CHAPTER TWO

As usual, there was a roaring fire in Inspector Brackenreid’s office, and cigar smoke, both stale and new, clogged the air. Murdoch waited whilst the inspector alternately drew on his pungent cigar and gulped at a mug of tea that he had fortified with a dash of brandy, “against the cold.” Neither Murdoch nor Constable Crabtree had been invited to sit down and so they stood in front of the desk.

“Have you made any progress with the Smithers case?”

“No, sir. Constable Crabtree and I have taken statements from all of the servants and we also spoke to the staff at the funeral parlour, but they all swear they didn’t steal the brooch.”

“Where is it, then?”

“According to Mrs. Smithers’s personal maid, her mistress often misplaces things these days, more so since old Mrs. Smithers died. Apparently, they have a way of showing up in unexpected places at a later date.”

“What’s your opinion, Crabtree?”

“I’m inclined to believe they are all telling the truth, sir. The house servants are upset at being accused because they have been with the family for a long time.”

Brackenreid nodded. “The woman is probably losing some of her slates. By her own admission, the brooch isn’t valued at more than ten dollars. Hardly worth making a fuss about. She and her mother-in-law both attended my church, and in my opinion, they were both mad as hatters.” He drew on his cigar, remembered his manners, and added, “May she rest in peace.”

He blew out a thick smoke ring, which gradually expanded so that by the time it drifted across the desk to Murdoch, he couldn’t have put his finger through it however tempted he might be.

“Anyway, I don’t want either of you wasting any more time with it.”

“No, sir.”

Brackenreid emptied his tea mug in one long gulp.

“Crabtree, you can leave. Murdoch, stay on for a minute.”

Murdoch felt a twinge of uneasiness. Brackenreid usually went out of his way to avoid private interviews with his detective. On the rare occasion the inspector could find a transgression in Murdoch’s performance as an officer, he preferred to administer the scolding in front of others. He wondered what he was going to be chastised for that merited privacy.

As soon as the door closed behind the constable, Brackenreid went over to the fireplace. He took the poker and banged at a recalcitrant lump of coal until flames burst out of it. Murdoch waited, watching while Brackenreid turned to warm his plump buttocks.

“What I am going to show you, Murdoch, must be viewed in complete confidence. Do I have your word?”

Obscene and insolent questions jumped into Murdoch’s head, but he replied with sufficient politeness not to give offence.

“Is the matter related to our professional relationship, sir?”

“What?”

“I mean is it pertinent to you as my inspector?”

Brackenreid flushed. “Of course it is, what are you implying?”

He had an all too familiar expression of bewilderment on his face that tended to take the fun out of baiting him. Murdoch sighed.

“I’m implying nothing, sir. Just clarifying matters.”

“You’re going to step over the line one of these days, Murdoch.”

“And what line would that be, sir?”

But he knew he’d come a little too close this time. Brackenreid could fine him for insubordination with no chance of redress if he so desired.

“I beg your pardon, sir. I was distracting you from your purpose. You wanted to show me something. In complete confidence.”

Brackenreid scowled at him, but he went over to his desk, pulled open a drawer, and took out two folded sheets of paper. He handed them to Murdoch.

“Have a gander at these. Give me your opinion. I’m damned if I’ll have one of my officers maligned.”

Murdoch was astonished. The inspector so often acted like a half-drunken sot that he’d long ago lost any respect for him. However, on occasion, he glimpsed the kind of man Brackenreid had been before his habit conquered him. This was such an occasion.

“The top one came first.”

Murdoch removed the sheet of paper from the envelope. The message was typewritten, unsigned.

January 20 ’96 Inspector Brackenreid. I feel it is my duty as a citizen of this fair city to draw your attention to the reprehensible actions of one of your officers. I refer to Sergeant Seymour whose behaviour unbeknownst to you is both wicked and illicit. I suggest you ask him how he spends his leisure time.

Murdoch glanced up at the inspector, who nodded. “Read the next one.”

Monday, January 27 ’96. Inspector. I have previously warned you concerning the illegal activity of one of your officers. No action seems to have been taken. I will give you one more week. Unless the miscreant is punished I will alert the newspapers and will lay the case before the Chief Constable himself. This will bring shame on the station and the force itself.

“What do you make of them?” Brackenreid asked.

Murdoch hesitated. “What on earth are they referring to?”

“How do I know? Could be anything from buying beer on Sundays to stopping his beak at the whorehouse. Depends on what you consider to be wicked and illicit activities.”

“Have you spoken to the sergeant himself, sir?”

“No. Frankly, I dismissed the first letter as pure mischief-making, but the second one is more serious.”

“I think you should ask him directly, sir. Give him a chance to defend himself.”

“Against what, Murdoch? What he does when he’s off-duty isn’t my concern. I’m not a priest who wants to hear every sin he’s ever committed. Did you have naughty thoughts today, sergeant? Did you forget to say your rosemary.”

“The term is ‘rosary,’ sir.”

Murdoch knew he should have let it go. Brackenreid smirked and waved his hand dismissively.

“Whatever it is.”

“The writer does say ‘illegal’ in the second letter. That suggests he is accusing Seymour of more than just a sin, which as you are implying, sir, can be relatively unimportant in the wider view of things.”

“I’ve noted that, Murdoch. That is why I am discussing the matter with you. What is your impression of Seymour? I understand that of all the officers in this station, he is most friendly with you.”

Murdoch wondered who had told him that. “To my knowledge, the sergeant is an officer of the highest calibre. He is decent and hard-working.”

“Anybody he don’t get along with who might want to make mischief?”

“Not that I know of. He keeps to himself, but I believe he is well-respected by the men.”

“Damned peculiar business.” Brackenreid tapped on the desk. “Anything else you can say about the letters themselves?”

“They’re surprising. The fact that they’re typewritten, for one thing. And the language is superior even if the intent isn’t. ‘Miscreant’ isn’t exactly a common word. Did they come with the regular post?”

“Yes. The second one was in the post this morning. As you see, the envelope is also typewritten and is addressed to me.” He frowned. “The writer is out to make mischief, knows the sergeant by name, and has used it. The problem is that even if Seymour is pure as the driven snow, if the writer does send this to the papers, a lot of mud will be flung and some of it will stick.”

“Unless the accusations prove to be laughably trivial.”

“Somehow I doubt that, Murdoch. There’s a tone to the letters. I believe the writer means business. As you say, the words are ‘illegal’ and ‘illicit.’” Brackenreid walked over to the window and looked out. “Snow’s starting up again. I’ll be happy when we’re done with this weather.” He picked up a framed miniature from the mantelpiece. Murdoch knew the painting was of Brackenreid’s wife. According to the station gossip, Mrs. Brackenreid was consumed by unrelenting ambition to achieve a high social standing among the Toronto gentry and to that end she led her husband a merry dance. Brackenreid’s expression was perplexed, and Murdoch wondered if he were trying to understand what he had once found appealing about the woman he’d married. On the other hand, he could have just been trying to decide if it was a good likeness and worth the money.

“Besides, it is not likely he will admit it.”

“Beg pardon, sir.”

“Seymour. He’s not likely to come right out and admit he’s been dipping his wick in the mud pond, is he?”

“I can’t say, sir.”

“Of course, he won’t. He knows he’ll be dismissed. He has a position of superiority here. He must be an example.”

With a sigh, Brackenreid returned the picture to its place on the mantelpiece. He turned around.

“The sergeant is on duty today. I’ll have to speak to him. I’d appreciate it if you would stay, Murdoch, and give me your honest opinion.”

Murdoch didn’t relish the task. He liked Seymour, and over the years they had formed a friendship, sharing a passion for fast wheels. Last summer they had gone on a couple of bicycling trips with the Toronto Bicycling Club, to which Seymour belonged. Was he the kind of man who had a secret life that could get him into trouble? Murdoch thought it not likely, but to be honest, he didn’t know much about the man. He believed he’d been married at one time but couldn’t recall when he’d heard that. Now, like Murdoch, he lived in a boarding house.

Brackenreid pulled the bell rope twice and returned to his desk.

“Have you considered the possibility that the letter has been written by somebody in this station, sir?”

Brackenreid scowled at him.

“I’m not an imbecile. Of course I thought of it. That’s why I wanted to discuss the matter with you. Any of the men prone to whinging? Any of them a bit too straight-laced for their own good?”

“I’d have to think about that, sir.”

The station had thirty-four constables at all four levels and Murdoch only had a nodding acquaintance with most of them. More familiarity was dependent on who worked on his cases.

“It’s the threat of going to the newspapers that I detest,” said Brackenreid. “Surely there’s enough loyalty among the men that if the sergeant is misbehaving, they would come straight to me and report him, not go through all this cloak-and-dagger nonsense.”

“If it is one of our own men writing the letter, I wonder how he knows what Seymour’s private proclivities are.”

Although the constables might associate with each other when they were off duty, the sergeants would never break rank.

Murdoch decided to float a tantalizing fly on the surface of the pond to see if the old pickerel would take the bait.

Shortly before the end of the year, a new constable, third class, had joined the station. The incident had caused quite a stir because he was replacing Philips, a well-liked young fellow who had been abruptly dismissed. The charge was poor work habits, based apparently on the fact that he had not come into work for three days in a row when he was suffering from influenza. Because Philips had not produced a note from a physician, Brackenreid said he was malingering. According to the unfortunate constable, he was too ill even to consult a physician and couldn’t afford to have one come to his house. The inspector was adamant and the lad was cast out. The next day he was replaced by Liam Callahan, an Irishman, who appeared to have stepped straight off the boat and into the job. Rumour immediately ran riot that he was related to the inspector, although Callahan denied it.

“You mentioned loyalty, sir, and that is a good point. All of the officers have been here for two years or more. Except for Constable Callahan, that is.”

Brackenreid wrinkled his nose at Murdoch as if he committed the impropriety of publicly breaking wind.

“He’s a very good lad. Let’s not make wild accusations.”

“I wasn’t making any accusation, sir, wild or otherwise. I merely pointed out that Constable Callahan is very new here. The issue pertained to loyalty.”

“Yes, well…”

There was a tap at the door.

“Enter,” Brackenreid called and Seymour came into the room. In some surprise, he glanced at Murdoch, who nodded reassuringly at him. Brackenreid cleared his throat.

“Sergeant, I’ve got some, er, unfortunate news to impart to you. I’ve asked Detective Murdoch to be present because the matter relates to the welfare of the station.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Take a look at these two letters. They are dated.”

He handed them to Seymour. Murdoch watched him, feeling like a traitor even to do that.

The sergeant went very still and it seemed to Murdoch that his hand trembled a little. Not that that was necessarily a proof of guilt.

Brackenreid scowled. “Is the accusation true, Seymour? Have you been committing some illegal act?”

“What might that be, sir?”

“I don’t know, sergeant. Anything. Gambling, dancing with whores, stealing apples. You know what the word means.”

The sergeant’s mouth was tight with anger. “If I am being accused of misdoing, I would like to know who so accuses me and of what charge.”

“So would we, sergeant, so would we. Why d’you think somebody would go to the trouble of writing such letters?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

Brackenreid rested his head on his hands for a moment. “You can see, I’m in a deuced awkward spot, Seymour. If the writer is as good as his word, he will send this to the newspapers and there will be the devil of an uproar.”

“I realize that, sir. But the alternative seems to be to dismiss me. Unless you are in fact asking that I resign. To avoid unpleasantness.”

Murdoch jumped in. “May I make a suggestion, sir? The writer has given us a week’s grace. We might be able to track him down. If we know who he is, we can determine with absolute certainty what the accusations against Sergeant Seymour are and at least he will have a chance to defend himself.”

Seymour looked over at Murdoch. His expression was bleak. He was a man who expected that the sentence had already been made.

Brackenreid fiddled with his moustache, which badly needed trimming.

“Certainly that would be a good move, but there are two hundred thousand citizens in this city of ours. Any one of them could have sent this letter.”

Murdoch didn’t challenge the inspector on the exaggeration. “May I have your permission to investigate, sir.”

“Yes, you may. See what you can find.” Brackenreid drummed his fingers on the desk. He avoided Seymour’s eyes. “In the meantime, until we get to the bottom of the matter, I am going to ask you to remain at home, sergeant. If the unknown letter writer is as cognizant with the workings of the station as he appears, it may mollify him for a while.”

Seymour was also avoiding the inspector’s face. “Is that to be without pay, sir?”

“No, no. A week with pay. If, er, if you are, er, if the charges are true, you will have to repay those wages. How does that sound?”

“I can understand the necessity. But I do have a favour to beg of you, sir.”

Brackenreid nodded.

“Can we put out that I have come down with the influenza? As you say, mud sticks and I don’t want gossip going around that I have been up to no good. I may never be able to completely clear my name.”

The inspector hesitated, then said, “Yes, we can do that. We’ll call it an informal inquiry. Why don’t you get your things now? Say you are unwell. You can send for Gardiner to replace you. He and Hales should be able to manage for a few days. Murdoch can get on with his investigation.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He gave Brackenreid a stiff, formal bow and left. He hadn’t once looked at Murdoch after he had made his offer.

The inspector waited for a moment. “Well, Murdoch, what do you think? He seemed very shaken to me.”

“Who wouldn’t be when faced with that?”

“Yes, you’re right of course. Doesn’t necessarily mean the poor fellow has a guilty conscience, does it?”

“No, sir. Not at all.”

“All right then. Get on with it. See what you can find.”

Murdoch stood up. In spite of what he’d said, he was ill at ease. Sergeant Seymour had indeed appeared shaken by the letters, but he’d not seemed surprised.