A Journeyman to Grief, page 11
The last page was filled with a large, childish scrawl and sure enough there were the words from the piece of paper: The Master. Advance, Retreat, and so on.
“You look surprised, detective. Did you think coloured folk don’t know how to read and write?”
“’Course he don’t think that, Linc. But does that answer your question, Mr. Murdoch?”
“Why didn’t you tell the constable that at the time? Constable Crabtree said you wouldn’t offer any explanation and you were quite belligerent with him.”
Elijah looked down at the table. “Begging your pardon, sir. But the constable was trampling all over my own place as it were. I got riled up a bit, that’s all. I didn’t feel like answering what is nobody’s business but my own. And Linc here can attest to the fact that I have a stubborn streak a mile wide.”
“That’s right, he does.”
Elijah tapped on the sheet of paper. “I can see looking at this list of words, they might seem odd but they don’t really seem relevant to what happened to Mr. Cooke, do they? I mean there is ‘hit’ and ‘mark’ and ‘fall,’ but that’s about it.”
You are a cunning fox, aren’t you? Murdoch thought. There’s just enough plausibility in what you’re saying. Enough but not sufficient. He decided to try another tack.
“Mrs. Cooke told us that her husband received a message while he was finishing his supper that seemed to alarm him. He rushed out immediately but didn’t tell her why.” The two brothers were both looking at him now with real curiosity.
“The butler said the message was delivered by a man he hadn’t seen before. He described him as stocky build, about five-foot-four or-five inches tall. He was wearing a fedora pulled down tight over his eyes, a long dark overcoat, and he had a white muffler wrapped around the lower part of his face. It was a fairly mild night, so I am assuming the scarf was to disguise him rather than for warmth. There wasn’t a good light in the porch so the butler can’t give a really good description. However, he is sure the man was a negro.”
Lincoln pounded on the table. “What do you mean, ‘sure he was a negro’?”
“His skin was dark.”
“Anybody can black their faces and pretend to be one of us. Only last month our pastor had to go to city council and protest about the minstrel show that was coming to town. They’re all white men and they daub on burnt cork and paint their lips red and never heed for a minute that they are insulting us coloured folk. It would be easy for a white man to darken himself and make out he was a negro.”
Crabtree was making it obvious what he thought, but Murdoch didn’t answer. It was something he hadn’t considered. Lincoln was quite right, and if it was true what he said, the messenger had certainly succeeded in throwing suspicion onto the stable hand.
“Has anybody been around the livery recently who might fit the description I just gave you?” Murdoch asked.
Elijah shook his head. “Nobody.”
Lincoln poked him. “What about that coloured woman you told us about? She was a stranger. You should tell the detective what happened. We want to help him solve his case, don’t we?”
Elijah shrugged. “There’s nothing to tell, really. This woman was just a casual visitor. She only came by once. About a week ago, it was.”
“What did she want?”
“She said she was the personal maid for an American visitor, a widow lady who wanted to inquire about hiring a cab privately while she was in town. That’s all there was to it. She said she would come back the next day and make final arrangements, but she never did.”
“Can you describe this woman?” Murdoch asked.
“I suppose so. She was dark-skinned, medium height, a bit on the stout side.”
He paused, clearly reluctant to say much.
“What else?” Murdoch asked impatiently. “What was she wearing? How old would you say?”
Elijah shrugged. “Quite well dressed but very sober, as I recall. Her walking suit was navy or black. She had on a felt hat with a bit of ribbon, but, as I say, all very plain. Age? Not young, probably close to fifty.”
“And you’d never seen her before?”
“Never.”
“She could have been scouting out the place,” said Lincoln. “Whoever attacked Mr. Cooke knew there wouldn’t be anybody around on Wednesdays after half past seven.”
“How did you know what time Mr. Cooke died?” Murdoch jumped in.
Lincoln grinned. “Elijah told me he found him at half past nine. He locked the stable sharp at half past seven, then came home for his supper. What happened must have been between those two times. And in case you was wondering, we were all of us here and can vouch for him.”
Murdoch looked at Elijah. “Why did you bother to come home? You had to get right back again to feed the horses. Why didn’t you stay at the stables?”
“My children like to see their pa before they go to bed. My wife and me say their prayers with them. So I come home whenever I can.”
“I could call them down here and ask them if that’s true,” said Murdoch.
That got a reaction out of Lincoln especially, but Elijah also tensed. “It’s your right to do that, mister. They’ve been brought up to be truthful, but if it isn’t absolutely necessary, I’d prefer they were left out of it. It’ll only upset them. Look, we have a Bible over there on the dresser. If you want me to, I’ll swear on it that I didn’t have nothing to do with Mr. Cooke’s death.”
His brother shoved back his chair and went to the dresser. “Here’s the Good Book, mister. I’ll swear on it too if that’ll keep you away from those children. We’re telling the truth.”
He brought a large black Bible to the table and stood with it at the ready. Murdoch waved him away. “This isn’t a law court. Was anybody else in the barn when this strange woman appeared?”
“There may have been, I don’t really remember. If the cabbies aren’t working they sit out in the room next to the tack room, but she didn’t come in really, just stood in the doorway.”
“And that was all she said to you, that she wanted to hire a carriage?”
Elijah bit his lip. “I suppose we remarked about the rain. It was coming down cats and dogs at that point…oh, she did ask me about church. She said she’d heard about a preacher named Archer and she wondered if he was still with us because she wanted to go to church. I said as how he was elderly now and wasn’t preaching any more but Pastor Laing was and he could drum up as powerful a sermon as I ever heard. She asked where the church was, I told her, and that’s it.”
“Did the woman mention where she was staying?”
“No, she didn’t. As I said, the encounter only lasted five minutes or so.”
“I’m surprised you did remember such a casual meeting when you have such a busy job.”
Elijah gave him the same rueful smile. “Mr. Murdoch, if you’re a coloured man, you remember another coloured folk coming into your barn even if there was a hundred white folk passing through.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It wasn’t hard to tell that Constable Crabtree was angry, and when they got outside to where they’d left their wheels, he couldn’t contain it any longer.
“I know you’ve got your reasons, Mr. Murdoch, but for the life of me I don’t see why you didn’t clap the cuffs on that man. On both of them, for that matter. As guilty a pair as I’ve ever seen.”
“They were willing to swear on the Bible, George.”
“Ha. That might mean something to men like me and you but not to them. You might as well hand the city directory to a savage and get him to swear his oath on it. Don’t mean nothing. You notice how quick they were to offer when you said you’d question the children. They might have had a different tale to tell before their pa got to them. I was sorry you didn’t go and get them like you said you would.”
Murdoch was surprised at his constable’s vehemence. George was normally mild-mannered and kind in his dealings with people of lesser status.
The constable continued, “That story about another darkie coming to the stables. That was intended to throw us off the scent. You did give away a description of the so-called messenger.”
Murdoch winced. “That was probably a mistake.”
“Not if they were innocent it wasn’t, but Green conveniently remembered the woman after you said that.”
“Why say it was a woman, though? If he was lying, why not just say a man who fitted the description the butler gave us came to the stables?”
“He’s cunning, that’s why. Didn’t want to make it too obvious. I’d wager both him and his brother are in on the attack. You said yourself you thought it would have taken two people. I’d bet Lincoln was the one who went to Cooke’s house, wrote something that would bring him running, and there they were waiting for him. They intended to kill him after the whipping. It had to be somebody who knew the stable would be empty of cabbies and also somebody who could get in. If you want my opinion, sir, we should get a warrant and search that house top to toe, if it isn’t too late, that is.”
They biked on for a while longer, not talking. Murdoch chewed over what Crabtree had said, some of which he’d thought himself. However, in spite of the nagging dissatisfaction, he’d been inclined to believe both brothers. It wasn’t just the resort to the Bible that had convinced him, he thought Green’s concern for his children was genuine.
“I’m going to proceed initially as if what Green said is true about this visitor. It may be important, it may not, but at least if we find her, we’ll know if he was telling the truth. A middle-aged woman isn’t going to walk too far in the pouring rain. The weather was terrible all last week. I know I didn’t even get out my wheel. If she is indeed a visitor with her mistress, they must have been staying not too far away.”
They were approaching Church Street as the bell of St. James Cathedral tolled out the half-hour. Murdoch braked hard. Crabtree sailed on until he realized what was happening. Murdoch called after him.
“There’s somebody I have to see, George. I’ll join you at the station in an hour.”
Crabtree turned back. “Is there anything I should do in the meantime, sir?”
“Get me a list of all the hotels and guest houses that are within walking distance of the livery. Most hotels these days have telephones and so does the livery. I’m wondering why if this unknown woman wanted a cab, she didn’t ring for one.”
Crabtree couldn’t hide his skepticism, but he saluted, remounted, and biked off while Murdoch retraced his path, heading for the Ollapod Club.
He was there in less than five minutes. The house was a grand pile surrounded by well-tended grounds and a high wrought-iron fence. A discrete brass plaque on the gate read, Please ring the bell for admittance. Murdoch was about to obey when suddenly a man virtually leaped out from behind one of the trees that lined the path and hissed, “Don’t touch it.” For a brief second, Murdoch thought a lunatic was addressing him, then he recognized Inspector Brackenreid. He was dressed in indoor clothes, bedroom garb to be exact. A blue velvet dressing gown underneath which his white stockinged, rather bandy legs protruded. He had on leather slippers and a night cap with a tassel. His hair was wild and dishevelled.
“Come through quickly, Murdoch. They mustn’t see you.”
He opened the gate and hustled Murdoch by the arm to the shelter of the big tree.
“Sir –”
“Shh. Don’t talk just yet.” Brackenreid peered around the tree trunk. “All clear. Follow me.”
He scuttled across the lawn to a big maple and Murdoch had no choice but to follow him. Once there, Brackenreid did the same careful scanning of the territory, then beckoning, he took off again, this time to a small shed tucked beneath some evergreens farther away from the house. He flung open the door and dragged Murdoch inside. It was a tool shed and smelled of earth, overlaid with the pungent aroma of cigars. There was a chair in there and an upturned box. Brackenreid plumped himself down on the box. He was panting.
“Sit down, Murdoch. We don’t have a lot of time. They’ll be looking for me soon.”
Cautiously Murdoch took the seat, afraid the inspector had taken leave of his senses.
Brackenreid saw his expression and he flapped his hands irritably. “I’m quite sane, don’t worry. But this place is beset with rules and if you break them you lose privileges. That’s why I’m still in these damn nightclothes. You know me, punctuality is not one of my virtues. I was late for meals two times in a row. They take your clothes away when you’re first admitted and you only get them back if you do what you’re told and follow the rules.”
The late-afternoon sun was fading rapidly and the shed was gloomy. However, Murdoch could see well enough the changes in the inspector’s face and body. He was several pounds lighter than when Murdoch had seen him last and most of the puffiness around his eyes had gone. Except that his hair was standing on end, he looked much healthier.
“The program does seem to be agreeing with you, if I may say so, sir.”
Brackenreid snarled at him. “I might as well be in one of our own jails. Every minute of the day is accounted for. There are morning meetings with prayers, hot baths in the afternoon with a massage every second day. They claim that music heals you, so in the evening there is singing together or a musical entertainment that consists of caterwauling violins most of the time. I suppose you could call that healing, if you mean it makes you want to get out of here as fast as you can. If it’s not that it’s a talk by Cavanaugh, the Irish rogue who runs the place, or one of the former residents who rubs it in your face how well he’s doing after the cure. And all of that sandwiched between three meals a day and a morning and nighttime purge. Not to mention having to line up four times a day for our medicine.”
He stood up and, moving aside a clay pot, felt along the top shelf by the door.
“Ahh, here we are.” He took down the stub of a cigar and a box of matches. “They won’t let us smoke either, but I was able to smuggle some of my havanas into this shed. I’d offer you one, Murdoch, but this is my last.” He leaned into Murdoch and sniffed. “You’ve been smoking recently, unless my nose deceives me.”
“Er, yes. In fact, to be honest, I took the liberty of having one of yours…when I used your office as you so generously offered me.”
Murdoch watched the inspector, readying himself for a reprimand, but Brackenreid actually smiled. “You did, did you? Good, aren’t they?”
“Yes, sir. Very tasty.”
Brackenreid blew out some thick smoke. “We’re allowed one hour private time a day,” he continued. “I’m supposed to stay in the lounge, but it was mild enough to come out and walk in the grounds. I never thought I’d appreciate solitude as much. One of the worst things about this place is that fellow I sent to the station, Earl Cherry. He’s my personal attendant, and he never lets me out of his sight. He’s always talking to me, never stops. He’s so damned encouraging, it makes me sick. Two days ago I was on the point of walking out and he stopped me. Made me stay in my room while he and Cavanaugh went through all the virtues of temperance and the vices of drink. They kept saying I was changing my life, and it was worth all the pain and torment I was going through…”
He stopped and Murdoch could see drops of spittle in the corners of his mouth.
“They do have a point, sir. You do look very well, indeed. Better than I’ve seen you in a few years.”
“You don’t understand how difficult it is. You’re probably a teetotaller.”
“I’m not. I enjoy a jar as much as any man. But I do know what havoc a drunk can cause in a family.”
Brackenreid stared at him. “You do? How?”
“My father, actually.”
Murdoch could feel the bitterness on his tongue. After all these years, it was still a painful subject. Fortunately, Brackenreid didn’t press him.
Murdoch continued quickly. “I must say, sir, that I admire your resolve. It takes courage to change your ways so drastically.”
Brackenreid scrutinized his face for sincerity, then he sighed. “I don’t know if I can accept that compliment, Murdoch. The truth is my wife and father-in-law approached Mr. Cavanaugh, and the three of them essentially held me prisoner in my own bedroom while they brought home to me in no uncertain terms the error of my ways. Both my marriage and my job were at stake and the good opinion of everybody we knew. Cavanaugh, of course, had a lot to say about his program and how successful it was. How could I refuse?”
“That is certainly a potent argument, sir.”
“It is. I was not unaware of the pain and anger I was causing to those who cared about me. Unfortunately, as Cavanaugh says, the demon drink had me firmly by the foot. He was running the show, not me. That’s what we’re aiming to reverse. To cast off the shackles of the slavish addiction, as he puts it, and emerge a free man. He’s partial to metaphors, is Cavanaugh.” He blew out more smoke.
“Why did you want to talk to me, sir? You said it was a matter of some urgency.”
“Yes. I know we’ve had our little set-to’s, Murdoch, but you’re one of the few people I feel I can trust. My wife means well, but she is completely under Cavanaugh’s spell. Whatever he says is gospel for her. They want me to stay here another month until I’m completely cured, as they put it, as if I’ve been suffering from measles or some such thing. I don’t need a cure. I’m not ill. I’m weak willed and I can’t let the drink alone, no matter what I tell myself. My own father was the same and most of the people I knew, men that is, were the same as him. I despise them and I despise myself.”
His voice was so harsh, Murdoch felt a pang of sympathy.
“Whatever reason we give for inebriety, surely that doesn’t matter so much as the solution to the problem. Cavanaugh’s has a good reputation and they claim a lot of success. If you can stand it, sir, a month should put you on the right path. After that it’s just a matter of sticking to it.”
“You sound like Earl. It’s so easy for somebody on the outside.”
He’d slipped back into self-pity, and Murdoch’s momentary sympathy vanished. This was the same old Brackenreid he knew and had run foul of so many times.
