Green stuck a pail underneath the spout and started to pump out water. Murdoch stopped him and took the handle.
“I’ll do this. How many do you need?”
“Each horse gets one pail full, and we’ve got a dozen horses.”
“Bring them then. I’ll man the pump.”
Green did as he was told, and for the next while they worked together, the stable hand carrying the pails to and from the stalls.
“How long have you been working for Mr. Cooke?”
“Twenty years.”
“And how old are you now?”
“Thirty-six.”
Murdoch had thought he was younger than that. He was wearing a snug-fitting woollen jersey, which revealed thick strong arms and wide shoulders, and his movements were easy and lithe. He was standing close to the hanging lantern and Murdoch noticed he had a small lump over his left eyebrow.
“How’d you get the goose egg?”
Green grimaced. “I bumped into a low-hanging beam. You’d think I’d know better by now, but it gets me all the time.” He went into one of the stalls and, shoving the horse aside with his shoulder, poured the water into the trough.
“Was Mr. Cooke a good boss?” Murdoch asked.
“As good as any, I suppose.”
“That sounds as if you didn’t much care for him.”
“Did it? It wasn’t meant to. I was his hired hand. It was a business arrangement.”
“Any idea who might have attacked him?”
Green concentrated on his task. “None at all.”
Murdoch felt exasperated with the man’s apparent indifference.
“Aren’t you worried about your job now that he’s gone?”
“Stable hands are always in demand.” He put down the pail and stroked the horse’s neck as it drank.
“I get the impression you’d miss these horses if you had to move,” said Murdoch.
“I’m not sure you’re right about that, sir. It’d be foolish to get attached to cab horses. They don’t last long after they come here.” He bent down and ran his hand over the horse’s hock, clicking his tongue softly. “Bendigo’s got a bit of swelling there. I’ll have to put a poultice on it. He probably should have a rest tomorrow, but he won’t get it.” He stopped.
Murdoch prompted, “Why won’t he?”
“Mr. Musgrave usually has him and he’s hard on his horses. Some cabbies won’t make the horse canter, especially at the end of the day, but he’ll always whip them up if it means an extra nickel.”
He came out of the stall and picked up another pail of water.
“Was Mr. Cooke a man of regular habits?”
“Very regular. He was here without fail, rain or shine, summer and winter, by nine o’clock in the morning. He’d leave for his dinner at midday, come back no later than two, then stay until his supper at half past six. One hour and a half for his meal, then back here until the last cab checked in, which might be about half-past eleven. Except for the Sabbath, when nobody works, and Wednesday, when the last cab has to be back by eight. He liked to supervise the comings and goings.”
“What about you? What sort of hours do you keep?”
“I come in round about six or half past six in the morning. I’ve got to feed and water the horses, then harness up those that are going out. I gets my supper at about the same time as Mr. Cooke, then I come back to clean out the carriages and tend to the horses.” He brought the empty pail over to the pump and waited while Murdoch filled it. “I finish by eleven o’clock most nights.”
“Those are policeman’s hours.”
“Are they? But like I said, I ain’t usually in Wednesdays or Sundays.”
Murdoch finished pumping. “That’s the twelfth, by my count. I’ll do it. Where do you want it?”
He picked up the heavy bucket.
“Amber’s the only one left,” said Green. “She’s in the last stall.”
The horse was a knock-kneed roan mare who pawed the ground and tossed her head as Murdoch stepped into the stall. Suddenly, she kicked out with her rear leg, just missing him but landing on the pail, sending it flying. The water splashed over his trousers and boots, soaking them.
“Whoa there.” He backed out quickly.
Green came over at once. “I should’ve told you not to get too close, sir. She’s a mean one, that. Don’t like nobody coming up behind her.”
Murdoch felt like a fool. He’d worn his best clothes and boots for the lecture and now look at them.
“Damn. You should have warned me.”
“Beg pardon, sir. Sometimes she’s like that, sometimes she ain’t.” Green took a piece of grubby towelling from the rail and handed it to him. “Why don’t you go into the office and dry off properly. Mr. Cooke has an oil heater in there.”
Murdoch figured Crabtree would be returning with Dr. Ogden in about half an hour, but he expected they’d be in the barn for some time longer. He didn’t fancy standing around with sopping-wet trousers.
“Have you got the key?”
“It’s not locked.”
“Never or just tonight?”
“Tonight. When I found him I ran to the telephone. I ’spected I’d have to break in, but the door was open. Mr. Cooke always kept it locked. He was nervous ’bout thieves.”
Murdoch dabbed at his trousers with the towel. “So far the key hasn’t shown up.”
Green frowned. “That so?”
“Which way did you come in?”
“Through the west side entry door. I do have a key to that.”
“Who else does?”
“Just me and Thomas Talbert. He helps out on Wednesdays and Sundays.”
“Not the cabbies?”
“No, sir.”
“What about the office?”
“Nobody but Mr. Cooke had that.”
“I’ll need the names and addresses of the rest of the cabbies and also your helper’s.”
“I’ll give you Thomas’s, but you’ll have to look in Mr. Cooke’s files for the others.”
Murdoch scrutinized him for a moment, but his head was turned away and revealed nothing.
“I’d better go and dry off a bit.”
Green pointed. “You can get to the office through the passageway down there. You don’t mind if I get on, do you?”
“No. I’ll come back to you later.”
Murdoch picked up one of the lanterns and, making sure to keep to the middle of the centre aisle in case he drew the ire of other fractious mares, he went in the direction Green had indicated. His boots squelched as he walked.
The door to the office was ajar and he stepped in, holding the lantern up high. It was a small room, better furnished than his own cubicle at the station. An oil heater was in the opposite corner from a safe, and the room was warm and the air redolent with the smell of good tobacco.
Murdoch sat down on a well-padded chair, pulled off his boots and socks, and placed them on top of the heater. He wrung a little more water out of his trousers. Blasted horse.
A rough sisal carpet on the plank floor scratched his bare feet as he padded over to the long bank of windows facing into the stable yard. From his desk, Cooke would have had a perfect view of the comings and goings of his employees. The desk had once been a fine mahogany one, but the surface was scarred with marks from matches allowed to burn down, and there was a light film of dust over everything and clumps of cigar ash. In the left corner was a clean, dust-free circle where he assumed the lamp now in the tack room had stood. On the right were several papers on a spike, a new-looking telephone, and an open box of cigars, half empty. Murdoch flipped through the papers briefly. They all seemed to be invoices, but he’d examine them more carefully later. He turned and swung the lantern in an arc around the room. There were two doors: one that led to the passage into the stables and the other likely to the street. He walked over to check. It was not locked and opened directly onto Mutual Street. He assumed Cooke had entered the livery stable this way, as it was the most direct. Was this where he’d received the blow to his head? Murdoch brought the lantern close to the floor, but the sisal was too rough to show any sign of a man being dragged. How had his assailant got in, and how had he got Cooke into the tackle room?
A pungent smell wafted over from the oil heater and he went to check on his socks. Not dry yet.
The large, elaborately decorated safe was locked. Next to it was a wooden filing cabinet. Murdoch opened a couple of drawers and found them untidily stuffed with papers. A cursory examination showed they were also business invoices. Hanging on a hook next to the cabinet was a clipboard with a pencil tied to it.
Murdoch unhooked the clipboard and checked the piece of paper. Today’s date was at the top, Wednesday, April 15, and underneath several scrawled signatures. In the column next to their names, the cabbies had written the time of taking out the carriages and the time of return. The third column was initialled D.C. Only four carriages had gone out on the afternoon shift. Two of the cabbies, R. Littlejohn and J. Wallace, had signed off at 5:00 and 5:10 respectively. The last two names were R. Robson and P. Musgrave. The former had signed off at 7:00 and the latter at 7:25. Cooke had not initialled these names.
A flash of light outside the window caught Murdoch’s eye. The side door across the yard opened and Constable Crabtree stepped in, dark lantern in his hand, followed by Dr. Ogden. Behind her, muffled in a black double-tiered cape, was Professor Broske.
Damn. They’d come sooner than he expected. He grabbed his damp socks.