Let Loose the Dogs (5 page)

Chapter Nine

P
ATRICK
P
UGH TILTED THE WASHSTAND MIRROR
forward so he could see himself better. He separated out the front lock of his hair and daubed it with the bleach. His hair was naturally dark brown, thick, and wavy, but he’d been dyeing this one piece white for some time. He thought the flash gave a certain element of drama to his appearance, rather like a picture he’d seen of Mercury, the winged messenger. Besides, it was memorable. If anybody was talking about him, they inevitably referred to the man with the white streak in his hair. Then, if necessary, he could reverse that. Return to his normal appearance. “Have you seen a man, slim, about forty years of age, nobby dresser? He has a white lock of hair at the right temple?” “No, can’t say I have.” Pugh had found that, in some circumstances, it was better to be obvious than not. When you wanted to vanish, everybody was on the lookout for the flamboyant man in the tartan suit and red crusher, not the quiet, nondescript one in the plain grey overcoat and black fedora. He thought of it as a sort of magician’s trick. “Look over here, at this scarf, not here where I am putting a card in my pocket.” Pugh was fond of magic tricks and had learned several. On some of the lonely night watches, he practised legerdemain with a pack of cards. When he was tired of this work, he thought he would start a new career as a touring magician.

He whistled through his teeth, a jolly ballad he’d heard at the tavern. That was another thing he was good at, remembering tunes. He only needed to hear one once, and he could whistle the whole thing right through.

He scrutinised himself. That seemed good enough. He moved the mirror downward so he could get a glimpse of his naked loins. Yes, good. His stomach was as flat as a prizefighter’s, and his thighs and calves firm and muscular. He could pass for a man at least ten years younger than he actually was. Finally, he stretched out his hands. Steady as rocks. The tip of his middle finger on the left hand was missing, and he never failed to experience a touch of chagrin at the sight. Even though he’d learned to take advantage of the defect, he was vain about his long, slender fingers. He’d suffered the loss when he was doing a stint as a mucker in a copper mine in Jerome, Arizona. Sheer carelessness on his part. But that was another tale to tell when he found time to recount his memoirs for posterity. Keeping his voice low, he started on the ballad.

The wind sae could blew south and north,
And blew into the floor;
Quoth our goodman to our goodwife,
‘Gae out and bar the door.’

He went over to the bed where he’d laid out his clothes. First, the drawers and a fleece shirt, both a mixture of silk and wool because he had sensitive skin and pure wool was irritating. Over the shirt, he pulled on a flannel chest protector lined with soft chamois. The scarlet of the flannel clashed with the burgundy stripes of his shirt, but that couldn’t be helped. It was unlikely anybody would be getting a gander at his underwear today. He had his eye on a plump little tart who sang at the Derby, but she would have to wait until his job was finished. Pugh believed in discipline. While he was on a job, he never consorted with women.

Next he reached for his long socks. They were getting worn and the heels needed darning, but he had no time to do it now. He fastened the leather straps tightly, then pulled on his tweed trousers, which he’d purchased from Mr. Eaton’s store only last month. Finally he put on his heavy wool jersey and checked the mirror again. Yes, he looked quite nobby. The brown sweater suited his dark complexion.

He picked up the imitation lamb cap, which was sitting on his dresser, and pulled it on. A snug fit. He had taken it from one of his former clients. He did not consider this stealing. The man had been less than generous with his fee, and Pugh had therefore supplemented it with the cap and a pair of decent raccoon gauntlets.

Pugh went to the wardrobe and took out the blue mackinaw. The jacket was waterproof, lined with tweed for warmth, and had a hood that gave him double protection from the weather and prying eyes. Pugh considered it was an ugly piece of apparel, but it served its purpose.

There was a silver flask in the inside pocket. He shook it. Good! Still some whiskey left. In the other pocket there was his deck of cards and his notebook and pencil. He hesitated for a moment then reached in the back of the wardrobe, pulled out a canvas bag, and undid the straps. Inside was his revolver. He took it out and stowed it in the mackinaw. He was ready. His cowhide boots were outside the door, cleaned and polished by the old man who also served as clerk to the hotel.

Pugh blew out his candle. He paid for each one he used, and he believed in being careful. He slipped out of his room and, carrying his boots, walked softly down the hall. There was only one light in the sconce, the wick turned down so low it was almost useless. He went down the stairs, paused long enough at the door to put on his boots, and stepped out into the cold night.

Then said the one unto the other,
‘Here man, tak ye my knife;
Do ye tak off the auld man’s beard,
And I’ll kiss the goodwife.’

Pugh fastened the flap on the hood so that the lower half of his face was covered. Perhaps today he would be lucky.

Chapter Ten

M
RS.
K
ITCHEN CAME OUT OF THE PARLOUR
just as Murdoch was hanging up his coat and cap. She held out her hand to him. “Please accept my condolences, Mr. Murdoch.”

“Thank you, Mrs. K. You got my telegram then?”

“Constable Crabtree brought it over this afternoon. And he also wanted me to convey his regrets. The inspector has given you a leave of absence until Friday.”

Murdoch shrugged. A leave of absence meant no wages, and he would have been glad of the distraction of work. However, the inspector always insisted that any of the police officers who suffered bereavement take some time off. Murdoch had decided some time ago that this had nothing to do with genuine compassion and everything to do with saving money.

He unlaced his boots and, unbidden, Mrs. Kitchen took his slippers out of the brass slipper box by the coat stand and gave them to him.

“I have some supper waiting for you.”

“Thank you indeed. I forgot to book a seat in the dining car, and the sittings were full. The last acquaintance my stomach has had with any food was about five o’clock this morning. One of the nuns brought me some vegetable soup.”

“For your breakfast?”

“That’s what they always eat apparently.”

Beatrice allowed herself a mild tut-tut of disapproval. “I’ve braised you a pork chop.”

He followed her into the kitchen.

“How is Arthur?”

“A little better today.” She smiled. “He complains dreadfully about the cream and eggs, but I am certain they are helping him. He isn’t as weak and is coughing less. Don’t you think so, Mr. Murdoch?”

If he were honest, he would have to say he hadn’t noticed much improvement. Arthur had some days that were not as bad as others, but the progression of the illness seemed relentless.

Murdoch made a noncommittal sort of grunt. He didn’t want to be the one to dash her hopes either.

“He asked if you would care to join us after your supper.”

“Thank you, I will.”

He sat down at the pine table, and Mrs. Kitchen took his plate out of the warming oven.

“I’ll let you have your meal in peace.” “Please stay, Mrs. K. I would enjoy some company.”

“I’d be happy to.”

She perched herself in the chair opposite him. The pork chop was overcooked and dry and the potatoes lumpy, but he made enthusiastic sounds of appreciation for her sake. It didn’t take long for him to consume everything. He sopped up the grease with a piece of bread.

“I was there at the end, but they wouldn’t let me get close or touch her. I only saw her shadow through a grille. She is buried in the private cemetery of the convent, and I didn’t see that either.”

Mrs. Kitchen got up to remove his plate. She brought over a piece of apple tart and placed it in front of him. Murdoch rubbed at his eyes. He was overwhelmingly tired.

“If I may say so, Mr. Murdoch, the nuns were only doing what they ought to do. That is their vow. They call it ‘enclosure,’ I believe. Once in, the only people ever allowed to see them are a doctor or a priest. I know my cousin’s daughter entered a cloistered order. She went down to America, but they never clapped eyes on her after she took her final vow.”

“It’s unnatural.”

“I suppose you could say that, but it’s a sacrifice they and the family make for Our Lord’s sake.”

Murdoch knew it was useless to argue with Mrs. Kitchen on certain matters, especially if they pertained to the church. She was as good-hearted as a woman can be, but any questioning of their mutual faith made her uneasy. She was rigid and dogmatic to the point of superstition. Besides, it was too late and he was too tired to talk much. However, as she had done so often in the past, Mrs. Kitchen surprised him.

“Frankly, if it had been up to me, Mr. Murdoch, if I was the prioress, I would have broken the rules in those circumstances. What the harm is in a man saying a final farewell to his only sister, I don’t know.”

He smiled at her, his irritation gone. “Thank you, Mrs. K. I cannot say I detected any softening in the nuns. Not that I saw them either. Even the funeral was conducted with them on the other side of a wall. I could hear them chanting, but that was it.”

She spooned three generous spoonsful of tea leaves into the teapot and added boiling water from the kettle.

“Let it steep for a minute. But before I forget, there’s a letter for you. The constable brought it over with the telegram. I’ll fetch it.”

She bustled off and he got up to pour his tea before it became strong enough to dissolve the enamel on his teeth. Mrs. Kitchen came back with a long envelope in her hand. There was a seal on the back with an official-looking stamp in it. Murdoch used his knife to slit open the flap.

The letterhead was that of James Massie, the warden of Don Jail.

Dear Mr. Murdoch. Will you be so good as to call at my office as soon as possible. One of our prisoners is anxious to have communication with you. A morning hour would be best at your earliest convenience.

Your servant, J. M. Massie, Warden

“Not bad news I hope,” said Mrs. Kitchen.

“No, probably good news. I believe I mentioned young Adam Blake to you a couple of months ago, the lad convicted of pickpocketing? I was the one nabbed him, and I thought he might be set straight with a good talking to. He wasn’t that receptive I have to admit, but I told him I’d come and visit when he saw the error of his ways. I assume a spell in jail has brought clarity to his mind.”

“So it should.” She reached in the pocket of her apron. “By the way, Mr. Murdoch, I took the liberty of cutting this for you.”

She took out a wide strip of black silk.

“Thank you, Mrs. K.”

He raised his arm and she fastened the band to his jacket sleeve where he would wear it for the next few months as a sign of mourning. He sighed. Poor little Cissie.

Chapter Eleven

C
HARLES
C
RAIG OPENED HIS EYES
and lay still for a moment, trying to determine what had awakened him. His wife, Margaret, was snoring softly beside him as she did when she had been forced to take laudanum for her pain. The room was hot and smelled of the ammonia liniment she applied nightly to her swollen joints. He listened but the only other sound was the scratch and rustle of the evergreens that grew beside the house. He slipped out of bed and, barefoot, padded over to the window. The blind was pulled down tight to the sill, and he lifted the side a crack so he could look out. Their bedchamber was at the rear of the house and below him was a large garden, smooth and white with the recent snow. Directly in front, the ground rose gently to a high fence, which demarcated the edge of their neighbour’s property. Their house was hidden by a thick stand of evergreens that extended to the right and down to the road, offering perfect privacy. To the left was an open field. He thought he could detect a slight movement, a deeper shadow among the shadows of the evergreens in the upper corner, but he wasn’t certain. The sky was overcast, and the moon was obscured.

He stayed motionless at the window for several minutes then, with a little groan, straightened up. Margaret muttered in her sleep, and he went back to the bed and pulled the quilt up around her shoulders. He waited a moment to make sure she had not awoken, then he went to the wardrobe and took out his trousers and a jacket. He favoured the newer style of nightwear, and he was wearing striped flannelette pyjamas. He pulled the trousers and coat on over these and crept from the room. There were no candles lit on the landing or stairwell, but his eyes were accustomed to the darkness and he made his way downstairs to the study. There was a dull slit of light showing beneath the door. He knocked, one hard tap followed by two softer ones. In a moment his son opened the door. Craig had moved out of view a few paces down the hallway and, without pause, James joined him.

“Is he out there again?” he asked.

“I’m not completely certain. Did the dogs bark just now?”

“They did a little while ago.” James looked discomfited. “It didn’t seem too serious,” he added. “I thought it must be a squirrel or a racoon.”

“There are occasions when you are worse than the most ignorant loafer,” said Charles. He did not raise his voice or insert much inflection, but James flushed as if he had been roundly scolded.

“I’m sorry, Papa.”

“Never mind.” Charlie nodded in the direction of the study. “Are the curtains closed tight?”

“They are.”

“Let’s go in.”

Craig led the way back into the room. James had been enjoying a pipe, and the air was thick and aromatic with the smoke. There was a glass of whiskey on the table beside his chair. His father walked straight over to the desk and rolled back the top.

The pug who had been keeping James company trotted over to him, waving her little curl of a tail. Craig gave her a cursory pat on the head.

“Is Tiny in the kennel?”

“Yes, of course.”

Craig removed one of the inner desk drawers and reached his hand inside, turning the wooden screw that unlocked the secret compartment.

“Where is he?” asked James.

“Same place in the east upper corner.” He took a small leather billy out of the hidden drawer.

“What do you want me to do?” asked James.

Craig pointed to the mantel clock, a showy walnut piece with much ormolu trim.

“Stay in here until that chimes the quarter. I’m going to come around through the copse. When it’s time, open the curtains wide and stand in front of the window. Make a point of yawning and stretching. Then pick up Bess, get the lamp, and leave the room. Keep the lamp lit and go to the back door. Put on your boots and coat and step outside onto the patio a little ways. Make a show of getting Bess to relieve herself. Make a lot of noise about it. This is your chance to pretend you’re Edmund Keane.”

He put on his jacket and slipped the billy into his pocket.

“What if this fellow has a pistol?”

Craig shrugged. “You know what to do. Don’t stand in the light; keep moving around. I should be close enough by then to stop him, but if I shout, get out of the way fast.” Then, with a curt nod for his son, he left.

James sat down in the armchair and gulped back the rest of his whiskey. His pipe had gone out, but he didn’t attempt to light it. Bess jumped up beside him, and he stroked her ears. Ten minutes dragged by, and the clock started to strike. He got up, went to the window, and flung open the curtains. He couldn’t see anything outside, but knowing how visible he was made him uneasy. He did a quick yawn and stretch, snapped his fingers at Bess, and walked out of the room. At the back door he waited, listening, but everything was silent. It was almost one o’clock, and people were long in bed. He put on his overcoat and slipped into his boots, picked up the dog, and stepped out onto the patio. Hearing him, Tiny popped out of her kennel and barked. James moved into the shadows, put Bess on the ground, and called out clearly, “Hurry up, Bess, don’t take all night.” Then he started to walk up and down, clapping his hands. Tiny continued to bark, and Bess joined in, spinning round him.

“That’s enough, come on.” He went over to the kennel, which was at the end of the patio, persuaded the pug to come over, and fastened her to a long leash. “Be good, you two.” That done he returned to the back door, picked up his lantern, and went inside. He extinguished the light and waited in the hall. The dogs had quieted down and gone into their kennel, and it must have been only five minutes later when he heard the soft crunch of snow as somebody headed towards the door. His father entered.

“You didn’t wait long out there, James.”

“Sorry, Papa. Did you see him?”

“A glimpse. He was already moving away across Hernsworth’s field. Either finished his job or knew we were on to him. He wasn’t hurrying, so he probably swallowed your charade.”

“What does he look like?”

“He’s not too tall, shorter than you and me by a good foot, but he was wearing a mackintosh with the hood up, and I couldn’t tell what size he was, broad or slim.” Craig blew on his cold hands and began to take off his outdoor clothes. “I examined the ground where he’d been standing, but there was nothing to see: no tobacco juice, no cigar butts. However long he had been there, he was a patient man.”

“What do you think we should do, Papa.”

“For now, nothing.” For the first time, Craig grinned. “It is possible that we are making a mountain out of a molehill. He could be out there for a dozen reasons. He might be a shy suitor trying to catch a glimpse of Adelia for one thing. Or he could be a dog snatcher, looking to carry off our pride and joy.” He blew on his hands again. “Or he’s nosing into our business.”

They had been standing in the hall, speaking in low voices. Craig tapped his son lightly on the cheek. “By the way, James, you are looking most fearful. I’ve told you many times, you must never show fear. Never.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise.” James summoned up his characteristic, sunny smile.

“That’s better. You must take a lesson from what happened to that poor sod, Harry Murdoch. He was his own worst enemy.”

“I didn’t know you felt sorry for him, Papa.”

Craig shrugged. “Of course I do. Not a lot but somewhat. Now off to bed with you. In the morning we’ll go out and have another look around. He just may have left something behind, although I doubt it. This man is experienced.”

James kissed him good night and left. Craig didn’t move but stood and chafed his cold hands again. He knew he wouldn’t sleep yet; his blood was still racing. He needed a bit of soothing, a release. He made his way up the rear stairs, past the second-floor landing to the third. There were two chambers up here. One was used as a storage room; the other was where his sister-in-law slept. He opened the door to this room and went inside. “Carmel,” he whispered. “Carmel, wake up, dear, it’s me.”

Jessica didn’t want to go back to bed just yet. Walter was not a heavy sleeper, and it seemed that the smallest movement on her part woke him. She’d half expected him to be waiting at the door. She knew it came from love, but his solicitude was oppressing her, ultimately futile. He could not help her, could not offer any relief from her torment.

She didn’t risk raking the coals even though she was chilled to the bone. Her boots were worn thin at the soles, and her stockings were damp from the snow that had leaked through. In her crib, Sally turned and cried out, “Mama, Mama.” Jessica went over to her, but she was fast asleep. She looked flushed, and in a rush of alarm Jessica touched her forehead. She was warm but not overly so, and Jessica pulled back the coverlet to cool her. Then, wrapping her hands in the ends of her shawl, she began to pace around the room. A large Bible was on its special stand by the window and she halted in front of it, touching the soft leather cover as if it were a live creature. She opened it at the back page where her mother had written down the family tree as she remembered it.

Evangeline Plain had married Josiah Watkins. They had seven children of whom four had lived to adulthood, Phoebe, Thomas, David, and the youngest, Jessica.

She moved her finger along the careful handwriting. Jessica had married Walter Lacey. Her mother had given her the Bible as a wedding present, and Jessica remembered how proudly and carefully she had entered the name of her firstborn, Sarah, called Sally, born October 30, 1891. There was another line underneath ready for the next entry, and Walter had written Sylvanus. The foetus had not been viable, but according to the church he had lived long enough inside her to have a soul and his christening and burial had been simultaneous. Jessica pressed her own breasts. If the infant had gone full term, he would have been suckling now.

She stood for a moment and touched the Bible reverentially. She had witnessed her mother many times gain solace from what she insisted was the word of God made manifest, and Jessica desperately needed guidance. She opened the book at Proverbs and without looking ran her finger down the page, continuing as prayerfully as she could until she felt the impulse to stop. She looked down. She had halted at chapter 30, verses 15–16.

The horseleach hath two daughters, crying Give, give. There are three things that are never satisfied, yea, four things say, It is not enough:

The grave; and the barren womb; the earth that is not filled with water; and the fire that saith not, It is enough.

The words became shards of glass in her throat.