A Journeyman to Grief (11 page)

Murdoch stared at Seymour, not sure whether he was making a joke, but Charlie’s face was impassive and Murdoch wondered, not for the first time, if it wasn’t his own guilty conscience that was making him project judgments onto his friend. Only last Sunday, Father Fair had chosen as his homily text the sacrament of marriage, denouncing in ringing tones those sinners who had carnal knowledge of each other outside of holy wedlock. Murdoch hadn’t been to confession for some weeks or he would have assumed the priest was particularly referring to him, but he’d shifted uneasily in the pew. When he was engaged to be married to Liza, both of them Roman Catholics, they had accepted, albeit impatiently, the church’s injunctions to remain chaste until their marriage. That chastity had become a cruel jest when she had died so suddenly of typhoid fever and he still regretted it. But when he had declared his love to Amy and he had actually proposed marriage, she had laughed. “It’s not for me, Will. We don’t need any public declaration and contract to bind us together. I believe we are quite capable of determining our own destiny. If you want me
in your bed, unwed but faithful, I will come happily.” And so she had, and he had never known such pleasure in his life before.

Seymour snapped his fingers. “Will! Where are you? I said Crabtree claims he’s got some important news.”

“Oh, right! Sorry. I just went off in a little daydream.”

“You certainly did.” He reached underneath the desk. “I almost forgot myself. This was delivered this morning for you.” He handed Murdoch a plain white envelope. There was no stamp, just his name neatly printed on the front.

Detective William Murdoch. Strictest Confidence.

“Some little street arab brought it in, but he was off before I could find out who it was from.”

Murdoch tore open the envelope and took out a single sheet of paper.

For no eyes other than yours.

I would much appreciate it if you would pay me a visit. I am still in the place where I was before. We are allowed to walk in the gardens from 5 till 6. Meet me there today. It will be private. No matter what, Murdoch, please don’t let me down. I am counting on you.

Thomas Brackenreid.

P.S. As I will probably be away from the station for a while longer, you have my permission to use my personal office on such occasions as you need to.

“What is it?” Seymour asked.

Murdoch hesitated. Charlie was his friend and he respected him, but there was something about the situation with the inspector that silenced him. He’d poked fun at the man many a time and shared in the general disrespect Brackenreid had engendered in
the station, but he didn’t feel like betraying a confidence placed in him even if he hadn’t exactly agreed to it.

“I’ll tell you later.” He put the envelope in his pocket. “By the way, who put the daffies out front?”

“I did.” Seymour gave him a shy smile. “It was Katie’s idea. She thinks the station should look a little more friendly. Improve our relationship with the general public.”

“Quite right too. The trouble with us, Charlie, is that we think too much like men and not women.”

Seymour laughed. “I don’t know if we can do much about that, but I know what you mean. On the other hand, God save me from women who want to wear the trousers.” He stopped short. “Oh, I’m not referring to Amy. I just meant, er, metaphorically.”

“Of course.”

The door opened and a man came in. He was short and wiry with the tanned face of an outdoorsman. In spite of the mild weather, he was wearing a long caped houndstooth coat and astrakhan hat.

“Afternoon, gentlemen, I’m here to see Detective Murdoch.”

“I’m Murdoch. What can I do for you?”

The man held out his hand. “My name’s Musgrave, Paul Musgrave. I’m a cabbie at the Cooke stables. Cooke that was, may he rest in peace. Dreadful doings that, dreadful.” Musgrave’s tone and expression were cheerful. His eyes were crinkled at the sides, but whether that was from perpetual squinting into the sun or from being forever affable with his customers, Murdoch couldn’t tell.

“One of your constables came over to my house. I was having a bit of a sleep-in and I didn’t know anything that had happened. Shocking, it was. Completely shocking. Anyway, the constable and me had quite a chin wag and he told me to come here this afternoon and talk to you. So here I am.” He was chewing vigorously on a wad of tobacco, and he looked around for somewhere to spit.
Simultaneously, both Murdoch and Seymour pointed at the closest spittoon and Musgrave skilfully deposited a stream of juice. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Don’t worry about keeping me from my work. Today, I couldn’t get a customer to get inside my cab if I paid him. Sunshine’s bad for business, it is, especially in the spring. Hot summer’s better, but then, most of the time, the ladies don’t want to go out at all, do they?”

“Come with me then, Mr. Musgrave. Sergeant, would you tell Constable Crabtree to join us as soon as he can.”

Murdoch began to lead the way to his cubicle at the rear of the station, then he halted. Why not? He went back to Seymour and whispered, “Charlie, believe it or not, Inspector Brackenreid has offered me the use of his office while he is away. Tell George to come up there.”

Seymour gaped at him. “You’re joking with me.”

“Not at all. His exact words were ‘You have my permission to use my office on such occasions as you need to.’ I’m counting this as an occasion.”

Charlie grinned. “Be careful, Will, you might get to like being an inspector.”

CHAPTER
FIFTEEN

“G
ot a new chair, did you, sir?” Musgrave asked.

Murdoch stopped abruptly. He’d taken a seat behind the inspector’s desk and was enjoying testing the chair that tilted and revolved. He stopped quickly.

“Something like that,” he muttered.

The top of the desk was pristine except for a tray filled with papers, the first one marked urgent. He’d better have a look at that later. Couldn’t let down the reputation of station number four, after all. To the side of the desk was a squat walnut boxy container that he hadn’t seen before. On the top was an ivory button, which he pressed. Immediately the sides of the box sprung open, revealing rows of cigars held in by a wire frame. Murdoch hesitated. Borrowing the office was one thing, taking cigars that didn’t belong to him was another. Nobly, he closed it again.

There was a tap at the door.

“Come in,” Murdoch called, and George Crabtree entered. If he was surprised to see Murdoch sitting behind the desk, he didn’t show it.

“George, Mr. Musgrave is about to give me his formal statement. Write it down for me, will you?” Crabtree would spot any discrepancies or embellishments to what he’d already heard. “Mr. Musgrave, will you proceed? Start with your name and address please.”

The cabbie removed his tobacco plug from his mouth and wrapped it in his handkerchief, which from the look of it had been used in this way many times before.

“My name is Paul Musgrave and I live at 210 Wilton Street.”

“How long have you worked for Daniel Cooke?”

“Oh, ’bout three years now.”

“What sort of employer was Mr. Cooke?”

Musgrave slapped his hand on his knee. “As good as they come. Conscientious to a fault. He was there when we booked out and sitting waiting when we booked back in. Mind you, he kept his distance, which is only proper, in my opinion. People will take advantage if you don’t, it’s only human nature. But you always knew where you stood with him. Pay your dues and he was pleasant as could be. We rents out the cabs, you see, and we pay that no matter what. One dollar a shift, which you’ve got to make up in your fares. We keeps what we take in, but we pass over 5 per cent of that to Cooke for wear and tear, as he calls it.” He rubbed his hand over his face. “Or should I say,
called it
, may he rest in peace. That’s why he was always on us to look at our dockets, which, as you know, the city council has strict rules about. In the first division, which is city limits, it’s fifty cents. If you go to the second division, that is to Dufferin Street West or Pape in the east, it goes up to seventy-five cents.”

Murdoch had been scribbling the figures in his notebook, and he made some quick calculations.

“If all you cabbies were getting steady business, I’d say Mr. Cooke could make a decent income even after paying for upkeep of the horses and carriages.”

“He could. And we are in a prime location. A lot of professional men in the vicinity. Not all of them keep their own carriages, or if they do, the gentleman uses it. This means the ladies like to hire us to take them shopping or on their calls and so forth. We have a lot of regulars for that reason.”

Crabtree gave a little discrete cough. “Mr. Musgrave had something else to say about the money, Mr. Murdoch.”

“Yes?”

The cabbie settled back in his chair. “In spite of what I just told you, being a cab driver is a thankless job when you get right down to it. You never can say from one day to the next what money you’re going to bring in. The best days are those when it starts off sunny but rains in the afternoon, so all the ladies get out to do their shopping, then get caught. Rainy all day long is not as good as you think because they don’t want to go out. Same with cold. But I always tries to be pleasant and cheerful and I get a lot of steady customers. Especially because the stables is right near Shuter Street, I’ll have a call a lot of times from the doctors’ nurses that Mrs. So-and-So would like me to pick her up. They often gives me a nice gratuity. Them’s the best jobs.”

Murdoch waited. He could see by Crabtree’s expression, Musgrave hadn’t got to the point yet. The constable leaned forward.

“Tell the detective about Mr. Cooke’s attitude to money.”

“Right. Well as I was saying, the cabbie’s life is an unpredictable one. Mr. Cooke was doing all right in my opinion, but lately he’s been, that is, was, quite testy. Not like him at all. He
was on us about working harder and kept saying as how we had to go after fares, not just wait for them to fall into our laps. He was starting to ride us to the point of aggravation. I don’t know what had got into him. He didn’t used to be like that. Not that I’m speaking ill of the dead, you understand, he was one of the best.”

Another long pause. The cabbie was apparently studying the plant in the window.

“Go on, Musgrave. We don’t have all day,” said Crabtree, finally losing patience.

“Sorry, officer. Your aspidistra looks a bit wilted. It needs watering, I’d say.”

“Mr. Musgrave, please continue,” said Murdoch.

The cabbie nodded. “Here it is then. It’s my belief there’s been something going on with Mr. Cooke and the darkie.”

“Elijah Green?”

“Him. Mind you, I’d never utter a bad word about the man except under these circumstances. He’s been a good worker, I’d say. Makes sure the carriages are all spic and span and the horses fit, which you’ve got to have if you’re in the business…but two times this month I came in a bit later than expected and I saw him in the office with Mr. Cooke and they were having a barney. A big up-and-a-downer, by the look of it.”

“What about?” Murdoch asked.

“Wish I could help you there, but I can’t. I come in the other end of the barn so I couldn’t quite hear them, but I saw Mr. Cooke grab Green by his shirt. He was mad as the devil about something.”

“What did Green do?”

“Nothing. He sort of shrugged him off, but I thought he was furious too.”

“This happened twice, you say?”

“That’s right. Once about two weeks ago and the other time was just this past Tuesday.”

“The day before Mr. Cooke died?”

“Yes. It was just after eleven at night. Like I said, I was a bit later than expected.”

“Was the earlier quarrel the same? Did Cooke grab Green?”

“Not that time. But he was yelling, I could see that. He banged his fist on the desk.”

“Did you say anything to Green?”

“Not the first time, but when he came in I sort of made a joke of it. ‘The boss found you cheating on the hay bills, did he?’”

“And?”

“Nothing. He just sort of shrugged and said something about the boss getting out of bed the wrong way. But if looks could kill, I wouldn’t be sitting here talking to you today.”

“That’s it, then? That’s what you have to tell us?”

Musgrave looked distinctly aggrieved at the question. “That’s more than enough, ain’t it? The darkie is a deep one. I’m a good judge of character, you have to be if you’re a cabbie. You see all sides of human nature, and I tell you he keeps a lot hidden.”

“Did any of the other cabbies ever quarrel with Mr. Cooke? Did you yourself, for instance?”

Musgrave shrugged. “Me and him got along good. The others I couldn’t really say. Wallace is as sour as a pickle, so he and Mr. Cooke weren’t exactly chummy, but I don’t know as you’d call that a quarrel exactly. Besides, there’s always going to be the odd squabble where a man’s livelihood is concerned. Sometimes, Mr. Cooke would take a bigger cut if he thought you’d run the horse too hard or if there was any damage to the carriages. But like I said, he was a shrewd businessman. You can’t be too soft or people won’t give you any respect.”

“That happened to you, did it?”

“Once or twice.”

“You know, don’t you, that we received a complaint that the horses in the livery were being mistreated.”

For the first time, Musgrave lost some of his affability. Without the crinkly eyed smile, his face was hard. “Some interfering old so-and-so, I gather. No doubt a silly old dame who don’t understand what a cabbie’s life is like. I love my horses like they was my own children. But the truth is the more fares we get in an hour, the more money we makes. And if customers want you to scorch them down to the station so’s they’ll catch their train, I ain’t going to say no, am I? They give big bonuses, some of them doctors.”

“Mr. Cooke objected, did he? Wearing out his horses like that?”

“Not him. He knew that’s the life of a cab horse, isn’t it?”

He pulled a big steel watch out of his waistcoat pocket and stared at it. “I should get back to work. This is costing me money, you know.”