Let Loose the Dogs (24 page)

Murdoch got up and went over to the farther table, where Newcombe was collecting empty mugs.

“Vince, can I have a word with you in private?”

“This minute?”

“I’d appreciate it.” He looked at him. “It’s concerning Mrs. Bowling and her daughter.”

“Right! I’ll hand these glasses over to Walter. We can go to the parlour.”

Newcombe was no good at dissembling, and Murdoch saw how nervous his request had made him.

Chapter Forty-three

T
HE INNKEEPER FOLLOWED
M
URDOCH
into the parlour then turned the key in the lock.

“People wander around,” he said, nodding in the direction of the taproom. “Please have a seat.”

There was no question that there were plenty of chairs to choose from, the problem was negotiating a path through the furniture to any one of them. The room was filled with small tables, and on each one of them was a glass case under which was either a stuffed member of the dog family or representatives of their prey. He didn’t dare get Newcombe launched on a history of each piece, so he got straight to the point and remained standing.

“Vince, I just came from talking to Mrs. Bowling, and I met her daughter. Nan said some troubling things, but I couldn’t quite determine if they were true or not.”

“Not true, I’m sure. Poor girl isn’t right in the head as you could see.”

“She certainly seemed muddled but not completely in unreality.”

Newcombe regarded him uneasily. “What did she say?”

“That Philip Delaney was at their cottage the night his father died. However, according to his testimony and that of his mother, after the match he went directly from here to his own house, where he stayed until she sent him to look for his father.”

It was obvious this wasn’t what Newcombe had been expecting him to say, and Murdoch thought he was relieved.

“Philip does visit Nan to play with the dog. She probably got the days mixed up.”

“She said Philip brought two dogs with him, Flash and a grey dog that, by the sound of it, could only have been Havoc.”

“No, Will, no. I do appreciate the peculiarity of your circumstances, but you’re clutching at straws. Nan mixes up times when events take place. Don’t forget, the terrier was on the loose when Mr. Pugh found Delaney. Maybe the little cur wandered up to the Bowling cottage and Nan saw him, then in her mind added him to a visit Philip had made on another occasion.”

“She didn’t sound that confused, Vince. Not about this.”

Newcombe went and sat in the armchair by the hearth. “Forgive me saying so, Will, but I know the girl better than you do. You can’t rely on anything she says. And besides, even if by a remote stretch of the imagination she did get it right and Philip came to visit her that night, what does it prove?”

“That the boy was lying. He wasn’t at home.”

Newcombe rubbed at his head as if he were polishing it. “Well now, Philip Delaney isn’t quite accountable either. His memory isn’t the best.”

“Nan said he has a sweetheart. Does he?”

“Not that I know of. He’s a boy in a man’s body, don’t forget. I don’t think any proper young woman would encourage him.”

“By the same token, Nan is a girl in a woman’s body, but I doubt we men are always as scrupulous.”

Newcombe flinched like somebody whose sore tooth had just been probed by a dentist. He reached up and straightened one of the half-dozen photographs that hung in a line on the wall.

“Bad business,” he said ambiguously.

“Vince, listen to me. I don’t have time for niceties. There’s too much at stake. Why is it that I keep getting the impression you want to hide something? And I don’t mean about your charity act with Mrs. Bowling’s ale.” He caught Newcombe by the arm, forcing him to keep still. “Are you poking Nan? Is that the real reason you’re visiting the cottage? Is that why you don’t want your wife to know?”

Newcombe stared at him, appalled. “My God, no. How could you think that?”

“Because I saw the girl. She’s got the wiles of a whore. Some men find that appealing.”

“Not me. I promise you, I don’t.”

“Is it her mother then? Is the surly Mrs. Bowling your mistress?”

Newcombe shook off his hand. “No, she is not. You wouldn’t even say such a thing if you knew me better. And if you knew my Maria.”

“What is going on then? Tell me, because I know there’s something between you and Mrs. Bowling.”

The innkeeper moved away from him and perched on the edge of one of the armchairs. “You’re right but I swear it’s not on my part. Ucillus acts cosy like that all the time.”

“Why do you keep visiting her then?”

“I told you, I feel sorry for her. The girl is a handful.”

“I don’t believe you, Vince.”

“Whether you do or not isn’t the point. Besides it has nothing to do with your father’s case.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

Newcombe stared at him, then he slumped back in the chair. “Will you promise not to repeat what I tell you?”

“That depends on what you tell me. If it is not, in fact, relevant, I’ll forget it.”

Newcombe picked up a smaller glass case and absent-mindedly rotated it to get the best view. There was a stuffed weasel inside.

“My Tripper got this one when she was only one year old.”

“Vince, not now, please.”

“All right, all right.” He returned the weasel to its place. “I knew Ucillus Bowling many years ago. Fifteen to be precise. I had just arrived in Canada. I went to Peterborough first of all. Maria and me were engaged, but she was still in England … I’m ashamed of myself and will be forever, but it’s a common story. I was lonely. I met Ucillus, who was eager to show me how welcoming Canadian girls could be. I succumbed. The whole affair lasted no more than a fortnight at most, and I told her I couldn’t continue. I moved away to Toronto and got work in a hotel. She hadn’t seemed to be bothered much by me going, and I never expected to see her again. Then she showed up here just over a year ago. She had a daughter in tow.” He nodded at Murdoch. “I can see you’re expecting what comes next. She said Nan was mine. She’d never married, and there’s no doubt in my mind she’d many another man in her bed. But what could I do? She didn’t want much from me, just some money every now and again. I didn’t want to tell Maria I’d been unfaithful to her, and I wanted to do the best I could by the girl.” He held out his hands in a gesture of supplication. “There you have it. I told you it wasn’t relevant to your situation.”

Murdoch studied Vince’s face for a moment. “Has Nan been in the habit of wandering about in the woods?”

Newcombe looked away and again Murdoch caught the uneasy expression in his eyes. He was not a difficult man to read, and he suspected Maria knew more than Vince gave her credit for.

He moved closer. “Why is it, Vince, that every time we get near the topic of this girl, you look like a poacher caught with a brace of pheasants in your hands? No, don’t gammon me. I believe what you’ve told me already….”

“Thank goodness….”

“But you haven’t said everything there is to say, have you? What are you hiding?” “Nothing…. I, er …”

“Will you please answer my question. Her mother had the girl tied up like a dog. Why?”

Newcombe’s shoulders slumped. “Nan did start slipping out of the house. Ucillus likes her drink, and the girl can be cunning. She’d go when her mother was asleep. I started to hear gossip, real covert, mostly when the men were in their cups; but it seemed she had picked up ways more becoming to a woman of the night than a young girl. Thank God nobody, as far as I knew, was prepared to take advantage of her; although I made it clear there would be no funny business from the men or they would hear from me. But I was sure it was only a matter of time before somebody trespassed. I warned her mother, and I myself try to keep a good lookout.”

“Was Delaney one of those men? He would have seen her often enough. Was he titillated by the girl?”

Newcombe sighed. “Yes, he was. I was on my way to visit Ucillus one afternoon in the spring. I came across him and Nan. He tried to deny it, but I thought he was on the verge of taking her. I warned him off.”

“I’d say it’s a good thing you have an alibi for the time of his murder, Vince.”

“Good Lord, you don’t think I … I’m not that sort of a fellow. I might give him a good talking to or even a swat but never like that …”

“All right, all right. As I said, you are covered. Unless you and Mr. Pugh are shielding each other.”

Newcombe looked so appalled that Murdoch couldn’t keep him in his misery much longer.

“I’m talking like a policeman, Vince. There are moments when you suspect everybody. Nevertheless, what you’re telling me might not be as irrelevant as you think. Damnation, this should have come out at the trial.”

“Will, it doesn’t change anything.”

“The jury might not have been as antagonistic towards Harry if they knew this about Delaney. Not quite such an upstanding Christian after all.”

Newcombe’s voice was kind. “They did know. They live here and there’s always been talk about him. But I must emphasize, I only found him with Nan one time. If that had come out, all it would have accomplished is several lives being dragged through the mud.”

“And as it stands, only one man’s life is getting all dirty. But a man who they didn’t know. How convenient.”

“Come on, Will. I can understand you being bitter, but so far you haven’t convinced me somebody other than your father killed John Delaney.”

There was a rap on the door and Lacey called. “Mr. Newcombe, are you done? Mr. Clarry wants to settle his bill.”

“I’ll be right there, Walter.” Newcombe turned. “I’d better get back.” He pressed Murdoch’s arm. “Sorry about all of this.”

He went to the door, unlocked it, and ushered Murdoch out into the hall. Lacey was waiting for them.

“Everything all right, Mr. Newcombe?”

“Yes, thank you, Walter. I was showing Mr. Williams the collection.”

Chapter Forty-four

E
NID HAD NOT EXTINGUISHED
the bedside candle, and the soft light ruddied her bare shoulders and arms. She was lying on her back, her eyes closed, he on his side facing her. He could never have imagined a woman’s body was so soft. This time making love with Enid was, if possible, even more sensual. He wasn’t as afraid he wouldn’t know what to do or, worse, be incapable of intimacy. When he was working at the logging camp, the end of the day talk frequently turned to sexual matters. Full of the strong beer brewed at the camp, the men boasted, piss proud of their sexual exploits. Murdoch was only eighteen, uninitiated into the mysteries, but he would never have dared to admit that, as he knew the hazing would have been relentless. So he pretended, saying little, getting the reputation of being closemouthed. He was capable of showing a hot temper and didn’t hesitate to follow up with his fists if need be. However, at the end of the day the only place to be was in the dining hut, so whether he liked it or not, he got a certain kind of education. He’d had no idea how many ways it was possible for men and women to copulate and how many expressions existed to describe these positions. “Knee tremblers” up against the back walls of taverns; “taking flyers” with women, fully clothed. The loggers liked what they called “willing tits,” the rare ones who were as eager for connections as the men. A lot of them had contracted Venus’s curse, but this was another occasion to boast as if it were a mark of manhood rather than a sin, not to mention a painful condition. What Murdoch soon discovered was that the men feared the unwanted by-blow much less than they feared impotency; and their hatred for sodomites, those who used the windward passage, was corrosive. Fortunately for Murdoch, he had made friends with a married man who seemed to love and honour his wife. Once in a while they talked about the mystery of sexual relations, and Ned’s point of view was a relief, a sweet salve on the rapacious appetites the other loggers revealed.

Murdoch left the camp and moved to Toronto, where he met and fell in love with Elizabeth Milner. She had soon softened his views of women and begun what she laughingly called his new education. She was a fervent New Woman, as they were referred to, sometimes with a scorn that masked fear. Although Eliza insisted on remaining chaste until her marriage day, she made no attempt to hide her own desires. “We will be partners in this, William Murdoch,” she had said many times. He sighed. He never failed to feel the pain of her loss. He shifted to better study Enid’s face. She was darker complexioned than Eliza, her jaw wider, her lips fuller, an attractive face but not beautiful.

Enid opened her eyes and looked directly at him. “You’re very silent, William Murdoch. What is it you’re thinking about?”

He glanced away, feeling guilty that he was lying naked beside this woman and pining over another. “I’m sorry, Enid. I was wool-gathering.”

She hardly ever mentioned her dead husband, and he wondered at this moment if she had been making her own mental comparisons between him and Murdoch.

“Thank you for a delicious meal, Enid.”

She smiled. “I assume you do mean the fish cakes.”

He felt himself blush and was glad she wasn’t looking at him. He laughed, realising his own double entendre. “Yes, of course.”

In fact, he had found it difficult to finish the dinner she had ready for him. He was so hot with desire, he felt as if he had a fever. He was afraid she would see in his flushed cheeks and eager eyes what was on his mind and be repulsed. However, she remained affectionate and welcoming. He’d tried to concentrate on eating the mashed potatoes and thought he’d choke.

She’d made a lemon pudding that was too tart for him, but which he pretended to eat with gusto. Then the meal was over, and it was only eight o’clock. Conversation had seemed strained to him, and he blamed himself. Early on, to get it out of the way, he asked her if she was acquainted with a man named Pugh. He gave both versions of Mr. Pugh’s appearance and his aptitude for magic, but she denied any knowledge of him. He was glad to believe her. He asked her about her work, and she responded with animation. Her reputation as a fast and efficient typewriter was growing, and she had been getting steady employment. She then asked him to talk about Susanna. “I wish I had known her,” she said, and he marvelled that she could say that about a nun. He didn’t respond in kind. He wasn’t sure if he was eager to meet a family of Baptist, hymn-singing Welshmen. She enquired as to how his investigation was coming along, but it was the last thing he wanted to talk about. “Not well. I’m stumped,” was all he could say, and she didn’t press him. The clock finally struck nine, the gong dying away on the air, echoing in the silence that had fallen between them. He got up and moved to the couch where she was sitting and took her in his arms, kissing her slowly at first then not so slowly. Finally, she moved back from him.

“I think we should go to my room where we will be more comfortable,” she whispered against his cheek. And they had, she accepting his ardour. Even remembering it made him stir.

Now she was the one who was doing the scrutinising.

“What? Am I that strange a country, so different from Wales?”

“Yes, sometimes. Your eyes are very dark, and I can no more see into them than I could see the bottom of the mountain caches. When we were children we were allowed to swim in them, and the surface was sun warmed; but just below the surface, it was icy cold.” “Oh dear, that is not a flattering image.” “All the water needed was a longer time in the sunshine.”

He kissed her then, tracing the line of her neck lightly with his fingertips, just above the swell of her full breasts. “Your skin is so smooth and soft, as if you have been dipped in velvet.”

With a sigh of pleasure, she closed her eyes again. He continued his exploration, moving his fingers downwards. He felt like a sculptor determining the skeletal underpinnings of the flesh. Here the bony front breastplate; here the curve of the ribs. He had to press a little harder to feel them through the covering of flesh, but he was careful to avoid the pendulous breasts. He was saving them for later. He retraced his path back to her neck, proceeding along the right collarbone to the shoulder joint.

“What are you doing, exactly?” she murmured. They were both speaking quietly, mindful of Alwyn who was asleep in his box room.

“I am getting to know your body. What if all the candles were blown out, and I had to find you among all the other bodies …”

She opened her eyes. “What other bodies? Is it in a seraglio, we are?”

“Heavens no. Much too crowded.”

“Continue then.”

Before he could do so, the door opened. “Momma!”

Alwyn, eyes wide with total dismay, stood in the doorway staring at them.

Murdoch rolled onto his back immediately, pulling up the sheet. Enid said something in Welsh to the boy, who responded with a spate of words that Murdoch didn’t understand but whose import he sensed unequivocally.

Enid spoke again, and Alwyn reluctantly turned his back to them. She jumped out of bed and put on her dressing robe.

“He isn’t feeling well,” she said to Murdoch.

She went over to the boy and put her hand on his forehead. “You’re hot,” she said in English. He replied in Welsh. Enid shook her head.

“Mr. Murdoch was tired, and I offered him a bed for the night. Now remember your manners and come and say hello to him.”

Sullenly, Alwyn allowed his mother to lead him to the bed.

“Hello, young man,” said Murdoch, who was having a difficult time suppressing his laughter.

“Good evening, Mr. Murdoch. I am not feeling well.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Come, Alwyn. Back to your bed.”

His eyes filled with tears and he started to wail, again talking to his mother in their own language, effectively excluding Murdoch. Enid took the boy in her arms and comforted him.

“I’m afraid he’s too upset. He does feel a little feverish,” she said to Murdoch.

“Does that mean he is not going to go back to his own room?”

She looked abashed. “When he has these fevers, he doesn’t sleep.”

“Which means in this bed and not his.”

“I’m sorry, Will. It is just that he is used to having me all to himself.”

Alwyn was watching Murdoch through tear-laden eyes. His distress was genuine, and Murdoch was torn between feeling completely aggravated at the boy and understanding how threatened he must feel.

“It was time for me to leave anyway. Alwyn, bring me my trousers from the chair.”

The boy did so, Enid hovering anxiously nearby. She handed Murdoch his other clothes, indicating he should get dressed behind the screen.

When he emerged, Alwyn was already in the bed, sitting high on the pillows while his mother stroked his head. Murdoch grimaced. He had the sense he was not the first man in history to witness the bond that exists between mother and son and to feel excluded by it.