A Journeyman to Grief (26 page)

“Yours sincerely,

“Julia Ogden. M.D.

“P.S. There is no doubt he was already dead when he was tied up.”

The letter ended abruptly and the writing was hurried. Off to a social engagement with you know who, thought Murdoch. He looked over the constables.

“Any questions? The most relevant part of this for us is the angle of the bullet, of course.”

“Can we assume that the assailant was indeed shorter than Mr. Talbert?” asked Fyfer.

“Let’s say that’s a strong possibility, but be careful about putting on blinkers. He could have been sitting down and been seven feet tall.”

“So if what the maid said is true, it could have been the woman, the taller one, who shot him.”

“That is true, Fyfer.” Murdoch rubbed his forehead hard, realizing he was very tired. “All right, I’m dismissing you for tonight. You can get right back at it tomorrow. George, stay for a moment, will you?”

The three young constables collected their helmets and with various buttonings of collars and tightening of belts, they filed out. Crabtree remained at the table. As soon as the door had closed, he said, “I’m so sorry, Mr. Murdoch, I don’t know what I was thinking of, or not thinking of, more likely.”

“It’s not at all like you, George. Is something the matter? Something that’s distracting you? Is it what you were telling me about the other day?”

Crabtree put his hand to his eyes and bent his head. Murdoch realized with a shock the man was trying to push back tears.

“Yes, sir. Forgive me, sir, but I can’t help myself. I know I was whinging about another babe on the way, but I never thought…I never…She’s done away with it, sir. Ellen has got rid of the baby.”

CHAPTER
THIRTY-FOUR

M
urdoch had comforted Crabtree as best he could, feeling all the while hopelessly inadequate. Apparently, Ellen had acquired some herbs and brought about a miscarriage. “It would have been difficult to have another babe,” cried Crabtree, “but we could have managed. I never would have expected her to do this.” What she had done was, of course, illegal, but there was no fear that Murdoch would pursue that.

Finally, he sent the constable home and headed down to the Elliott Hotel to speak to Mrs. Dittman and her maid.

He found them seated on one of the benches in the hotel grounds, and he observed them for a moment, unseen. Mrs. Dittman was leaning against the back of the bench, Faith was sitting upright, staring into space. He thought he saw tension in her body, as if she were bracing herself. Then she reached over and caressed her mistress’s arm in a way that was too intimate for a maid. Mrs. Dittman didn’t respond and Faith made the gesture again, then she noticed Murdoch and must have said something
because Mrs. Dittman looked up immediately. The bench was deeply shadowed, and they were sitting away from the lamp, but even so, he saw that since their last meeting she had slipped further into illness.

“Good evening, ma’am, Miss Faith. I wonder if I might have a few words with you?”

Mrs. Dittman sighed wearily. “More words, Mr., er, forgive me, but I have once again forgotten your name.”

“It’s Murdoch, ma’am. Detective William Murdoch.”

“What is it you wish to have more words about, Mr. Murdoch?”

The evening breeze rustled through the branches behind her and she shivered.

“Faith, will you bring me a shawl?”

The maid frowned. “Won’t he want me to be here too?”

“If he does, he can speak to you when you return. Please hurry. I’m quite cold. It should be in the wardrobe.”

“We can go inside if you prefer, Mrs. Dittman,” said Murdoch.

“No, it’s really quite pleasant out here. Besides, what will the manager think if you are seen questioning me for a second time? We will be asked to pack our bags, won’t we, Faith?”

“Yes, madam.”

The maid darted a quick glance at Murdoch, which was full of malice and fear, then she got up and stalked off before he could offer any objection. He studied her briefly. She was a short woman, perhaps about five feet tall, verging on being stout. Nothing about her was particularly mannish, but he supposed any woman in trousers and a fedora hat could pass herself off as a man. He turned back to Mrs. Dittman and realized she, too, had been watching, but it was he she was studying. Her expression was cold. Then when their eyes met, she gave him a rather charming smile.

“Well, sir?”

“Mrs. Dittman, since I spoke to you last I’m afraid there has been another murder. A Mr. Thomas Talbert was found shot to death in his house early this morning.”

“I had no idea Toronto was such a wicked city, Mr. Murdoch.”

“This is not at all typical, I assure you. Mr. Talbert lived not too far from here. We have a statement from a witness who was on Shuter last night. She said she saw a couple walking along the street, a man and a woman. The man was a negro of small stature and the woman she described as taller and fashionably dressed. She couldn’t tell if this woman was a white woman or a negress, but she was sure both man and woman were of middle age and the witness believes they were American. She claims to have seen them shortly after the time Mr. Talbert was killed. They were walking in a westerly direction, that is they would have been coming toward the Elliott Hotel.”

“What is this to me? I did not stir from my room last night. I cannot believe I am the only American in the city or that my maid is the only coloured person here. Besides, you say the woman saw a man and a woman. Faith is female, I assure you, and I have no male servant with me, as I already told you.”

“It is not that difficult for a woman to disguise herself as a man.”

She laughed. “I suppose not and just as easy for a man to disguise himself as a woman. Perhaps it was really two men your witness saw.”

“Point taken, ma’am, but there was another coincidence, the witness described the woman as moving with some difficulty, as do you.”

She turned her head away with a wry smile. “As do many women of my age. Growing older can be a curse. You are too young to know it, but you will.”

In the gloom, seeing her in profile like that, Murdoch had a sudden teasing sense of familiarity, as if they had met before. Not at the interview he had conducted yesterday but before that. He couldn’t place it.

He continued. “When our witness reached her own house, she said she turned to look down the street, but the couple had disappeared. There is no cross street close so we can only assume that they went into a house…or a hotel. The Elliott is the nearest place.”

“Really, sir. I’m afraid I do not care for the insinuation. I have nothing to do with this man’s death. He is a stranger to me. I do not possess a revolver. I am a visitor here and, as you see, in poor health. I was not expecting to be harassed by the local police about an affair that belongs to this city, not to visitors, however American they may be. Must I be forced to speak to the chief constable? You are all too happy to accept our money, but it would seem we are convenient scapegoats when you are confronted with a difficult case that has you running in circles.”

In spite of her obvious ill health, she was formidable, and Murdoch for a moment doubted himself. But only for a moment. Bluster all she liked, there was something going on with Mrs. Dittman and he was sure she was hiding something. It might not be the worst thing, the murder of Talbert, but there was something there.

Faith came hurrying down the path from the hotel, carrying a shawl over her arm. She immediately wrapped it around Mrs. Dittman’s shoulders.

“Thank you, Faith. You did not have any trouble finding it, I hope?”

“Not at all, madam.”

Murdoch felt a flash of anger. They were talking in code, damn it. What maid wouldn’t know where her mistress’s shawl
was? Faith had remained standing beside the bench. He turned to her.

“Mrs. Dittman said she never left her room last night after the evening meal. Am I to take it that you kept her company?”

He didn’t expect a denial of Mrs. Dittman’s statement, but he wanted to see how convincing Faith would be.

“Of course I did. She was not at all well and needed me to look after her.”

She spoke in a monotone voice rather carefully, as if she was choosing her words. Her face was expressionless.

“I am investigating the murder of a negro gentleman by the name of Talbert. Did you know him, by any chance?”

Mrs. Dittman interrupted. “Really, Mr. Murdoch. If you visited New York I would hardly expect you to know every white man in the city. Why should Faith know Mr. Talbert simply because he was a coloured man?”

“I didn’t mean that, ma’am. It was meant to identify only.”

“I’ve never heard of him,” said Faith quickly.

Mrs. Dittman pulled her shawl closer about her. “There, you see. Now, if you don’t mind, I will go indoors. I don’t want to contract pneumonia on top of all my other troubles, as we intend to leave on Monday morning.”

Murdoch decided to take a chance. “There is one other thing, ma’am. As I said, Mr. Talbert was shot and the coroner believes he must have died instantly. However, very soon afterwards, he was bound in a most peculiar position.” He reached in his pocket and took out his sketch. “It looked like this. He was tied by the wrists and pulled up into a sort of crouch position with a poker under his knees and over his arms at the elbow.”

Mrs. Dittman was a woman of great control, but she couldn’t quite hide the shock his words gave her. She glanced at the drawing.

“It is, as you say, a peculiar position. One would hardly tie an animal that way.”

“Lucky for the man, he was already dead,” said Faith.

“Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Dittman.

“And the position is of no significance to you? To either of you?”

Faith shook her head. “None,” said Mrs. Dittman. “Was there no robbery, then? Isn’t theft usually at the bottom of these crimes?”

“The only thing missing was his coat. I believe that the assailant took the coat to cover the bloodstains that must have been on his apparel.”

She shuddered. “This becomes more gruesome as you tell it, Mr. Murdoch. If you will excuse me, I think I have heard all I can handle for tonight.”

She held out her hand to Faith, who helped her to her feet. But Murdoch wasn’t done yet.

“Mrs. Dittman, I would like to have a look around your room. I do not have a warrant on me, but I can soon get one.”

She stared at him. “If I refuse, you will take it as an indication that I have something to hide and presumably I am connected in some way with these two dead men.”

Murdoch hadn’t mentioned Cooke’s name or his relationship to Talbert.

“Oh, let him come, madam,” said Faith. “He’s the sort won’t take no for an answer. He’ll keeps coming around like a fly on offal. You need your rest. The sooner he gets his look around, the better.”

Murdoch knew then that whatever there might have been to hide in that room, Faith had disposed of it.

CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIVE

M
urdoch heard the clock in the hall strike midnight. He was still awake and sleep seemed to have no intention of visiting him. He couldn’t calm down his thoughts.

The house is quiet. I wonder if Amy is asleep. I’m sure she is, she’s never troubled with insomnia the way I am. Thoughts are chasing their tails through my brain. “Count sheep, Will,” Mama used to say. “Imagine them jumping over a fence one by one. One, two, three.” But that rarely worked. Sleep came eventually when I knew Harry was asleep and I could hear his drunken snore. But even then I’d lie there, sometimes until dawn, tense and agitated, going over the latest ugly scene in my mind, rehearsing responses I never had the chance to act upon until I started to grow taller and Harry knew I would fight him if I had to. Oh God, why am I thinking of that again? Is it the whipping that was laid on Cooke? I’ve seen corpses before and violent death is always disturbing, but these two are among the worst. The pain inflicted upon Cooke was lingering and he wasn’t a young man. Neither was Thomas Talbert, he must have been well into his seventies. At least he
died immediately. But why? Had he known he was going to die? Had he been afraid? He seemed like a man of courage but faced with death, don’t we all quail? Wouldn’t I? George is determined the culprits are Elijah Green and his brother, but I can see no motivation. Robbery in the case of Cooke makes sense, but the whipping changes that completely. What was the connection between Cooke and Talbert except that long-ago purchase? Did Talbert and an accomplice whip Cooke? And then that accomplice turn around and shoot Talbert? Thieves falling out? But why leave forty-one dollars? – Wait a minute! How could I miss that? Two of the notes were stuck together. Perhaps it was meant to be only forty dollars. The price of betrayal, Judas money. So Talbert’s murderer considered he had been betrayed. That makes sense except that…there were two people present at the shooting. Thieves then falling out. On the other hand, it could be nothing to do with money. A deliberate ruse to mislead. Did somebody truly consider Talbert a traitor to his own race? Or an impudent coloured man cohabiting with a white woman? Mrs. Stokely and Talbert seemed to have kept their marriage a close secret, but perhaps it had leaked out. The murderer or murderers were familiar with Talbert’s routine or they were lucky. He was always by himself on Friday nights. Would they have killed Mrs. Stokely as well if she had been at home? But why was Talbert tied into that cruel position after death? Is Mrs. Cooke involved? She stands to gain much by her husband’s death. I can easily see her shooting somebody, yes, but not the whipping or the desecration of Talbert’s body. But then again, as Amy reminds me, I tend to be sentimental where women are concerned. Was the intention to whip Cooke to death or whip him so many times and then shoot him? Thirty-seven to thirty-nine stripes. Why does that sound familiar? Where have I heard that before? Prisoners here are usually given ten or fifteen lashes. Thirty-seven is a lot. Oh, thoughts switch off. Think of sheep, fluffy happy sheep jumping over a fence. One, two, three, four…Charlie is so happy I almost envy him. Would I feel like that if Amy agreed to marry me? Yes, I would, but she says she loves me now and asks
why I feel the need for some fossilized ritual? Because I do. Because I’m not a New Man, I suppose. I want to stand in front of the altar and say, “I take you, Amy Henrietta Slade, to be my lawful wedded wife, in sickness and in health…till death us do part.” That’s it, isn’t it? As if making a holy vow out loud before God makes it certain that death will not separate us. As if we are then protected against typhoid, consumption, and all the other ills the flesh is heir to. That’s why I want to have and hold her the way I never got the chance to with Liza. I am as superstitious as a Protestant peasant, as my mother would say. Life is so transient. I see Mrs. Stokely weeping for a husband she is not able to tell the world about. Jump, little sheep. Why did my mother ever tell me to count sheep? We lived in the country and I saw sheep all the time and if they did jump a fence it was because they were afraid of something and fleeing for their lives. I cannot fall asleep if I see frightened sheep. I want them to be secure, ignorant of the fate that awaits them, just enjoying lush grass and sun. I’d better think of something else to count. Count how many times I can strike another human being with a whip for no reason except to hurt him. I know we still punish some of our prisoners like that. I had to witness Pryor being whipped, tied on the triangle, sentenced to be punished with fifteen lashes for raping a child of ten. A heinous crime, but I couldn’t bear to stand and watch his back as the welts raised until they were oozing blood. To hear his screams of pain. Only fifteen lashes for him and that was enough. And now we’re back to crime and punishment, are we? What punishment fits the crime and what doesn’t? I accept imprisonment, but lashing or hanging even doesn’t undo the crime or reverse time, and whipping Pryor gave no solace to the raped child, although perhaps it did to her parents. Revenge is Mine, sayeth the Lord. Mrs. Dittman’s maid isn’t that far removed from slavery in terms of her age. I wonder if she once was one. She could have been. Is that it? Are these two women the ones I seek? Is it a vendetta that I don’t know the details of? If so, why these two particular victims, one white, one coloured?