Night's Child (32 page)

Suddenly he was aware of Seymour beside him. He had a blanket, which he threw over Gregory to smother the flames. By now the gag had burned off and the man was screaming, not the full-bodied cry of his wife but a thin, shrill wail, just as persistent.

Behind them, where the windows had been, there was a sudden, explosive hiss of water as the hoses were directed at the wall from the fire truck below. Dense, choking smoke billowed toward them.

“Get his legs,” said Murdoch and he lifted Gregory underneath his arms. Gasping, almost blind, they managed to carry him into the studio, where there was less smoke, and lie him on the floor. His exposed skin had turned black and blistered, and in places the burns were more severe and oozed blood. Coughing and spluttering, both Seymour and Murdoch fell on their knees, struggling for air. Then the door was shattered and what seemed like an army of firemen burst in.

“Get out of here,” one of them yelled, and Seymour and Murdoch scooped up the injured man again and staggered to the stairs. Halfway down they met with more firemen and one of them unceremoniously took Gregory from them, tossed him over his shoulders, and ran down the stairs. His lungs burning, Murdoch followed, Seymour behind him.

Outside, a crowd of people were being held back by two constables who had answered the alarm. Amy Slade was among them and she ducked under the restraining arm of the officer and ran toward them.

“Where’s John?”

Murdoch found himself suddenly sitting on the curb. His hand, legs, and feet were excruciatingly painful and he saw in surprise that the bottom of his trousers were in blackened shreds and that his boots were smoking.

“He shot himself.”

Seymour was in better condition than Murdoch. “We’ve got to get Will to hospital.”

Amy turned and called to a man who had pulled up in his carriage and in spite of the nervousness of his horse was leaning out of the carriage window, intent on watching the proceedings.

“You, sir. These men are police officers. They must be taken to hospital immediately.”

The man obeyed without the slightest hesitation. He recognized an Amazon when he met one. He jumped out and opened his carriage door.

Amy and Seymour helped Murdoch to stand and all three climbed into the plush interior of the carriage. The last thing Murdoch saw as they drove away were the billowing clouds of smoke and fire as the Emporium was consumed by flames.

EPILOGUE

Murdoch wanted to take one last look around the house to make sure it was sparklingly clean for the new arrivals. Not that he needed to. Mrs. Kitchen had spent two entire days before she and Arthur left for Muskoka, polishing and washing everything, floor to ceiling. Murdoch limped into the parlour. His right foot had blistered badly, and he still found it painful to draw in a deep breath, but he was on the mend. He’d been given two paid weeks leave of absence, which was astonishingly generous coming from Brackenreid. However, he was in the inspector’s good books. The case had received a lot of attention in the newspapers and Brackenreid felt his police officers had come off in a favourable light. He had even intimated that Murdoch would be promoted to full detective as soon as the opportunity arose.

Bartholomew Gregory had not survived his injuries, and his widow told the police everything they needed to know about her husband’s sideline. Clara Hill had been at her boarding house when the fire happened, but she too testified to her role in the taking of pornographic photographs. As far as Murdoch could tell, she was unrepentant. It was a job like any other. Both she and Mrs. Gregory swore they knew nothing about the misuse of children, but Murdoch didn’t believe either of them. He was sorry when Clara got a reduced sentence by providing a list of Gregory’s customers. As far as Murdoch was concerned it was a depressingly long list.

It turned out that Agnes Fisher was safely hidden away at the home of a coloured woman, Honoria Davis, who cleaned the studios and sometimes modelled for the more benign photographs. The day after the fire, when Honoria discovered what had happened, she had brought Agnes to the police station where she told Brackenreid what she knew, including details concerning the murder of Leonard Sims. Later, Murdoch discovered that the inspector had been openly skeptical of Agnes’s story and profession of innocence but Honoria supported what she had said. Honoria wasn’t charged but Agnes was placed at once in the Girls Home on Gerrard Street.

Murdoch brought Brackenreid the photographs that Amy Slade had found because they would be needed in the inevitable investigation. In the meantime, however, he slipped the Dowdell photograph into a folder. When Agnes went before the police magistrate, she could plead coercion with regard to the obscene picture but she would be in serious trouble if the magistrate saw what she had written on the back of the mourning card. Murdoch didn’t think it necessary for anybody else to know about it. Amy Slade had engaged the services of the hirsute Mr. Wilkinson, and Murdoch felt confident that Agnes wouldn’t be sent to the Mercer Reformatory.

Aggie had revealed the address of her older sister and Murdoch wasn’t surprised to hear it was the Crofton residence, Martha Fisher metamorphosed into Ruby Adams. When he limped over with Seymour to inform them of the situation, Georgina and her mother had declared unswerving loyalty to their maid and had promised they would act charitably toward the younger sister and brother. Murdoch had noticed the ambivalence on Ruby’s face, and he felt sorry for her. She had obviously hoped to make a clean break from the squalor of her family life. He thought there was still something covert about Miss Crofton, but he didn’t know what it was and frankly didn’t care. She seemed to him to be a generous-hearted woman, eccentric yes, but basically decent. Ruby’s adoration of her counted for a lot as far as he was concerned.

Ben was left with his father, but Seymour and Murdoch had paid a visit to Mr. Fisher and scared the life out of him. They made it clear they would not tolerate any misuse of the boy and if Ben so much as had a scratch when he showed up at school, Fisher would be held accountable.

Murdoch glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was a handsome piece of ormolu and brass, a parting gift from Enid. She’d managed a smile when she gave it to him. “Perhaps when you check the time, you will think of me.” He’d taken her in his arms at that, but she had not returned his embrace. She had already left him. For a week, Murdoch had moped around the empty house, relieved only by daily visits from Charlie Seymour. It was he who had come up with the request. With Reordan dead, his aunt who owned the River Street house had decided she would sell at once. Seymour, Wilkinson, and Amy would soon be homeless. Wilkinson moved back into his parent’s home, and Seymour asked Murdoch if he could rent a room in the Kitchens’ house. Murdoch was more than happy to do so.

“What about Amy?” he asked.

“Well, I was wondering if she could move in as well. She’s reluctant to approach you herself, she doesn’t want to impose, so I’m asking for her.”

Murdoch was flustered. His previous experience of attractive boarders had been with Enid, who had lived here for a while. She had moved out, claiming that proximity should not be mistaken for love. In that case she was probably right, and Murdoch didn’t want to repeat the mistake with Miss Slade, around whom his feelings swirled and surged like an adolescent boy’s.

However, it seemed churlish and embarrassing to refuse her lodgings and he’d agreed. Yesterday, both she and Seymour had brought over their belongings. Charlie was taking Enid’s old room and Amy was in the front parlour.

Over the evening meal, which Murdoch had cooked to perfection, if he said so himself, Amy had made her own request. “My situation is shaky enough,” she said. “I don’t want my schoolboard to know I’m living with two bachelors,” She had a proposal and this Murdoch had accepted willingly. This afternoon, he was getting his third lodger.

There was knocking at the door and he limped off to answer it. Amy Slade was standing outside. She had an infant in her arms, bundled up against the cold. The baby’s mother was holding the twin.

“Will you hold Jacob for a minute?” Amy asked. “I have to pay the cabbie.”

She thrust the baby into his arms. Alarmed by the sudden transition, Jacob let out a wail of distress. His brother immediately answered in kind.

“Mrs. Tibbett, do come in, and welcome,” said Murdoch. He had to raise his voice above the din. Shyly, Kate came into the house. She looked pale and ill-nourished although the babies seemed bonny.

“Your room is down here. I hope it will be suitable for you,” said Murdoch. Kate looked as if she was about to burst into tears but she followed him down the hall to the room that the Kitchens had occupied. Little Jacob’s cries were unabated and Murdoch held him close against his chest, jiggling him slightly. Abruptly the baby stopped crying, reduced to some snuffles. His tear-filled eyes looked up at Murdoch, who smiled down at him.

“There you are. I’m not so bad, am I?”

Jacob reached up with his plump hand and grabbed Murdoch’s moustache, causing him to yelp in pain.

“What have I got myself into,” he wondered.

AUTHOR’S NOTE AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

One of the unfailing pleasures of research for me is discovering pieces of history I didn’t know about before. The Noble and Holy Order of Knights is one such example. A North American labour organization that numbered almost a million members at its peak, it had started to fade by the turn of the century but was still a force to be reckoned with. The aims and principles I have related in the book are those of the Knights. The workers strike in Ottawa did happen but not the injury that I have ascribed to one of my characters.

In 1895, the magnificent typewriting machine was becoming common, and a popular form of entertainment was the typewriting competitions. Miss Orr was indeed the champion of typewriters.

Unfortunately, what exists now existed then in terms of pornographic photographs and the misuse of children.

I never cease to be amazed and grateful that so many people are willing to share their time and expertise with me. Thank you especially to Gregory S. Kealey, who, together with Bryan D. Palmer, is the author of
Dreaming of What Might Be
, the story of the Knights of Labour in Ontario, and who took time to answer my questions. Maurice Farge was once again available for the finer points of Catholicism, and our wonderful neighbour, Tim O’Dacre, a firefighter, gave generously of his time to explain to me how fires behave. Jean Rajotte made a delicious pig’s feet stew for me, and Gail Hammer tested some of my ideas about photography.

Thank you to my editor, Dinah Forbes, for her perceptive comments and to my agent, Jane Chelius, for her unfailingly cheerful support.

Treat yourself to other
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Shortlisted for both the Anthony and the Arthur Ellis awards for best first novel

In the cold winter of 1895, the naked body of a young servant girl is found frozen in a deserted Toronto laneway, and Detective William Murdoch soon discovers that many of those connected to the simple country girl’s life have secrets to hide. The biggest surprise, however, is that the innocent victim was pregnant. Was her death an attempt to cover up a scandal in one of the city’s influential families?

Murdoch’s investigation takes him from brothel to drawing room as he attempts to unravel the clues to her death.

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“A finely flavored plot, credible characters, and detailed atmosphere make this a winner.”