A Journeyman to Grief (23 page)

“Is she of the same race?” Broske asked.

“No, she’s a white woman.”

“And the dead man was a negro,” continued the professor. “Perhaps there are those who objected to him employing a white woman as his housekeeper.”

Dr. Ogden looked shocked. “Surely not here, professor? The situation is unconventional to be sure, but I cannot imagine anybody in this city being so incensed they would shoot an old man and commit such an indignity to his body.”

Broske shrugged. “Alas, one cannot underestimate the depth of depravity human beings can sink to, and in my experience the more so when they are filled with righteousness.”

It was a sobering thought, and for a moment all of them paused. Then Murdoch said, “I was just about to examine the carpet more closely, doctor. There was so much blood spilled, the murderer would have had to walk through it, especially when he was tying Talbert up.”

“It is perhaps best if we stand aside then?”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Crabtree, Broske, and Dr. Ogden watched while Murdoch got to his knees and studied the blood stains. A partial print was clearly visible.

“This is from a man’s boot, blunt-toed, average size. Ah.” He bent closer. “There’s another print here. Just the toe, and it’s not that distinct, but it’s a rounder shape than the other.”

“So, there were two people here,” said Broske.

“I believe so.”

“Poor fellow didn’t stand much of a chance, did he?”

CHAPTER
THIRTY

“I
don’t know where to put you, sir.” The Pollards’ butler was a stooped, grey-haired man who looked as if he should have been pensioned off a long time ago. He was highly flustered.

“Where is Mrs. Stokely?” Murdoch asked.

“She is in the servants’ hall, but Cook has to prepare luncheon and there really is no room there for you to interview her.”

“That’s all right, the drawing room will suit me.” Murdoch was being rather cruel and he knew it. This old man was only obeying the rules he’d lived with all his life. Unfortunately, Murdoch found himself more and more irritated by those rules.

The butler dithered. He had a runny nose and a drop of mucus was hanging from his right nostril. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, sir. Mrs. Pollard is entertaining her discussion group this afternoon.”

“What time?”

“Two o’clock.”

“I’m sure I’ll be finished by then. And I would like to speak to your mistress as well.”

“She isn’t downstairs yet.” The droplet fell onto his lapel.

“Would you be so good as to call her? You do know what has happened?”

“Oh yes, sir. It was I who telephoned your station when poor Mrs. Stokely arrived on our doorstep. A terrible tragedy, indeed.”

“I wonder if I might ask you a question, Mr….?”

“Neely. My name is Neely. I will try to answer.”

The butler was looking so alarmed that Murdoch almost didn’t proceed, but he knew any information could be useful.

“You have worked for Dr. Pollard for some time, I gather?”

“Yes, sir. For thirty years. He had just started his practice.”

“And Mr. Talbert has been your neighbour for all that time, I understand?”

“That’s right. And he hasn’t been a moment’s trouble. His house is as neat and clean as a pin. He paints it regularly, keeps his garden immaculate, removes the leaves when they fall.”

“Have you ever noticed him receive visitors who you might regard as sort of, well, sort of shady?”

Neely took a spotless handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his recalcitrant nose. “Never. He lives, that is, oh dear how dreadful to speak of him in the past tense, but I suppose I must. He
lived
a very quiet life. It was on rare occasions that I even saw him.”

“How long has Mrs. Stokely been his housekeeper?”

“At least six years. She took up the position shortly after she was out of mourning.” He glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “My wife, Mrs. Neely, who is the housekeeper here, was quite inclined to make a friend of Mrs. Stokely, but the mistress put a stop to it.”

“Really? Why was that?”

Neely shifted uncomfortably. “Mrs. Pollard is most diligent
about maintaining the dignity of the doctor’s household as is appropriate to his position. She was not in favour of her cook, my wife that is, bringing a woman into the house who was, er, who was cohabiting with a coloured man.”

That explained Mrs. Stokely’s comment about not going bare-headed into the Pollard house, thought Murdoch.

“It’s my understanding Mrs. Stokely was employed by Mr. Talbert in the position of housekeeper,” said Murdoch.

“So she was, but you know how it is…no other live-in servants.” His voice trailed off. “Do you have any idea who killed him, sir? We had gypsies through about a month ago. Dreadful vagabonds, they were. Perhaps they returned. They might have determined Mr. Talbert was a man on his own.”

“I shall keep that in mind, Mr. Neely, but, no, I don’t know yet who his assailant was. And I should therefore speak to Mrs. Stokely without more delay.”

Neely moved back. “I’ll have to get permission from Mrs. Pollard first, sir. She is most particular, as I said.” He paused. “My goodness, I almost forgot. We have two maids here, Molly and Betty. They are young girls from the country, good, sensible girls but when Mrs. Stokely came and told her story, Molly almost went into hysterics. She said that, last night, as she was drawing the curtains in Mrs. Pollard’s retiring room, which is on the second floor, she happened to look out of the window and saw two people knocking on Mr. Talbert’s door. When she realized she was probably looking at the murderers, she almost fainted. Cook had to fetch her smelling salts. She’s still not quite right and has refused to move from her chair all morning, even though Mrs. Neely is sorely busy.”

“I must speak to her as well then. Now be so good as to tell your mistress that I have temporarily commandeered the drawing room. But fetch Mrs. Stokely first, will you?”

“Oh dear, yes sir. Come this way, if you please.”

Murdoch followed him down the wide hall. Carpeted stairs swept in a graceful curve up to the second floor where the walls were covered with ornately framed paintings. Murdoch wondered how the Pollards’ taste in art compared with Thomas Talbert’s. Landscapes, rather similar from what he could see, except that the doctor’s pictures were larger.

Neely opened the door to the drawing room.

“Mrs. Pollard hasn’t requested a fire to be lit as yet. I hope you will be warm enough. May I bring you some tea, sir?”

“Better not, thank you. Mrs. Pollard might not take too kindly to me occupying the drawing room and taking tea.”

He’d hoped to get a smile from the old man, but Neely just looked even more apprehensive. He backed out.

Murdoch made his way to a Turkish couch adjacent to the fireplace, an impressive piece in white marble. A large brass fan was in front of the hearth, and the mantel was laden with figurines and gilt-framed photographs. Murdoch had been in several drawing rooms since he had become a detective, and he had come to the conclusion that a fixed principle of society was that the more money you had to spend on objects, the more you were impelled to display them. The Pollards’ drawing room was crammed with furniture, more drapery than you would find in Mr. T. Eaton’s department store, and enough paintings on the walls to start a gallery.

There was a timid tap on the door and Mrs. Stokely came in. “Mr. Neely said you were here and wanted to speak to me, Mr. Murdoch.”

Murdoch got to his feet. “Please sit down, ma’am. How are you feeling?”

He didn’t need to ask. Her round face was blotchy with crying
and in spite of her stout figure, she seemed frail. She sat down and wiped at her eyes.

“Not too well, sir. It has been the most dreadful shock.”

“I know it has, Mrs. Stokely, and I do thank you for your help in the circumstances. I need to ask you a few questions, but I won’t keep you long.”

In spite of her upset, he noticed that her gaze had been wandering around the room. This was probably the first time she had been in the Pollards’ drawing room. He waited until her attention returned to him.

“You told me earlier that Mr. Talbert had no visitors last night, nor seemed to be expecting any.”

“That’s right.”

“How did he seem to you when you left? Was he his usual self? Was he preoccupied at all? Did he appear to be afraid of anything?”

She shook her head vigorously. “Not at all afraid. Thom was not a timid man. He wasn’t preoccupied either. Of course, he was upset about what had happened to Mr. Cooke. They didn’t get along too well, but he had known him for a long time.”

Murdoch had taken out his notebook and was making discrete notes. He looked up at her. “Why do you say Mr. Talbert and Mr. Cooke didn’t get along?”

She dabbed at her eyes again. “He didn’t speak about it really, but they had a falling out some years ago now. Thom, Mr. Talbert, that is, used to own those stables, you see, but he fell on hard times. There were two fires that destroyed all his carriages and killed most of his horses. Mr. Cooke offered to buy the stables. I don’t think it was a very good offer, but Mr. Talbert was forced to accept or starve. He didn’t want to because he was very proud of what he’d built up over the years. He was always talking
about those old times and the position he’d made for himself in society.” She sighed. “I’m only telling you what Thom said to me, you understand, but he once let it slip that he wondered if Mr. Cooke had set the fires himself. I was shocked to hear that, of course, and asked him why he thought so. ‘Because my run of bad luck was all too convenient for him,’ was his answer. Apparently, Mr. Cooke did offer him a job at the stable afterwards, but Thom absolutely refused. He only went back recently to help out young Elijah.”

“Are you saying, Mrs. Stokely, that the animosity was all on Mr. Talbert’s part?”

“I suppose I am, aren’t I? Thom was a very kind man and most generous, but he could hold a grudge like a limpet. You hadn’t better get on his bad side.”

“Were you yourself acquainted with Mr. and Mrs. Cooke at all?”

Mrs. Stokely paused and glanced away from Murdoch. “No, we didn’t mix much in society…but I have heard that his marriage was not a happy one. Mrs. Cooke is not what I’d call a warm-hearted woman.”

“I’ve been hearing stories that Mr. Cooke was a gambler. Did you know that?”

She shifted in her chair. “Well, it did come out one day. In the last little while, he’d been late paying Elijah’s wages. When he heard about it, Thom said Mr. Cooke was wasting money on cards and betting rings.”

At that moment, the door was flung open and a large, pear-shaped woman burst in. Her hair had obviously been hastily pinned and she was still in her housegown, but her anger was palpable. Murdoch stood up politely.

“I must ask you, sir, how you have the temerity to enter my house and make use of my own drawing room? The affair
is sordid enough without it coming right to my very hearth.”

Mrs. Stokely shrank back. There was sufficient ambiguity in the other woman’s remarks to pierce her soul. Murdoch stepped closer to the irate Mrs. Pollard.

“Madam, I am conducting an inquiry into the death of your closest neighbour. It was at my request that his housekeeper, Mrs. Stokely, came to your house so that I could summon help. She has had an appalling shock, as you can see. There was nowhere else where I could have the privacy I needed to speak to her. I apologize for not getting your specific permission, but I assumed that like most ladies in your position you would be gracious enough to accommodate us.”

The bite in his tone was apparent to Mrs. Pollard and she flushed.

“You assumed incorrectly, sir. I will not have my drawing room turned into a common police hall. I understand you wish to interview my entire household, including myself.”

“That is correct, madam. I am told that your maid may have seen visitors at Mr. Talbert’s house last night. Her description will be helpful to me.”

“Nonsense. She is an empty-headed country girl who would say she sees elves and fairies if you were to ask her.”

“The people who visited Mr. Talbert last night were neither elves nor fairies, Mrs. Pollard. They were likely murderers capable of shooting an old man…” He had been about to tell her about Talbert being tied up after death so that he could shock her into some humanity, but unfortunately the person who would most suffer from that information would be Mrs. Stokely. He held his tongue.

However, Mrs. Pollard either read something in his face or his words got through to her. Whatever it was, her puffery subsided like a collapsed balloon and her tone became more conciliatory.

“I see. Well, you must do your duty, obviously. I would appreciate it if you would move to the dining room for your interviews, however. I am entertaining my ladies discussion group here this afternoon.”

“I would be glad to move to the dining room, Mrs. Pollard. It will be more convenient. But I must tell you that there will be no discussion group, ladies or otherwise, here this afternoon. Until my search of the Talbert house is complete, I will be using your dining room as a base of operations. You and your staff are confined to the house until further notice. I also will require to look at the boots and shoes of every occupant.”

This puffed her up again.

“Surely not Dr. Pollard’s?”

“Yes, ma’am. Including Dr. Pollard’s. I am sending for one of my constables, who will be here on duty as long as I find it necessary.”

The thought of what Inspector Brackenreid’s reaction might have been if he was at the station ran fleetingly through Murdoch’s mind. The inspector would have been apoplectic about Murdoch’s behaviour. Commandeering the house of one of the city’s doctors was unheard of.

Murdoch indicated the door. “Now, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Pollard, I haven’t quite finished my interview.”

CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE

A
lthough he would have liked to find a justification for leaving Constable Dewhurst on duty at the Pollard house, Murdoch knew he was stepping on the edge of the law if he were to do that, so after about two hours, he returned to Talbert’s house and sent the constable to start questioning the nearby residents. He assigned Burley the task of informing Elijah Green about what had happened.