A Journeyman to Grief (7 page)

Your servant, Thomas Brackenreid.

Murdoch couldn’t hide his astonishment. It was impossible to imagine the inspector recovering on his sickbed with a rousing volume of the council’s report. Besides which, the request to keep it private was absurd. The minutes were available to the public, who were encouraged to look at them. Cherry was watching him.

“Mr. Brackenreid speaks highly of you, Mr. Murdoch.”

“Does he, indeed? He has certainly kept that a secret from me.”

“Ah,” replied Cherry with an understanding nod that to Murdoch looked far too professional. Now he knew what the man reminded him of. An undertaker.

“The inspector says he’s at a lodge, recuperating from gastritis. Where is he?”

Cherry glanced over at Gardiner with a little shake of his head. The sergeant was rather obviously trying to pretend he wasn’t listening.

“John,” said Murdoch, “would you be so good as to fetch me the tea you mentioned? And perhaps one for Mr. Cherry, here.”

“No, no, not for me, thank you, I just breakfasted.”

With some ill grace, Gardiner headed for the duty room where the officers took their tea breaks.

“Well, Mr. Cherry. What is this all about?”

Cherry lowered his voice. “This must be kept in strictest confidence, Mr. Murdoch.” He paused and Murdoch almost expected him to bring out a Bible for him to swear on.

“Yes?”

“Inspector Brackenreid is at the moment a resident at the Ollapod Club.”

It was all Murdoch could do not to burst out laughing. So the old sot had finally admitted his problem. The Ollapod Club was a nobby establishment over on Wellesley Street that claimed to cure chronic addictions to liquor. It had the reputation for being a conscience sop to wealthy clientele who stayed there for months at a time in well-tended sobriety. Rumour had it, however, that when released, a high proportion of the graduates fell back into their old ways with alarming speed.

“I see you know of us, Mr. Murdoch. You can understand therefore why the inspector wants discretion. Not everybody would see his decision to enter the club in the correct light.”

“Which is?”

“An act of courage. To acknowledge one’s weaknesses is not always easy, especially for a man with such pride and integrity as Thomas Brackenreid.”

Murdoch had never previously ascribed these qualities to his inspector. It was a novel view.

Gardiner returned with a mug of tea that Murdoch accepted gratefully, gulping down a big swallow of the hot strong brew.

“Mr. Cherry, why don’t you have a seat on the bench over there. The inspector has asked me to find a certain book for him. I’ll just be a moment.”

Brackenreid’s office was on the second floor of the station. In spite of his complaints that the division didn’t receive enough money to function as he wanted it to, the inspector had furnished his office in a luxurious fashion. There was a thick Axminster carpet on the floor and the large desk by the window was polished oak, a far cry from Murdoch’s scarred and stained
pine desk, which had been dragged in from God knows where.

The room was chilly because the fire hadn’t been lit for some days, but there was a lingering smell of the rich cigars that Brackenreid favoured. Murdoch went over to the glass-fronted bookcase. There were several fat volumes of the council’s minutes, all pristine-looking. He took down the one for 1894. What was Brackenreid after? He was about to riffle through the pages but found he couldn’t because they were glued together and there tucked snugly into a little nest cut into the pages was a silver flask. He pried it out and opened the top. One whiff confirmed what he suspected. The minutes of the city council for 1894 had become the inspector’s private cellar. No wonder he’d made a weak excuse for wrapping the book. If he was at a facility devoted to curing inebriates, it wasn’t too likely they would want him to have a flask of good whisky in his possession. What to do? Tell on him? Murdoch went over to the desk and took out a piece of paper.

Dear Inspector Brackenreid. I have great sympathy for your current struggle. Some days will be more difficult than others I’m sure, but I know you will come through it. All the best, William Murdoch.

He folded the paper and put it into the empty space. He poured the whisky into the aspidistra on the window ledge. It needed watering anyway. Then he took a sheet of one of the newspapers stacked ready to light the fire and wrapped the book. He found a ball of twine in the desk drawer and tied up the parcel, cutting the string with Brackenreid’s cigar clippers.

Cherry was waiting quietly in the hall. He did not seem to have engaged Gardiner in any conversation, and the sergeant was busy writing his night report in the duty roster.

Murdoch handed Cherry the package. “Here you are, sir. And please give the inspector my condolences and wish him a speedy recovery.”

“I will.” He paused. “I understand Mr. Brackenreid was requesting a particular volume. Was it in good condition, would you say? What I mean is, was it suitable for reading?”

There was a look of friendly skepticism in his eyes, and suddenly Murdoch liked him much better.

“Let’s say, I removed any unnecessary items so that the inspector wouldn’t be distracted.”

Cherry smiled. “Ah, I see. The old flask-in-the-middle trick, was it?”

Murdoch nodded.

“You’d never believe the tricks some of our pat – I mean, some of our guests can get up to when they are in still in the grip of the demon,” said Cherry. “I thank you, sir. Your good inspector might not have the same gratitude now, but he will, I promise you he will.”

“I hope so. How much longer will he be with you, do you think?”

“It depends on his progress. So far, he has been somewhat resistant. He did not enter the club solely of his own choice. I believe his wife was adamant.”

“A week then? Two? More?”

“I’m afraid it is impossible to tell, but what I will do is to see if he can give some direction as to what he wants done at the station here. We are trying to avoid his condition becoming widely known. He seemed to think you would be able to manage without him, but you might need a more formal acknowledgement. Perhaps he could appoint you deputy inspector or something like that.”

“Me? Oh I don’t think so. I doubt he’d want that.”

“No, I meant what I said, Mr. Murdoch. He does speak of you with admiration.”

Suddenly he glanced up at the clock on the wall. “My goodness, I am late. It will be time for the morning medicine and I should be there. Good morning to you, sir. And thank you for your help.”

He left and Murdoch picked up his mug. “I’m going to my office, sergeant. Tell Crabtree to come and see me when he gets back.”

Hmm…if he was deputy inspector for a few weeks maybe he could sit upstairs and enjoy a nice coal fire and a couple of cigars. Perhaps he’d been too hasty in emptying the whisky flask.

CHAPTER
NINE

M
urdoch untied the shoelace that secured the cardboard box, removed the lid, and took out the papers, spreading them across the top of his desk. They were indeed bills, many of them months old and, by the looks of it, none yet paid. He skimmed through them, but they seemed the normal transactions for a small livery. Bills for hay, oats, bran; one from a veterinarian who’d disposed of a horse afflicted with glanders. A small sum owing to a carpenter for repair of one of the carriages. The sheets he’d taken from the spike were more recent but more demanding. The veterinarian was now threatening legal action if his bill wasn’t paid within five days of receipt. On top was a handwritten piece of paper requesting the payment of three weeks’ back wages in the amount of eighteen dollars. The note was signed by Elijah Green. Murdoch removed that paper and put it in his inside pocket. The other tradesmen’s names he wrote down to check later.

According to Mrs. Cooke, her husband had kept four hundred dollars in his safe. That was a lot of money and would easily cover
his debts. Murdoch wondered if the racing forms he’d found were a tipoff as to what that money might be earmarked for. He was about to gather up the papers and return them to the box when he saw he’d almost overlooked a side pocket. He fished inside and took out a cloth wallet tied with ribbon. Inside was a creased piece of paper. He smoothed it out.

Purchased from Thomas Talbert, Esquire, for the sum of 200 dollars. The Livery, 27 Mutual Street. Including the six horses and three carriages and all the tack presently in use. Also the present feed as noted.

Signed. Daniel Cooke

Eleventh day of October 1863. at Toronto. Acknowledged as stated, Thomas Talbert.

Elijah Green had referred to a man named Talbert who spelled him a couple of days of the week taking care of the stables. Were these two men related? If it was the same man, he’d be quite elderly by now.

He restored everything to the box and put it in his drawer.

There was a tap on the wall outside his cubicle, and Constable Crabtree’s large shape appeared behind the reed curtain that made do as a door.

“Come in, George.”

The constable shoved through the curtain that clacked noisily in his wake.

“Good morning, sir. I’ve come to report on the search me and Constable Fyfer did of the livery barn this morning.”

“Did you find anything?”

“I’d say so.”

He was carrying a lumpy-looking bundle wrapped in sacking and looked around for somewhere to put it.

“The desk is fine, George, what’ve you got? Not money, is it? There’s quite a large sum missing, according to Mrs. Cooke.”

“No, sir. No money, I’m afraid, but treasure, if I may put it that way.”

Crabtree unwrapped his prize as carefully, as if it contained a glass piece. Inside was another scrap of bleached-out sacking, a length of rope, two Indian clubs, and a sheet of grubby, crumpled notepaper.

“There’s a little space in the loft, not much bigger than a wardrobe, but the darkie has a cot there. There’s a packing box next to it and I found these articles in there.” He shook out the piece of sackcloth. “There’s a stain on this one that looks like fresh blood to me.”

Murdoch examined it. “It does, indeed. We’ll have to get Dr. Ogden to take a look at it. Where was it exactly?”

“At the bottom of the crate. Green claims he had to bleed one of the horses, but if that’s true, why take it up to the loft? Why not leave it in the barn?” Crabtree picked up one of the Indian clubs, held it in one hand, then slammed it into his open palm. “Mr. Cooke had been hit on the head. I’ll wager this was the weapon used.”

Murdoch focused a magnifying glass on the club. “I don’t see any evidence of blood, George. Let’s have a look at the other one. No, nothing on this either.”

“He would have made sure to wipe them clean though, wouldn’t he, sir?”

“I suppose so. What did he say about them?”

“That he used them for exercise.”

“That could be true. I have a pair myself.”

“It doesn’t mean he didn’t use one of them to bash Mr. Cooke on the head.”

“True. What else have you got?”

“This rope. He would have used it to tie up Cooke before he strung him up to the rafters. It was coiled in the bottom of the crate under a piece of newspaper. Green said he used it as a lead for the horses, but if that’s the case, why not keep it in the tack room with the other equipment?”

“Good point, George.”

Murdoch examined the rope, which was about an inch in diameter and knotted at each end. He thought that was odd, but he couldn’t find any sign of blood along its entire length, or traces of horsehair for that matter, which he thought was also odd. He decided for the moment to keep these doubts to himself. George didn’t need any further convincing that they had their culprit.

“What’s the paper all about?”

“Ah, yes, sir. That’s the clincher, as far as I’m concerned. Have a look at what’s written on it. Green was just in front of me and he actually snatched this out of my hand. Said it was private property and nothing to do with the murder. He was about to tear it up, but I got to it first. He was quite surly, so of course that got my dander up immediately. I told him what for and snaffled it, but for a minute I truly thought he’d be willing to fight me for it.”

Murdoch picked up the piece of notepaper. Somebody, he presumed Green, had printed in a bold clear hand:
The Master. Advance Retreat Bar Bottom Chop Hit Mark Fall.

The words were in a column on the left side of the page. The rest of the sheet was blank.

“It doesn’t make much sense to me, George, does it you?”

“I think it’s a plan of attack. See, it starts with the Master, which I assume is his employer, Mr. Cooke. Then it’s
hit, mark, fall
. Mr. Cooke was marked all right.”

“What about the other words?”

“He was probably planning how to do it.”

“Did he have an explanation?”

“No, he did not. He admitted it was his and his hand, but he kept saying it had nothing to do with Cooke’s death and it was private. Like I said, he was highly disturbed. Most I’ve seen from him yet.”

Murdoch folded the paper again.

“Why would Green commit such a vicious act? What’s his motivation?”

“I can’t say, sir. Maybe he got it into his head that Mr. Cooke had slighted him somehow and he wanted his revenge.”

“That’s possible. I don’t know about slighting him, but Cooke did owe him for three weeks’ wages.”

“There you go then.” Crabtree had an expectant look on his face, and Murdoch had the impression the constable was disappointed with his lack of enthusiasm for his findings. “Are you going to arrest him?”

“Not immediately, George. We don’t have quite enough to go on. But that was good work. I’ll follow it up.”

Crabtree fished in his pocket and took out some sheets of paper. “Constable Fyfer wanted me to pass this along to you, sir. He’s relieving Burley at the livery. When we arrived the cabbies were waiting because they hadn’t heard what had happened. Fyfer decided to question them and save you the trouble. He wrote out everything for you.”

“Did he indeed? He’s a diligent fellow, I must say. In the meantime, George, I’d like you to start doing the usual rounds. Check out all the houses up and down the street. Find out if anybody saw the coloured man who came to the Cooke house and apparently so upset Daniel Cooke. Here, I’ve written out the names and addresses of all the tradesmen that Cooke owed money to. Talk to them as well.”