Except the Dying (23 page)

Just past the corner of Sherbourne there was a charitable home for girls under fourteen who had been in need of rescue. The lamps were lit and he could see into the front room. A half-dozen girls all in neat white pinafores over grey dresses were gathered around an organ. Their mouths were opening and closing like
fledgling birds, and he gathered they were singing. Hymns, probably, to judge by their serious expressions. A portly matron was conducting them, waving her arms in awkward dignity. Therese Laporte had not been much older than those girls.

Fred Vose’s shop was above Gerrard Street on the west side of Parliament, the end building of a row of three, all newish looking in elegant pink brick. The store adjacent to the butcher’s was vacant, the windows shuttered, but the remaining one was lit sufficiently for Murdoch to read the plain, dignified sign:
J. CARVETH, MEDICAL BOOKSELLERS.
Like the sparrows who chase the crows waiting for droppings, Mr. Carveth had situated himself conveniently close to the medical college, and he seemed to have both a sense of humour and a sense of business. In the window was a skeleton pointing a fleshless finger at a stepladder draped with purple velvet. On each step was a fat tome pertinent to the student’s education according to Dr. Osler, including, Murdoch was glad to see, a weighty volume of Shakespeare’s complete works. He paused for a moment, reading the other titles the eminent doctor considered necessary to a medical student’s mental well-being. The Old and New Testament, of course, Plutarch’s
Lives
and, rather surprisingly,
Don Quixote.
Murdoch experienced a twinge of envy for the wealthy young men who could afford to spend five years in uninterrupted studies. Given the chance, he would have loved to enter the university, but it was out of the
question for somebody with no means except what his own muscles could earn. He moved on.

Mr. Vose’s shop window was hung with several carcasses. Unbutchered pigs, the gash in their throats like second mouths, swayed on big hooks, intermixed with the bloodied bodies of hares and rabbits and sides of beef. Beneath them were displayed various trays of grey tripe, dark red liver and kidneys. Two skinned and eyeless calves’ heads sat in the centre.

A bell tinkled as he entered the shop. He glanced around. There was only one sconce lit, and the corners of the store were pools of darkness where he could just make out the sacks of sawdust for the floor and a couple of tubs of brine in which were floating several pig’s trotters. The bead curtain behind the counter parted and a man appeared from the backroom. He was brawny, with a broad, red face. Muscular arms swelled beneath his blue flannel shirt. His apron was dark with bloodstains. He was smoking a long clay pipe and the pungent tobacco mingled with the smell of blood and raw meat.

“What can I do for you, Captain? The missus craving a nice fresh roast, is she?”

Murdoch spent a moment to shake the snow off his coat and undid his muffler. “Are you Fred Vose?”

“I am unless my mother was deceiving me.”

“I’m Detective William Murdoch, and I’d like a few minutes of your time to answer some questions.”

“Lordy, hammer away, Captain.”

“I understand you’re acquainted with John Foy?”

“I am that. What’s up? Has John done something he shouldn’t?” Vose’s eyes gleamed with curiosity.

“He’s not been charged, if that’s what you mean, but I’m conducting an investigation and I’d like you to verify his statement.”

“Does it have to do with that poor maid as froze to death? She was a maid at Birchlea, wasn’t she?”

“That’s right.” Murdoch chose not to mention Alice Black at this moment.

“John was very shaken by that girl’s passing. As soon as my wife and I read about it in the newspaper we went straight over to see him.”

“What did he have to say?”

“He couldn’t understand how she’d come to die like that. To tell you square, Captain, at one point he was weeping like a woman. I’ve never seen him like that before.”

Foy seemed to show a more delicate side of his nature to his brothers than Murdoch had yet witnessed.

“If you ask me,” Vose went on, “Johnny was more bothered even than Edith … but then she is a bit of a flinty sort, if you know what I mean. It’s understandable, though, isn’t it? That maid was hardly more than a child. Still, I suppose, given she was a half-breed, we shouldn’t be surprised.”

“She was French-Canadian, not of mixed heritage that I know of.”

“Oh. Well, anyway, she was a Catholic for certain and you never know what funny thing they’re going to get up to.”

“I don’t follow your logic, Mr. Vose.”

“Why d’you think she was out getting herself froze to death?” He stared at Murdoch.

“What’s your theory, Mr. Vose?”

“I’ll wager she was doing what they call penance. Do you know what that is?”

“Yes.”

“Pain is what it is. I’ve heard that they get nuns and priests to lie stretched out for hours on the church floor. Think it’s good for their souls.” He waved his forefinger at Murdoch. “Some of them even beat themselves.”

Murdoch didn’t bother to attempt justification of his church’s practices.

“You wouldn’t get me doing anything like that,” said the butcher.

“What I wanted to know is concerning a different matter. Can you verify Foy’s statement as to his whereabouts last Wednesday? He claims he spent the evening at a lodge meeting.”

Vose concentrated on getting his pipe going, sucking vigorously on the long stem. Finally he exhaled with pleasure.

“Wednesday? For sure. I can tell you straight and true, he was squatting beside me the entire time. Tim Winter was on my right, John Foy on my left.”

Suddenly he put the pipe on the counter and wiped his right hand hard down the side of his apron. “Sorry there, Captain, I didn’t even give you a proper greeting.”

He thrust out his broad hand and, rather puzzled, Murdoch shook it. When he let go he caught an expression of disappointment in Vose’s eyes and it dawned on him that there must be a secret Masonic handshake the butcher was testing on him. He had no idea what it was.

Vose went back to fiddling with his pipe.

“Did Foy leave the room at any time?” Murdoch asked him.

“Had to, didn’t he? Twice. To let go his water.”

“Did he go alone?”

“Nope. Him and me both went. But I can vouch he didn’t go anywhere beyond the laneway.”

“Drinks a lot, does he?”

Vose’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Not more than any other fellow.”

“How would you say he holds his liquor? Like a man or a red Indian?”

Vose puffed on his pipe again, letting out a cloud of aromatic smoke that made Murdoch want to take out his own Powhattan.

“Most men gets jolly when we’ve mashed a few,” said Vose. “Foy’s no different, that I can recall.”

“Has he ever had quarrels or rows with the brothers?”

“Nope. If anything he’s the peacekeeper. Bobbie Reynolds and Tim Winter have butted heads a couple of times and John just honey-talked them right out of it.”

Murdoch switched tack. “Have you ever met a woman named Alice Black?”

“Never.”

“Did Foy ever mention the name?”

Again Vose shook his head emphatically. “Nope. Who is she?”

“Was
is more like it. She was found murdered early this morning.”

Vose whistled. “Great Thor, you’re not suggesting John is mixed up in that?”

“Let’s hope not.”

“Sorry I can’t help you, Captain. I’ve never heard tell of her. How’d she die?”

“She was strangled. Her body was found not far from the distillery on the lake.”

“Lordy, Lordy. Was she a jade, then?”

“She was.”

Vose was silent, concentrating on his pipe. There seemed nothing more forthcoming. Murdoch started to rewrap his muffler.

“Thank you, Mr. Vose. I won’t keep you any longer.”

“No hurry. To speak square, this is the most excitement I’ve had all week. I haven’t always been a butcher, you see. I used to own a smithy up near the old tollgate on Yonge Street, and I tell you, Captain, I miss it something fierce. I got to shoe the travellers’ horses and you wouldn’t believe what a grand variety of folks came by my door. They told me such stories. You know, where they’d been, different people they’d met. One man had even saw the Queen herself, right up close. He said she was a little bit of a thing. Pretty as a picture then. This was before the tragedy, of course.” The bowl shone red as he sucked hard on the stem. “Not only that, I miss the horses. Beautiful animals, horses are. Some folks say as how they’re stupid but that ain’t the case. They have a different intelligence from us is all. They’d always know who they could trust. And I never came across a skittish horse that I couldn’t calm. D’you want to hear how I did it?”

The butcher looked so wistful Murdoch couldn’t say no. He nodded.

“I whistle to them soft like this.” Vose started a low trill through his teeth. The tone was sweet and birdlike and Murdoch could imagine it calming the savage beast.

“I did a stint at a lumber camp near Huntsville when I was younger,” Murdoch said. “There was a fellow there had charge of two Percherons and he treated them like they was his sons. Combing and brushing
them with a silk cloth ’til their coats shone like show horses. And those manes! You’d think you was touching a woman’s hair.”

He didn’t add that Farqueson had whipped his horses quick enough when a load had been about to come crashing down on him. But that was only human nature.

Vose beamed. “Yeah. I understands that. I wouldn’t’ve sold up ’cept I ruined my back from too much bending and lifting. I had to stop. Besides which the wife found the forge awful far up. This shop was her idea. Not that the work’s so much easier. Those beeves’d challenge Hercules himself.” He waved his pipe for emphasis. “Of course, I don’t sell no horsemeat even though there’s some as do. Would be like having a pal hanging there.”

Murdoch started to edge towards the door. “I’d better be off. I’ve got other places to check out.”

“Hold on a minute,” said Vose. He put down his pipe and in a flash wrapped up a rasher of bacon in some brown paper.

“Here you go, on the house.”

Murdoch thanked him.

“Come back anytime. I’ll have some fresh chickens next week. Raise them myself out back.” He followed Murdoch to the threshold. “There is one thing might be worth telling you, Captain, though I probably shouldn’t.”

Murdoch paused.

“At one of our lodge meetings Foy lets drop as how he was having some trouble at home. What sort of trouble, I asks. ‘The wife’s been acting awful jealous these days,’ he says. ‘Does she have any cause, John?’ I asks, and he gives me a wink. ‘Maybe,’ he says. ‘That’s not good, John,’ I says. ‘Come on,’ he says, ‘who’s gonna resist a taste of fresh meat when all he’s had for years is salt pork?’”

“What was he meaning by that, d’you think?”

“I have the suspicion he was dipping his wick in some soft tallow where he shouldn’t.”

“The maid?”

“More than likely.”

“Thank you, Mr. Vose. If anything else occurs, come round to the station. Number four on Wilton. You know where it is, don’t you?”

“I do. You’ve got a couple of fine horses over there, but that bay gelding is favouring his rear leg. You should get him looked at.”

“I’ll pass that along to the livery constable.”

The snow was heavier now, sticking to the ground in a fluffy layer. He walked back to Gerrard Street and turned east towards the medical school.

He wasn’t surprised at what Vose had said but he felt angry again. He doubted Therese had responded willingly to Foy. He’d probably forced himself on her, and even if it was the cold that had directly killed her, Foy
was still accountable. He’d have to have another talk with the unctuous butler. See how conversant he was with opium.

A footman ushered Owen Rhodes downstairs to the billiard room. The smoke from Hugh McDonough’s innumerable cigarettes hung like an autumn fog over the smooth green baize and a fresh cheroot was balanced precariously on the leather corner pocket. He was in the midst of lining up his next shot but when Owen came in he straightened and dipped his cue in a mock military salute.

“Roddy, what brings you out in such miserable weather? God, you look half-frozen. Let me get you some cheer.”

“No, not right now. I have to talk to you. Is it private here?”

“Absolutely. What’s up?”

Owen explained as succinctly as he could what had been happening, the visit from Murdoch earlier that afternoon and the reason for it.

“He wanted to know where I was on Wednesday night.”

Hugh stiffened. “And what did you tell him?”

“That I was in the lab ’til all hours.”

“Good thinking.”

“Even if he checks, old Grant is such a muddlehead, he wouldn’t know for sure if Prince Bertie himself came in.”

“What if he’s positive, though, what then? What will you tell the police fellow?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t considered that far ahead.”

Hugh rubbed chalk on his billiard cue with great concentration. “Perhaps you’d better, Roddy.” He poked Owen not too gently in the ribs with the end of his cue. “You’re not considering a big confession or anything like that, are you, Roddy?”

Owen frowned. “Do you think I’m insane? Of course I’m not.”

“That’s good.” Hugh smiled. “Come on. Cheer up, you look like a scared rabbit.”

“To tell you the truth I feel like one. The fox is sniffing at the door.”

“Bosh. He won’t find out. And even if he did, what’s the worst can happen?”

Owen stared at him. “I take it that is not a serious question.”

Murdoch was almost past the hospital grounds before he noticed the man huddled just inside the gate. The man was slumped forward with his head on his knees. For a moment he didn’t know if he was alive. Then he looked up and Murdoch saw he was young, barely twenty. He stepped closer.

“You can’t stay here.”

The young man began to struggle to his feet. “Ja, yust resting.”

“Where do you live?”

“No place, zur.”

“You’re German?”

“Ja.”

“How long have you been in Toronto?”