A Lesson in Love and Murder (3 page)

“Of course you won't, Jasper. You're like my favorite sweater. It comes out every year just as it gets cold and… ”

“Merinda, I'm serious.”

Merinda blinked a few times and gingerly disengaged herself. “Come on.”

Jasper wished he could recapture the moment, but as they stepped outside, he knew time was shifting. He tried to shrug off the premonition as he tucked his hands deep in his pockets, but he couldn't shake the feeling that his fixed point, his Merinda, was going to be moving, changing—and at such a galloping pace that he'd never catch up.

Back at the station house, his thoughts still spiraled Merinda-ward. What might it be like if he left Tipton and the police behind and joined the ranks of her private investigation firm?

“Forth!” Tipton's voice echoed through the corridor. The chief crooked his finger in Jasper's direction.

Jasper took the hall in two strides and closed Tipton's office door as requested.

“Take a seat.”

Jasper did.

“Drink?”

“Not while on duty, sir.” Jasper tugged at his collar, trying to hide his surprise when the chief poured himself a finger of whiskey.

“Good man.” Tipton inclined his glass. “There's been another one of those trolley mishaps.”

Jasper's face whitened, and he instinctively leaped from his chair, almost taking it with him.

“Not so fast, not so fast,” said the chief. “We have men on the scene already. You'll get there and see that someone's meddled with the wiring. It doesn't take a genius to know these ‘accidents' are premeditated.”

“I guessed as much. I was hoping they would strike again so I could find proof.” Jasper coughed to hide his embarrassment. “What I meant to say is that I would like to catch the culprits. Not for more innocent lives to be lost.”

Tipton smiled. “I know. But no one outside this office must suspect foul play. That muckraker DeLuca from the
Hogtown Herald
is sniffing about with that cameraman of his. Those two always seem to be two steps ahead of us. I know you are friendly with him. I am asking you to keep our speculations to yourself.”

“But, sir, these are not accidents, and the public has a right to know. To be aware of the danger to their safety. Letting people know will also save the Toronto Rail Commission from embarrassment. They don't deserve to have the guilt of these blasts on their consciences.”

“I am ordering you to say nothing to the press. This is coming directly from Mayor Montague,” said the chief. “He wants to show that the city will not be prey to these anarchists and their vicious antics. Especially with the arrival of Emma Goldman so imminent. He wants us to stand by and help the public not to panic.”

Jasper sighed. Tipton had been in Montague's pocket for years. It was one of the reasons Jasper didn't trust the chief, though he had little choice but to follow his orders. But he had never before been asked to lie. “This is not the first time Montague has steered us in the direction of hiding information, sir. Those Irish girls were swept under the
carpet. Two more girls almost died, and a murderer nearly went free! We both know his methods aren't… ”

Tipton slammed his glass down on his desk. “Forth, I know you're one of the good ones. I know you're honest and you believe in the badge you wear. But what good does it do to take the moral high ground when it means negative ramifications in the future? Budget cuts? Divisional downsizing?
^‡
That just means more crime in the future. No, we need to toe Montague's line. Keep his silly morality squad and whatnot. We can play the man's game, can we not?”

Tipton picked up his glass again and took a long sip. “Montague especially hates that DeLuca fellow and his stupid little paper. The man's a menace, no matter how pretty his wife is. I know she's a friend of yours, but you don't have to be guilted into saying anything when he pesters you like a mosquito.”

“Sir, I don't feel comfortable lying. If Ray DeLuca outright asks me for information… ”

“Don't get near enough to him and you won't be put on the spot. Keep your Sunday school manners intact, eh?” Tipton nodded, agreeing with his own point. Then he waved his empty glass in Jasper's direction. “You get down to that scene. You're the man I trust to calm that panic and keep things in order. Take Jones with you.”

Jasper nodded and turned to leave. But his hand froze on the doorknob. “Sir, may I speak freely?”

Tipton raised an eyebrow. “Go ahead.”

“Nothing good will come of our playing Montague's game. This city is his stage, and we are all puppets. It's money and power he wants, and he'll get it at the expense of everyone—businessmen, officials like yourself, even the women and immigrants he preys upon. Something bigger is coming. These anarchists who have been holding rallies in the city—they see through his game. There will be more
violence. More explosions. The people are hungry, and they think Emma Goldman and her crowd can give them the voice they want. And they'll take any means to get it.” Jasper shook his head. “You've been in this job a long time. Surely you see that Montague is not the ally you want him to be.”

“Forth, there is so much about the workings of this city that you don't understand. How old are you, anyway?”

“Twenty-seven, sir.”

“You're young. I've been at this longer than you've been alive. Keep to your task. You're a good officer and a good man. You leave the big fish to me.”

*
He was bold to say this. Usually when someone mentioned breeding, Merinda would reply, “Breeding? What am I now, a cow to pasture?”

†
This was not the first time—nor would it be the last—Jasper Forth was on the precipice of a moment of wooing, only to be struck dumb by her cat eyes boring into him.

‡
Jasper couldn't help but wonder why the chief insisted on talking about administrative matters when there was a trolley car sputtering into flame nearby, full of injured passengers. But there were many things he didn't understand about his supervisor, so he kept this opinion to himself.

C
HAPTER
T
WO

Bloody Trolley Blasts Rattle Toronto

The law students at Osgoode Hall in their spit-shone shoes and starched collars were in for a smoky shock this morning when an explosion at the intersection of Queen and University blasted a streetcar to smithereens. Chaos ensued with the arrival of the medics as well as the fire brigade, who attempted to dispel any last threat from the fiery, singed streetcar. The seriously wounded were immediately attended by medics and taken to nearby St. Michael's. The deceased, shrouded with black cloth, were immediately removed to the morgue.

The Hogtown Herald

A
nother one.” That was all Ray DeLuca could say to his jack-of-all-trades assistant, Skip McCoy, as they surveyed the wreckage of the trolley. Skip had already been on the scene when Ray arrived panting. The second explosion in a week. Wires stretched like jagged limbs from the car's carcass, bursts of flame flickered, and debris soiled the landscape.

They walked among the chaos, the medics, and the officials, hearing among ripples of gasps charges against faulty wiring. Six seriously injured passengers were quickly transferred to St. Michael's Hospital at Victoria Street. Ten bodies lay in a row, already covered in cloth. Ray could hardly tear his eyes away.

Skip and Ray wove their way through the panicked crowd, smoke
stinging their eyes, medics maneuvering stretchers while the police bellowed or pressed whistles to their lips. Ray, who prided himself on being as quick as a fox when it came to sidling up to a scene and making it to the midst of the action, was surprised that Skip had beaten him to the scene of some of the events of the highest magnitude in the past few weeks.

Skip was the first to catch an anarchist group circling around the embassy in a raucous rally the day before Emma Goldman arrived. Skip was the first on the scene at Queen's Park when the trolley workers first picketed for an upcoming strike. Skip was beating Ray at his own game. Usually Skip trailed Ray wherever he went and took excellent direction. But now?

Ray shoved his way through the line of fire brigade officers, nearly stumbling over an injured young man. On the far side of the wreckage, a tall, broad-shouldered man assessed the damage.

“Jasper!” Ray called, jogging the last few steps between them, being careful to avoid the wiring, steel rods, and bricks.

Jasper Forth ran his hand over his face. He looked tired. His usually pleasant and open countenance was shaded with fatigue and concern. He put a hand on Ray's shoulder, slightly shoving him back. “I'd be careful. A few fires are still burning.” He looked around.

Ray's brow furrowed. “I feel like we're reliving this accident. Osgoode Hall was what—three days ago?”

“The two most tragic accidents in our rail history,” Jasper said blandly.

“Faulty wires?” It was more a question than a statement in Ray's voice.

“Indeed,” Jasper said uncertainly. He led Ray from the worst of the damage and toward bustling Bathurst Street. Even though the intersection was barricaded, people still bustled around, many leaning through the police lines to take a closer peek.

It was a popular streetcar route, taken by hundreds of Torontonians daily. Ray knew as he looked at the shocked faces that the
strangers around him were wondering how it had happened—and how it might happen again.

“Jasper, you look like a hare at the end of a rifle point. Stop peering around so skittishly!”

Jasper blinked tears from his eyes, and not for the first time. Just before Skip moved to the other side of the collision, he made a remark under his breath. Ray replied that it was probably just the film of smoke stinging the constable's eyes. Despite his recent promotion to detective, Jasper never seemed to be able to keep his entire emotional range from his broad, bright face. Now, Ray saw, he was aching for the senseless loss of innocent life.

A long silence stretched between them. Ray shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “It's news at least.” Ray thought aloud before he registered how callous the statement sounded. “Last week all I had was the Mackay-Bennet boat finding more of those
Titanic
corpses and moving them to Halifax for burial.” Jasper said nothing, staring ahead. Ray continued, saying lightly, “And some delegate preferring turbot to trout at a dignitaries' dinner at the King Edward.”

Ray could almost taste the smell of smoke on his singed clothes as they moved even farther to the side of the street. He realized he hadn't even gone home for a change of shirt the night before. No wonder the damp fabric stuck to him. The evening before, he was still up to his ears in facts and theories from the Osgoode Hall accident, putting together pieces of a puzzle. Death statements, witness accounts, historical statistics of the railcar's history.

Come to think of it, he had failed (again) to telephone Jem and tell her he'd be late. That is, he'd failed to send a message with Kat or Mouse, the urchins who sometimes worked with Jem and Merinda. The guilt gnawed at him—guilt for more than his silence. He hadn't been able to pay the electrical bill, and their telephone had been cut off the week before.

He straightened his face so Jasper wouldn't be plagued with one more thing to worry about and turned his attention back to the
matter at hand. Shaking his head, he observed, “So highly unlikely it was an accident.”

“Our station could have used you years ago. You have a better pulse on criminal activity in Toronto than most.”

Ray grimaced. “I can't tell whether that's a compliment or not.”

“It's a compliment. From me. Not from Tipton. Reason I'm so on edge is because he forbade me to talk to you.”

“And why is that?” Ray said, knowing the answer even as he asked it.

“Tipton is under Montague's thumb, and Montague hates you.”

“No love lost there.”

“I'm not supposed to tell you I suspect these accidents to be intentional.”

“And yet here we are.” Ray smiled.