Night's Child (2 page)

“On second thoughts, Isaiah, we’ll do the exercise when you come to school and I will be able to supervise.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Now, everyone, let us move into rapid breathing.” She consulted the gold fob watch on her bodice. “I think we are ready to try for three minutes. When I say
go
, breathe in through the right nostril as rapidly as possible, then out through the left. Are you ready? Shoulders down, mouth quite closed. Begin. Quietly please.”

With finger and thumb to their noses, as they had been instructed, the children began, Miss Slade keeping time like a band conductor. “And in…and out…Inhale and exhale.”

The class was breathing in unison, sounding like an animal in its death throes. The two-minute mark was just reached when suddenly Agnes Fisher, with a barely audible gasp, fell backwards, gracefully and quietly as if her body had turned to cloth. She lay still, her eyelids fluttering.

“Goodness me, Agnes.” Miss Slade ran over to her, knelt down, and took one of the girl’s hands in hers. She began to rub it. “Agnes! Agnes! Can you hear me?”

The girl’s face had turned as white as the chalk. The other children gathered around them, their faces sombre and afraid. Benjamin looked down at his sister in terror.

“It’s all right, Ben. She’s just fainted. See, she’s coming around. She had a bit too much oxygen, I’m afraid.” Miss Slade slipped her hands underneath the girl’s arms and helped her to sit up. “Children, please return to your seats.” She waited for a moment to make sure her order was obeyed. “Agnes, are you hurt anywhere?”

The girl put her hand to her head. “I feel a bit dizzy, Miss Slade.”

“Stay where you are then. It will pass. Ben, get a sweetie from the jar, quick as you can. A barley sugar.”

The boy hurried to do what she said. Miss Slade offered it to the girl.

“Pop this in your mouth and suck on it slowly.”

She noticed that there were small dark bruises on the child’s wrist and a larger one, already yellowing, above her eyebrow, which her hair had hidden. It was not the first time she had seen such marks.

“Can you sit at your desk now, do you think?”

“Yes, ma’am,” whispered Agnes.

With her teacher’s help she got up slowly, then returned to her place.

“Did you have any breakfast, Agnes?”

“No, ma’am. We were late getting up.”

Miss Slade knew better than to ask why. Mrs. Fisher had died more than a year ago and the children were left to fend for themselves most days. Mr. Fisher, as Miss Slade had discovered, was a man of intemperate habits.

She regarded the worried faces in front of her.

“Children, I think it’s time for recess. Yes, I know it’s a little earlier than usual, Maud, but I think we all need some time in the open air. Florence and Mary, will you accompany Agnes? Walk a few times around the playground. Don’t forget, heads up, breathe through your nose.”

She placed her hand over the girl’s. “Are you feeling better now?”

“Yes, ma’am, thank you.” The girl’s habitual dull look had returned. She was one of Miss Slade’s least responsive pupils.

“Off you go, then.”

The children made a dash for the hooks on the wall where they’d hung their coats and hats. Florence and Mary had a little scuffle as to who would link arms with Agnes. Mary won, and with a precocious maternal expression, she lead Agnes out of the room. Benjamin trailed behind.

Miss Slade sighed. Although the Fisher children weren’t the only ones who came to school with bruises, they seemed to have them more often than any of the others.

She stood up and went over to her own desk, where she had left an iced cake the day before. Whenever possible she celebrated birthdays. It gave her an excuse to bring in cake for children who never had any at home. She took a clean handkerchief from the pile she kept ready, wrapped the cake, and went back to Agnes’s desk. She raised the lid, intending to tuck the cake into the back of the desk as a surprise, and stopped in mid-motion. Pushed into the far corner was a photograph. When she lifted it, she discovered more. Four in all.

The top one was a stereoscopic photograph, a staged studio portrait of a young man in formal attire, who was about to embrace a woman dressed as a maid. Both of the faces had been scratched out. The maid’s back was to the camera and she was nude except for apron strings and gartered stockings. The man was naked from the waist down and was in a state of extreme sexual arousal. The caption at the bottom read,
Mr. Newly-wed meets the new maid
.

Miss Slade was no prude, but neither was she a woman of the world and she felt herself turn hot with embarrassment. She could not imagine how such a photograph had ended up in the desk of one of her pupils.

She looked at the second card, which was a single, hand-tinted photograph of a beautifully gowned baby in its cradle. At first glance, the infant appeared to be sleeping peacefully, but the photograph was bordered in black, signifying death. Along the bottom, the caption read,
CALLED TO JESUS
in the year of Our Lord, 1895
. She turned the card over.

Somebody had printed words that made her gasp. Even she, a professed atheist, was not immune to such appalling blasphemy.

The third photograph was of a young man, naked except for an absurd silk turban with an elaborate brooch in the front. He was lying languorously on a Turkish couch. There was a black border around this card as well.

The last card was also a double image for the stereoscope. This caption read,
What Mr. Newly-wed really wants
.

“No!” she whispered and, in shock, she turned the card face down so she couldn’t see it.

CHAPTER
TWO

A
s usual, there was a roaring fire in Inspector Brackenreid’s office, and cigar smoke, both stale and new, clogged the air. Murdoch waited whilst the inspector alternately drew on his pungent cigar and gulped at a mug of tea that he had fortified with a dash of brandy, “against the cold.” Neither Murdoch nor Constable Crabtree had been invited to sit down and so they stood in front of the desk.

“Have you made any progress with the Smithers case?”

“No, sir. Constable Crabtree and I have taken statements from all of the servants and we also spoke to the staff at the funeral parlour, but they all swear they didn’t steal the brooch.”

“Where is it, then?”

“According to Mrs. Smithers’s personal maid, her mistress often misplaces things these days, more so since old Mrs. Smithers died. Apparently, they have a way of showing up in unexpected places at a later date.”

“What’s your opinion, Crabtree?”

“I’m inclined to believe they are all telling the truth, sir. The house servants are upset at being accused because they have been with the family for a long time.”

Brackenreid nodded. “The woman is probably losing some of her slates. By her own admission, the brooch isn’t valued at more than ten dollars. Hardly worth making a fuss about. She and her mother-in-law both attended my church, and in my opinion, they were both mad as hatters.” He drew on his cigar, remembered his manners, and added, “May she rest in peace.”

He blew out a thick smoke ring, which gradually expanded so that by the time it drifted across the desk to Murdoch, he couldn’t have put his finger through it however tempted he might be.

“Anyway, I don’t want either of you wasting any more time with it.”

“No, sir.”

Brackenreid emptied his tea mug in one long gulp.

“Crabtree, you can leave. Murdoch, stay on for a minute.”

Murdoch felt a twinge of uneasiness. Brackenreid usually went out of his way to avoid private interviews with his detective. On the rare occasion the inspector could find a transgression in Murdoch’s performance as an officer, he preferred to administer the scolding in front of others. He wondered what he was going to be chastised for that merited privacy.

As soon as the door closed behind the constable, Brackenreid went over to the fireplace. He took the poker and banged at a recalcitrant lump of coal until flames burst out of it. Murdoch waited, watching while Brackenreid turned to warm his plump buttocks.

“What I am going to show you, Murdoch, must be viewed in complete confidence. Do I have your word?”

Obscene and insolent questions jumped into Murdoch’s head, but he replied with sufficient politeness not to give offence.

“Is the matter related to our professional relationship, sir?”

“What?”

“I mean is it pertinent to you as my inspector?”

Brackenreid flushed. “Of course it is, what are you implying?”

He had an all too familiar expression of bewilderment on his face that tended to take the fun out of baiting him. Murdoch sighed.

“I’m implying nothing, sir. Just clarifying matters.”

“You’re going to step over the line one of these days, Murdoch.”

“And what line would that be, sir?”

But he knew he’d come a little too close this time. Brackenreid could fine him for insubordination with no chance of redress if he so desired.

“I beg your pardon, sir. I was distracting you from your purpose. You wanted to show me something. In complete confidence.”

Brackenreid scowled at him, but he went over to his desk, pulled open a drawer, and took out two folded sheets of paper. He handed them to Murdoch.

“Have a gander at these. Give me your opinion. I’m damned if I’ll have one of my officers maligned.”

Murdoch was astonished. The inspector so often acted like a half-drunken sot that he’d long ago lost any respect for him. However, on occasion, he glimpsed the kind of man Brackenreid had been before his habit conquered him. This was such an occasion.

“The top one came first.”

Murdoch removed the sheet of paper from the envelope. The message was typewritten, unsigned.

January 20 ’96 Inspector Brackenreid. I feel it is my duty as a citizen of this fair city to draw your attention to the reprehensible actions of one of your officers. I refer to Sergeant Seymour whose behaviour unbeknownst to you is both wicked and illicit. I suggest you ask him how he spends his leisure time.

Murdoch glanced up at the inspector, who nodded. “Read the next one.”

Monday, January 27 ’96. Inspector. I have previously warned you concerning the illegal activity of one of your officers. No action seems to have been taken. I will give you one more week. Unless the miscreant is punished I will alert the newspapers and will lay the case before the Chief Constable himself. This will bring shame on the station and the force itself.

“What do you make of them?” Brackenreid asked.

Murdoch hesitated. “What on earth are they referring to?”

“How do I know? Could be anything from buying beer on Sundays to stopping his beak at the whorehouse. Depends on what you consider to be wicked and illicit activities.”

“Have you spoken to the sergeant himself, sir?”

“No. Frankly, I dismissed the first letter as pure mischief-making, but the second one is more serious.”

“I think you should ask him directly, sir. Give him a chance to defend himself.”

“Against what, Murdoch? What he does when he’s off-duty isn’t my concern. I’m not a priest who wants to hear every sin he’s ever committed. Did you have naughty thoughts today, sergeant? Did you forget to say your rosemary.”

“The term is ‘rosary,’ sir.”

Murdoch knew he should have let it go. Brackenreid smirked and waved his hand dismissively.

“Whatever it is.”

“The writer does say ‘illegal’ in the second letter. That suggests he is accusing Seymour of more than just a sin, which as you are implying, sir, can be relatively unimportant in the wider view of things.”

“I’ve noted that, Murdoch. That is why I am discussing the matter with you. What is your impression of Seymour? I understand that of all the officers in this station, he is most friendly with you.”

Murdoch wondered who had told him that. “To my knowledge, the sergeant is an officer of the highest calibre. He is decent and hard-working.”

“Anybody he don’t get along with who might want to make mischief?”

“Not that I know of. He keeps to himself, but I believe he is well-respected by the men.”

“Damned peculiar business.” Brackenreid tapped on the desk. “Anything else you can say about the letters themselves?”

“They’re surprising. The fact that they’re typewritten, for one thing. And the language is superior even if the intent isn’t. ‘Miscreant’ isn’t exactly a common word. Did they come with the regular post?”

“Yes. The second one was in the post this morning. As you see, the envelope is also typewritten and is addressed to me.” He frowned. “The writer is out to make mischief, knows the sergeant by name, and has used it. The problem is that even if Seymour is pure as the driven snow, if the writer does send this to the papers, a lot of mud will be flung and some of it will stick.”

“Unless the accusations prove to be laughably trivial.”

“Somehow I doubt that, Murdoch. There’s a tone to the letters. I believe the writer means business. As you say, the words are ‘illegal’ and ‘illicit.’” Brackenreid walked over to the window and looked out. “Snow’s starting up again. I’ll be happy when we’re done with this weather.” He picked up a framed miniature from the mantelpiece. Murdoch knew the painting was of Brackenreid’s wife. According to the station gossip, Mrs. Brackenreid was consumed by unrelenting ambition to achieve a high social standing among the Toronto gentry and to that end she led her husband a merry dance. Brackenreid’s expression was perplexed, and Murdoch wondered if he were trying to understand what he had once found appealing about the woman he’d married. On the other hand, he could have just been trying to decide if it was a good likeness and worth the money.

“Besides, it is not likely he will admit it.”