A Journeyman to Grief (27 page)

He sat up in bed and leaned over to light his candle. Maybe a pipe would calm him down. He took out his tobacco pouch from his drawer, tamped his best Badger into the bowl of his Powhattan, lit up, and took in a deep, satisfying draw.

After his request to Mrs. Dittman to search her room, he’d felt he had to follow through although he suspected it would be a waste of time. And it had been. He’d looked in the wardrobe for Talbert’s missing coat, but it wasn’t there. He’d asked both her and Faith to empty out their suitcases; nothing there either. Nothing unusual except a bottle of laudanum in Mrs. Dittman’s valise and a bottle of liquor, unlabelled, in Faith’s. If they were implicated in the murder of Talbert, they could have disposed of the revolver anywhere. He finally left them, both still and silent, Mrs. Dittman looking haggard. What was the secret they were afraid he’d discover? Were they lovers? Things like that happened and he had witnessed that peculiarly intimate gesture in the garden. Was Mrs. Dittman afraid of the scandal if it came out that she, a white woman, had a liaison with her coloured maid? That was possible, he supposed, although he sensed there was something about their relationship that could not be explained that way. Faith reminded him of a dog whose entire life was focused on its mistress. A fierce dog, he thought, one that wouldn’t hesitate to bite. And Mrs. Dittman? She gave orders the way one would to a servant but…but what? Was she too solicitous? Too careful not to be autocratic, or was that just an American trait? He wondered again why she had been so shocked when he told her what had happened to Talbert. No doubt most women would be appalled, but she had reacted to the post-mortem violation, not to the murder itself. Faith had not been shocked.

He was feeling sleepy at last, and he was just about to extinguish his pipe when he heard a light tapping at the front door, the
knock of somebody trying to gain access without waking the entire household. There it was again. He got out of bed, pulled on his trousers, picked up his candleholder, and hurried downstairs. No other lights were lit, so the knocking evidently hadn’t yet disturbed anybody else.

Paul Musgrave was standing on the steps, and Murdoch could see a carriage at the curb behind him.

“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Murdoch. I saw your light so I knew you was still up.”

“What is it?”

“I thought you might like to take a little ride with me, sir.”

“At this time of night?”

“Yes, sir. It has to be at this time of night because this is the only time it happens.”

Musgrave was clearly enjoying being mysterious, and Murdoch felt like shaking him. He heard the wail of one of the twins from the back room. He stepped across the threshold and held the door closed behind him.

“You’d better have a good explanation, Musgrave. We have two babes living here and it sounds as if you’ve woken one of them up. What do you want to say, man?”

“Just this, sir. You know Mrs. Cooke complained that somebody was taking out the carriages and horses without permission or payment. Well, it’s true and if you come with me, I’ll show you who it is and where they go.”

“Tell me now.”

Musgrave touched the peak of his cap with his forefinger. “Allow me my bit of fun, Mr. Murdoch. I’d rather you see for yourself. I promise you it will be worth your while.”

“Damn it, Musgrave. If you’re leading me by the nose, I warn you I have sharp teeth.”

“I don’t doubt it, sir.”

Murdoch stared at him. The man was full of his own importance and clearly was not going to yield up any information until the last minute.

“I’ll get my clothes on.”

“I’ll be at the carriage, sir.”

Both twins were howling and the light was showing underneath Katie’s door. He hesitated for a moment but decided not to disturb things even more. He dressed quickly and went outside.

Musgrave gave him another irritatingly conspiratorial wink. “We have a companion.” He opened the carriage door and Murdoch got in. The blinds were down on the windows, but an oil sconce was burning on a low wick and he could make out a woman’s figure in the corner. It was Mrs. Cooke. She had abandoned her widow’s bonnet and veil and was wearing a plain felt hat.

She flicked her hand at the cabbie. “Get going, Mr. Musgrave. We don’t want to get too far behind. Good evening, Mr. Murdoch.”

“Good evening, ma’am.”

Musgrave called to his horse and the carriage started to move at a good clip.

“Where are we going?” Murdoch asked. He lifted the blind sufficiently to determine they were heading west along Queen Street.

“I don’t know. I have put myself entirely in Mr. Musgrave’s hands. He is the one who is determined to get to the bottom of this pernicious thieving. I’m thankful that somebody cares.” Her tone was aggrieved, as if Murdoch had been negligent in not pursuing the matter with the ardour it deserved. Their eyes met, and for a moment he saw something soften in her expression. “I am
aware, Mr. Murdoch, that you consider me an unfeeling woman who has not shed a tear for her husband. I will not stoop to divulging my private affairs to you, but suffice it to say that my marriage had been unhappy for some time, and we were husband and wife in name only. My affections for Daniel were destroyed many years ago.”

She leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes, giving Murdoch no chance to pursue the topic.

“Paul warned me the journey might be a long one,” she said. “So, I will take the opportunity to rest a little. This has been a most wearing time.”

Murdoch had felt a twinge of sympathy for her when she had spoken so honestly, but the moment had passed and all he could see on her face were the marks of entrenched discontent. He took the opportunity to check out her boots. They were of good leather, old-fashioned and round-toed. She hadn’t said a word about Thomas Talbert’s death, but he didn’t have the impression that she was trying to hide something. She seemed to be completely preoccupied with her own affairs. After a few minutes, he, too, leaned back.

He was awakened by the carriage door opening. Musgrave pulled down the step.

“Here we are. Mr. Murdoch, I suggest you come with me and Mrs. Cooke should remain in the carriage.”

“I will most certainly not,” she said and followed right behind Murdoch as he climbed out.

“Are you sure, Adelaide? They’re a rough crowd.”

“I haven’t come all this way to sit in a carriage.”

So, it is Adelaide now, thought Murdoch. Musgrave handed him a grubby woollen scarf that smelled of tobacco.

“Wrap this around your chin and pull your hat low. You don’t want anybody to recognize you. It could make things
most awkward. Follow me. Adelaide, give me your arm. We should hurry.”

They had stopped on the edge of an open field that sloped away from them and disappeared into a thick stand of trees. The air was pungent with the smell of crushed grass and horse droppings. Oil lamps were hanging from posts around the perimeter and he could see several other carriages. Musgrave had unhooked the rear lantern and he led the way down a path of trampled grass. In a few minutes, Murdoch could hear voices that grew louder as they finally emerged from the trees. About fifty feet in front of them was a dense crowd of men, buzzing with excitement and all facing a brightly lit, roped-off ring.

“It’s a prize fight,” said Murdoch.

“Quite right about that, sir. They happen here regularly, but don’t let on I told you.”

CHAPTER
THIRTY-SIX

P
rize fighting with bare knuckles was illegal, but Murdoch was in no position to enforce the law at the moment. Musgrave had taken him for a ride in more ways than one.

The ring was cordoned off by four posts with ropes strung between them. Four taller posts were also strung with ropes that crossed and from the centre hung an iron chandelier, incongruous in this setting but which threw a good light onto the ring. About six feet away from the first ring was a second rope barricade behind which were pressed the noisy spectators.

“Can we move closer?” asked Mrs. Cooke. “There’s space around the ring where nobody is sitting.”

“I’m afraid not, Adelaide. That area is reserved for the high-paying Fancy and the officials.”

“Who are those men with whips?”

Six men, two of them negroes, were stalking around the inner space.

“They look most ferocious,” she added.

“They
are
ferocious,” said Musgrave. “All of them are former bruisers. Their job is to keep the riff-raff behind that second rope. You’d be amazed how excited men can become once the fight has got underway.”

“Goodness gracious, isn’t that Alderman Jolliffe down there, just to the right of the post?”

It was indeed Alderman Jolliffe, an ardent and self-righteous Orangeman who was vocal about his anti-Catholic sentiments. Murdoch thought that he just might let it slip to the newspapers that the councillor was attending an illegal prize fight.

They had been speaking in low voices, but one of the men in front of them turned around. He had a notebook in his hand.

“It’s not common to see ladies at these fights, ma’am. I hope you can stand it.”

“She’s a nurse,” said Musgrave, smooth as cream.

The man tipped his hat. “Indeed. Well, I do hope, ma’am, for the sake of the sport that you won’t intervene. I’ve got a wager that says the match will go to twenty-two rounds and I’d hate to lose that money.”

“Get on with your own business, Charlesworth. Nobody’s going to spoil your story.” Musgrave winked at Murdoch. “Mr. Charlesworth here writes up these little donnybrooks for the Fancy to peruse at their leisure.”

The chatter of the crowd suddenly subsided, the spectators responding to some signal that Murdoch hadn’t noticed. On the other side of the ring, a few feet up the slope, was a stone fence and beyond that a barn. At that moment, the barn doors were flung open and a cheer went up from the crowd. Out stepped a posse of men. The two in front were carrying lanterns burning at full wick and behind them was a tall man dressed in white knee-length knickers and a blue singlet. A flowered silk belt was around
his waist. He strutted down the path to the fence gate, which was quickly opened for him by two bystanders. Here he paused, removed his old-fashioned tall hat, and tossed it into the ring to the yells of the crowd.

“Who is that?” asked Mrs. Cooke.

“He’s the challenger. He goes by the name of the Chopper. He’s from up north somewhere. The story is he’s a full-blooded buck.”

“Who’s he fighting?” asked Murdoch.

“Ah, sir. That’s the question, isn’t it. There he is, look.”

The barn door opened again. There were shouts from the crowd but considerably less enthusiasm. A single man held the lamp ahead and behind him, wearing a singlet and black knickers, was Lincoln Green. His belt was red and yellow. Elijah was directly behind him, carrying a towel over his arm.

“Well, I don’t know about you, Mr. Musgrave, but I’m not surprised. Green is the one stealing my horses,” said Mrs. Cooke. “I never trusted that man and I was right.”

Murdoch thought the cabbie would prove himself a first-rate liar if he admitted to surprise at the presence of the Green brothers, as it was obvious he was quite familiar with the whole goings-on.

Lincoln tossed his hat, a brown tweed crusher, into the ring and another roar went up.

The two entourages, each making a circle around their champion, climbed through the first set of ropes. A little terrier of a man in a black cap and fisherman’s jersey hopped into the ring.

“He’s the referee, name of Christopher,” said Musgrave. “A good man, by all accounts. He won’t allow any funny business.”

Christopher made beckoning motions, and Elijah Green and a man with the battered face of a pugilist who was standing next
to the Chopper both ducked under the ropes and walked to the centre of the ring. Here Elijah marked out a line on the grass with the heel of his boot.

“That’s called his scratch line,” said Musgrave, who seemed to be enjoying his role as teacher. “Each fighter has to be able to come up to scratch for the next round or else he forfeits the match.”

Mrs. Cooke nodded. She was completely engrossed in what was happening. The reporter, Charlesworth, was scribbling in his notebook.

Now Christopher beckoned the two fighters into the ring. Under the brilliant light, Murdoch had a better opportunity to assess each man. The Chopper was a good head taller than Lincoln and looked a lot heavier. He had wide, well-muscled shoulders and long arms. His legs, however, were spindly, and Murdoch wondered if he’d been a lumberjack. When he’d worked at the camp in Huntsville, he’d seen lots of men with similar physiques, all of the heavy work being done by the arms and shoulders. Lincoln was better proportioned, his leg muscles were well developed and his arms looked powerful. The skin of both men gleamed with oil, and both of them were clenching and unclenching their massive fists.

The referee pointed at Lincoln. “First call to the African,” he said and tossed a coin in the air. Lincoln called out, “The Queen” in a loud voice. Christopher checked. “Her Majesty it is.” There was a mixture of cheers and boos from the crowd.

“He’ll take the north corner, or he’s a fool,” said the reporter in front of them. “The field slopes upward and when they tire it’ll give him a bit of an advantage.” He glanced over his shoulder. “And he needs all the advantages he can get. The Chopper outweighs him and outreaches him. In my opinion, the African doesn’t stand a chance, even though, of the two of them, I’d say he has the most bottom.”

Mrs. Cooke frowned and Musgrave interjected quickly. “That’s a term the Fancy use for courage.”

Lincoln looked at his brother, got the nod, and pointed to the north corner. This elicited another wave of jeers mingled with a few cheers from the crowd. He was not a favourite.

The fighters touched knuckles briefly and then went to their respective corners. Here each man’s second was ready in position on one knee. Murdoch could see Elijah talking in his brother’s ear. Then he stood in front of him and held up his hands while Lincoln did a few warm-up punches into his palms. The Chopper seemed content to sit on his second’s knee and have one of his entourage massage his shoulders.