Poor Tom Is Cold (26 page)

“I think about the taste of the dollars they’re going to leave,” said Nellie. “I must look happy.”

Emily came in. “Hurry up, girls. Time to get dressed. Nellie, don’t you have anything cleaner to wear?”

“My other dress isn’t dry.”

“Well, you’ve got a stain all over your bodice; it’s disgusting. Wear a shawl.”

She clapped her hands as if she were shooing away geese. “Come on. We’re late tonight.”

One by one the girls started to leave. Emily went over to the dresser, pulled open a drawer, and took out a corset.

“You’d better get ready,” she said to Clara. “There’s a man here. Wants to talk to you.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Smith.”

“Which Mr. Smith?”

“One of the older ones.”

“Damn. Did he say anything else?”

“No. Come on, stand up.”

Clara got to her feet and Emily helped her off with her dressing robe. She held the corset so that Clara could step into it and started to tighten the laces.

“Not so tight, Emmie, I can’t breathe.”

“It’s no tighter than usual; you’ve been eating too many candies.”

“You’re the one who bought them.”

Emily planted a kiss on Clara’s shoulder and grinned. “True, I like to see you enjoy them so much. It’s like watching my little piggy at her trough.”

“Emmie!”

“Don’t get frosty. You know how much I love that pig.”

She gave Clara’s plump buttock an affectionate squeeze. “There you go. All done. What dress do you want to wear?”

“The pearl grey.”

Emily came around and looked Clara in the face. “Be careful what you say, dearest. This man smells like trouble to me.”

“I know. But we’ve managed this long, I’m not going to let any gull sink me.”

The man calling himself Henry Smith was sitting in the front room. Clara had furnished it according to her idea of a well-to-do family parlour, and it was so crammed with furniture there was barely room to enter. There were two Turkish couches upholstered in purple velour
with gold fringes, four Morris chairs, and taking pride of place a so-called courting couch. It was S-shaped and a man sat on one side and a woman the other. The notion was they could converse quite intimately without physical contact. Rose particularly liked this couch as she could whisper lewd things in her customer’s ear and have him squirming in no time. There was a piano in one corner on which Emily stoically played popular songs like “A Beautiful Dreamer” and “Home Sweet Home,” which were always in demand. The piano invariably needed tuning and she added fancy chords that changed the melody, but nobody would dare voice an objection. There were two sideboards on either side of the door, heavy and ornate with burled walnut mouldings. This was where Clara kept the more lascivious tools of her trade. Plush vellum albums of special photographs, books to make a man as randy as a goat. A stereoscope sat on one of the side tables. Just in the unlikely event that a neighbour came to call, the photos on display were innocent: a view of the Nile, a girl on a giant lily pad, children sitting on a wall. In the sideboard were the other pictures. The three-dimensional nature of the stereoscope made these pictures particularly startling. They were twenty-five cents a viewing.

Smith had been a customer of Mrs. Doherty’s for seven years, following her whenever she moved to a new location for safety. Sometimes he visited once or twice a week, sometimes he would stay away for a
month or more. There was something in his disdain that made the women uncomfortable. He wouldn’t take liquor, ignored the books and photographs, and was never tempted by the latest special novel. They were glad when Mary Ann took him over.

Nellie was sitting on one of the Morris chairs. She had a bad cold and was hawking copiously into her handkerchief. Clara came out of her room. The man immediately took a gold watch from his waistcoat pocket and consulted it.

“Good evening, Mr. Smith. Sorry to keep you waiting. Nasty weather, isn’t it? Can I get you a hot gin in the meantime, warm you up?”

“No, thank you. I’d like to speak to you in private.”

“Of course. We can talk in my sitting room.”

He followed her to the door, where she paused and looked over her shoulder. “Nellie! If you have to blow out that much snot, can you do it more quietly? The customers are going to vomit.”

The girl coughed. “I can’t help it. I’ve got a bad cold.”

“Go back to bed then or you’ll give it to everybody. It looks like it’s going to be quiet tonight anyway.”

Gratefully, Nellie got up, pulling down her skirt, which had been hitched to her scrawny thighs. She wasn’t wearing any drawers.

The man’s face contorted with contempt. “I must admit, the mere sight of female private parts has never aroused me.”

“Each to his own,” said Clara with a shrug.

She showed him into her sitting room. It, too, was crammed with furniture, and every surface was covered with crotchet work, each piece lovingly made by Emily. She’d left the lamps lit and the fire was cheery.

Clara took one of the armchairs close to the hearth and indicated he should take the other.

“Were things satisfactory with Mary Ann?” she asked.

“They were indeed. She was most credible. And adroit. There was a witness we didn’t expect. A Chinaman. He’d seen the constable with a young woman. Fortunately, he couldn’t tell the difference between one devil woman and another and swore it was Mary Ann. It made our case even more convincing.”

“So I understand. The joke is that Mary Ann knew him. He has been one of our customers.”

“Is that so?”

“She is sure he recognised her and decided to help her out.”

“I doubt it. He was probably just confused. Nevertheless, this leads precisely to what I wanted to talk about. Mary Ann must go somewhere else. I would like you to send her away. You have places she can go, I know you do. Wait …”

He held up his hand to stem the protest Clara was about to make.

“I will pay for any inconvenience to you and her.”

“She is one of my most popular wenches.”

“I realise that, Mrs. Doherty, and in a way I am asking this as a favour. It would be better if she were not available should anyone come looking.”

He had not told Clara the reason he’d wanted Mary Ann to appear at the inquest and perjure herself, and she had not asked. She’d long operated on the premise that what a person didn’t know couldn’t hurt them. Any suspicions she pushed far away from her consciousness. Life was easier that way.

“Well …” She pretended to think about his offer but she’d already accepted. It was true Mary Ann was popular but she created trouble with the other girls. She’d also had the temerity to laugh when Clara had approached her full of tenderness when she’d first arrived. It was time she visited Montreal.

“As I say, this is going to cost me a lot of money.”

“Name a figure.”

“I won’t be able to get another girl for at least a week, that’s thirty dollars lost income right there. Then there’s the train fare to Montreal …”

“I said name a figure. I have no interest in the particulars.”

Clara had been about to inflate the expenses but she thought better of it. This man was too fly.

“Forty dollars.”

He took out a wallet and counted out the money. “I’d like to see her gone tonight.”

“Tonight!”

He added another five-dollar bill. “This will cover your losses. I’ll wait and accompany her to the train station myself.”

“I don’t even know if there is a train tonight.”

“There is. She can stay in a hotel until you have a chance to notify her new … employer.”

He stood up. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Doherty. I’ll wait in here while she gets ready.”

Clara took up the bills and put them in a porcelain box on the mantel. “It will take at least an hour for her to pack her belongings and to say good-bye.”

“Make it half an hour and she and you get another two dollars.”

“Very well.”

Clara left. She closed the door behind her and rested against it for a moment. Then she spat into the cuspidor that was provided in the hall. Sometimes not even money could sweeten the shit she had to eat.

T
HE YOUNG MAID ANSWERED
Murdoch’s second knock. She was wiping her hands on her apron and gaped at him in a flustered way. Her eyes and nose were reddened. He wondered if she had been crying and if this was what happened to her every day. He smiled and touched his hat politely.

“Hello, Janet. I’d like to speak to Mrs. Curran.”

“She said she’s not at home, sir.”

“Did she? I’m afraid I have to insist. It’s police business. Would you mind telling her that I’m here? I’ll make it right for you.”

“Yes, sir.”

She scuttled away, leaving him on the threshold, afraid to be so definite as to invite him in. He gave his feet a good wipe on the mat for her sake and stepped into the hall. The far door opened and Augusta emerged, Janet hovering anxiously behind her.

“Mr. Murdoch, we were about to go in to dinner.”

Murdoch tried to appear suitably apologetic. The house was quiet, but the way she spoke, you’d think the mayor and council were lined up two by two.

“I insisted on seeing you, Mrs. Curran. Your maid did her job very well.” Janet looked so alarmed at his words that he was afraid he’d made things worse for her.

“I’ll get back, ma’am,” she said.

Augusta fanned her hand dismissively and the girl hurried off.

“What is it you wish, Mr. Murdoch?”

Tonight, she was wearing a black silk dress with grey satin trimming down the bodice and skirt. From what they’d told him before, he assumed this mourning attire was for her mother. Devotion or defiance?

“There have been further developments in the Wicken case. I wondered if I could talk to Mrs. Nathaniel Eakin?”

“Oh no. She is still … she is no better.”

“Is she able to receive visitors?”

“I believe not. We haven’t seen her ourselves yet.”

At that moment, a man came into the hall. He was of medium height, stocky, with a thick grey beard that jutted from either side of his chin. He was wearing a burgundy velvet smoking jacket that even from a distance appeared spotted and stained along the lapels. Although there was no physical resemblance whatsoever to Murdoch’s own father, he was immediately
reminded of him. It was the air that some men acquire when they have undisputed command over their domain.

“Augusta, bring the detective into my study. What are you thinking of?”

He held out his hand to Murdoch. “I’m Nathaniel Eakin. We haven’t met before.”

“No, you were indisposed when I came last.”

“That’s what they told you, was it?”

“Father, you were …”

He interrupted her. “I think you keep me from too many things that go on in this house. I’m as well as the next man.”

He didn’t seem that way to Murdoch. His face had an unhealthy, shiny flush to it, and his eyes were carrying enough baggage underneath to fit a traveller.

“Come this way, Mr. Murdoch.”

The study wasn’t large but the walls were panelled in the English style from floor to ceiling. There were glass-fronted bookcases on two sides and in one corner was a closed rolltop desk. All the wood was a dark hue; the chairs were brown leather. However, instead of conveying the snug respectability of a gentleman’s library, the room was gloomy and oppressive. It reeked of cigar smoke.

Eakin followed him in with Augusta close behind.

“Have a seat, Mr. Murdoch,” she said.

Murdoch took one of the big armchairs, Eakin the other. Augusta came behind her father and stood with
her hand on the back of his chair. Murdoch couldn’t quite tell if she was using that as a shield or if she wanted to ensure her father was within reach. Eakin picked up a cigar that was on the table next to him. The ash was long on the end and he scraped it off against the dish. He obviously wasn’t concerned about tobacco smoke damaging his books, but Murdoch had the impression they were for show anyway. He waited until the cigar was relit and drawn, the end disappearing into the thicket of Eakin’s beard. Murdoch almost coughed. He liked a pipe himself on occasion, but this smoke was vile.

“You were asking after my wife?”

“Yes, I was wondering if I’d be able to talk to her.”

“She’s in the loony bin.”

“I know. Does she have any rationality at all?”

Eakin studied the tip of his cigar. “Depends what you mean. She can form sentences, say words in English. But she’s gone mad. Why the hell would you want to talk to her?”

“There are one or two things we want to clear up. We have a new witness who says that on Monday night he heard the sound of a woman crying. He thought it was coming from your house and it was roughly in the same time frame that Constable Wicken died. At the very least, it indicates somebody was awake at that hour and may have seen or heard something.”

Nathaniel frowned. “You think it was my wife?”

“Possibly. The witness described the sound as cries for help. When I was here on Tuesday, I saw Mrs. Eakin. She cried out to me for help.”

“She did not!” burst out Mrs. Curran.

“She didn’t shout out loud, ma’am, but she did speak and what she said was, ‘Help me.’”

Nathaniel put down his cigar, took out a large red handkerchief, trumpeted into it, then stuffed it back into his trouser pocket.

“Well, it’s true, she moaned often enough.”

“You can understand why I’d like to pursue this matter,” said Murdoch.

“No, frankly I don’t.”

“Two reasons. Perhaps Mrs. Eakin saw the constable going by. She could corroborate whether or not he was alone. Secondly, if he did hear these cries, he may have come to investigate …”

He left the rest of the sentence, not wanting to fill in too much, waiting to see what would be their reaction.

Eakin looked up at his daughter. “Well?”

“Nobody came here.”

“Is it possible you wouldn’t have heard, ma’am? Your chambers are on the third floor. You didn’t hear your stepmother calling out and it does seem that she was.”

She thought for a moment and he had the feeling she was searching for the safest answer.