NEWCOMBE DECIDED TO STAY A LITTLE LONGER in the city and take the opportunity to buy a Christmas present for Maria. Promising to meet him later at the tavern, Murdoch headed back to Shaftesbury Avenue.
He was really not too sanguine about unearthing new evidence, but in spite of that he was curiously happy. He didn’t know if his father had, in fact, killed Delaney in a drunken rage or even if it would ever be known for certain one way or the other. Nevertheless, there had been affection between them. He had long given up hope of ever having what he considered to be normal filial feelings. To know that he might be capable of loving his father was an increasing source of joy. Added to that was the anticipation of being with Enid Jones in a few short hours.
When he was on the streetcar, however, lurching and clanking up the gradual incline towards St. Clair, his mood changed again. Harry’s predicament was serious indeed. Go over it again, Murdoch said to himself, but this time think as if Harry was telling the truth. That everything had happened the way he said it did. Possibly, a quarrel with Delaney, a blow, and him crawling into the bushes where he lay until Pugh found him. By the time Dr. Semple conducted his examination, Delaney had been dead for some time. The best he could determine from the progress of rigor mortis was that the man had died somewhere between eight-thirty and nine-thirty. It was possible he had died very shortly before his body was discovered, although Semple admitted it was difficult to pin the time down because Delaney was in the water. Logically there were two possibilities. One, that somebody had been right at his heels and killed him directly after he had the short bout with Harry. Two, that Delaney had continued on his way, wherever he was going, and met his murderer on the way back. Had he followed the path as far as Yonge Street? To what purpose? Convinced they had the right man, the police at Number Seven Station had not pursued an extensive enquiry except for advertising in the newspaper. If Delaney had an assignation, no one was admitting it. And even if he had, it didn’t mean there was anything nefarious about it, or that it had anything to do with his death. But here again, assuming Harry had told the absolute truth, how could money have disappeared? The fact that only part of his winnings had gone suggested a payment of some kind. On the other hand, Murdoch was even starting to wonder if the hideout he’d discovered on the way to the Lacey cottage was one used by Delaney. He had assumed a young person, but the hole itself was big enough to accommodate an adult. Had John Delaney been lovesick? Casting spells with frogs? If so, about whom? Jessica Lacey had made no acknowledgement of seeing Delaney that night, so Murdoch assumed the man had not gone as far as the cottage, unless he was a Peeping Tom and had gone to spy on her. That couldn’t totally be ruled out. However, for the sake of argument, say he did go to the hideout. On the way back, he could have met somebody who hated him enough to bash him on the head. And that person had been behind him because either Delaney didn’t see him coming and was taken unawares or he had turned his back not expecting to be hit, which meant he did not fear his assailant. Murdoch sighed. He didn’t feel any clearer.
“You shouldn’t sigh like that, young man.”
Startled, he looked over at the seat opposite, where an elderly woman in the demure black bonnet of a widow was regarding him with some concern.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am?”
“Every time a person sighs, they lose a drop of blood. You’ve sighed more than once while you’ve been sitting there.”
“Oh dear, I wasn’t aware of that.”
Unexpectedly, she smiled at him, a sweet smile that crinkled the fine skin around her eyes. “Are you having problems with your wife?”
“Er, no. I have not had the good fortune to be married.”
She actually leaned forward a little to scrutinise him more closely. “I must say, I cannot understand that. You certainly have most agreeable features.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“But then that’s not important really in a gentleman, is it? Not so much as with we ladies. With the gentlemen, it’s character that counts.”
He didn’t quite know how to reply to that and was afraid his bachelor state might indicate a serious flaw in his personality.
“Character and money in the bank, don’t you think, ma’am?”
She shook her head. “No, I don’t. My late husband was as poor as a church mouse when we first married, but he was very hard-working and when the good Lord saw fit to take him, I was left comfortably off.”
There was a glisten of tears in her pale blue eyes, and Murdoch felt a twinge of guilt that he had been guying her on with his comment.
“I’m glad to hear that,” he said with sincerity, and was rewarded by the sweet smile.
At that moment the conductor called out, “St. Clair Avenue next stop. End of the line. All out.”
The old lady stood up, swaying slightly at the movement of the streetcar. Murdoch jumped to his feet to steady her. As they came to a halt, he escorted her down to the rear of the car where she could alight. He got off first and helped her down.
“Thank you very much, young man. Promise me no more sighing.” She patted his cheek lightly with her hand. She was wearing pale fawn kid gloves, but they looked a little on the worn side. Perhaps her claim to being comfortably off was exaggerated, thought Murdoch. Or perhaps it was a matter of degree.
“I’ll try not to.” He watched as she walked slowly away, almost wanting to run after her and continue the acquaintance. He had never met any of his grandparents, who had died long before he was born. His father had no living relatives, and his mother’s only sister, Aunt Weldon, had never married. There were no cousins. Now his brother and sister were gone and only his father left. In spite of the old lady’s warning, he sighed so deeply, he must have lost half a pint of blood.
He quickened his pace. The short winter evening was closing in fast, and he was concerned that it would get too dark to go into the ravine.
The path leading down to the creek wasn’t as icy as he’d feared, and he was able to move at a good trot to the bridge. Here the air was damper and thin shreds of mist were drifting over the path. To the west, silhouetting the treetops, the sky was flushed salmon pink against the darkening night.
He continued on along the right-hand path and once again started to climb the steps to the Lacey cottage. Halfway up, he stopped to examine the hideout. The box containing the frog skeleton was no longer there.
The final flight of steps was the steepest, and he was panting when he reached the top of the hill. Here there was a low wooden fence built close to the edge of the ravine in order to squeeze out as much space as possible for the cottage property. He pushed open the gate and walked through. The vegetable garden was bare now but showed evidence of being well-tended. From where he stood, he could see into the cottage. A lamp was lit and the curtains weren’t drawn. A young woman he presumed to be Jessica Lacey was clearly visible in the kitchen. He paused, not wanting to spy on an unsuspecting woman but curious about her. She had not herself testified at the trial. A physician had stated she was in too fragile a state of health, but he had presented her testimony which was uncomplicated. Mrs. Lacey had neither heard nor seen anything on the night of the murder. Her child was taken ill, and she had taken her down to Maria Newcombe. She had remained at the Manchester until next morning, given that the police were coming and going in the ravine.
Jessica was moving slowly like a woman in pain. She took a pot from a hook on the wall, pumped in some water, and placed it on the stove. Murdoch didn’t quite know how to warn her of his presence, but he couldn’t just stand here at the gate and have her catch him. That would really frighten her. He called out, “Hello, Mrs. Lacey, hello,” and proceeded to walk down the path, waving his hand in as friendly a manner as he could. She heard him and turned and stared out of the window. There was still sufficient light for her to make him out, and he continued to smile and wave at her. Her fear was palpable, but there wasn’t anything he could do to mitigate it other than what he was doing.
“Do you mind if I come in?” he shouted, not sure if she could hear him but not wanting to move out of sight of her. She came over to the window and pushed it open a crack. Close up, he could see even more clearly the terror in her face. She was young and probably, in usual circumstances, a bonny woman with abundant dark hair and rather refined features. Her eyes were blue, and he could see how shadowed they were with ill health.
He smiled as reassuringly as he could and tipped his hat. “Mrs. Lacey, my name is Williams. I’m sorry if I startled you, but I wonder if I could have a word?”
“What about?”
“I met your husband, Walter, yesterday at the Manchester. And your daughter, whom I must say takes after you for prettiness.”
The flattery was blatant, but he was doing everything he could to calm her. He was not succeeding.
“Did he mention me?” he asked. “No.”
“I am conducting an investigation into the Delaney case. I was hoping I could talk to you for a moment or two.”
If anything she looked even more afraid.
“What sort of investigation?”
Murdoch was beginning to feel ridiculous talking to the woman through the window, but he knew she was not going to let him in.
“I’ve been, er, hired by the family of the man who is accused of the crime. They want to make sure that there is no miscarriage of justice, that he is guilty as charged.”
“He has been tried and convicted.”
“That is true. I am simply trying to put everybody’s mind at rest once and for all.”
“How can I be of help? I already gave a statement to the constable.”
“I know, ma’am, and I do apologise again for disturbing you. Do you mind if I ask you one or two questions?”
“What are they?”
“I understand you and your husband rent this cottage from Mr. Delaney, that is, I should say now, from Mrs. Delaney.”
“Yes, we do.”
“Have you lived here long?”
“Since March.”
“Before that?”
“In Alberta, but I fail to see the relevance of the question.”
In fact, Murdoch was circling, trying to get her to reveal more about herself.
“Did you know Mr. Delaney well?”
“No, I dealt with Mrs. Delaney.”
“In your opinion, ma’am, was he a man who might make enemies?”
“What do you mean?”
“I am trying to determine if there was, in fact, any person other than the man now convicted who might be motivated to kill Mr. Delaney.”
She was steadier now, more sure of herself. “I cannot say. He had an enormous funeral by all accounts. He must have been well liked.”
“You yourself did not attend the funeral?”
Even in the gloom he could see the flush that swept into her face and neck.
“I was not able to. I was unwell.”
He remembered that she had miscarried a child shortly after the time of the murder, and he regretted his question.
“I am getting cold, sir.”
“One more question then, Mrs. Lacey. Did you hear anything at all on that night? A cry? A dog barking? Anything?”
“I have said I did not. My child was taken ill. That is all that was of concern to me.”
“Did you take notice of the time when you went down to the Manchester?”
“No, I did not.”
He stepped back. “Thank you very much, ma’am. I do appreciate your talking to me.”
She had closed the window before he finished, and she pulled down the blind, leaving him staring at a blank window. That hadn’t got him very far.
He walked around the cottage and began to follow the path that ran along the top of the ravine.
The Delaney house soon came in sight, just on the other side of the rise. Here were no uncurtained windows to look into. All the blinds were drawn, with cracks of light from the upstairs windows. He could just make out the sound of somebody singing, and he assumed Miss Kate was practising. There was no flute accompaniment. He walked on, hitting a pong of pig food floating on the air.