Let Loose the Dogs (29 page)

Chapter Fifty-three

“L
EAVE HER ALONE
!” Philip screamed and swung the walking stick again, Murdoch barely had time to deflect the blow so that it landed on his upper arm. He was at a severe disadvantage, half on his hands and knees, and all he could do was scrabble backwards and try to shield himself. Philip’s face was that of a madman. Murdoch was aware of Mrs. Bowling standing behind them not uttering a word. It was Nan who saved him. She started to cry.

“Philip, he’s nice. Don’t hit him anymore. He’s my friend.”

Philip actually stopped in midswing.

Mrs. Bowling said, “He was trying to hurt Nan.”

Philip dropped the stick, giving Murdoch time to stand up. He was still off balance, however, and before he could defend himself, Philip grabbed him by the throat. Murdoch was pushed back with the force, and he gripped his attacker’s wrists to pull them off him. But Delaney had the furious strength of a lunatic, and Murdoch could feel the air being squeezed out of him. Nan was squealing while the two men shuffled in a grotesque dance. Murdoch let go and at the same time dropped his weight suddenly downwards. Taken by surprise at the lack of resistance, Philip relaxed his grip for a moment. Murdoch brought his arms up and outward breaking the hold on his throat. At the same time, he lunged forward with his head in a savage butt to the chin. Blood spurted from Philip’s mouth. He howled and dropped to his knees. Murdoch was on top of him in a moment, grabbing his arm and twisting it behind his back. Philip fell forward, his face pressed into the floor. He began to cry like a child.

“I’m sorry, Poppa. Don’t hurt me anymore.”

“Put your other arm behind your back.”

Philip did so and Murdoch was able to hold both wrists.

“Mrs. Bowling, hand me that scarf.” His voice was harsh and raspy.

“He won’t cause any more trouble. You can let him go.”

“Hand me the scarf. If you disobey or create any more disturbance, I promise you I will see that you end up in jail.”

Sullenly, she picked up Philip’s muffler, which had fallen to the floor, and handed it to Murdoch. He tied it tightly around Philip’s wrists then cautiously he got off his back. Nan crept over and dropped to her knees, patting Philip’s head to comfort him.

He reached down and pulled at Delaney’s bound arms. “Stand up. You are under arrest for assaulting a police officer. If you try to resist in any way, it will go badly for you. Do you understand me?”

Philip’s chin was covered in blood from his bitten lip, and his nose was running. Awkwardly, he got to his feet, Nan dancing around him nervously. The heat from the life-or-death struggle that had flooded Murdoch’s body began to subside. He reached in his pocket, took out his handkerchief, and wiped away the blood and mucous from Philip’s face. The fellow had minutes ago been intent on murdering him, but as he looked at him standing with his head bowed, his coat bloodstained, and tears rolling down his face, Murdoch felt his own anger dissipating.

“Your poppa hurt you, did he?”

“You don’t have to tell him anything,” called out Mrs. Bowling, but he didn’t seem to hear her.

“He was hurting Mrs. Lacey. She’s my sweetheart.”

“Did you see him?”

He nodded. “I was in my hideaway. I heard her crying.”

“What did you do then?”

“Don’t answer that. He has no right to ask questions.”

Murdoch turned to face her. “Mrs. Bowling, I have already warned you about interfering.”

“What about him? What will my Nan do if anything happens to Philip?”

“All I want is the truth. The law protects innocents.”

More blood was seeping from Philip’s lip, and he licked it away.

Murdoch dabbed at it. “Philip, if I untie you, will you promise me to sit in that chair and not move until I give you permission?”

“Yes.”

“Mrs. Bowling, sit over there beside Nan where I can see you. If you try to incite him in any way, it will be the worse for him.”

He waited while she did as he said; then he untied the muffler from Philip’s wrists and gave him the handkerchief. Nan was back swinging her legs, singing quietly to herself.

“Now, Philip, it would help me if you’d answer my question. After you heard your father hurting Mrs. Lacey, what did you do?”

“I stayed in the hideaway.” He sniffed. “I was afraid. Then it was quiet except for Sally, who was crying. And Flash was barking, too.”

“Did you go and get Flash?”

He looked confused. “I thought I’d better wait, but then Poppa came down the steps. He was really angry at me when he saw I was in the hideaway.” He rubbed the side of his head. “He gave me such a stotter, see right here.”

“That must have hurt a lot.” “Yes, it did.”

“What happened after that? Did you lose your temper just like you did now?”

Philip grinned at him shamefacedly. “I don’t remember.”

“Try. He hit you hard. What did you do?”

“I went and got Flash.”

“Before that. Did you pick up a stick and hit your poppa?”

Philip thought for a moment. “I forget.”

Epilogue

F
OR THE NEXT TWO WEEKS
, Murdoch looked and sounded like a pugilist. The capillaries under his eyes had burst from the constriction on his throat and were now black shadows. His vocal cords were bruised. Mrs. Kitchen immediately bought the Christmas goose, cooked it, and used the grease to rub on his neck. She also stood over him while he swallowed big spoonfuls of the oily mess. He was obliged to take more sick leave from duty, which he couldn’t afford but which he was enjoying.

Massie had immediately cancelled the hanging, and after hearing Murdoch’s report he had agreed there were grounds for a retrial, which was to take place early in the new year. Murdoch consulted Sam Quinn, who recommended a barrister he referred to as a sly fox who could be hired for a reasonable sum.

However, Murdoch couldn’t face a meeting with his father. For one thing, it was painful to talk, for another Murdoch wasn’t yet reconciled to him. Instead, he wrote a letter outlining what he thought had happened the night of the betting match. After Jessica Lacey had fled, Delaney had got to his feet and walked down the steps to the path. Partway down, he was confronted by his son, who was distraught about what he had overheard. He must have challenged his father, and Delaney struck him. At this point Philip lost his temper, probably shoved his father to the ground and hit him on the back of the head, killing him. The lad had then gone up and released Flash. Either he saw Harry and let Havoc out of his box, or the terrier had already got free. Regardless, Philip had taken both dogs and gone to see Nan. All this time Harry was lying unconscious in the long grass, just as he said. Lacey’s actions had overlaid what happened but there was little doubt Harry would still have been accused. Whether or not a jury would believe this was what actually happened remained to be seen. Neither Philip nor Nan would be credible witnesses, and Mrs. Bowling was going to do everything she could to deny Philip’s presence at her house. However, Mr. Quinn’s “sly fox” thought he had a good case.

Tonight, Murdoch was trying to switch his thoughts onto a different track. Mrs. Kitchen had invited Enid and Alwyn to dinner. They had all feasted on the goose and stuffed themselves on the dark, rich plum pudding that Mrs. Kitchen had been preparing for weeks. Now the table and chairs had been pushed against the wall to make a bit of room, and they were all gathered close to the Christmas tree. Mrs. Kitchen had fixed tiny candles on the branches, which were also hung with gingerbread men and sugar candy sticks. At the base of the tree was a satisfying pile of boxes and parcels that Alwyn was assessing with great concentration. Havoc, greatly improved in health and temperament, was at his feet. The terrier had come to stay, and he and the boy were immediate friends.

“Mr. Murdoch, I believe you are going to act as Father Christmas’s representative,” said Mrs. Kitchen. Arthur was at the far side of the circle, and Murdoch felt a pang when he saw how his friend was struggling not to cough.

“I am indeed,” he said, and jumped up. He picked up a beribboned parcel. “This is addressed to Master Alwyn Jones.”

“That’s me,” said Alwyn. Excited, Havoc yipped.

Alwyn tore open his package and lifted out a brand-new board game called
A TRIP TO MARS
. Murdoch was highly gratified to see the boy’s pleasure. He had stewed over what to buy him for days.

Enid spoke to her son in Welsh.

“Thank you, Mr. Murdoch,” he said, and walked over and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

Murdoch tapped him lightly on the side of the head. “We’ll have a game soon.”

The boy sat down again, ready for the next present.

“For Mrs. Kitchen,” Murdoch said. The box was a large one, and Beatrice looked appropriately mystified. “This is from Father Christmas himself,” said Murdoch. In fact, he and Arthur had joined in to buy her a special present. With maddening slowness she unwrapped her box.

“Oh my,” she whispered. Nestled in soft red tissue paper was a caperine of grey seal. She lifted it out, stroking the sleek fur. “Oh my,” she said again, as she saw the matching winter hat. Murdoch grinned at Arthur. The short cape was Enid’s idea, and the two men had willingly agreed to it.

Murdoch returned to his tasks. Mrs. Kitchen surprised him by her gift of a book by Mr. Oliver Wendell Holmes who, as far as he knew, was not a Roman Catholic. He’d guessed that Enid would give him hand-monogrammed handkerchiefs, which she had. That deserved a kiss, albeit chaste, out of deference to his landlady. Enid seemed delighted with the cut-glass bottle of perfume he gave her, and that garnered another kiss. She had bought the Kitchens a stereoscope and a dozen cards, all pictures of Egypt. This was an excellent choice as Arthur found reading taxing these days but still had a lively curiosity about the world.

When all the parcels were opened, there was a sudden rather awkward silence. In previous years, after the ritual of gift giving, Beatrice had suggested the three of them say a rosary together, and Murdoch was afraid she might do so again. However, with great tact, she didn’t, only murmuring what a splendid Christmas they were having. It was Havoc who distracted everyone by seizing a piece of paper and proceeding to tear it to pieces. Murdoch snatched him up.

“Enough of that, you imp.” The dog touched Murdoch’s chin with his cold nose. “Give me a kiss then,” said Murdoch.

Havoc nipped him instead.

Everybody burst out laughing, as Murdoch dropped the terrier to the floor.

“Come here, you naughty dog,” said Mrs. Kitchen.

“Don’t be nice to him, Mrs. K., he’s wicked,” said Murdoch, dabbing at his bleeding chin.

But Havoc, like all dogs, had an unerring instinct for a soft touch, and he trotted over to Beatrice and licked her outstretched hand.

“See, he didn’t mean to hurt you,” she said.

“Oh, but he did,” interjected Alwyn. “He doesn’t like him.”

Murdoch sighed.

Author’s Note

I strive to be as accurate as possible with my historical details concerning Victorian Toronto. However, in one instance I have changed the facts to suit the fiction. J. M. Massie was the warden of the Central Prison, not the Don Jail, as I have it in the book. I made this change for two reasons: The Don Jail still exists and you can go and have a look at it if you want to (the outside only). The Central Prison, which was on Strachan Street, was torn down. Secondly, Mr. Massie left behind correspondence and a fascinating journal, which I was able to read. Some of the things I have him say in the book are his own words, and the views he expresses are certainly his.

Acknowledgements

Especially when writing historical fiction, there are always so many questions to ask, and I am most grateful to the people who passed on their expertise to me and lent me their valuable books.

Thanks to Sharon McKenna and Jan Oddie for trusting me with their precious possessions.

Maurice Farge always answers my questions about the Catholic Church with patience, no matter when I call him.

Cheryl Freedman has again taken time to read the manuscript and offer me excellent and invaluable feedback.

As always, my editor, Ruth Cavin, is astute, kind, and improves everything.