A Journeyman to Grief (31 page)

“No, sir, I suppose he wasn’t used to seeing you out of uniform.”
Or in such a jovial mood.
“How are you feeling, sir?”

“Good. Better than I’ve felt in years.” He patted his pocket. “Don’t happen to have a cigar, do you, Murdoch? I could do with a smoke.”

“No, sir. I’m sorry, I don’t.”

Brackenreid pulled open the desk drawer. “Yes, you do, you rascal. Here’s a box of the best Cuban.” He placed the box on the top of the desk and chuckled. “I thought the least I could do was treat you to a cigar, Murdoch, considering I owe you my life.”

Murdoch thought the inspector must still be in the grip of the lingering effects of inebriation. “Not exactly that, sir.”

“As good as.” He took one of the cigars, took a pair of cigar cutters from his pocket, and snipped off the end.

“The matches are in the other drawer,” said Murdoch.

Brackenreid lit up and enjoyed a luxurious draw of smoke.

“Good Lord, Murdoch, I almost forgot to offer you one. They are for you, after all.”

“I won’t at the moment, thank you, sir, but please help yourself.”

The inspector waved his cigar tip. “You could do with a new office, Murdoch. This isn’t fit for a broom closet.”

Murdoch winced. Small and unlovely as his cubicle was, it had served him well for a long time.

“What I’ve been thinking is that the room next to mine just down the hall would be a more suitable space for one of my most promising officers. At the moment, there’s nothing in it but an old filing cabinet, a couple of broken chairs, and a table with three legs. What do you say if we moved all that stuff out and fitted the room up as your office?”

“Well, sir…I don’t know what to say.”

“Good, it’s done then. You might as well keep this desk, but we’ll get you a couple of better chairs and a decent cabinet.” He grinned at Murdoch. “The room could do with a coat of paint to liven it up. I’ll order work to start right away. But you’ll have to promise me you won’t draw your damn maps on the wall.”

Bob Cratchett must have had similar mixed feelings when Scrooge went through his metamorphosis, thought Murdoch. Brackenreid was positively beaming at him.

“Thank you, sir. That is very generous, but really I’m so used to this space by now, it serves me very well.”
And it’s far away from your office.

The inspector was not to be denied, however. “Nonsense. I’ll order everything tomorrow.” Suddenly the rather ridiculous air of conviviality dropped away. “I am trusting to your discretion, Murdoch, about what happened at the spa. My wife was most upset that I had left, but she is willing to see how I do, as she put it. I have to stay sober or I won’t have a place to hang my hat any more. So I’m counting on you, William. If you see any signs whatsoever that I am backsliding, I want you to pull me up short. No matter what I say or however much I fight you, you must tell me the truth.”

Murdoch groaned inwardly. It was not a responsibility he relished, but all he could do was to agree.

“Would you put that in writing, sir?”

“What? Oh you’re poking fun at me. But I will, if you insist.”

“No, sir. I was joking. Perhaps we could shake hands on it as gentlemen though. No matter what you say, if I deem it necessary, I will speak out what’s on my mind.”

“Only if you see me backsliding, Murdoch. Not about everything.”

“Quite, sir. Another joke.”

Brackenreid knocked the ash off his cigar. “I must be going. If I’m a minute later than I said I’d be, Mary will be in hysterics. I’ll be in tomorrow, Murdoch, and then I’d like to be briefed on what’s been happening here. You look as if you are in the middle of a case.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell me tomorrow then. You will have my full attention.”

As that was an experience Murdoch had not had professionally for a long time, he merely nodded. This new inspector was going to take some getting used to.

After Brackenreid left, the reed curtain snapping and cracking behind him, Murdoch went around the desk and sat in his usual chair. He pulled open both drawers in case the inspector had left other gifts, but the cigars were it. Then he remembered the letter that Seymour had handed to him and he took it out of his pocket.

Dear Mr. Murdoch. I am in dire need of your help. Will you please meet me in the stables this evening at six o’clock sharp. This must be in strict confidentiality. I have in return some information to impart concerning the death of Thomas Talbert, which you will find very helpful. Please do not fail me.

Yours, Adelaide Cooke.

Murdoch pulled out his pocket watch. Damn. It was almost six. He had five minutes to get to the appointment. He wondered what it was she needed. His sense of Mrs. Cooke was that, whatever it was, she wanted it immediately and it didn’t matter whether it was convenient for anybody else.

CHAPTER
FORTY

J
ust as he was about to jump on his wheel, Murdoch discovered he had a flat tire. He didn’t have time to repair it, so he left the bicycle and jogged as fast as he could over to Mutual Street. It was ten minutes past six when he got there and the stables were in darkness. Damn. Had she left?

He tried the side gate, which yielded to his push. It was unlocked. He crossed the courtyard. Dusk was falling rapidly, but there was just sufficient light remaining that he could make his way to the barn. As he approached, he could see the door was slightly open and could hear a soft nicker from one of the horses. He wished he had his bicycle lamp with him and he cursed himself that he hadn’t brought a truncheon or even a revolver. He’d rushed out of the station, completely accepting that the note was from Adelaide Cooke, but what if it wasn’t? Now as he tried to look into the darkness of the barn, he could almost hear Amy’s voice chastising him.
It doesn’t take manly muscle to fire a gun, you know.

“Hello,” he called. “Mrs. Cooke? It’s Detective Murdoch here.”

There was no answer except the stamp of a horse’s hoof and the chink of a bridle.

He pushed open the door all the way, standing to one side so he could not be a target if anybody inside had that intention. Nothing happened. He stepped across the threshold and again quickly moved away to the side. Again nothing.

“Hello, anybody here?”

“Over here,” said a hoarse, barely audible voice. He couldn’t tell if the speaker was a man or a woman, and he could see nobody.

The voice had seemed to come from one of the stalls at the end of the row. He took a couple of steps forward, straining to see.

“Are you alone?” the voice asked.

“Yes, I am. I was expecting to meet Mrs. Cooke.”

“You won’t be. I was the one who sent you the note. I took the liberty of using her name.”

“And who are you?”

“Never mind. You don’t need to know. You’re late, I thought you weren’t coming.”

Murdoch was about to apologize as if he had committed a social indiscretion, but he stopped himself. The situation was absurd. His neck was prickling at the back and he could feel the tension in his gut. He shifted his weight slightly forward. The unseen speaker had an advantage over Murdoch as his eyes had not yet adjusted to the darkness.

“The letter asked for my help and in return I would receive information about the death of Thomas Talbert. Is that true?”

“More or less.”

Murdoch peered into the dark, trying to make out if there was more than one person hiding there. “Will you come out into the open? It is difficult to talk to somebody that I can’t see.”

“Don’t be so impatient. We have all evening.”

Murdoch had pinpointed the location of the voice by now. The speaker was in the far stall, but the mare didn’t seem perturbed and was placidly munching on the hay in her manger. Whoever it was had no fear of horses and must be crouched down and peering through a slit in the stall wall.

The voice came again, more conciliatory. “Mr. Murdoch, I do thank you for coming, but I need assurance that you are to be trusted. I would like you to come farther into the barn. There is a stool in the alley. Please sit down, facing the door.”

The voice was still hoarse and low and the words were pronounced with almost an English accent and a peculiar preciseness that sounded artificial. He hesitated. He supposed he could run out of the barn and go for help, but he would probably lose the chance to question his shy informant if he did that. Besides, he was more and more convinced he was talking to a woman.

“How do I know
I
can trust
you
?” he asked.

“Regrettably, you don’t know. You’ll have to take that chance. As I said in my letter, perhaps we can help each other. Do you want to or not? If not, please leave. If you do, please take the stool.”

Murdoch walked cautiously forward and almost banged into the stool. He sat on it as instructed, facing the open door.

He was attacked so suddenly and violently he was taken completely off guard.

A heavy cloth bag was dropped over his head from behind and pulled so tight he was almost choked. At the same time, something hard hit him on the back of his head and he fell face down on the stones. He must have lost consciousness for precious seconds because when he came to, his wrists were tied tightly together in front of him with some thin cord that bit into his flesh.

Something was jammed hard against his neck just beneath his ear.

“This is a gun. I did not come here with the intention of shooting you, but if I have to I will. Don’t struggle. Now sit up and bring your knees to your chest.”

The string at the neck of the bag was pulled tight, jerking him up. He had no choice but to obey, and in a moment his assailant had bound his ankles. The pressure of the gun at his jaw didn’t relax.

“Come into a crouch position.”

He was slow to move and there was a sharp blow to the back of his head that made him want to retch. He forced himself not to.

“Don’t try to be brave, Mr. Murdoch, it really isn’t worth it.”

Then the gun was removed and a stick of some kind was thrust underneath his knees and over his elbows, forcing him into a painfully tight ball. It was the same position in which he’d found Talbert. This time he couldn’t stop himself from gagging, and there was a fumble at his neck and he felt the cords of the bag loosen slightly.

“What do you want?” Murdoch managed to say, although the bag was still so tight against his nose, he could hardly breath. He realized it was a horse’s nose bag. He could see nothing but blackness. “You said you don’t intend to shoot me, why are you tying me up then?”

“What did you say, Mr. Murdoch, I can hardly hear you?”

The mockery in the voice filled Murdoch with a rush of rage that overrode his initial fear, but he also knew his best chance to survive was to keep a cool head.

“I asked why you have tied me up in this way.”

“A lesson, shall we say?”

Murdoch tried to free his mouth so he could speak with more force. “I don’t know who you are. Surely I’d learn a better lesson if I knew what I had done wrong.”

“It is not only the guilty who have to suffer, Mr. Murdoch. How much easier life would be if that were only the case.”

“You said you needed my help. Is that true?”

“Alas, no. Not in the least. I thought an appeal to your chivalry would get you here quickly and, you see, I was correct about that.”

Murdoch coughed violently as some of the dust from the bag went down his throat. Again there was a fiddling at his neck and the heavy bag was pulled away so he could breathe more easily. He would have given his soul for some water, and it was his voice now that was raspy.

“Are you the one responsible for the deaths of Cooke and Talbert?”

“In the strict meaning of the word, I suppose I am, but in truth, they were responsible for their own end.”

“You were getting revenge, then?”

He felt another slap to the side of his head, not quite as hard as previously but still jolting.

“I’ve answered enough questions.” The appalling voice came close to his ear. “I have punished two, I have one more to find.” There was an odd, chilling chuckle. “What God joined should not have been. First, the father, then the son, and last the holy one and we are done. Somebody will discover you eventually, Mr. Murdoch, police officer. Every minute will be an increasing agony to you, but you won’t know just how long you will have to stay like this. It will seem like eternity. However, you, sir, unlike many other unfortunates, can assume that when you are rescued you will be safe from further harm. Those who release you will not hurt you and you will be set free. That should be a comforting thought.”

There was another tap to his head, then Murdoch sensed that his attacker had moved away. He heard the door close.

He twisted in the bag so he could relieve the pressure from his nose and was able to gain some space. His head had started to throb from the blows he’d received and he had to fight back waves of nausea.

“Help! Somebody help me!”

He knew how muffled his cries would be and stopped. Perhaps he could wriggle himself somehow over to the door. But which direction was the door? He could see nothing. Nevertheless, action was better than inaction and he rolled onto his side and started an agonizing sideways slither. It was excruciatingly slow and he didn’t get far when his head banged into a stall partition. He heard the horse snuffle and stamp its foot. He lay still. All he needed was to end up close to a horse’s hooves and he’d risk a good chance of being kicked to death. He tried to reverse directions but had no sense whatever of where he had come from. The pull on his legs and the pressure of the stick was becoming more and more painful.

Every minute will be an increasing agony to you, but you won’t know just how long you will have to lie like this. It will seem like eternity.

“Help!” He shouted again. “Help!”

What time was it? He must have arrived in the barn less than half an hour ago. He knew no cabbies would come until tomorrow morning, but when did Elijah Green arrive to tend to the horses? Surely he’d be here before too long?

Unless he had a good reason for not doing his chores tonight.