after they’d received their helping but some, like them, sat on the bench to eat the soup while it was indeed hot. Murdoch had no utensil with which to eat the thick glutinous liquid so he followed the example of a man next to him and brought the bowl to his lips and half drank, half chewed it down. Although the colour was an unappetizing grey, and the consistency was that of wallpaper glue, it was surprisingly tasty and he had no trouble eating it. Olivia took out a spoon from her pocket and used that.
The bread was dry and Murdoch used it to sop up the last bit of soup. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
“Oi, that’s Ed’s good coat,” said Olivia. “I’m going to buy him a new one.”
The young woman in the shawl was now at the front of the line and she received her helping, got her two slices, and started to walk away.
“Go and talk to her, quick,” said Murdoch. “Tell her who I am and that I must talk to her about what she said to you. I won’t prosecute.” He squeezed Olivia’s arm. “Please give me a good reference, I’m depending on you.”
“Take care of my pail.” She got up and hurried over to the girl. They were out of earshot, but Murdoch could follow what was being said. First the surprised greeting, then the sudden alarmed glance in his direction (he smiled), then the vigorous shaking of the head, then more talking, Olivia’s hands gesticulating (another smile from him), finally a reluctant agreement. Olivia took the girl’s arm and led her to the bench. She was even younger than she had seemed from a distance, but poverty had worn away most of the prettiness she might have had. She had the pasty skin typical of somebody who doesn’t eat decent food. Her dark brown eyes were hard and wary.
“Mr. Murdoch, this is Ida. She’s agreed to help but only if you promise she won’t get into trouble.”
Murdoch stood up and touched his hat. “Hello, Ida. It’s not you I’m after. I want to follow up on something you told Mrs. Bagley.”
“I told who?”
“Are you the frog’s shill?”
“No, I’m not. He’s making me do it.”
Murdoch was irritated by this remark and his voice was sharp. “Let’s say we struck a bargain. Both sides benefit.”
Olivia sucked in her cheeks. “We’ve all got to make a living in this sorry world, haven’t we?”
“Yes, we do, and that includes me,” Murdoch snapped back at her.
Ida had watched this exchange with interest and for some reason it seemed to bring her more over to Murdoch’s side.
“I’m getting perishing here while you two barney. Can we get on with it so I can go home?”
Murdoch forced himself to calm down. “You mentioned a certain man to Mrs. Bagley here. You said he was a Visitor with the city. Do you know his name?”
“Can’t say as I do.”
Murdoch reached into his inner pocket and took out his money clip. He had five one-dollar bills. He pulled out two of them.
“Will this further our conversation?”
“Two won’t, but three might. I’m not that chatty.”
“All right, three dollars and no more.”
Ida took the money from him and stuffed it inside her jacket. Then she laughed, a loud, coarse laugh that was nevertheless genuine.
“You should have heard first and paid after because truth is I really don’t know the cove’s name. They don’t introduce themselves. They’ll ask for yours, mind. They ask all sorts of questions of you. They poke around your room to make sure you really are starving and freezing and not just malingering. Mostly they want to see if you are hickey and even if you’ve downed some vile brew to help you forget your godforsaken life, they don’t give a pauper’s dilberry. You’re shit out of luck if you’re caught. Then like God Almighty himself, they decide if you are going to get a docket for a few bits of coal that won’t last more than three days and food that isn’t enough to feed a dog anyway and for this you have to bob and bow and look ever so grateful or you’re off their list.”
This flood of bitterness washed over Murdoch. “Are they all like that, all the Visitors?”
“Yeah, they all are. Some just have more cream on the top than others, but underneath they’re the same sour milk.”
She plopped herself down on the bench and removed the lid from the pail. “I’m going to have my pig’s swill now. Talk away.”
“The man who propositioned, er –”
“I know what that means. The man who wanted to have some touch up in exchange for a couple of dockets.”
“What did he look like?”
Ida raised her pail to her lips and, like Murdoch had, half ate, half drank the soup. “Can’t tell you that either, he was muffled up. Didn’t want his mug to show.”
“Was he tall, short? Fat? Thin?”
She sighed. “Let’s put it this way, mister. I wasn’t paying much attention. They’re all the same to me because from where I’m working I usually can’t see their faces anyway.”
Olivia snorted in disapproval.
“There’s bin so many, I can’t tell one from the other,” continued Ida. “I make it a point, really. Why should I remember them? They don’t want to know me,”
Murdoch couldn’t help himself. “But you’re hardly twenty, surely?”
She snickered. “You’re out by two years, mister.”
“I’d have said close to thirty myself,” chipped in Olivia.
“Nobody asked you, did they?”
Both women looked as if they would like to continue in this vein, but Murdoch quickly brought Ida back to the matter at hand. “Had this man been to see you before?”
“No. I do know that much. This one was new. But he was a gawdelpus, I can tell you that.”
“How do you know?”
“He had to say his prayers first. ‘God forgive me for what I am about to do and forgive this daughter of Eve.’ Horse plop like that. I ain’t looking for forgiveness. Then he prayed even worse afterward about what a wicked man he was. He got himself all worked up, made me nervous. But it’s all bollocks as far as I’m concerned. If it bothers your conscience so bad, don’t do it. Or go somewhere private and flog the bishop.” She wiped the bread around the rim of the pail to mop up the last vestiges of the soup. “Do you know what kind of soup this is?”
Murdoch shook his head.
“Nor me. S’s good though.”
Murdoch hadn’t finished half of his second slice and he offered it to the woman. She nodded thanks and stuffed it into her mouth, licking her dirty fingers. Olivia made it clear what she thought of such disgusting manners.
Then Ida snapped her fingers. “You know what, that old Tom did give me a name. Some of them like you to say their name, then they can pretend they aren’t really paying for it. I get it all the time. ‘Oh Ida, tell Johnny he’s got a lovely big cock.’”
Olivia looked shocked and glanced at Murdoch in dismay. Ida grinned more. “This one wanted me to scold him. That was fine with me. ‘Oh, you are a very bad man. You shouldn’t be doing this, Mr. Howard.’”
Murdoch flinched. “That was his name? Howard?”
She shrugged. “That’s what he said. Christian name, Charles. I made a joke of it, ‘Oh Prince Charlie how ’ard you are.’ But he didn’t like that at all. I thought he might even haul off with a stotter.” She stared at Murdoch. “Why’ve you got that face on? Don’t tell me he’s your best friend?”