A Journeyman to Grief, page 15
He replaced the cushions in the carriage, then breathed on the side lamp of the carriage and polished it with a clean cloth.
“And Mr. Cooke, who you said was quite close behind this coloured man, did he catch up with him at any point?”
“Not that I saw, but I was turning into the driveway by then so they were out of my view. But I thought it odd that Mr. Cooke didn’t call out a good night to me. He’s familiar with the carriage. He just looked like he was a man in fear for his life and he wouldn’t have noticed if the Prince himself in his royal coach was going down Mutual Street.”
Murdoch sighed. “Can you tell me why you assumed Mr. Cooke was a man in fear of his life?”
Whatling hunched his shoulders, tucked his chin into his collar, and trotted a few paces around the yard. “He was walking like this.”
This demonstration was slightly more convincing than the previous one but could as easily have been depicting a man who was facing into a heavy rain and getting soaked.
“Was he also wearing a hat?”
“No, which I thought was odd as it was pouring, but he wasn’t in his right state of mind, if you ask me. Besides, we know Mr. Cooke was going to meet his death, don’t we?” added Whatling.
We do now, thought Murdoch, but you didn’t know it then. It was unfortunate that Fyfer hadn’t got to the coachman before he’d heard any details about what had happened in the livery. He wondered how much Whatling had embroidered, not maliciously, but like so many witnesses, convinced after the fact about details they didn’t think of at the time. There wasn’t much else to be got from him, although the man looked as if he could go on talking ad infinitum. Perhaps being a coachman to a bachelor was a lonely job.
“Are you married, Mr. Whatling?”
“No, still hopeful. Why do you ask?”
“No reason, just getting all our facts straight. Are you acquainted with the Cooke household by any chance?”
“On occasion I drop in on my day off and have a chin with the butler, Ferguson. He’s from over the pond and my father was from there too, so we like to share stories, as it were.”
“And you have seen him since Mr. Cooke’s death, I presume?”
“Yes, I saw him when I went over to the house to give my condolences to madam.” Whatling was starting to look restive under all the questions. He wrung out his cloth in the pail of water and pointedly started to wipe down the wheels. Murdoch wasn’t finished with him yet.
“How did you hear about Mr. Cooke’s death?”
“Mr. Ferguson came by to tell me the news on Thursday night. He was dreadfully upset, poor fellow. He felt quite responsible because he was the one who had taken Mr. Cooke the message from the negro who came to the door. But I told him it was hardly his fault, was it? How was he to know the man was a murderer?”
“Quite so. We don’t even know if that was the case ourselves.”
Whatling gaped at him in genuine astonishment. “Who else would it be? When I realized I had seen the very man myself heading for the stables, we knew he was the one. The woman was probably in cahoots with him or was set to keep a lookout.”
“Did Mr. Ferguson have any theories as to why somebody would attack Mr. Cooke or what the message was that drew him away so urgently?”
Whatling rubbed hard at a muddy splotch. “You probably should talk to him yourself.” He paused and looked at Murdoch slyly. “I must say, he did tell me, in confidence of course, that Mr. Cooke had dealings with a fast crowd. This wasn’t the first time Ferguson had taken messages.”
“Really? Did he say what the others were?”
“No, he didn’t, but he suspects they were from local touts. Mr. Cooke had a taste for gambling.”
“Horses?”
“Horses and other things. Whatever sport was up, apparently. Lacrosse, boxing, skulling.” Whatling gave Murdoch another look. “He even made some bets on the police games last summer, which of course he shouldn’t have.” He shook his head. “Poor man wasn’t very successful, according to Mr. Ferguson. It caused, er” – he coughed delicately – “it caused, shall we say, some disagreements with Mrs. Cooke, who was dead against it. As are most of the ladies.”
He pulled a handsome silver watch from his waistcoat pocket and consulted it. “I’m sorry, sir, but I must get on with my business. Dr. Maguire is going out to dine this evening. Is that all you need to ask me?”
Murdoch hadn’t noticed the coachman being appreciably slowed down in his work, but he thought he’d got as much as he could at the moment.
“Thank you, Mr. Whatling, you have been very helpful. I may have other questions at a later date, and one of the constables will subpoena you to testify at the inquest. That should take place in a few days. We will let you know.”
“Testify? Oh dear, I’m not sure the doctor will like that. He has his reputation to consider.”
Murdoch was irritated. “First of all, it’s the law. You have no choice. And, secondly, I don’t see that you presenting your evidence honestly to the coroner will in any way reflect on your employer. Quite the opposite. You will be respected and admired for your acute observations.”
Whatling looked doubtful. “You say that, sir, but you’re not a coachman. People don’t want their servants to be the centre of attention, do they? Especially not when murder is involved.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
From Whatling, Murdoch went directly to Cooke’s house. Ferguson opened the door to him and flinched back when he saw who it was.
“Mrs. Cooke is not at home. She has gone to the stables to conduct affairs.”
“It’s actually you I’d like to talk to, Mr. Ferguson.”
“Oh dear. Perhaps you could step inside then.”
Murdoch did so and the butler closed the door quickly behind him.
“People do like to gossip, don’t they?” said Ferguson. They stood awkwardly in the hall. “How may I help with your inquiries, sir?”
Murdoch could see the man trying to pull the formality of his position around him like a tattered cloak.
“I just wanted to go over your statement again. If you don’t mind, I’ll sit here on the bench.” Murdoch sat down and took out his notebook. “You said that the person who brought the message to Mr. Cooke on the night he died was a coloured man?”
“Yes, sir. That’s right.”
“You described him as young?”
Ferguson pursed his lips. “It was dark and it’s a little hard to say with coloureds. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say of middle age or more.”
“What sort of build? Skinny? Fat?”
“Definitely not fat. I’d say, rather on the stocky side.”
“And this was no one you recognized?”
“No.”
“You have met Elijah Green and Thomas Talbert, the men who work at the stables, I presume?”
“Yes, on one or two occasions I believe both of them have come here to see Mr. Cooke about some matter of other.”
“And you’re sure it was neither man who brought the message that night?”
Ferguson pondered. “As sure as one can be about these matters. As I have said, it was quite dark in the porch and our interaction was very brief.”
“The message was in an envelope, was it not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We have been unable as yet to find either the contents or this envelope. Did Mr. Cooke leave it here by chance?”
“I believe not. Lucy would have found it and handed it to me. Besides, I waited in the dining-room pantry to see if there would be a reply and I saw Mr. Cooke placing the letter back in the envelope and putting it in his inner pocket.”
“Was there anything else that you noticed that might have come back to you on further reflection?”
“As a matter of fact, there was something. Mrs. Cooke spoke to Mr. Cooke quite sharply that he was going out so abruptly without finishing his supper, but he just said something like, ‘I’ve got to go to the stables, I won’t be long.’”
This was new information, and again Murdoch wondered how much Ferguson’s recollections were being influenced by Whatling’s and vice versa.
“It was raining heavily at that time. Did Mr. Cooke take a mackintosh with him or his hat, or even an umbrella?”
“He didn’t take anything. I was about to hand him the umbrella, but he had gone out of the door before I had the opportunity.”
Murdoch decided to get to the point. “I’ve heard that he liked to gamble. Did you know that?”
“My employers affairs are none of my business, sir.”
“Of course, but that’s not what I asked you, I merely wondered if you knew about his habits. Your friend, Mr. Whatling, seems quite aware of them.”
Ferguson flushed. “As I said earlier, people do like to gossip.”
“Was that a yes or a no answer?”
“In my position, one cannot fail to pay attention to visitors, and I must admit that I have seen some unsavoury men coming to the door.”
“A yes, then?”
Ferguson nodded. Murdoch wanted to shake it out of him, but he also knew that he was afraid for his job. If it got back to Mrs. Cooke that he had been telling tales, she might dismiss him at once and with no references. He was at an age where finding other work would be difficult.
“Thank you Mr. Ferguson. You have been most helpful.”
“Shall I tell Mrs. Cooke that you called?”
“I’m actually going to the stables now to see if I can find her.”
Ferguson let him out with the same furtive movements as before, and Murdoch got on his bicycle and headed for the livery. Mrs. Cooke was in the office, seated at the desk. She was dressed in mourning black but had tossed back her crepe veil. One of the cabbies, a lanky, rough-haired fellow, was standing in front of her, looking like a defiant schoolboy. Murdoch knocked on the window and when she saw who it was, she waved to him to come in.
“It wasn’t me, missus, I swear,” the man was saying angrily. “I’ve got a wife and five children, I’m not going to be cavorting all over the country in the middle of the night.”
Mrs. Cooke greeted Murdoch. “You’ve come at a good time, Mr. Murdoch. One of my employees is a cheat and a liar, and I am just trying to determine which one it is.” She wagged her finger at the cabbie. “This man is a detective. He’ll be able to tell if you’re lying or not.”
The cabbie justifiably glared at Murdoch.
“I might be of more use if you tell me what this is all about, Mrs. Cooke,” said Murdoch.
“I have discovered that one of my cab drivers is returning to the stables in the middle of the night and stealing one of the horse-and-carriages. I am trying to determine who is the culprit.”
“Begging your pardon, ma’am,” said the cabbie, “but how do you know it was one of us as did that? For that matter, how do you know the horse has been taken out?”
“Because, Mr. Wallace, when I came in early this morning, I discovered the carriage you had hired was quite filthy. Simply covered in mud. As for the horse you usually take out, it seemed quite worn out as well.”
“That horse is ready for the knackers. I can’t get any work out of him. In fact, if you check the sheet you’ll see I signed off early, which is what I had to do as he wouldn’t go no faster than a turtle no matter how I whipped him. As for the carriage being dirty, speak to Elijah Green. Perhaps he didn’t do his job last night.”
“I did. He says all of the carriages were cleaned before he went home. I am of the mind to believe him.”
Wallace shrugged. “Well, I tell you it weren’t me. You can ask my missus if you don’t believe me.”
Mrs. Cooke’s expression showed clearly what she thought of that, but she made no comment.
“Have you spoken to all the cabbies?” Murdoch asked.
“Yes, I have, and they all deny any knowledge.”
“Did you ask Musgrave?” snapped Wallace.
Mrs. Cooke stiffened. “Certainly I did. Why do you single him out?”
“No reason except I’d like to make sure nobody’s playing favourites in this here inquiry.”
Murdoch saw an angry flush sweep across Mrs. Cooke’s face. She was obviously aware of the gossip surrounding her and Musgrave.
“You might not consider it so serious, detective, but it is theft. How dare somebody take my carriages without permission. I would like you to pursue the matter.”
Murdoch shrugged. “I wish I could be of more help, Mrs. Cooke, but I can see no obvious explanation. At the moment, my other investigation is my priority. I was actually wanting to have a few words with you in private.”
“What about?”
Murdoch gazed at her in astonishment. “Your husband’s death, ma’am.”
“Quite so.” Her jet ear bobs jingled as she swung her head. “You can go, Mr. Wallace. But I am warning you, in my opinion, my husband tended to be too lax and I have no intention of continuing in that manner.”
And you’re going to lose a lot of your employees, thought Murdoch.
The cabbie left, anger in every movement.
Mrs. Cooke flashed Murdoch a self-satisfied smile. “You have to be firm with these people. They are like children and think they can get away with anything unless you show them from the beginning that they cannot. I’m sure some unscrupulous man thought he would take advantage of my misfortune to cheat me, but whoever it is has another think coming.”
She took out a black-bordered handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed at her eyes, which seemed quite dry. Murdoch almost expected her to throw her veil over her face as she transformed from hard-headed businesswoman to bereft widow.
“Have you made any progress with the case?” she asked.
“We are still gathering information, ma’am, which is why I wanted to speak to you.”
“What now?”
“I asked you before if your husband was a gambler and you denied it.”
“Of course I denied it. He was no such thing.”
“I have heard from different sources that, indeed, he was. That he was deeply involved with a gambling crowd.”
Mrs. Cooke drew in her breath sharply, rather like a fierce horse. “Who told you such dreadful lies? He was a church-going man and as honest as the day is long.” She leaned her head in her hands. “I can’t believe such slander is being spoken about him. Who told you?” she demanded again.
Murdoch wasn’t about to lose Ferguson his job. “My intent is not to malign your husband but to find out if he had enemies who wanted to do him harm.”
“Well, I have no such knowledge. He was a most respected and loved individual. It is as obvious as the nose on your face that he surprised a thief, a cruel and, if I may use the word, perverted man.”
“Mrs. Cooke, I have no desire to add to your unhappiness at this time, but your husband received a message that so alarmed him, he rushed from your house. Perhaps his assailant was a thief, but whoever it was knew enough about your husband to lure him to the stables. We have not found that message, so we are in the dark as to its contents.”
“I assume he was told that something was amiss, one of the horses taken ill, for instance.”
“Wouldn’t he have mentioned that to you? It would seem natural to do so.”
“My husband kept business matters to himself. He didn’t want to bother me with such things.”
“And yet you knew exactly how much money was in his safe.”
Mrs. Cooke turned quite red again. Tough as she was, she couldn’t control that telltale flush. “That is different. That was our livelihood, sick horses are not my concern, they are Elijah Green’s.”
“Mr. Musgrave told me that he overheard a quarrel between your husband and Green. Do you know what they were arguing about?”
“His wages probably. Green has worked for us for many years, and in my view he is quite adequately paid but you know how these people are, they’re never content. Mr. Cooke did mention to me on more than one occasion that Green was pressing him for a raise.”
Murdoch felt like catching her in her contradictions but refrained. Speaking of being a betting man, he would wager a week’s wages himself that Adelaide Cooke was the kind of woman who would winkle every detail of business out of her husband. She wasn’t sitting behind that desk with absolute authority for no reason. Whether this sharing included Cooke’s little sideline, Murdoch wasn’t sure.
“I also heard that you yourself recently had quite a barney with your husband.”
For a moment she looked as if she would explode into a flurry of protestations, but instead she nodded. “I regret to say that is true. It was nothing, just a squabble that married people have from time to time. I wished he would spend more time at home and he said he had the business to take care of. It was nothing more than that.”
Although she was presenting it as only a trifle, Murdoch had the feeling she was basically telling the truth. However, as the post-mortem had revealed, Cooke had contracted a venereal disease at some point. His adventures hadn’t been limited to placing wagers.
Mrs. Cooke tapped her fingers on the desk. “Are you thinking of arresting Elijah?”
“I do not have a suspect in mind at the moment, ma’am.”
“Good,” she said. “I can’t afford to be without a stable hand right now, and he is quite a reliable worker.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Crabtree had written out a list of hotels and guest houses that were within comfortable walking distance of Cooke’s Livery, and Murdoch decided that the nearest of them would be his next call. Even though he knew Ferguson and Whatling had talked over the events of Wednesday night, and had probably influenced each other, he saw no reason to doubt Whatling’s statement. The negro messenger was likely the same man the coachman had seen heading up Mutual Street in the direction of the stables. As for the woman by the tree, whether she was connected with the case or just an innocent passerby, at this point, Murdoch couldn’t tell.
Also gnawing at the back of his mind was an incident that had shaken the city two years earlier. A young man from an affluent and respectable family had been shot on the threshold of his own home. The victim had not died immediately and was able to give a description of his assailant, but for a while the police went off on the wrong track, searching for a slim, dark-skinned male. Shortly afterwards, a mulatto woman confessed to the crime. She had been seen on several occasions dressed in men’s clothes, and it was difficult to know what had shocked the city more, the shooting or the masquerade.
