Except the Dying (19 page)

FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 15

I
NSPECTOR
B
RACKENREID PUSHED ASIDE
the reed strips and stepped into the detective’s cubicle. Murdoch was at his desk and got to his feet.

“What can I do for you, sir?”

“Bring me up to date on this bloody maid affair. The chief constable himself has sent a telegram wanting to know what is happening.”

Murdoch pulled at his moustache. If Colonel Grasett was wondering and if Brackenreid was venturing out of his own office, somebody was turning up the wicks. Probably the alderman, Godfrey Shepcote. He struck Murdoch as the kind of man who liked to find a good cause to make a noise about.

“I don’t have much new to report, sir. We’re still following up responses to the newspaper article, but so far nothing has opened up.”

“And now we’ve got this other tart to worry about.”

“Her name was Alice Black, sir.”

“Who the sod cares? Did you get anything more out of the madman?”

“No, sir. But I doubt he’s the killer. Zephaniah’s an old man. I can’t imagine him being able to overcome a young woman like Alice.”

“Don’t be too cocky about that, Murdoch. Lunatics can have the strength of ten when they need to. Anyway, it’s the other business I’m more concerned about.”

He nodded over at the wall, which the detective was using as a blackboard. “What’ve you got there?”

“It’s a map of the area pertinent to the scene of the crime, sir.”

“I hope that chalk will rub off.”

“If it doesn’t I’ll personally whitewash the wall.”

Brackenreid went closer. “Explain it to me, Murdoch.”

“Here is where Therese’s body was discovered in the St. Luke’s laneway.” He picked up his ruler and tapped the places as he spoke. “Right here is where the newsboy, Carrots, claims to have seen her. He was at the corner of Church and Gerrard and he says she went past him going east along Gerrard.”

“Why would she be doing that? I thought she was supposed to be going home. Surely she would have been heading for the train station? That’s at the bottom of Yonge Street.”

“You’re quite right about that, Inspector, but I think I can guess what she was doing.”

In spite of himself Murdoch felt eager to show him the progress of the investigation. “The dotted line is the route I believe she took when she left Birchlea. When Carrots saw her it must have been about twenty or twenty-five minutes past nine. Jimmy Matlock, another one of the newsboys, says he saw her crossing the road at Queen and Berkeley and he also remembers her walking east. He is vague about the time but says he’d just heard St. Paul’s chime the quarter hour. If we allow her twenty minutes or so to get from Carrots to Jimmy it would put the time at about a quarter to ten, give or take. She has walked south and is still going easterly –”

“So? Get on with it, Murdoch.”

“Yes, sir.”

Murdoch clenched his teeth to hold back his retort. He knew what Brackenreid was like when he was in one of his moods.

“Therese was a young girl in trouble, and she was French-Canadian. In times of need I think we all seek out the familiar. What represents home to us …” He indicated a mark on King Street. “Here is the old Methodist church. Currently, it is being used by a small settlement of French-Canadians who live nearby. I’m guessing that’s where she was going.”

He knew he was opening himself up to trouble by presenting this theory, and he regretted saying it almost
as soon as the words were out of his mouth. The inspector hooted.

“Blamed thin, if you ask me, Murdoch. If you were to find me walking up Bay Street, you couldn’t assume I was going anywhere in particular. What if I’d gone that way home on a whim, for a change of scenery?”

“Not quite, sir. If I found you walking north on Bay Street, I’d assume you were going to the National Club.”

“What? Oh, I suppose so, but regardless, my point stands.”

“I’m just trying to work logically from what we know of the girl’s character and her circumstances.”

“Are they the only two sightings, two guttersnipes?”

“Yes, sir, so far, but I consider them to be reliable witnesses. They both gave a good description of the girl.”

“All right. Go on. Tell me about the rest of your artwork.”

“Here, with the blue squares, I’ve traced Owen Rhodes’s route. He left Birchlea at approximately nine o’clock to take Miss Shepcote to her home. He said he travelled across Bloor Street to Church, down to Gerrard, along Gerrard, then south on Berkeley to the Shepcote house, which is just below Queen Street. He claims he dallied there with Miss Shepcote until midnight, then went home via the same path. If in fact this was not the truth and he left Miss Shepcote earlier, he could easily have met up with Therese and taken her somewhere.”

“Doesn’t Miss Shepcote verify his alibi?”

“She does, sir, but she seemed very uncomfortable and I wasn’t sure she was telling the truth.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Murdoch. She is a well-brought-up young woman. She was probably shy about the fact they were unchaperoned at that hour. Besides, why should she lie?”

“To give young Rhodes an alibi.”

He waited for Brackenreid to comment, but he merely grunted and pointed to the map.

“The circles are Dr. Rhodes, I presume?”

“Mr. Shepcote and Dr. Rhodes, actually. The two of them left Birchlea shortly after nine and the doctor was dropped off at his consulting chambers at Church and Carlton. He says he was working on a report for some medical journal until one o’clock. He likes the quiet. Then he walked part of the way home until he found a cab. I’ve put Constable Wicken onto collecting all the cab driver’s dockets for the past week, so we should be able to verify that part of the doctor’s statement at least. However, we have only Rhodes’s word that he stayed late in his office. He could have had a rendezvous with Therese. She was alone when Jimmy saw her, but if the doctor was walking quickly he could have met up with her on Queen Street. Or he could have hired a carriage. He certainly can come by opium in great quantities if he needs it.”

“For God’s sake, Murdoch, you’re snatching at straws. According to you nobody is telling the truth about anything.”

“Sometimes it feels that way, sir. However, the girl’s condition is not a lie. Somebody impregnated her.” Murdoch indicated the wall again. “That is the journey that Mr. Shepcote’s carriage took when he left Birchlea. After dropping off Rhodes, he proceeded to his club on River Street. The coachman made a point of telling me that he went via Wilton.”

“What do you mean ‘made a point’?”

“It seemed rather like that. I didn’t ask him, he volunteered. However, that puts the alderman in the same vicinity as Therese and at about the same time. If he had actually gone along Queen Street he could have encountered Therese Laporte here, anywhere between Berkeley and River streets.”

“Good Lord, Murdoch, you’re not suggesting the alderman has anything to do with this affair.”

“I’m not suggesting anything at the moment, Inspector. I’m simply trying to get straight the various movements of the parties who were in any way connected with Birchlea and the life of Therese Laporte. The steward has confirmed to one of my men that Shepcote was at the club from about a quarter past ten until midnight.”

Brackenreid leaned forward, peering at the wall. “What’s that?” He pointed at a small pockmark in the lower part of the map.

“That’s actually a hole in the wall, but I thought I may as well use it. I’ve drawn a balloon around it. I meant to represent that from this point on Therese vanished into thin air.”

“You’re getting too fanciful for me, Murdoch.”

Murdoch kept his voice as flat as possible. “Here is where I believe we’re onto something, sir. Constable Wicken is a very capable young officer and he questioned every householder along Queen Street. At number four ninety-five a woman named Philips swears she was sitting at her window from nine-thirty that night until at least midnight. Her husband is a teamster and she was expecting him in from a journey at ten. Apparently one of his horses went lame and he didn’t get home until late. Mrs. Philips says Therese Laporte did not pass by. She lives here, on the southwest corner, which means she would have seen anybody turning north or south on Sumach, or continuing along Queen Street.”

“I don’t understand.”

Murdoch couldn’t help pausing for a moment for effect.

“This is why I congratulate young Wicken. The woman kept going on as how no girl could have walked by that night. Wicken realizes his questions were a bit too directive and he asks her if had she seen a vehicle, then. Why yes, she says, there were two. A farmer’s wagon and a carriage. The wagon went by close on midnight going south on Sumach
but the carriage was earlier, about ten o’clock, travelling east along Queen Street. Unfortunately Mrs. Philips couldn’t really say what sort of carriage it was, but she thought it might be a hired one. The horse was a grey or white.”

“It’s hard for me to see this as useful, Murdoch. It’s like catching spiderwebs.”

“Spiders catch a lot of flies on those same slender lines. You see, Mrs. Philips admitted to seeing Alice Black go by. She hadn’t mentioned it earlier because she knew who Alice was and that wasn’t what we wanted to know. Wicken kept asking about a strange young girl. But she is positive that Alice went by after the carriage.”

For the first time, Brackenreid looked interested. He touched the wall.

“The tart must have seen the Laporte girl.”

“I don’t see how she could have avoided it. She was home by ten and her route from the O’Neil is along Queen Street.”

The inspector was silent for a moment, then he sighed. “The two deaths might be connected, then.”

“Yes, sir. I’ve sent Wicken off to the market to see if a farmer was delivering anything late Saturday night, just to verify, but I don’t really think it’s important to the case. However, I’d say the carriage is.”

Brackenreid glanced around the little room as if it could provide him some sustenance.

“Your zeal is commendable, Murdoch, but don’t forget character. A good policeman is a good judge of character. You can draw your dots and arrows ’til Kingdom come, but you’re not going to find any murderers or abductors there among these people.”

“I beg to differ, sir. Palmer, Lamson and Pritchard were all doctors and young Birchall was a vicar’s son.” He picked up a compass from his desk. “Dr. Moffat says Therese couldn’t have walked far with that much opium in her system.” He stuck the point at the place where Therese’s body had been found. “If she imbibed it half an hour earlier, maximum, she has to have been within this radius.” He moved his pencil in a wide arc. Brackenreid snorted at the extent of the area that covered.

“You’ve got your work cut out for you, Murdoch.”

“I know, sir, we have.”

There was a discreet cough in front of the curtain. Murdoch could see the large outline of Constable Crabtree.

“Miss Bernadette Weston is here to see you, Mr. Murdoch.”

“Who’s she again? Name’s familiar,” asked Brackenreid.

“She was Alice Black’s friend, Inspector.”

“I’m leaving,” said Brackenreid.

At the threshold he paused, holding back one of the clacking strips. “I’d like a complete written report on
my desk by five o’clock this afternoon … but you needn’t bother with all that nonsense about arrows and dots. Go and talk to the Papists. She must have got friendly enough to let somebody in her drawers. I’ll bet it was him who slipped her the opium.”

“Yes, sir.”

Privately, Murdoch couldn’t see any good reason why the two things should be inevitably linked, but not knowing who had seduced Therese was an irritant. It was like trying to start a puzzle. If you could get the corner pieces down you were off and running. He grinned at himself. He didn’t even know yet what picture he was trying to put together or even if all his pieces belonged in the same puzzle.

Time to give it a rest. Perhaps Ettie could offer some enlightenment. He went to fetch her.

Crabtree, at Murdoch’s request, had brought them both mugs of strong, sweet tea, and Ettie sipped at hers appreciatively.

“’S good.”

She was dressed in deep mourning, with a long black cheviot coat and a wide veiled hat that a widow would wear. There was a strong smell of mothballs around her, and Murdoch suspected the clothes, which were too large for her, were rented.

She glanced around the tiny cubicle and indicated his map. “What’s that?”

“I’ve been noting everybody’s whereabouts the night Therese Laporte died.”

She was silent for a moment. “You’re taking care about it, aren’t you?”

He nodded.

“What’s the medal for?”

“I won the mile bicycle race last year at the police games.”

“Didn’t know they had them. I thought coppers was always serious. All work and no play.”

He smiled, but she wasn’t joking.

“When you came yesterday, I was what you might call bowled over …”

“That’s only natural.”

“You said you knew what it was like to lose somebody you loved.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

She frowned. “Who was it, then? Your wife?”

“My fiancée. She died of the typhoid fever two years ago.”

“What was she? A lady, or what?”

“She was a schoolteacher.”

“Clever, then?”

“Very.”

Whatever it was he said satisfied her. She put down her mug of tea.

“I don’t want to spend time in the Mercy but if it means you’ll get the cove that did in Alice, I’ll do it –”

Murdoch stopped her. “Ettie, let’s put it this way. I can guess at what happened. Alice got up to use the outhouse, saw the girl’s body just opposite in the lane. Without more ado, she went over there and stole the clothes, hiding them in the outhouse. She kept the boots and the drawers and the rosary. You were asleep in your nice warm bed the whole time. Alice acted alone. Am I right?”

Ettie hesitated, staring at him warily. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“Just one question. Did she confide in you afterwards? What I mean is, did she say exactly what the girl was wearing when she found her?”