A Journeyman to Grief (37 page)

“How is she tonight?” Amy whispered.

“Weaker. She may last one or two more days, if that.”

Amy stroked his thigh. “You have been kind to her, Will.”

“She has been dreadfully mistreated. After she escaped from captivity, she and Faith, or Fidelia as she sometimes calls her, settled in New York. She managed to build a decent-enough life for herself, at first by writing letters for those who couldn’t, then by owning property. She is quite a wealthy woman, I understand. When she found out she was dying, the poison of her hatred overwhelmed her, and she decided to return to Toronto to avenge herself on her betrayers.”

And the half-acknowledged longing to find out if her son had lived or not.
He hadn’t told Amy that part of Emeline’s story.

“Is there any chance you will find her maid or, should I say, her lover?”

“No, not her lover, but a beloved one certainly. And no, I don’t think we will find her.”

They were quiet for a moment, then Murdoch rolled over onto his side and gazed into Amy’s face. In the candlelight, she looked soft and young, her hair loose about her shoulders.

“What’s the matter? You have something on your mind. Do you not want me any more? Are you beginning to see what being involved with a policeman means? Long hours, strange habits?”

She gave him a quick smile. “It’s none of those things, Will.”

“What then? There’s something going on.”

“There is something I have to tell you.”

He experienced a twinge of anxiety, never quite sure of her even though tonight she seemed especially fond and loving.

“What? For God’s sake, Amy, don’t keep me in suspense.”

She took a deep breath. “Tomorrow, I want you to go to Father Fair and have him put up the banns.”

He sat straight up in bed in astonishment. “You’ll marry me, after all?”

She nodded. “Give me your hand.”

He did so and she guided it to her belly. “I don’t care a nickel about marriage, but this one deserves a proper start in life.”

Murdoch yelped. “This one? What do you mean, this one?”

“What do you think I mean? I am with child and you, I assure you, are the father.”

Murdoch’s eyes filled with sudden tears.

“Amy, my dearest, dearest girl.”

He pulled her to him so tightly she exclaimed in pain.

“You had better not squeeze me quite so hard, Will, or you might remove the reason I am taking such a step beyond my principles.”

He loosened his grip sufficiently so that he could look at her, and he saw and finally accepted that she loved him and he wept. Laughing, Amy wiped away his tears with the sleeve of her nightgown.

“And I thought all this time you were a tough-hearted policeman.”

“I am, I will be, it’s just that you took me by surprise. To have you and a family of our own is more than I can encompass.” He was forced to stop.

Amy sat up and stared into his face.

“William Murdoch, will you stop it? I’ll have to send Charlie for Dr. Ogden.”

His tears turned into laughter. “Oh no, please don’t. She’ll bring the professor and he’ll attach me to one of his machines and study me the way you told me he did with poor Mary Blong.”

“And so he should. But she was a fake and is cured, whereas I believe you are quite genuine, a hardened case and an odd one to boot.”

He touched her. “I know a good way to convince you of my normality.”

She smiled, and they lay together for a while not saying
much, Murdoch absorbing her news. Then he said, “Amy, I want your opinion about something. When is it permissible to break a promise?”

She propped herself on her elbow. “Oh, Will, I’m not your confessor. What do you mean? I hope this hasn’t anything to do with what I’ve just told you. You’re changing your mind?”

“Of course not. But what if you had given somebody your solemn promise, but circumstances now seem different and you think a greater good would be served by breaking that promise?”

She reached up and kissed him on the lips. “You are such a dear, good man, William Murdoch, few people would torment themselves with this question. Have you made a promise you wish to break?”

“Yes.”

“Then I am sure you will not do it lightly and the greater good will be served.”

He sighed. “In that case, I have to get out of bed right away.”

“No!”

“I’m afraid so.”

“At this time of night?”

“Time is what we don’t have. I must bring two people together, one of whom does not know of the other’s existence and God help me, I think he should.” He turned to her. “Will you promise me you’ll be here when I get back?”

“Of course. Isn’t that what wives do, wait for their husbands to get home?”

“Amy Slade, was that an old-fashioned viewpoint I just heard coming out of your mouth?”

“It was. Sometimes tradition embodies wisdom.”

“Do you promise me then?”

“I do. Until death us do part.”

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The germ of the idea for this book came from a true story, that of James Mink and his daughter, which is a significant part of black history in Toronto. However, like most writers, I have gone on from there, and the plot and events of this book are entirely fiction.

The ideas, some of the actions, and many of the words I attribute to Professor Broske I took from an astonishing book,
Fear
, written by Angelo Mosso in 1893.

The Ollapod Club is an amalgam of the many such rehabilitation centres that flourished in the 1890s. Many of the principles we use in our attempts to deal with alcoholism were also used then. I have not included anything that was not done at the time, I’ve just attributed them to one club.

By 1896, bare-knuckle or prize fighting, as it was sometimes called, was illegal. I don’t know whether a fight took place in Mimico, but other than that I have been as true as possible to the rituals and language of these events.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I want to thank the people who shared their expertise with me while I was writing this book, especially Cindy Boht, who knows horses as well as she knows dogs, and Anthony, Jayne, and Jim, who allowed themselves to be twisted out of shape for a few painful moments to demonstrate the positions I needed to see.

Al Greene took time out of a busy schedule to talk about his life growing up in North Carolina; Stanley Grizzle kindly shared his house and his time so I could talk to him about the life of a black man in early Toronto.

As always, thanks must be given to my astute editor, Dinah Forbes, and my agent, Jane Chelius.

Any errors of fact are mine.

ALSO BY MAUREEN JENNINGS

Except the Dying

Under the Dragon’s Tail

Poor Tom Is Cold

Let Loose the Dogs

Night’s Child

Vices of My Blood

Copyright © 2007 by Maureen Jennings

All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the publisher – or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency–is an infringement of the copyright law.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Jennings, Maureen
A journeyman to grief / Maureen Jennings.

(A Detective Murdoch mystery)

eISBN: 978-1-55199-139-9

I. Title. II. Series: Jennings, Maureen. Detective Murdoch mystery.

PS
8569.562
J
69 2007
C
813'.54
C
2006-904290-
X

We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and that of the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Media Development Corporation’s Ontario Book Initiative. We further acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program.

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