A Journeyman to Grief
Read A Journeyman to Grief Online
Authors: Maureen Jennings
CONTENTS
For Iden
And this time for Christina and Scott
and all the good folks at Shaftesbury Films
Henry Bolingbroke:
Nay, rather, every tedious stride I make
Will but remember me what a deal of world
I wander from the jewels that I love.
Must I not serve a long apprenticehood
To foreign passages, and in the end,
Having my freedom, boast of nothing else
But that I was a journeyman to grief?
–
Richard II
, Scene III
CHAPTER
ONE
JULY
1858
S
he glanced over her shoulder to see if he was coming. What could he be doing? He’d been gone more than half an hour, and all he’d had to do was pick up the forgotten tobacco pouch from their hotel room and come right back. They had planned to take the steamer boat across the Falls, but they’d miss it if he didn’t hurry. She shaded her eyes against the sun, but the road was deserted except for a carriage that was approaching slowly, the horse’s head drooping wearily. She consulted the gold fob watch that had been her father’s wedding present to her. It was a beautiful and extravagant gift, but the giving of it was marred by her father being in his cups and barely able to utter his congratulation, so that when she did consult the watch, her pride in its richness was tainted by her disappointment in him.
She shifted back on the bench. To her left, she could see a rainbow arching over the high-flung spray of the cascading water. She had been excited to come here for her honeymoon, but the week so far had been less than happy. Initially, she had
been self-conscious, sure that the other guests were staring at them in disapproval. When she confessed this to her husband, he was dismissive rather than kind, but she clung to his words: “You are the most beautiful woman in the room. The men covet you and the women are envious. Nobody knows. They think you are a Spanish countess.”
She longed for him to say more, but in the short time they had been married, she had learned not to press forward with any discussion he didn’t want to have. When he was courting her, he had been tender and solicitous, but nothing, not even her Aunt Hattie’s blunt warnings about “man’s nature,” had prepared her for the roughness of their conjugal relations. She couldn’t hide her discomfort, and he was impatient with her. “I wouldn’t have expected such coldness from you of all people.” She had cried so hard the first night that he had finally relented and teased and tickled her into a precarious laughter. This morning, she’d woken to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at her. He had kissed her fiercely. “Today, I want you to wear your best blue silk gown, your largest crinoline, and your big hat with the peacock feathers. You will be the belle of the promenade.”
So she had, and laced herself with unnecessary tightness that she now regretted on this hot day. Another quick check of the watch. What could be keeping him?
She heard the soft jingle of a horse’s bridle and looked over her shoulder again. The carriage had halted and a man was coming across the grass toward her. He was heavy-set with a full untrimmed beard and moustache. His clothes and skin looked grubby. She fancied she could smell his stale sweat, but that impression might have been born only later, when he was on top of her. Somehow, from the first, her flesh knew who he was even though her mind would not accept it. Ever afterwards, she
scourged herself for not immediately running toward the protection of the few visitors who were hanging over the railings watching the water. But then he was talking to her and she made the terrible mistake of listening.
“Ma’am, I must ask you to accompany me. I have bad news. Your husband has been taken ill. He’s in your hotel.”
She gasped. “What has happened to him?”
The man shrugged. “I can’t say. All I know is I was sent to find you and bring you to him at once. The doctor’s been summoned. You’re staying at the Grand, ain’t you?”
She nodded, not taking her eyes from his face, from the mouth that was smiling at her so falsely. Suddenly he stepped forward, and in one swift movement he pulled her from the bench. In a ghastly parody of an embrace, he crushed her against his chest so that her hat was almost knocked off her head, her nose and mouth were smothered, and she couldn’t breathe. She felt herself being carried to the carriage and thrust inside.
There was another man within whom she couldn’t see because she was shoved to the floor face down and at the same time something was stuffed in her mouth. It was vile-tasting and leathery, like a glove. The man pinned her with his knee, and in a moment he’d tied her hands behind her back. The carriage lurched forward.
CHAPTER
TWO
APRIL
1896
P
rofessor Broske was late arriving, and his audience was becoming restive. In the past week, Murdoch had been suffering another bout of insomnia, and now he yawned, wishing he was at home, dozing in front of the fire, instead of here in a lecture theatre with Dr. Julia Ogden. Not that he’d had much choice in the matter, as she was not an easy woman to refuse. Her usual companion to such events was her father, Dr. Uzziel Ogden, but he was confined to bed with a fever, and yesterday she had telephoned Murdoch at the police station and asked if he would accompany her to the Toronto Medical School.
“If you don’t, I shall be relegated to the seats at the rear of the room with the other women. Professor Broske is a highly respected authority in his field, and I couldn’t bear to miss anything. Besides, his topic for tonight is the physiology of fear. As a police officer, you might find it useful.”
So here Murdoch was, in a room jammed with privileged and well-connected young men, all of them, he assumed, the sons of
rich fathers. He’d glimpsed only a handful of women, and they were indeed seated at the back.
The door to the stage opened, and the eminent man swept in, followed by two student assistants wearing holland aprons and wheeling small trolleys. Broske was bewhiskered, balding, and short, and he exuded confidence and assurance. He strode to the podium, held up his hand for silence, and addressed the audience. His voice, lightly accented, was as resonant as any actor’s.
“Good evening, gentlemen, and I am glad also to welcome the members of the fairer sex who are gracing us with their presence.” He took a monocle from his breast pocket. “The topic of tonight’s lecture is fear. I shall be conducting a few experiments, but I will not ask for volunteers so none of you have anything to fear on that account.” The audience laughed dutifully. “I ’ave no doubt there is no one in this room tonight who has not at some time in their life experienced the emotion of fear. We are all, I’m sure, familiar with its manifestations, such as heart palpitations, shortness of breath, pallor, trembling, flight, sometimes immobility. Even I experienced a tremor of the ’and as I prepared to meet you. Such an emotion is not termed ‘stage fright’ for nothing.” He paused for his little joke to take effect. “I should add, ’owever, that although the experience of fear in all its many varieties is universal and connects us to the greater family of mankind, we should keep in mind that certain races are more naturally afraid than others and women are more fearful than their brothers.”
Murdoch wondered how Dr. Ogden, who, in his opinion, possessed an unparalleled coolness of disposition, was reacting to her hero’s statement. As far as he could tell without blatantly staring at her, she was unmoved.
His hands tucked beneath the tails of his frockcoat, the professor moved away from the podium and began to pace back and
forth. He spoke now as if he were dictating a letter, his tone slightly abstracted. “In lesser degrees, these physical effects may be useful to us. If threatened, those men, or even women, who are normally of a timid or placid disposition may be roused to defend themselves. ’Owever, we who carry this fragile machine of our body about with us continually ought to remember that any shock that exceeds the usual measure may prove fatal. I can adumbrate several instances of men, women, and children who have literally been frightened to death.” He stopped to scan the rows in front of him, and such was the power of his personality, Murdoch wondered for a moment if he were trying to illustrate his point.
“Let us remember that fear is a disease to be cured. The brave man may fail sometimes, but the coward always fails.”
A bespectacled young man sitting close to the front raised his hand. “Excuse me, sir. I have a question.”
The professor frowned. “Can it wait? I usually take questions at the end of the lecture.”
“My query seems apropos to the moment, sir, if you don’t mind.”
“Very well.”
“If, as you say, fear is a disease and yet you have also reminded us that we have all experienced fear, are you then saying that all of us in this room are, to a greater or lesser degree, in a state of ill health? And if that is the case, what may we do to effect a cure for ourselves?”
The smallest titter rippled through the audience, as nobody was going to risk an outright guffaw until they saw how Professor Broske reacted.
He smiled and some of the tension left the air. “First, we must understand that the physiological responses we experience when we are afraid are reflex movements.” He wagged his finger in the
direction of the young student. “If I were to publicly berate you for your impertinence, which I have no intention of doing, dear fellow, your heart would start to race, the pupils of your eyes would no doubt dilate, and the inspirations of your breath would be curtailed. Those reactions would be beyond your power to control. And let me hasten to add, no shame lies in that direction. Courage of character is another matter entirely. It can, and should be, taught. Let me say that courage springs from three sources: nature, education, and conviction.”
Murdoch glimpsed several students scribbling earnestly in their notebooks.
Broske continued. “There is a culture which heredity transmits to the brains of our children. The future and the power of a nation do not lie solely in its commerce, its science, or its army but are also formed in the hearts of its citizens, the wombs of its mothers, and the courage or cowardice of its sons.”
There was an outburst of applause in which Dr. Ogden joined heartily. Then Broske snapped his fingers at one of the assistants, who promptly wheeled his trolley forward. On it were a small electric battery and a glass jar that Murdoch could see contained frogs trying desperately to climb out. They were scrambling over one another in their haste but unable to get a grip on the smooth glass. The professor adjusted his monocle.
