Vices of My Blood (14 page)

Chapter Twenty-Four

T
HIS STRETCH OF
O
NTARIO
S
TREET
, below Wilton, was inhabited mostly by working-class people. The houses were well tended, but they were small and close together; no grand gardens here. Mrs. O’Brien was sitting at her front window, nursing the latest arrival, a girl, Beattie, whom she’d named after her former neighbour, Mrs. Kitchen. Her three other little ones were kipping in the backroom so she was enjoying a rare moment of peace and quiet. The afternoon was drawing in and she’d have to stir soon and light the lamps before the rest of the brood came home from school. Mrs. O’Brien was normally a cheerful-enough soul. She had to be, with eight children to take care of and a husband more often away than not. He said it was hard bloody work being a fisherman and having to deal with all the different kinds of weather that God sent. Why don’t you stay home and take care of the other things that God sends, all eight of them, and I’ll be a fisherman, she’d said to him once, jokingly of course.

She sighed. Perhaps it was the dreary grey afternoon that was making her blue, sitting here watching the wind stir the bare branches of the trees and blow thin plumes of snow from the rooftops. A bit of green would be a balm for her eyes. Mostly, though, she missed Mrs. Kitchen. They had managed to get in a good chin at least once a day, even though Beatrice had a lot on her hands taking care of Arthur. But she had always managed to slip Mary a bit of the roast that they didn’t finish or some tarts she’d made. O’Brien made good wages, but the money didn’t always reach her regularly and eight growing children would eat you out of house and home given half a chance. They’d all of them been upset when Beatrice said she and Arthur were moving to Muskoka so he could get fresh air. She couldn’t blame her, of course, it might be his only chance to get better but she did miss her. The new tenants were friendly enough, but the young one with the twin boys hardly stuck her nose out of the door and the schoolteacher never came round. Mr. Murdoch dropped in last week to see how she was, but a man just wasn’t the same. She couldn’t have a good gab with him, could she?

The baby had fallen asleep and she was about to lay her down when she saw a man coming up the street. He looked well off in his black fedora and long fur coat, but she didn’t recognize him and she had the impression he was looking for an address. Sure enough, at the Kitchens’ house, he paused, checked a piece of paper in his hand, and walked up the short path to the door. He made no attempt to knock but bent down and slipped something underneath the door. Then, quickly, he turned around and walked away briskly the way he had come.

And who are you when you’re at home? she wondered. I hope that’s not bad news you’re delivering. He was far too well dressed to be a mere messenger, so who the devil was he? She’d stood up to get a better look and disturbed Beattie, who scrunched her face preparatory to a good wail. At the same time, one of the boys called out to her from the backroom. Hoisting the infant over her shoulder, Mrs. O’Brien shuffled off to tend to him.

Murdoch put the wet boots on a piece of newspaper on top of his desk and began to make notes. The boots were black, badly scuffed, and the soles on both toes were parting company with the uppers. The heels were worn down and the lace in the right boot was broken and reknotted in three places, the left was laced with string. Typical footwear for tramps. He looked at the string under his magnifying glass, but there was nothing unusual about it. The boots measured twelve and one-quarter inches in length and four and a quarter inches wide, which meant the original owner was about Murdoch’s height of six feet. That didn’t mean that the last wearer was that tall, of course, he could have used them regardless of the fit. Murdoch thrust his hand into the right boot and sure enough his fingers touched something soggy. Carefully, he pulled out the newspaper that was stuffed into the toe and placed it on the desk. The paper was too sodden to make anything of it, he’d have to let it dry.

He upended the boots and examined the soles with his glass. There were several small seeds and bits of straw wedged into the grooves around the nails and he pried them out with his knife onto a piece of fresh paper. Under the glass, the seeds looked like wheat. The boots hadn’t been in the water long enough to eliminate the stink from unwashed sweaty feet, but he thought he could detect a whiff of manure mingling in there like a tenor note in a requiem. Toronto streets were perpetually dotted with horse plop of course and as he knew to his cost, it was all too easy to walk in it. However, this smell had survived at least two days of immersion in water so he thought the manure was more ingrained. He stared at the bits of straw, wishing he had a way of determining if they’d come from a stable or a cow barn. He’d make a tentative guess then that the boots had belonged to a man who’d been on a farm fairly recently.

He turned the boots over and studied them again, but there wasn’t anything else he could deduce. If blood had been splattered on them, it had washed off in the pond water. He pushed them to the edge of his desk and took a piece of notepaper from his desk.

Callahan: send this to all the newspapers right away:

Detective Murdoch of number four station is interested in speaking to anyone who noticed or was in contact with a man who meets the following description. Between five feet eight and six feet tall. Of middle age with full black beard, wearing a long black coat and black fedora and carrying a sack across his back. It is possible this man is a tramp and/or a farm labourer.

Murdoch hesitated, wondering whether to add that the man might be dangerous. He had often complained that the police were all too ready to jump on somebody from the lower classes when a crime was committed, “guilty until proved innocent,” but a solid case seemed to be building up that Reverend Howard’s murderer was a wayfarer and Murdoch’s stubborn refusal to put all his eggs in that basket might be prejudice in reverse.

He added to the note:

This man is wanted for questioning in the murder of the Reverend Charles Howard. He should be considered dangerous
.

The response from newspaper advertisements was limited. Not everybody could read and especially in the wayfaring class. He wrote another note to Callahan to be telegraphed to the city’s other police stations, in which he added a description of Howard’s stolen boots and the silver watch. Not that there was any guarantee the man was still be around. He could easily have caught a train and be miles away by now. It wasn’t going to be easy to find him. He’d better send Dewhurst to the station and see if anybody fitting the tramp’s description had boarded a train in the last two days. He wrote a third note for Callahan to send to police stations in the small towns and villages in the surrounding area. Responses from them would be much slower, as few of them had a telegram line.

He picked up his notes and was about to go down to the front desk when he heard hurried footsteps coming down the hall. Crabtree’s large frame appeared in the doorway.

“Come in, George, what’s the matter?”

The constable was rather breathless.

“Don’t tell me you found our tramp?”

“No, I’m afraid not, sir, but I may have made a pretty big catch.”

Murdoch indicated the worn chair that was opposite him. “Sit down and tell me first. I’ve already got a crick in my neck, I don’t want to make it worse.”

Crabtree balanced himself in the chair. “After I left you at the Gardens, sir, I was making my way down Jarvis Street. There were one or two people I’d missed when we was going around and I thought they might be home now. I’d just got as far as Wilton when the next thing I know there was screams and shouts going on, ‘Thief, Thief,’ and this fellow comes running around the corner. Well you don’t run like a hare with people shouting
thief
if you haven’t been up to something. I sees a couple of gentlemen running after him, but he’s fast and is easily outdistancing them. Then he sees me on the opposite side of the road and that gives him the fright of his life so he turns south on Jarvis, like the devil has lit his trousers. I sets off after him, but I wouldn’t have stood a chance of catching him when darned if he doesn’t put his foot in a pothole and goes a crash. He tries to get up but he can’t run a yard and I’m on him like a flash. I can see guilt written all over him. By that time the two gentlemen catch up to us and say as how he’d just stolen a purse from a poor widow woman who was walking on the street. The cove can’t even deny it because when I shake him down a little red silk purse falls out of his pocket.”

Crabtree patted his jacket. “I’ve got it here.”

“Well done, George,” said Murdoch. “I don’t mean to spoil your triumph, but at the moment I can’t see why this cove is such a prize nab.”

The constable grinned. “I’m getting to that, sir. So I grabbed the fellow by the scruff and made him hop with me to where there were a group of people standing around a poor blind woman and a young tad who turned out to be her grandson. It was her purse all right. The boy identified it and said the man I’d nabbed had just come on them all of a sudden and snatched it from her belt. I had the devil of a time persuading the old lady to come to the station and press charges, but I told her as how it was her duty and so forth and we would if she didn’t so she agreed.”

Murdoch looked at the constable, who was relishing his moment of drama. “Go on.”

“She seems like a good old soul and she’s concerned that my poor klep has hurt himself. ‘Maybe we should have a look at his ankle,’ says she. At which point I notice his boots … They’re
his
boots, sir, Mr. Howard’s.”

“What! How do you know?”

“Remember the maid said Mr. Howard’s had been recently soled and heeled but he had broken his lace and he replaced it with a brown one in his right boot? Well these black boots the nab had on his feet have an exact same brown lace and they’ve been recently soled and heeled.”

Murdoch whistled through his teeth. “Did you ask your nab where he got them?”

“I did and he said he didn’t remember and that he’d had them for years.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Not a jot. I thought he was lying in his teeth. Anyway, I brought him into the station and had him take his boots off so we could take a look at his ankle and as I suspected, he was a lying bugger … he has bad blisters on the heels of both feet.”

Murdoch slapped the desk. “So they’re not likely to be boots he’s had for years.” He jumped up. “Let’s go and have a little chin with our widow robber. Where is he?”

“In the hall, sir. The lady has been weeping non-stop and says she don’t want no trouble. You’d think we were arresting her. The lad is crying too and the nab is moaning so it’s quite noisy out there.”

“Did you get any names?”

“Yes. She’s Mrs. Annabel Shorter and her grandson’s Bill. They’re from Markham and just here for the day. The thief says he’s Peter Somerset, but I doubt it’s a name his own mother would ever know him by.”

“Let’s go and talk to them, shall we, George? A recently repaired black boot with a brown lace is a bit too much of a coincidence to swallow.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

C
RABTREE’S NAB WAS SITTING
on the bench a few feet from an elderly lady and a young boy. He was indeed moaning, the woman was weeping rather noisily, and the boy was trying to comfort her, also loudly. She was in full widow’s weeds with a long black crepe veil that covered her face and fell as far as her waist. The boy was also in black with knickerbockers and jacket. A velvet cap was pulled down low and the lower part of his face was wrapped in a black scarf so that only his eyes were visible.

“Grandma, hush. Here’s the detective come to talk to you.”

She turned in the direction of the door, although Murdoch was coming from the hall behind the counter.

He walked over to her. Her grandson was speaking so loudly, Murdoch assumed the old lady was deaf and he too raised his voice.

“Mrs. Shorter, I’m Detective Murdoch. I wonder if you could tell me what happened.”

He glanced over at the man, who had sunk back on the bench and buried his face in his muffler.

“My grandma is too upset to talk much,” said the boy. “She don’t want to press charges. We have to get back to the train station before three o’clock.”

Murdoch sat on the bench beside the old woman who was staring straight ahead. He couldn’t make out her face through the dark veil, but he could see she was trembling. He tried to speak gently, which was difficult at full volume.

“Mrs. Shorter, your purse was stolen and we have caught the thief. You won’t have to stay long if we write up a charge. You’ll just have to sign it. Why should he get away with frightening elderly citizens?”

“I’m blind, I didn’t see him,” she said, her voice was shrill.

“I realize that. But we have other witnesses. And your grandson must have seen him.”

The boy shook his head, still focused on his grandmother. “No I didn’t. I was looking after grandma when she fell down. Then I saw a man running away and men yelling and chasing after him. I just thought he hadn’t been looking where he was going and knocked her over.”

“Then you saw that your grandmother’s purse had gone.”

“I noticed it then, but she could have lost it earlier.”

The woman stretched out her hand in search of her grandson’s and he clasped it tightly.

“I’m a Christian woman, Mr. Murdoch,” she said, “and I believe that we should forgive those that trespass against us. If indeed this young man did rob me, I have my purse returned, I am not harmed, and that is all that matters. There was nothing in it but some streetcar tickets and a little change. We really do have to catch our train, my daughter is expecting us.”

Murdoch peered at her, but her face was obscured by the thick crepe veil. Then he glanced over his shoulder at the thief. In spite of his attempt to burrow into his collar, Murdoch could see a broad forehead and ragged sandy-brown hair.

Mrs. Shorter went to stand up, but Murdoch blocked her with his arm.

“Why do I have the impression we have met before?”

She recoiled, bowed her head briefly, then with one swift movement, she jerked upward, threw off his arm, shoved him away from her, and kicked him hard in the shins. With a yell to the boy, she ran for the door. Startled by the pain, he couldn’t move fast enough. Somerset tried to follow her, but even though he hopped with astonishing speed, he was no match for Crabtree, who got him from behind. The woman would have got away, but her long veil, flowing out behind her, caught on the edge of the stove in the centre of the room. The bonnet came off, but it was tied underneath her chin and she was stopped in her tracks, giving Murdoch a chance to seize her arm and twist it behind her back.

She cried out in pain, but as it was now obvious she was no old woman, he held on. In the meantime, Gardiner and Callahan had run from behind the counter to help. The sergeant grabbed the boy, who fought desperately, until Callahan managed to hold his legs and Gardiner pinned his arms. In minutes the struggle was over.

“Mrs. Shorter, or should I say, Mrs. Pierce?” shouted Murdoch. “Whoever the hell you are, you’re under arrest,” He was panting from the struggle and the rush of anger beyond his control at the painful kicks that had been inflicted on him. “I’m going to let go of you so I don’t break your arm, but if you move a muscle, you will be cuffed. Do you understand?” He gave her a little shake that made her yelp again. “Do you understand?”

“Leave her alone,” yelled the boy and he somehow jerked out of the grasp of both constables who were holding him and ran to help the woman. His cap had fallen off and Gardiner grabbed him by the hair, shoved him to the floor, then dropped, putting his knee on the boy’s back. He administered a couple of hard slaps to his head while Callahan once more held on to the boy’s ankles. Murdoch let go of the woman’s arm and shoved her onto the bench.

“Let him go,” she screamed at the other two officers.

She probably would have got up again, but Murdoch yelled at the top of his voice.

“Stay there.” He looked over his shoulder. “Sergeant, let him get up.”

Gardiner looked as if he was going to defy him, but then he reluctantly got off the boy and stepped back, clearly ready to pounce again if necessary. Callahan released the lad’s ankles and also stood back.

“You, boy, come over here and sit beside your mother,” said Murdoch.

Now that she had lost her black bonnet and veil, the woman’s dark hair was revealed. She was not in the least elderly, probably in her thirties, maybe even younger but she had no teeth, which aged her face considerably. The boy’s face had gone quite white and a bruise was vivid above his eye. He looked unsteady, but he rushed over to her and she pulled him close to her side. Both of them sat staring at Murdoch with a mix of defiance and fear. The third member of the little trio wasn’t saying anything. He wasn’t that tall a man and Crabtree, who had pulled his arms back and put the cuffs on him, towered over him.

“Now then. The excitement’s over,” said Murdoch. “Madam, do I have your word, you won’t try to make a bolt for it?”

“I’d sooner trust a rabid fox,” said Gardiner. “Put the cuffs on her. And the whelp.”

The woman had stepped across the line from respectable victim to criminal scum in his eyes. He started over to them but Murdoch warned him off.

“It’s all right, I’ll deal with it.” He addressed the woman. “Shall I call you Mrs. Shorter or Mrs. Pierce?”

“Whatever you like. It don’t matter to me.”

“So neither one is your real name?”

She shrugged.

“Look, ma’am, you’re going to have to talk to me sooner or later. You delivered some pretty vicious kicks to my shin and I could lay charges against you that would have you in the Mercer for a couple of years. Your lad would go to the industrial school and I doubt he’d like that.” Murdoch nodded at the other man. “Is he your husband?”

“Not him. I’ve never seen him before. And you can’t charge me with nothing. You grabbed ahold of me and I was just defending my honour.”

“You were pretending to be blind and you claimed this man had robbed you.”

“I didn’t say he’d robbed me. And there’s no harm in pretending to be blind. It ain’t a crime. It was just a game I was playing with Tim.”

“I see. This isn’t the first time you’ve been in a police station, I take it?”

“’Course it is. And it will be last, the treatment you coves dish out. I’ll speak to the chief himself, I will.”

The preposterousness of the statement made Murdoch grin. He couldn’t help it.

“I tell you what, ma’am. This has been very strenuous. I, for one, need a cup of tea. Give me a name that I can call you by for politeness’ sake and I’ll have our constable here make us a pot. What do you say?”

“Are you going to charge me?”

“I haven’t heard your story yet, nor your friend’s.”

Gardiner was still hovering behind Murdoch, his face dark with anger. “’Course he’s going to charge you. You and your bastard assaulted police officers.”

The lad had an angry red mark on his cheek where Gardiner had hit him.

“I’ll handle it, sergeant.” Murdoch turned back to the woman. “Given that this is a public hall and we need some privacy, I suggest we have our tea in one of our jail cells.”

“All three of us?”

“Yes.” She was about to protest but he held up his hand. “I know, I know. This man is a complete stranger. But as this is the second time I’ve seen you in the same company, I don’t believe you. You’re queer plungers and your names are on a bill that I was just looking at on Monday.”

The woman’s eyes scanned the men gathered around her. Gardiner, red-faced and angry, Callahan eager for another fray, Crabtree just very large.

“All right, me name’s Bagley, Mrs. Olivia Bagley. This is my nipper, Tim, and that’s Ed Parker, a friend.”

The redhead gave Murdoch a knuckle salute like a sailor.

Still keeping a wary eye on the woman, Murdoch said, “George, remove the cuffs from Mr. Parker and then escort him to the rear cell. Get him a cold bandage and some opium lotion if you can find it for his ankle. Mrs. Bagley, you and Tim follow behind Constable Crabtree and I will walk behind you. One move in any other direction and I will put the cuffs on. You can’t get away, there are four of us here.”

“Can I have me bonnet? It cost a dollar.”

“Constable Callahan, will you hand the lady her bonnet. It’s over by the stove.”

The clerk did as he was asked and gingerly held out the hat to the woman. Then, led by Crabtree and the silent Mr. Parker, limping painfully, they moved slowly down the hall.