FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 15
THE CANDLES AND LAMPS IN THE HOUSES along Lowther had been lit early against the dreary afternoon. Only Birchlea seemed dark and unwelcoming. The curtains were drawn and none of the outside lamps were on.
Like the other houses on the street, Birchlea bespoke quiet affluence. Set back from the street behind a wrought-iron fence, the property was edged with evergreens now laden with snow. Two blue spruce stood sentinel on either side of the door, and the deep bay windows gave a pleasing symmetry. The dark green trim of the dormers and windows was virtually the same colour as the needles of the pine trees.
On the porch, Murdoch scraped the snow from his boots as best he could and waited for somebody to answer his knock. When the door finally opened John Foy stood there, and Murdoch registered the quick look of fear in his eyes.
“I’d like to speak to Mrs. Rhodes.”
“I’ll see if she’s at home.”
He hesitated, trying to determine whether he should close the door and leave Murdoch on the doorstep, bring him into the vestibule or send him to the back door. Murdoch solved the problem for him by stepping forward.
“I’ll wait inside, shall I?”
Foy retreated down the hall, leaving Murdoch to take care of his own hat and coat. As he hung them up on the oaken hall tree, he checked his reflection in the oval mirror. He smoothed back his hair, wishing he’d worn a fresh collar and trimmed his moustache, which was overhanging his lip a bit too much.
The vestibule itself was almost as large as the entire living room in the house he’d grown up in, and there were more oil paintings hung on the burgundy-papered walls than had existed in the entire village. Most of them seemed to be landscapes full of tumbling clouds and low trees that were distinctively English in character. He paused in front of one small one. A young woman stood on a desolate beach, staring out across a tumultuous sea. She was holding a shawl tight over her head against the fierce wind, and a curly haired child clung to her skirts. In the distance a lifeboat valiantly climbed the back of a huge wave as it made for the spar of a ship barely showing above the water. A brass plate at the bottom of the frame named the picture. Sorrow. Murdoch grimaced. He’d witnessed a shipwreck when he was twelve and he remembered keenly the grief of the women. There must have been a dozen of them, all ages, from young brides up to old women whose sons were on the stricken trawler. They had huddled together against the wind and against the fear that was in all their hearts. It was the sea, as well, who had robbed him of his mother. She was a tiny woman, far too thin, not at all like the young woman in the painting. She’d been found drowned in a shallow pool on the rocky beach. His father put out that she’d slipped on a rock when she was gathering mussels, but Murdoch had grown up with bitter suspicions. He had vivid memories of his mother cowering behind the door to avoid the deluge of his father’s drunken rages. There were the three children then. Suzanna, as sweet as the child in the painting but nervous and too quiet, and Albert, barely walking yet, but already showing signs of his affliction. They all knew better than to cling to their mother’s skirt. She couldn’t protect them.
He touched the brass plate with his fingertip. Sorrow.
He moved away. A little farther down the hall was a japanned table with a silver tray in the centre for calling cards. He smiled to himself. His sister had loved to play “visiting” when they were children. Leaves acted as pasteboard and the tray was a piece of tin. He sighed. She certainly didn’t need a card tray now. When she was barely sixteen she’d run off and joined an order of cloistered nuns from Montreal. He was allowed to visit the convent once a year and then he could only talk to her through a curtained grid. The priest said he should rejoice that she had chosen a life with Christ, but he grieved. He had looked forward to the sharing of their lives, of her children playing with his, and he constantly reproached himself that he had not been able to take her away from their father in time.
“Detective Murdoch …” Foy was standing at the door of the drawing room. “Madam would be happy to receive you.” He glanced towards the hall tree but made no apology for his lack of attention. “Mrs. Rhodes and Mr. Owen are both taking tea at the moment.”
“Good, that’ll save me having to repeat myself.”
“This way, if you please.”
Man moves like he’s got a broom up his arse, thought Murdoch as he followed Foy into the drawing room.
Donalda Rhodes and Owen were sitting next to the hearth and Edith was serving them from the tea trolley. The boy, Joe, was building up the fire with coal from the shuttle. He didn’t turn around but the other three did, and Murdoch saw worry in each face. However, Donalda immediately assumed an expression of polite welcome.
“Mr. Murdoch, do come in.” She indicated the tea trolley. “May I offer you some tea?”
He didn’t fancy trying to cope with a fragile cup and saucer, cake plate and his notebook.
“Will there be anything else, madam?” asked Foy, about to withdraw.
Before Mrs. Rhodes could answer, Murdoch said, “I’d like everybody to stay, if you don’t mind.”
“The servants as well?”
“If you please. Makes my job a bit easier. Then I don’t have to go over everything twice.”
It was also a good way to have all the cards out on the table. It was amazing what people could forget. Saying things out in front of company had a way of jogging the memory and the conscience.
“Well, of course, if you say so.”
“We are shorthanded, madam,” said Edith. “There is some mending to be done.”
“I won’t take long,” said Murdoch.
Edith looked sour as she wheeled the trolley away from the fireside. Foy remained beside the door, and Murdoch intercepted a quick warning glance between him and his wife.
Murdoch took the rosary out of his pocket. “Do any of you recognize this?”
Owen leaned forward. “That’s a rum-looking necklace.”
“It’s a rosary. We believe it belonged to Therese Laporte. The crucifix is missing.”
The housekeeper came closer and peered at the rosary. “That’s hers, all right. I saw her holding it once or twice. Couldn’t understand what she was doing. I’m Methodist myself.”
Murdoch glanced around at the rest of them. Owen had returned to his chair. He started to play with the silk fringe on the lampshade, flicking it back and forth. The boy had turned around but was motionless, staring down at the carpet. Murdoch went closer to him, the rosary dangling from his fingers. Joe glanced up and reached out his hand to touch the green beads. Murdoch had deliberately placed himself between the boy and the others, and he alone saw the look of naked yearning on Joe’s face.
“Where did you find it?” asked Donalda.
Murdoch faced her. “To tell you the truth, ma’am, it was around the neck of a woman who was found dead yesterday morning. Which is the reason I’m here.”
They all stared at him incredulously. That woke them up a bit, he thought. Owen stopped in midflick.
“What happened to her?” he asked.
“She was murdered. Strangled.”
“I say! How dreadful.”
“Yes, it was.” Murdoch took out his pen and notebook. “I need to ask where each of you was on Wednesday evening.”
“What? Surely it doesn’t have anything to do with us,” said Donalda.
She stared at him in disbelief. The others watched, stiff with wariness.
“The deceased was a prostitute. We know now that she was the one who stole Therese Laporte’s clothes.”
“Is she the one who gave her the drug?” asked Mrs. Rhodes.
“I doubt it.”
Another silence. John Foy was surreptitiously leaning against the doorjamb, looking decidedly under the weather. Edith had stationed herself beside the tea trolley like a warden. Her face was grim and tight with disapproval. As for the boy, Joe, Murdoch almost forgot him, he was so still. He was crouched by the fender, half sitting.
“Are the two deaths connected, Mr. Murdoch?” asked Donalda.
“At the moment, ma’am, I can’t say definitely, but I strongly suspect they are.”
Owen got up abruptly and went to the trolley with his cup and saucer. “Are you sure you won’t have some tea, Mr. Murdoch?”
“Positive, thank you.”
Murdoch could see the black crepe that festooned the mantel and the black ribbon around the pictures, the trappings of mourning. He felt a flash of anger. Every last one of them was hiding something. He could smell it. He waited.
Suddenly, a piece of coal collapsed with a spurt of flame. All eyes turned to watch as if it were a fireworks display. Murdoch gave them a few more moments, then said, “Mr. Foy, let’s start with you. Your whereabouts on Wednesday night?”
“Me? Well, yes, in fact I was out all evening. I had a Masonic meeting and Mrs. Rhodes kindly gave me the evening off. I was at the temple on Yonge Street and I can give you fifty names to prove it.”
Foy’s normally colourless voice had a distinctly belligerent edge to it.
“Five will do. And their place of residence if you know it.”
The butler rattled off half a dozen names and addresses, which Murdoch wrote down.
“Mrs. Foy, can you confirm your husband’s statement?”
“Naturally. He left after supper was served, about six-thirty.”
“When did you return, Mr. Foy?”
Edith answered for him. “Twelve on the dot. The clock was chiming. Woke me up.”
Again her lips tightened, and Murdoch could guess at the welcome Foy had received when he’d stumbled into bed full as a lord.
“You were home yourself, Mrs. Foy?”
“Of course!”
Murdoch turned to the boy. “Joe, my lad?”
“Were the horse and carriage in the stable?”
Joe hesitated, then almost imperceptibly shook his head.
“Who had them?”
“I don’t think you’ll get much out of him, Officer,” said Edith. “He’s slow-witted. Or at least pretends to be.”
Joe lowered his head again and his expression returned to dullness.
“Joe?”
The boy shrank back as if he would climb into the fire itself.
“Well? Who had taken the carriage? Was it Dr. Rhodes?”
Donalda interrupted. “My husband never uses the carriage at night, Mr. Murdoch. His office hours are too unpredictable. Joe takes him in the morning and he comes back by hired cab when he has finished.”
Edith shifted her position. Her voice was polite but Murdoch saw malice cross her face. “I have to say, Sergeant – knowing as how this is a police investigation – I have to say I overheard Mr. Owen leaving in the carriage. ’Bout ten o’clock it was. I was on the point of retiring for the night.”
Donalda glanced over at her son. “Is that so, Owen?”
“Yes, I was about to fess up when Edith beat me to the punch.”
“You were out on Wednesday night, then, sir?”
“I was. I had some tests to catch up on. I went down to the laboratory to burn the midnight oil. My examinations are coming up before too long.”
“Was anybody else with you?”
“Yes, a couple of the fellows.”
“Who were they, these friends? May I have their names?”
Owen was looking most uncomfortable. “Good Lord, no. I mean, what am I saying? I was by myself. I’m getting mixed up with other evenings. Yes, that’s it. Sorry, no friends.”
“So there’s nobody who can confirm your statement. A night porter, for instance.”
“Er, I doubt it. Old Grant is just that, old. He was asleep, as I recall.” He gave an embarrassingly false laugh. “Ha, a whole contingent of thieves could have got in and they wouldn’t have woken him. Not that there’s anything to steal there. Who wants pickled embryos?”
You’re one of the worst liars I’ve come across, thought Murdoch, but at the moment I haven’t the sod of a notion what you’re lying about.
“What time did you get back to Birchlea, sir?”
“Oh, I don’t know. One o’clock maybe.”
Murdoch looked at Donalda. “You, ma’am, were you at home?”
“Yes.”
“And Dr. Rhodes?”
“I cannot answer for my husband, Mr. Murdoch. After dinner I spent the evening in my room. I don’t know whether he was in or not.”
“He was not, madam,” said Edith. “The doctor left the house sometime after Master Rhodes. I believe he didn’t return until this morning.”
“Father likes to spend the odd night at his club,” interjected Owen.
“I’m aware of that, Master Rhodes. I am merely trying to give the officer the correct information.”
Murdoch abruptly changed tack, see if they ducked the yardarm.
“What colour is your carriage and horse, Mrs. Rhodes?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“We have evidence that Therese got into a carriage shortly before she died. It was described as burgundy or dark brown in colour and the horse light.”
Donalda met his eyes without flinching. “Our carriage is walnut and the horse is a grey.”
He continued. “Have any of you ever seen a man with a snake tattoo on his right hand? Stocky build, fair short hair, rough sort of face? Says he is a sailor.”
Blank faces stared at him, and he thought the bewilderment was genuine. He closed his notebook.
“Is that everything, Mr. Murdoch?”
“Not exactly, ma’am. There’s still the matter of Therese Laporte’s condition. It might further our solving both cases if we had that mystery nailed down.”
“I cannot tell you anything more than I’ve already said. Theresa had no suitors and frankly no time that I can see when she would have been with anyone.”
“If that is the case, then her seducer must be closer to home, wouldn’t you agree, ma’am?”
Donalda straightened her back even more. “Let me say I can understand your considering it so.”
Edith Foy made a peculiar sound that was a cross between a snort and a cough.
“Is there something you wish to say, Edith?”
“There is, madam.”
“For goodness’ sake, speak out, then,” Donalda said with irritation.
Edith’s lips drew tighter together. “You don’t have to go far to find the culprit. He’s right there.” She pointed at Joe Seaton, who had been sitting on the edge of the fender while they were all talking. “He’s the one got the girl in trouble, mark my words.”
Joe shrank away and covered his head with his arms as if to ward off blows.
“These are serious accusations, Mrs. Foy,” said Murdoch. “Can you prove them?”
“He’s a guttersnipe and they never change no matter what good is shown them. Besides, he’s backward. Can’t tell the difference between Christian right and wrong any more than a dog can.”
Murdoch found it hard not to snap back at the woman. His younger brother had been backward, and until the boy died Murdoch had spent a large part of their childhood defending him against similar ignorance. He moved over to Joe and tried to pull down his arm so he could see his face. The boy yelped in pain.
“What is it, Joe? Have you hurt your arm?”
He shook his head violently. As gently as he could, Murdoch pushed back the boy’s sleeve. Two angry red lines ran the entire length of the boy’s arm.
“Good Lord, what happened?”
Edith moved closer, and when she saw the boy’s arm she said, “Somebody scratched him, that’s what. Probably fighting for her life. It’s proof.”
Murdoch ignored her. The cuts were too deliberate to be the result of a struggle.
“How did you get these marks, Joe?”
The boy wouldn’t meet his eyes, just tried to shake his head.
Murdoch crouched down so that he was on the same level and all Joe could see was him.
“Tell me the truth now, lad. Is it right what Mrs. Foy says? That you had connections with Therese Laporte?”
Joe stared at him as if he couldn’t comprehend. Murdoch’s heart sank. He hoped for Joe’s sake it wasn’t true.
“See, he’s practically admitting it.” This time it was Foy who spoke. “They were made for each other. Pair of bastards with no compunction about bringing bastards into the world.”
Murdoch could see that the lad’s mouth and chin were trembling and there were tears in his eyes.
“Joe?”
“You might as well talk to a brick wall,” snorted Edith. “The boy’s simple.”
“If we stop badgering him, we might get somewhere,” said Donalda. She spoke to the boy in a gentle voice. “Answer the officer, Joe. If you’re innocent you have nothing to fear.”
Joe responded to her like a prisoner to the parson who has come to read the Last Rites. He fixed his gaze on her over Murdoch’s shoulder and said, “I didn’t have nuffin bad to do with Tess.”
His voice was low and shaky as if from lack of use and he had a thick cockney accent, but the words were unmistakable. The others were as surprised as if the horse had answered.
“Hmm. Thought the cat’d got your tongue. You sly little beast, pretending you couldn’t speak all this time,” said Edith.
Murdoch had had enough. “I’ll thank you to hold your tongue yourself, Mrs. Foy. This is still a police investigation, I’d like to remind you, and you, madam, are interfering with the due process.” He stepped back, touching Joe lightly on the shoulder. “Go on, lad.”
Joe didn’t budge from his focus on Mrs. Rhodes.
“Tess didn’t write no letter, missus.”
“What do you mean?”
“You says as how she wrote to ’er sister but she couldn’t have. She couldn’t write nor read. I know ’cos I was the one a-teachin’ ’er and she hadn’t got no farther than her letters.”
Murdoch turned to Edith. “Mrs. Foy, you found that note in the girl’s bedroom, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did. It was clear as a bell. I don’t know what he’s talking about.”
“Do you still have it?”
“I threw it in the fire. It didn’t seem important.”
Joe’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Tess didn’t run away ’cos she was homesick.”
Donalda nodded encouragingly. “Why did she, then?”
He cast a quick glance at Foy but returned to her at once. “It was ’cos of ’im. He was after Tess. He wanted to do it with her all the time.”
“You bloody little liar,” Foy yelled. Before Murdoch could prevent him, he had run at Joe and hit him hard across the face. The boy fell backwards, striking his head against the fireguard with a sickening bang. His eyes rolled up in his head and he lay still. Owen yelled and jumped up to help while Murdoch grabbed the butler’s arm, yanking him away, hard.
“Stop it. Behave or I’ll charge you with obstruction of justice.”
Foy kept on shouting. “That boy is wicked, Mrs. Rhodes. I knew we should never have got him. His kind never changes.”
Edith pulled at her husband. “Stop it, do you hear? Won’t do no good.”
Murdoch pointed to an empty chair. “Go and sit over there.” His voice topped the butler’s. “Don’t move again unless I tell you to.”
He half shoved Foy towards the chair. The butler seemed to have lost all control and he was shaking, his face crimson with rage. Edith gripped him by his shoulders.
“Try not to make more of a bloody fool of yourself than you’ve done already,” she hissed into his face.
Murdoch waited until Foy obeyed, keeping his eye on him.
“Is the boy all right?” he asked Owen, who had run over to help Joe.
“He lost consciousness for a moment but he’s not badly off now.” He slipped his arm around the boy’s shoulders. “Come on, Joe. Let’s get you up.”
He lifted him into a sitting position against the fender. Donalda, who had remained seated, spoke to Foy, her voice icy. “Is this true what Joe says?”
“No, madam, absolutely not,” he replied. But guilt was written all over his angry face.
Donalda addressed Edith. “How could you have found a letter written by a girl who was illiterate?”
“Joe? Can you speak?”
A red mark had appeared on his cheek and he was the colour of bread dough, but he met her eyes.
“I didn’t write no letter. But Missus Foy knew as what was happening. I saw ’er a-watching Tess all the time. She must of made her run off.”
“Madam, I hope you are not going to take the word of a boy like him against that of two respectable people like my husband and me?”
“Frankly, Edith, I don’t know what to believe. All I can say is that I am extremely upset at Foy’s behaviour. I will not tolerate it.” She turned to her son. “Owen, what do you say about all this?”
“I wouldn’t trust John Foy as far as I could throw him.”
Edith answered for her husband. “How easy for the mighty to accuse those of us who are not so fortunate. Far better the world think my husband was wicked, madam, than that your own son be accused.” She whirled to face Murdoch. “Why don’t you question him?” She pointed at Owen. “I saw him mooning over that girl all the time. That night she died he was probably with her.”
“According to Mr. Rhodes he was with Miss Shepcote all evening.”
Edith burst out, “That little mouse would make a pact with the Devil if Owen Rhodes asked her to.” She was reckless now, ready to burn her bridges. “He fancied the maid, I tell you. And that Saturday night he was out until the early hours too. Same with this Wednesday. He was probably with that doxie you found.”
“Edith, don’t be preposterous,” Donalda cried.
“Maybe he’s the one who did her in. It’d keep her quiet, wouldn’t it?”
Owen turned white and Donalda became even stiffer.
“Mrs. Foy, I will tolerate no more of this slander. You are discharged. Both of you. You will leave my employ immediately.”
“Don’t expect me to be silent, then. You can try to hide all you like but the truth is the truth. Your son was having connections with that girl and I will tell whoever asks.”
Murdoch stepped in. “Mr. Rhodes, do you deny this?”
“My God, yes. Of course I deny it.”
There was no stopping Edith. “He’s a young man, isn’t he? Anybody can see he fancies himself. He had his way with her, you can wager.”
“Mrs. Foy, will you stop. I had nothing whatsoever to do with Therese Laporte.”
“Why is it, then, I saw you coming out of her room? About a month ago it was –”
“That is a lie –”
“Edith, stop this.” Donalda tried to stop the spewing. “Mrs. Foy is lying to protect her husband,” she said to Murdoch. “She has already forged a letter. She has no compunction about where she flings her mud.”
“At the moment, ma’am, it is her word against Mr. Owen’s, however, and not much proof on either side.”
“I assure you he was not with a prostitute the other night, just as I assure you he was not the father of Theresa’s child.”
Owen stood watching her, his face filled with agony. “Mother, this is not necessary …”
“Begging your pardon, ma’am, you are his mother and it is only natural you would defend him, but I’ll need proof. Mr. Rhodes, is there anybody at all who could vouch for your whereabouts on Wednesday night?”
“No, there really isn’t.”
“Owen, are you insane? Tell him.”
“Mother, there is nothing to tell. I was not with anybody.”
Donalda’s expression was bitter. “This is no time to display some schoolboy notion of honour.”
“Call it that if you –” said Owen.
At that moment, the door opened and Cyril Rhodes entered.
“What on earth is happening? What is the shouting all about?” He saw Murdoch and halted.
Donalda swung around to face him. “What impeccable timing, Cyril. Joe has accused Foy of fathering a child on Theresa Laporte. Edith is insisting the real culprit is our son. She claims to have seen Owen leaving the girl’s room.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, indeed. And Mr. Murdoch is here investigating the murder of another young woman. He wants to know where we all were on Wednesday night. Apparently the dead woman was a prostitute. Perhaps you could help him.”
“W-what do you mean? How could I help?”
“Come now, Cyril, I doubt your tastes have changed that much. Perhaps she was someone of your acquaintance.”