A Journeyman to Grief (18 page)

“Sounds like he was paying a lot of attention, but never mind, continue.”

“‘I was about to turn into the gates of Dr. Maguire’s estate, with some relief I must admit, when I saw yet another person also hurrying toward the stables. This man I recognized. It was Daniel Cooke himself.’” Fyfer stopped reading.

“Is that all?”

“No, sir. Sorry, Mr. Murdoch, I couldn’t help but save the best to last. I asked Mr. Whatling if he could give me a description of the two people he had seen on the street before he saw Mr. Cooke. Here’s what he said. ‘I had the merest glimpse of the woman, who I am certain was trying to avoid detection but she was dressed in dark clothing, perhaps a mackintosh. She was of an average height. She had a black large umbrella –’”

“Oh very useful, Fyfer. No sense as to age or anything that would distinguish the poor woman from a half the female population of the city?”

“No, sir. But this is what he had to say about the second fellow, the one he thought was hurrying toward the stables.”

“It was pouring with rain, who wouldn’t hurry?”

“I know, sir, but I pressed him on this question. Obviously Cooke was rushing to his unknown rendezvous from his own
house. The times fit perfectly if we give Whatling five minutes or so to get from Massey Hall. Did you get a good look at the man ahead of Cooke? I asks him and he says, ‘Yes, I did. He wasn’t carrying an umbrella. He was of medium height and of a stocky build. There is a lamp on that side of the street and as he went past his face was clearly visible in the light. There is no doubt in my mind, he was a coloured man, not young but with a hard cruel look to him as if he had lived a life of depravity.’”

“That does sound like our messenger fellow, although the life of depravity didn’t impress itself on Ferguson. So we have confirmed that Mr. Cooke was running to a rendezvous set up by this mysterious darkie. It’s impossible to say if the woman in the mackintosh was involved, but for the moment let’s assume she was and she was waiting for them to arrive. As I’ve said, I think the attack required two people.”

“But a woman to do something so cruel, sir? It’s hard to believe.”

“It is, indeed, constable, but we can’t let our bias cloud our mind. The fair sex is just as capable of crime as we are. I’d like you to continue making your inquiries. Go farther afield. I want everybody in the vicinity questioned.”

“Could we be dealing with a mad man, sir? I could telephone the lunatic asylum and see if they’ve had any elopements.”

Murdoch clicked his tongue. “I can’t see our fellow being insane. There’s evidence of careful planning here. Besides if there were two of them, it’s hard to imagine
two
mad men working well together. But there’s no harm in following up on that. Give the matron my regards.”

“Yes, sir. And Constable Crabtree and I have been making progress with the tradesmen. They are to a man angry with Mr. Cooke about his failure to pay and were wondering if, now he’s dead, they will be properly reimbursed.”

“I wouldn’t count on it, not from what I’ve seen of his widow. I presume all their alibis check out?”

“So far they do, sir, but we still have three more to talk to. Cardington, the roofer, Kirkpatrick, the harness man, and McArthur, who delivers the wood.”

“Go and do that right away then. I’ll speak to Whatling. You’ve done a good job, Fyfer, but a second interview is often even more productive.”

“Yes sir, of course.” But Murdoch knew the young constable considered he had done all that could be done. He’d learn. Police work wasn’t like that.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE

G
iven how garrulous he was, Murdoch had expected Whatling to be an older man, but he wasn’t, probably barely thirty. He was in his shirt sleeves out in the yard of the coach house, polishing the carriage. He didn’t look pleased at being interrupted. Murdoch introduced himself.

“I don’t know what more I can add to what I already told your constable,” said Whatling.

“That was most helpful, but there were a couple of things I’d like to clarify.”

“Such as?”

“First off, I’d like to confirm the time when you saw the woman by the stable and the coloured man and Mr. Cooke. You had taken your employer to Massey Hall, I understand, and that would have been for an eight-o’clock concert, I presume.”

Whatling continued his work, shaking out the cushions from inside the carriage.

“That’s right. He’s a very punctual man, is Dr. Maguire. Can’t stand to be late, so whenever I take him anywhere I make sure to
leave in plenty of time, to allow for unexpected delays. You can’t be too careful in this job, the horse might throw a shoe, for instance, then what do you do if you’ve only allowed yourself a few minutes to get there before the curtain rises?”

He slapped at the cushions with a carpet beater, and Murdoch took advantage of the short break in his speech.

“So what time would you say you were crossing Wilton on your way back?”

“Well now, I let off the doctor at ten minutes before eight, a little later than I would have wanted but there were a lot of carriages arriving at the same time and we had to wait in line to get to the entrance. I couldn’t let him off sooner because of the rain…so I’d say it took me only five or six minutes from the concert hall to home, which means I would have been there shortly before eight o’clock.”

Murdoch was beginning to dread asking another question, but he pressed on.

“You said that you saw a woman standing underneath the tree across from the livery and she was trying to avoid being identified.”

“That’s right. That’s what I told the constable. She –”

“It was an inhospitable night. Could she have just been in a hurry to get out of the rain?”

Whatling looked triumphant. “When I first noticed her, she was standing, distinctly standing, and waiting under that tree on the corner. She didn’t move until she heard the sound of my carriage, then she scooted away up Mutual Street, and in my humble opinion, she deliberately bent her umbrella in my direction so I couldn’t see her.”

“Was she a white woman?”

“To be honest, I didn’t see her face clearly. She was as well dressed as any white woman in a long, dark mackintosh, but, no, the gospel truth is I didn’t really see her face.”

“How close behind her was the man?”

“He was at the bottom of the road as if he’d just turned onto Mutual Street from Shuter.”

“You described him as a coloured man, not young, and with a look of depravity. Can you tell me what constitutes that sort of look, in your opinion?”

Whatling frowned. “Not just my opinion. I’ve seen pictures of criminals and they had the same sort of expression. His face was all squeezed together like this.” He demonstrated, but Murdoch thought he looked as if he had tasted something unpleasant, got some dirt in his eyes, or was straining on a commode. Depravity was not the first thing that came to mind.

“One thing that did intrigue me, Mr. Whatling, was that you got such a good look at the man. Was he not wearing a hat?”

“Yes, he was, a black fedora, as I recall, but as I drove past he looked up at me, fearful like, and as we were right by the street-lamp I saw him very clearly. Remember, I’m up in my seat so I’m looking down at him. I thought to myself, I thought, You are a thoroughly bad character as ever I saw one and I’m going to make good and sure all the doors are properly locked tonight.”

“I see. You said he was of medium height and rather stocky.”

“That’s right. He was taller than me, who is medium height, you might say, and probably not as tall as you, who would be considered a tallish man.”

He replaced the cushions in the carriage, then breathed on the side lamp of the carriage and polished it with a clean cloth.

“And Mr. Cooke, who you said was quite close behind this coloured man, did he catch up with him at any point?”

“Not that I saw, but I was turning into the driveway by then so they were out of my view. But I thought it odd that Mr. Cooke didn’t call out a good night to me. He’s familiar with the carriage. He just looked like he was a man in fear for his life and he wouldn’t
have noticed if the Prince himself in his royal coach was going down Mutual Street.”

Murdoch sighed. “Can you tell me why you assumed Mr. Cooke was a man in fear of his life?”

Whatling hunched his shoulders, tucked his chin into his collar, and trotted a few paces around the yard. “He was walking like this.”

This demonstration was slightly more convincing than the previous one but could as easily have been depicting a man who was facing into a heavy rain and getting soaked.

“Was he also wearing a hat?”

“No, which I thought was odd as it was pouring, but he wasn’t in his right state of mind, if you ask me. Besides, we know Mr. Cooke was going to meet his death, don’t we?” added Whatling.

We do now, thought Murdoch, but you didn’t know it then. It was unfortunate that Fyfer hadn’t got to the coachman before he’d heard any details about what had happened in the livery. He wondered how much Whatling had embroidered, not maliciously, but like so many witnesses, convinced after the fact about details they didn’t think of at the time. There wasn’t much else to be got from him, although the man looked as if he could go on talking ad infinitum. Perhaps being a coachman to a bachelor was a lonely job.

“Are you married, Mr. Whatling?”

“No, still hopeful. Why do you ask?”

“No reason, just getting all our facts straight. Are you acquainted with the Cooke household by any chance?”

“On occasion I drop in on my day off and have a chin with the butler, Ferguson. He’s from over the pond and my father was from there too, so we like to share stories, as it were.”

“And you have seen him since Mr. Cooke’s death, I presume?”

“Yes, I saw him when I went over to the house to give my condolences to madam.” Whatling was starting to look restive under
all the questions. He wrung out his cloth in the pail of water and pointedly started to wipe down the wheels. Murdoch wasn’t finished with him yet.

“How did you hear about Mr. Cooke’s death?”

“Mr. Ferguson came by to tell me the news on Thursday night. He was dreadfully upset, poor fellow. He felt quite responsible because he was the one who had taken Mr. Cooke the message from the negro who came to the door. But I told him it was hardly his fault, was it? How was he to know the man was a murderer?”

“Quite so. We don’t even know if that was the case ourselves.”

Whatling gaped at him in genuine astonishment. “Who else would it be? When I realized I had seen the very man myself heading for the stables, we knew he was the one. The woman was probably in cahoots with him or was set to keep a lookout.”

“Did Mr. Ferguson have any theories as to why somebody would attack Mr. Cooke or what the message was that drew him away so urgently?”

Whatling rubbed hard at a muddy splotch. “You probably should talk to him yourself.” He paused and looked at Murdoch slyly. “I must say, he did tell me, in confidence of course, that Mr. Cooke had dealings with a fast crowd. This wasn’t the first time Ferguson had taken messages.”

“Really? Did he say what the others were?”

“No, he didn’t, but he suspects they were from local touts. Mr. Cooke had a taste for gambling.”

“Horses?”

“Horses and other things. Whatever sport was up, apparently. Lacrosse, boxing, skulling.” Whatling gave Murdoch another look. “He even made some bets on the police games last summer, which of course he shouldn’t have.” He shook his head. “Poor man wasn’t very successful, according to Mr. Ferguson. It caused, er” – he coughed delicately – “it caused, shall we say,
some disagreements with Mrs. Cooke, who was dead against it. As are most of the ladies.”

He pulled a handsome silver watch from his waistcoat pocket and consulted it. “I’m sorry, sir, but I must get on with my business. Dr. Maguire is going out to dine this evening. Is that all you need to ask me?”

Murdoch hadn’t noticed the coachman being appreciably slowed down in his work, but he thought he’d got as much as he could at the moment.

“Thank you, Mr. Whatling, you have been very helpful. I may have other questions at a later date, and one of the constables will subpoena you to testify at the inquest. That should take place in a few days. We will let you know.”

“Testify? Oh dear, I’m not sure the doctor will like that. He has his reputation to consider.”

Murdoch was irritated. “First of all, it’s the law. You have no choice. And, secondly, I don’t see that you presenting your evidence honestly to the coroner will in any way reflect on your employer. Quite the opposite. You will be respected and admired for your acute observations.”

Whatling looked doubtful. “You say that, sir, but you’re not a coachman. People don’t want their servants to be the centre of attention, do they? Especially not when murder is involved.”

CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR

F
rom Whatling, Murdoch went directly to Cooke’s house. Ferguson opened the door to him and flinched back when he saw who it was.

“Mrs. Cooke is not at home. She has gone to the stables to conduct affairs.”

“It’s actually you I’d like to talk to, Mr. Ferguson.”

“Oh dear. Perhaps you could step inside then.”

Murdoch did so and the butler closed the door quickly behind him.

“People do like to gossip, don’t they?” said Ferguson. They stood awkwardly in the hall. “How may I help with your inquiries, sir?”

Murdoch could see the man trying to pull the formality of his position around him like a tattered cloak.

“I just wanted to go over your statement again. If you don’t mind, I’ll sit here on the bench.” Murdoch sat down and took out his notebook. “You said that the person who brought the message to Mr. Cooke on the night he died was a coloured man?”

“Yes, sir. That’s right.”

“You described him as young?”

Ferguson pursed his lips. “It was dark and it’s a little hard to say with coloureds. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say of middle age or more.”

“What sort of build? Skinny? Fat?”