Vices of My Blood (21 page)

Chapter Thirty-Six

M
RS. COLE
,
THE NEIGHBOUR
who had offered refuge to the German couple, was a young woman, plump and pretty, who was obviously newly married and set up in her own house for the first time. The furnishings were sparse and cheap but brand new and the air was thick with the smell of beeswax polish. She served the three of them underbaked cake and weak coffee but with such kindness and hospitality, Murdoch thought Mr. Cole was a lucky man.

The Einbodens, who were seated on Mrs. Cole’s best couch, seemed desperately poor, spoke little English, and were extremely nervous. It took a while for Murdoch to make himself understood and in turn to understand their replies. What he finally came away with was that Hicks may have had a visitor late that night, but as he was in the habit of reading out loud they couldn’t possibly swear to that. Nobody had visited the Tugwells and Josie had come home with her usual noise about nine o’clock. The Misses Leasks were spiteful old women who didn’t like foreigners and they had nothing to do with them. The same with Mr. and Mrs. McGillivary. They never saw Mr. Taylor. Only for Thomas Hicks did they shed a tear. Metaphorically. They were both too afraid of Murdoch to show any emotion other than a cringing subservience.

After an hour, he took his leave. Burley was standing guard at the rooming house, but the ambulance had left and the blustery wind had scattered the curious like pieces of newspaper. The constable had nothing to report and Murdoch headed for the station. Sitting down for so long had stiffened up his back and even riding his wheel was painful.

Seymour greeted him as soon as he walked into the station. His usual dour face was beaming.

“Very good news, Will. We brought in the tramps and I think we’ve nabbed our man. See here.” He held up a man’s silver watch. “It fits the description exactly of Reverend Howard’s piece.”

Murdoch took it from him and flipped open the lid. Inside was engraved the date,
October 30, 1892
, and the initials,
C.H
.

“Excellent. Who had it?”

“Jack Trevelyan. It was hidden in the lining of his coat. Constable Fyfer gave them all a thorough search that I doubt they’d experienced since the midwife pulled them into the world. He’s a good officer, that one.”

“Indeed. What did Traveller have to say for himself?”

“Says he found the watch in the Horticultural Gardens on Tuesday. Says he hid it because he was spending the night in the workhouse and you can’t trust anybody in that place.”

“What about the other three?”

“The simpleton is enjoying himself, as far as I can see. Won’t stop giggling. He didn’t have anything hidden. Bettles and his mate are as tough a pair of natty lads as I’ve come across. They both had knives tucked in their boots and almost ten dollars between them hidden in their coats. So much for being paupers. They’re richer than I am.”

“Let me talk to Traveller. Will you have him brought to my office.”

“Do you want him cuffed?”

“We’d better. But, Charlie, can you bring in some food. He hasn’t had anything to eat since yesterday.”

The sergeant chuckled. “You’re in luck, Will. Katie sent me off this morning with a pork pie that would feed an army. I’ve had my fill. He can have the rest of it.”

The mere mention of Katie’s pork pie made Murdoch’s stomach growl.

“If there’s enough for two, I wouldn’t mind some later.”

He walked slowly to his cubicle of an office and eased himself into the chair behind the desk. Within a few minutes, he heard footsteps in the hall and Constable Fyfer appeared in the threshold.

“He’s here, sir.”

If Murdoch hadn’t heard them he would have smelled them coming. The odour of sulphur permeated the cubicle. “Bring him in.”

Fyfer pulled aside the reed curtain and stepped back so that Traveller could enter. Murdoch had expected the tramp to be surprised when he saw him, but he merely grunted and sat down promptly on the chair.

Murdoch nodded at Fyfer, who withdrew to the hall.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Trevelyan,” said Murdoch.

“Good afternoon to you. How’s your back?”

“Sore.”

“You should have known better than to put your block on the ground like that.”

“I know. I was also chilled … you don’t seem surprised to see me.”

“Not the least. I suspected you was a nark from the beginning, that’s why I kept you close to me. I weren’t totally sure until we was in the ward. You gave yourself away there.”

“In what way?”

“Well it was how you handled those toe rags, Bettles and Kearney. You knew what you were doing, for one thing. And I thought to myself, This cove ain’t no wayfarer.” Traveller chortled. “We tobies tend to fight a bit more dirty, if you know what I mean. Like they was about to. But it was good what you did with Alf last night. I would have taken care of him, but what you did was manly.”

Murdoch couldn’t help but grin. Here was Traveller, up to his neck in hot water, dishing out compliments like he was a schoolteacher.

“And you got me out of trouble so I’m grateful to you for that,” said Murdoch.

Traveller shrugged. “I’d have done it for anybody. I told you, those scum was after me.” He raised his hands. “Would you consider taking these off. I ain’t so stupid as to cause trouble in a police station.”

Murdoch called out to the constable. “Fyfer, will you uncuff Mr. Trevelyan? And will you tell Sergeant Seymour we’re ready?”

The constable came in and unlocked the handcuffs and Traveller rubbed at his wrists. “They was put on too tight.”

Fyfer looked as if he would like to stand by and get in on the proceedings, but Murdoch nodded at him to leave.

Traveller gazed around the cubicle, taking in the shabby furniture. “I would have thought a detective would have a fancier place than this.”

“Money’s tight everywhere.”

“Ha. Ain’t that the truth.”

Murdoch reached in his drawer and took out his pipe and a packet of tobacco. “Have you got your pipe?”

“No, it’s taken a walk. And me baccy.”

“You can use mine.” Murdoch pushed a box of matches and the tobacco packet across the desk. “It’s a good Bull Durham.”

Traveller filled the pipe, lit up, and drew in deeply, letting go with a sigh of appreciation. “I suppose you’re wanting to ask me about the watch I found. I hear it used to belong to some poor fellow who got himself murdered.”

“Who told you that?”

“The constable who found it in my coat.”

Damn, thought Murdoch. Fyfer should have kept that to himself.

“Where
did
you find it?”

“Like I told him. In the Gardens.”

“Where exactly?”

Traveller blew out some smoke. “Near the entrance to the greenhouse. I was in there keeping warm a couple of days ago and when I was leaving, to get to my hotel, which was about to open, I saw the watch lying on a bench.”

“There might have been a reward offered, why didn’t you turn it in to the police?”

Traveller grinned at him. “’Cos you lot would immediately suspect me of stealing it and I’d be bothered with a lot of questions like now and it is very unlikely I’d get a reward. I don’t have a watch to keep track of my appointments so I thought finder’s keepers.”

“What day was this exactly?”

“Can’t say exactly. Wayfarers tend to lose all track of time. Wasn’t yesterday, could have been the day before, but I won’t swear to it.”

I bet you won’t, thought Murdoch. Vagueness is a good defence until you find out where the trouble is.

“Did you see anybody while you were in the greenhouse? Did you talk to anybody?”

“Yes, I did as a matter of fact. A gawdelpus. A good fellow he was. He gave me two nickels.”

“Did you ask him for money?”

“Not me. You and me both know that’s against the law.”

“What time was it when you encountered this charitable gentleman?”

“I can’t tell you that. Like I said, we tobies don’t have a good sense of time. We had a little chat or, more precisely, the gentleman talked to me about my sins. They always like to practise Sunday’s sermon on folks like me, do the gawdelpuses. Then he walked off and I stayed thinking about my Saviour for the next little while, then I left too. When I found the watch it was reading ten minutes to five.”

“So you must have met up with him about, what, half an hour earlier?”

“It’s possible, but I wouldn’t swear to it.”

Murdoch sighed. He was up against a professional here.

“How long were you in the greenhouse altogether?”

“It’s hard to say. I had a little kip on a bench so maybe a couple of hours. I left just before five o’clock to get to the spike. You know how it’s better to be there early.” Traveller took another deep draw on the pipe. “I’m curious, by the way, as to what you were doing there? It can’t be because you’re a pauper, even, begging your pardon, with a crib like this.”

“Frankly, I was looking for you. Maybe not you specifically but a tramp I thought might be able to answer some questions concerning Reverend Howard.”

“Do you suspect a wayfarer killed the gentleman?”

“Yes, I do.”

“It’s always easier, isn’t it, to pin the crime on one of us? Saves you a lot of work.”

“That’s not the reason.”

Murdoch pulled the box out from underneath his desk and put Howard’s boots on the desk.

“Have you seen these before?”

“No, can’t say I have, but they look uncommon good boots. Not yours, are they?”

“They originally belonged to the murdered man. They were taken from his body by somebody who wore them in the workhouse, where they were stolen a second time. I obtained them from the second thief.”

“Must be good boots.”

Murdoch drummed his fingers on the desk. He wasn’t getting very far with the wily old fox. “Tell me, Traveller, have you ever been in Guelph?”

There was a flash of wariness in the man’s eyes. He paused to draw on the pipe again. “Yes, I’ve been there. Just last week as a matter of fact. It’s more comfortable than the House of Industry, I promise you that. Wish I could have stayed.”

Murdoch tapped at the boots. “Do you swear to me you didn’t take these from the pastor’s body?”

Traveller’s face was briefly hidden in a cloud of smoke. “I’m getting the impression it don’t matter much what I say. You’ve got me tagged as the murderer and I can protest till I’m blue in the face but you ain’t going to change your mind.”

He put down the pipe and held out his hands to Murdoch.

“You’d better put the cuffs on right now and make your arrest. It’ll look good for you.”

There was a knock on the wall outside and Seymour pushed through the reed curtain. He was carrying a plate on which sat a thick wedge of pork pie.

Murdoch held up his hand. “Never mind, Sergeant Seymour, Mr. Trevelyan isn’t hungry after all. In fact, he’s going back to the cell. Put the handcuffs on him.”

Seymour deposited the plate on top of the filing cabinet by the door and Murdoch saw Traveller cast one quick glance at the aromatic pie.

Murdoch watched while the sergeant led the docile tramp away.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

S
EYMOUR RETURNED
a few minutes later.

“Are you going to charge him, Will?”

“Not at the moment. Contrary to what he thinks, I’m not partial to making tramps scapegoats. He’s bloody evasive for sure but that might be habitual and nothing to do with the murder. But I do know this, George, our Mr. Traveller will only tell me when it suits him. I want you to get him to remove his boots and bring them here. He’ll have to go in his socks.” Murdoch pointed at the piece of pie on the cabinet. “Is there more of that?”

“Like I said, Katie made enough for an army. There’s at least two more servings left in the dish.”

“Good.”

Murdoch grabbed the plate and stuffed the pie into his mouth, swallowing it down in two gulps. Seymour grinned at him.

“Shall I give Katie your compliments?”

“Cardboard would have tasted good, but don’t tell her that.” He wiped his mouth with his handkerchief. “All right, let’s bring in Alf. You don’t need to cuff him.”

Seymour left, taking the plate with him, and Murdoch managed to drop the boots into the box again and put the watch underneath his notebook.

He could hear Alf giggling as they approached the cubicle. Seymour brought him in and indicated he should sit in the chair.

“Hello, Alf,” said Murdoch.

The boy stared at him in bewilderment. “Are you under arrest too?”

“No, lad. I’m actually a police detective. I was only pretending to be a tramp because I’m trying to find a very bad man.”

“Is he a tramp?”

“He might be.”

“Mr. Traveller isn’t a bad man, but Mr. Bettles is.”

“How long have you known Mr. Traveller?”

“A long, long time.”

“A few months? A year or more? How long exactly?”

Alf laughed. “Weeks and weeks. He looks after me.” Murdoch could see the lad was shivering with fear and he smiled at him.

“I just want to ask you a couple of questions, Alf, then the sergeant is going to take you outside and get you some hot pies with gravy. You don’t have to be afraid. Nobody will hurt you.”

Murdoch hoped he could make good this promise, but he also knew there was much truth in Traveller’s accusation. Tramps and simpletons were easy marks and Inspector Brackenreid, for one, wasn’t a patient man especially when a person of the better class had been killed.

He took the watch out of the drawer. “Have you ever seen this before, Alf?”

The boy nodded eager to please. “Yes, sir. I saw it just this morning. Did somebody pinch it?”

“Where did you see it?

“The pastor in the woodyard was wearing it. Don’t you remember? He looked at it a lot, I noticed.”

Murdoch sighed. He vaguely recalled Reverend Harris consulting a silver watch.

He leaned over and lifted out the boots from the box. “What about these? Have you ever seen anybody wearing these? You can look at them if you want to.”

Alf examined the boots, turned them over, bent back the soles, and sniffed at them. “Good boots,” he said, a note of pride in his voice. Alf knew boots.

“I want you to think back. Not last night, but the night before that, did you notice if any of the tramps were wearing them?”

Alf thought about the question sombrely. “Them’s good boots. You’d better take care of them. When you get into the bath they could get nicked, good boots like that.”

Murdoch dragged over the other box with his foot and took out the pair of boots he’d found in the greenhouse.

“Have you seen these boots, Alf?”

The boy laughed out loud. “’Course I have. They’re mine.”

Murdoch did a quick check of the boy’s feet. He was wearing shabby black boots very like the ones on the desk. “You’ve got your boots on, Alf. Did you have two pairs?”

Puzzled, Alf looked down, then grinned. “No, only ever had but one. They could be mine though.”

Murdoch reached over and patted the boy’s arm. “Thanks, Alf. Do you have a family you could go and stay with?”

“No, sir. They throwed me out. ‘Alf,’ they says to me, ‘you eat more than the horse does so we’re throwing you out.’”

“Where did you live?”

Again Alf assumed his thoughtful expression. “I don’t rightly remember, sir. In the country it was though.” He giggled. “‘You eat more than the horse,’ they says to me.”

Murdoch reached in his pocket and took out a fifty-cent piece. “Here, my lad. One of the constables is going to take you to get something to eat and you can have whatever you want.”

“Cake and custard. Can I have cake and custard?”

“Of course. As much as you can get for fifty cents.”

Alf grabbed Murdoch’s hand and planted a wet kiss on it. “Thank you, Mr. Williams. I’ll save some for you for tonight.”

There was no point in explaining to him that he wouldn’t be coming back to the workhouse, so Murdoch just nodded. He called for Fyfer to collect him and as they were leaving, Alf asked, “Is Mr. Traveller coming for cake too?”

“Not at the moment. He’s helping us to find the bad man.”

“That’s Mr. Bettles. He was going to hurt me. You and Mr. Traveller saved me.”

Alf looked as if he was going to rush over and give Murdoch another kiss, but Fyfer tugged his arm and led him away.

Murdoch went through the same routine of hiding the watch and the boots. He hadn’t really expected Alf would be of much help, but he’d had to try it.

There were footsteps in the corridor and the now familiar smell of sulphur wafted over as Higgins pushed Bettles through the reed curtain into the cubicle and shoved him into the chair.

“The man thinks he’s a barrister. He keeps moaning that we’re not telling him what he’s being charged with.”

Bettles looked like a casualty from the battlefield. The doctor had trimmed away his hair where the axehead had cut him and wrapped his head in a bandage, now bloodstained. The bruise under his eyes was turning yellow at the edges.

“As I live and breathe, it’s Mr. Williams. That is unless you have a twin who’s a down-and-outer, which I’m inclined to doubt. How’s the mayor going to react when he discovers one of his officers is eating at the taxpayers’ expense?”

To Murdoch’s gratification, he seemed genuinely surprised. Higgins, who didn’t know about Murdoch’s undercover sojourn into the workhouse, looked puzzled. Murdoch nodded at him to leave and faced Bettles.

“I didn’t get much sleep, the food was both lousy and inadequate, and I’ve hurt my back. I’m telling you right now, I’m not in a good skin this morning and I don’t have patience for somebody trying to throw out horse plop. I am investigating a serious crime and you, Mr. Bettles, are a suspect. Do I make myself clear?”

Bettles rubbed his knuckles against his forehead like a sailor. “Ay, ay, sir. What you say is clear enough, but I don’t have a frigging notion what this serious crime is that I’m supposed to be party to.”

Murdoch stared at him for a moment. Bettles had light blue eyes, cold and lifeless as the scales of a dead fish. He could read nothing there, except wariness. He put the pair of boots and the watch on his desk.

“Do you recognize any of these objects?”

“Am I allowed to touch?”

Murdoch nodded and Bettles took his time examining each boot.

“These here look like any dozen tramps might have on their feet, but these ones are good boots. What do you mean ‘recognize’? They ain’t mine, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“Do you know whose they were?”

“Sure do. Our friend Traveller was wearing them on Tuesday when we went into the workhouse.” Bettles scowled at Murdoch. “Don’t tell me the old cove is accusing me of stealing his frigging boots? Is this the serious crime you’re talking about?”

“You know bloody well it isn’t. We’re talking about a murder here, Mr. Bettles. These boots belonged to the murdered man. They were stolen from his body. Would you be prepared to go into a court of law and swear that you saw Mr. Trevelyan wearing them on Tuesday night?”

Bettles leaned back, a smirk of satisfaction on his face. “That depends. Memory can be so unreliable, can’t it? We tramps tend to stick together. I wouldn’t want to get him in trouble if it weren’t true. You said I was a suspect. Is that just because I’m a wayfarer or have you got something else to pin on me?”

“Where did you spend Tuesday afternoon, Mr. Bettles?”

“Ah that’s easy. I was nice and cozy in the pauper’s common room at the House of Providence. The nuns took pity on me because I had a touch of bronchitis and they let me sit by the fire all afternoon. You can ask them.”

“I intend to.”

“I should have stayed there, but my three days was up and I was sick and tired of the idolatry.” He squinted over at Murdoch. “I’m a Methodist born and raised.”

“But you’ll accept their charity.”

“I’ll accept the wampum of a savage if he gives me grub.”

Murdoch found himself drumming on the table again. He knew Bettles was too wily to offer an alibi that couldn’t be proved. Too bad. Murdoch had been looking forward to incarcerating him.

“By the way, you’ll find out when you ask the Sisters that Kearney was with me. I thought I’d save you the trouble of questioning him.”

“That’s considerate of you.”

Bettles shrugged. “Who went to the Grand Silence, then? Who was it you think Traveller did for?”

“I didn’t say Jack Trevelyan did for anybody. But I’m investigating the murder of a man named Charles Howard. He was a pastor.”

“What happened? Did his sins catch up with him?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well it wouldn’t be a thief that killed him, would it?”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Them church coves don’t usually have much dosh. No, correction. They don’t usually
carry
much dosh with them in their pockets and such so as folks will think they’re Christly but as we all know most of them are a bunch of hypocrites.” For the first time, Bettles’s eyes had life in them. “I know you despise us men who have come down in the world and need to beg for our supper, but let me tell you, Mister Detective, you get to know the ways of the world when you’re looking up from the bottom.”

“Name names.”

Bettles laughed. “I have a funny kind of brain, mister. Memories come and go like birds on a branch. Sometimes they land and sometimes they don’t.” He touched his forefinger to the side of his nose. “Just let me know if there’s anybody you particularly want to hear about and if I know, I’ll tell you.”

Murdoch wanted to reach over the desk and knock the smirk off his face and he might have if he wasn’t virtually crippled. But he also knew that Bettles was hardened against intimidation or threats of any kind. All the currency the man had was the insinuation, probably real enough, that he had secret information.

“The thing with detective work, Mr. Bettles, is that you never know how long an investigation is going to last. I’m going to have to keep you here until we’ve made more progress.”

“That don’t worry me. It’s warm enough and I know by law you’re going to have to feed me. It’ll be a nice change from chopping logs.” He stood up. “We’re done then?”

Murdoch raised his voice and called to the constable who was outside in the corridor.

“Take Mr. Bettles back to the cell.”

“Do you want to talk to the other fellow?” Higgins asked.

“Not now. Get Crabtree to take his statement concerning his whereabouts on Tuesday afternoon.”

The constable took hold of Bettles’s arm and led him out. Murdoch got to his feet and a stabbing pain ran up his back. He managed to straighten up slowly. “Did his sins catch up with him?” Bettles had asked. The trouble was the question was a valid one.