A Journeyman to Grief (29 page)

“Why’d you throw in the towel, Green? He could have gone on.”

“Not in my opinion,” said Green calmly. “He didn’t hardly know his name.”

“Lost me a lot of money.”

“That ain’t my fault, O’Rourke. It was a fair fight.”

The fellow didn’t budge. “So you say.”

He was shorter than Green but much heavier and there was a menace to him that Murdoch didn’t like. He’d met the man before. He stepped forward.

“You heard him. I saw it too. The Chopper landed a good one.”

Murdoch still had his muffler around his face so maybe his voice didn’t come out as strongly as it might have. The Irishman glared at him.

“I’m talking to this nigra, not you, whoever you are. Keep your nose out of it.”

Murdoch pulled away the scarf. “As a matter of fact, I have a very long nose. And I’m sticking it into your business. As I recall, Judge Robinson said the next time you were booked for taking wagers he’d make sure you were given the opportunity to visit Kingston.”

O’Rourke stared at him, the light was dim, only one lamp was left hanging on the nearby post.

“You’re a copper, ain’t you?”

“That’s right. Murdoch’s the name. Now like I just said to Mr. Green, I’m here unofficially so I can’t take you into custody for uttering threats or for taking wagers illegally, much as I would like
to. But if you don’t bugger off I might suddenly find my badge.”

The Irishman muttered under his breath, looked as if he was considering defiance, then retreated.

“I thank you, Mr. Murdoch,” said Green. “I’m not in any mood to deal with the likes of him.”

They continued on the path that led to the rear of the barn. Here was another lantern and Murdoch could see a tethered horse and a carriage with the familiar yellow C painted on the side.

Green opened the door. “Come into my office.”

He climbed in and took a seat. Murdoch followed and sat across from him.

“What do you want to talk about, Mr. Murdoch? I can’t stay long. I’ve got to get Linc home.”

“I understand you’re managing prize fighters.”

Green looked weary. “I wonder who told you that? At a guess, I’d say it was Musgrave.”

“Is that what you do in the barn when nobody’s there? With the skipping rope? Very good exercise, that. And the Indian clubs.”

“You’ve got to keep yourself fit in my line of work. Training’s not illegal.”

“But taking a horse and carriage without permission is. It’s called theft.”

Green smiled. “I had permission. Daniel Cooke gave that to me a couple of years ago. ‘Take the carriage whenever you need, Elijah,’ were his very words. Let’s say it was a barter. He paid me next to nothing and in return I could have use of the horses as I needed. I have to travel around to find good venues and to see other fighters. I saw no reason not to pass on my opinions as to who might win to Mr. Cooke.”

“Do you have that agreement in writing?”

“No. It was a gentleman’s agreement.”

“Did he come to the fights with you?”

Green sat back so that Murdoch could hardly make out his face. “Sometimes.”

“Musgrave says he heard you quarrelling about one of the fights. Cooke wanted you to fix it so that your brother lost. Is that true?”

“If I say yes, I can be charged with running an illegal game. You might put your badge on. As it is, I’m claiming what you’ve seen is just one of many sports that gentlemen come to for pleasure. Nobody can say one way or the other, now can they?”

“Cooke’s death could be convenient for you.”

“The opposite, Mr. Murdoch,” Green answered sharply. “First of all, who will believe he had given me permission about the carriages? Not his wife, I’m sure. If she knew I was here, she’d probably have me arrested.”

“She does know. Musgrave brought her.”

Green’s shoulders sagged. “Is she charging me with theft?”

“Frankly, I don’t know what she’s going to do. She said she wanted to consider the matter.”

Green stared at Murdoch. “Did she now? I wonder what that means? From what I know about the lady, it won’t be good.” He peered out of the window at the now-empty field.

“You can always leave,” said Murdoch.

“Not now. She’ll make sure I never work anywhere else. She’s got me fast.”

“It’s my impression she won’t stop you from the fights. Perhaps the opposite.”

Green digested that. Neither possibility was a good one.

Murdoch didn’t know if there was anything he could do about it. On the other hand, he might have a little leverage over Mrs. Cooke himself.

“Is that everything? I should see to Lincoln.”

“In a minute. I’m curious about that paper Crabtree found in your box. The words have a different look to them now I’ve seen this fight. Were they really copy for your son?”

“Just that. I took some words from Mendoza’s papers. He was a celebrated man of the ring, an excellent fighter. Lincoln and I have been studying him. My Donnie is interested in the old sport, so I thought I’d give him the words to learn. Believe me, it had nothing to do with plotting Mr. Cooke’s death, as your constable suspected.”

“And the bloody sacking?”

“Just what I said. I had to bleed Bendigo’s abscess. Why waste good sacking?”

Gingerly, he touched the bump on his forehead. “Now this I was fabricating just a bit. The beam I said I walked into was Lincoln’s fist when we were sparring.” He shifted. “I must go now.”

“Sorry, I’m not quite done. First, I wanted to let you know I was sorry about what happened to Thomas Talbert.”

Green rubbed his hand over his face. “I’d almost put that out of mind with the fight happening, but I must say I was mighty shocked when I heard. Thom was nobody’s enemy.”

“At least one person’s, I’m afraid.”

“But he didn’t have much money, I’m sure.”

“It wasn’t a robbery. There were banknotes dropped on his body, obviously deliberately. All small denominations amounting to forty dollars.”

Murdoch was watching Green, but the man seemed genuinely bewildered. “What was the point of that? Oh no, don’t tell me you’re connecting it with some kind of wager?”

“Judas betrayed our Lord for forty pieces of silver. I was wondering if there was a message in that money. An indication of betrayal.”

“You’ve lost me, detective. What sort of betrayal?”

“I don’t know.” Murdoch took his sketch out of his pocket and held it in front of the lantern. “After death, Mr. Talbert was tied into this position.”

Green studied the drawing and Murdoch saw that tears had sprung to his eyes. “Was he, indeed? Such desecration to an innocent old man, I don’t understand.”

Murdoch replaced the sketch in his pocket. “Nor do I, at the moment. Was Mr. Talbert ever mixed up in placing bets on the fights?”

“No. He came to one about a year ago and said it made no sense to him to see two sane, healthy men who had no grudge with each other try to batter the other into raw meat.”

Murdoch was of much the same opinion, but he didn’t comment.

“I know Constable Burley already asked you this, but since you talked to him, has anything come to you? Any suspicions? Anything at all?”

Green shrugged. “If Cooke hadn’t been done in first, I might have pointed the finger at him. There was some enmity between them. They didn’t hardly see each other, mind, but sometimes Thom would drop a comment about Mr. Cooke that would have set light to straw and Mr. Cooke never seemed comfortable around him. I couldn’t understand it. Another owner would have got rid of Thom, I suppose, but Mr. Cooke kept him on. He wasn’t even that good a worker any more. I often had to do his job over again.”

They heard somebody calling. “Murdoch, where the hell are you?”

Murdoch looked out of the window. Musgrave, swinging a lamp, was walking around the field.

“You’d better see to your brother,” he said to Green. “If he’s not back to his normal self tomorrow, I want you to take him to a physician I know, a Dr. Ogden on Gerrard Street. I’ll speak to her. She won’t ask difficult questions.”

“Thanks, but he’ll be all right. He’s tough as shoe leather. It’s all part of the game. Next time, he’ll learn to be more careful. The Chopper just got in a lucky blow.” He hesitated. “What are you going to do? Are you going to arrest me?”

“That’s the second time you’ve asked me that. I’m starting to think you’re hankering after the good cooking in the Don Jail.”

Green managed a grin. “Not likely.”

“No, I’m not going to arrest you. I’m not here officially, as I said. It all looked like good clean fun for gentlemen to enjoy to me. I didn’t see any money changing hands.”

Green offered his hand. “Thank you. If I can return the favour sometime I will.”

“You can help me get back to the city. I don’t fancy an hour in the carriage with Mrs. Cooke.”

CHAPTER
THIRTY-EIGHT

T
he small church was filled to capacity, but there were only two white people in the congregation, Mrs. Stokely and Murdoch. For the first time in his life, Murdoch was conscious of being physically different from everybody around him. Growing up as a Catholic in a Nova Scotian village that was overwhelmingly Methodist had introduced him early on to prejudice and discrimination, but until somebody knew about his faith, he at least appeared to be like everybody else he met and was treated accordingly.

He had decided to go to the Sunday service at the Baptist Church on Queen Street, and on the way he had met Mrs. Stokely. She was touchingly glad to see him, but she looked wretched, wrung out by grief.

“We can’t have a funeral until after the inquest, but Pastor Laing will say some words of tribute today,” she said. “I’m sure Thom would have appreciated you coming, Mr. Murdoch.”

Murdoch felt uncomfortable. He hadn’t come from any fondness for Talbert, although he’d liked him. He came because
he wanted to know more about the coloured residents of the city and he knew this was where most of them came to worship. He offered Mrs. Stokely his arm and they entered the church together. They were met at the door by Elijah Green, who was acting as an usher. He greeted Mrs. Stokely warmly and nodded at Murdoch in a cool, polite way. What had happened last night was in another life.

“Good morning, Mr. Murdoch.”

“How’s Lincoln?” Murdoch asked him quietly.

“He’s recovering just fine but having a bit of rest today. Will you come this way, please?”

He led them down the aisle to a pew near the centre.

Murdoch had been about to make his habitual genuflection to the altar as he entered the pew but stopped himself just in time. He had no idea how the Baptists would feel about such outlandish Papist practices, but he felt peculiar not doing it and not crossing himself, as if he were being disrespectful to God. He cringed at how well he’d been indoctrinated. Mrs. Stokely had slid in next to a plump, matronly woman who was exquisitely dressed in a bright blue taffeta walking suit with a matching flower-bedecked hat.

“My dear, please accept my condolences. I’m sure Thomas Talbert was the best of employers.”

She was being kind, of course, but Mrs. Stokely was being given the status of housekeeper, not wife as she deserved.

“Yes, he was,” murmured Mrs. Stokely. She was dressed in mourning clothes, but she’d been careful not to overdo it. Her plain black hat was unveiled and her suit a navy wool. Murdoch wondered if she would ever reveal the true nature of her relationship with Talbert.

“Such a terrible tragedy,” the matron continued. “He will be sorely missed by this church. I know Pastor Laing is awful upset by it.” She shook her head. “The Lord sometimes sees fit to take
those he loves before their time. It is not for us to question His mysterious ways, is it?”

She leaned forward and included Murdoch in her words. He nodded noncommittally but felt like a hypocrite. There had been many times when he questioned why a supposedly loving God would inflict such misery on the human race for no good reason that he could fathom. When Liza died, Murdoch’s faith had been seriously shaken, and so far no priest nor his own prayers had completely restored it.

A woman in front of them turned and also offered condolences to Mrs. Stokely, and they entered into a soft conversation that had to do with the woman’s recollections of Talbert’s piety.

Unlike the sombre, supposedly reverent silence of Catholic worshippers, this congregation were happily chatting among themselves. A pleasant smell of violets wafted over to him. Everybody was in their Sunday best, gaily decorated hats for the women and well-brushed, sombre suits for the men. On any Sunday morning that was true, of course, of all worshippers across the city, no matter what the church. Murdoch himself was wearing his good houndstooth jacket and fairly new worsted trousers, and he’d spent ten minutes polishing his boots. He should have been attending mass himself but had used the investigation to ease his conscience about skipping. Not that he’d gone last week either or the week before, but he’d deal with that later when he met Father Fair.

Murdoch glanced around. It wasn’t the only Protestant church he’d ever been inside, but it was the first Baptist one. The straight-backed pews were oaken and the windows filtered light through pastel-hued stained glass. There were no gilded columns, no statues, no ornate carvings on the ceiling, as there were in his own church of St. Paul’s. At the front of the church was a raised platform and a vibrant painting of Jesus at prayer. Below the
painting, two curtains framed an alcove, rather like a stage, which displayed another picture, this one of a river. To Murdoch’s left was a pulpit with a cross in front of it, the kind he’d once heard a child call a “naked cross,” because there was no figure of the suffering Jesus nailed to it.

He was curious about the Baptist service. Not too long ago, he’d been smitten with Mrs. Enid Jones, a young widow who had been sharing his lodgings. She was a Baptist, and every Sunday she went off to her church and he to his. He had come close to proposing marriage but had not done so, for complicated reasons he himself didn’t completely understand. Perhaps he just wasn’t ready to let go once and for all of his attachment to Liza. If that was so, it wasn’t the case any longer now that he had fallen in love with Amy Slade.