USUALLY MURDOCH WAS HAPPY TO COME HOME. In the winter Mrs. Kitchen, his landlady, always made sure a lamp was burning in the front parlour; and no matter what the hour, she would have his dinner ready for him. Not that it was always a delight to eat what she had prepared. Beatrice was an energetic and inventive woman when it came to caring for those she loved, but the art of cooking had somehow eluded her. Even if Murdoch was on time, he was often presented with dried, overcooked meat and soggy potatoes and vegetables. He didn’t really mind. The friendship and mutual respect that had developed between him and the Kitchens more than compensated for unappetising meals.
Tonight, as he approached the house, however, he felt utterly glum. His mood wasn’t helped by the conspicuous darkness of the second-floor room. Perhaps because of his talk with Newcombe about ardent young women, he was thinking about Mrs. Enid Jones. Since she’d abruptly packed her belongings and moved to another lodging, he’d made no attempt to get in touch with her.
“I don’t want us to mistake proximity for true affection, Will,” was what she’d said.
Albeit reluctantly, he had to admit there was truth in that, but he was still smarting.
Mrs. Kitchen came to meet him as soon as he entered the house. “Mr. Murdoch, I was starting to worry. I expected you would be gone for one or two hours at the most.”
“So did I, Mrs. K.”
She stood by while he divested himself of his coat and hat.
“I can see the young man proved very difficult.”
For a moment he didn’t know what she was referring to. It seemed a lifetime ago that he had set out for the jail, thinking he was going to have a heart-to-heart talk with a pickpocket.
“Adam Blake wasn’t the reason for my summons. I’d like to sit down with both you and Arthur and tell you what has happened.”
“I put up a cold meat plate for you. Will you have that first?”
“I’m not hungry, thank you. Just a cup of tea would be excellent. Weak, if you don’t mind.”
“Go and see Arthur and I’ll bring it.” She was about to go to the kitchen when she paused. “You clearly have unhappy news, so perhaps I can tell you something to cheer you up.”
He smiled. “I would certainly like that.”
“Mrs. Jones dropped by earlier this afternoon. I took the liberty of telling her about your sister, and she asked that I express the most sincere condolences.”
His heart had given a lurch, but he wasn’t about to reveal too much.
“That was kind.”
“I told her you were off from the station on leave. She said that if you were not engaged tonight, she is at home and would be most pleased to see you.”
“Is that so?”
Mrs. Kitchen patted his arm. “She is a good woman, most sincere. A visit might lift your spirits.”
And what then? thought Murdoch. Was there any point in contemplating a courtship that couldn’t be consummated.
“It’s getting late, I –”
“She asked me particularly to tell you that she hoped you wouldn’t mind a later hour. Half past eight would be convenient.”
Murdoch thought that a less respectable woman would have winked. “Mrs. K., why do I get the feeling I’m being pushed out like a fledgling bird?”
She looked flustered. “Of course not. It’s just that she seemed particularly anxious to see you.”
“All right. I will call on her.”
“Good. Please go in. Arthur was worried, too.”
She went off to the kitchen. Murdoch took a moment to change from boots to slippers. She was right. In spite of everything, the news that Enid wanted to see him had lifted his spirits.
For a long time now Murdoch had got into the way of sharing the vicissitudes of his daily life with both Beatrice and Arthur Kitchen. It meant a lot to Arthur, who was housebound with his illness, to discuss cases Murdoch was dealing with. If he was well enough, their conversations often became far ranging, from the current political situation, dismal, to the finer points of Catholic theology, even more dismal. The latter point of view was never expressed in front of his wife. Murdoch waited until tea had been poured and sipped; Arthur’s final egg-and-cream tonic swallowed; the fire poked and set to a blaze. He felt he should have done a drum roll first. And the big news of the day is … I met my long-lost father today, and what a surprise: he is convicted of murder.
He told them in as matter-of-fact a way as possible. After the inevitable exclamations, he settled down to tell everything that had transpired and what he knew about the case.
“So what do you think about all that? Any immediate opinions?”
Arthur eyed him ruefully. “Very difficult, isn’t it? As you say, if not him, then who?”
“It couldn’t be your father,” added Beatrice, “not a murderer.”
Murdoch reached over and patted her hand. He was touched by her irrational loyalty. He knew that what she meant was nobody with Murdoch blood in their veins could be a criminal.
“It would be reassuring if Mr. Quinn tracked down the mysterious Mr. White. You don’t want any loopholes to fret over.”
“Exactly. First thing tomorrow I’m going to visit the doctor who performed the post mortem examination. His report was very thorough, but I’d like to talk to him face to face. And after that …” His voice trailed off. After that he had no more options that he could see. Neither of the Kitchens had asked him directly if he considered his father to be guilty, and he was grateful for their tact. When he had left the jail, so stirred by this unexpected reunion, he had entertained the possibility that Harry was innocent. However, as the day went on and he had talked to the people who had been involved, he was reverting to his first opinion: Harry had killed a man in a fit of rage and conveniently didn’t remember doing so. Justice would be served.
He thought of all the times he had fantasised about justice in connection with Harry. Often, he himself administered it; sometimes God did. The end was the same. Harry suffered for his sins. The knowledge that he might very well receive the ultimate punishment was not nearly as satisfying as he had thought it would be. In fact, it brought but little pleasure.