Murdoch entered the house as quietly as he could. An oil lamp was burning low on the hall table, but there were no lights showing underneath the doors leading from the hallway. It was past one o’clock in the morning and everybody was sensibly asleep. He hung up his hat and coat, yawning enough to dislocate his own jaw. He stood still for a moment. He was so used to coming into the house and listening for Arthur Kitchen, his former landlord, it had become a habit. This time he was making sure no wail of a babe woken prematurely tore the air. Katie, one of his fellow boarders, had warned him that her twins were coming down with the sniffles.
He reached for the lamp and noticed there was a letter beside it. It was one he’d received from Beatrice Kitchen that morning and he must have left it in the kitchen. He put it in his pocket and started up the stairs, stepping carefully over the second step from the top, which always creaked badly. He should see to it. He was nominally the landlord now. When the Kitchens had moved to Muskoka in a desperate search for a cure for Arthur’s consumption, Murdoch had agreed to stay on in the house, rent-free, and look after the new tenants. Murdoch smiled to himself. Mrs. Kitchen, bless her heart, would probably be saying a dozen novenas if she knew what had developed in the household. In the front parlour were Katie and her twin boys. She had considered herself married and then, abruptly, a widow, but it transpired the marriage was a bigamous one, making her children bastards. Not that anybody in his house was going to bruit that abroad. Charlie Seymour, a fellow officer at number four station, was renting one of the upstairs rooms, and Murdoch was sure the once-confirmed bachelor was smitten by the young woman. She was a sweet-natured girl who also happened to be an excellent cook, so Murdoch wasn’t surprised Charlie was feeling the way he did. What would distress dear Mrs. Kitchen more than anything else, however, was the presence of the third boarder, Miss Amy Slade, schoolteacher, ardent and unapologetic New Woman, atheist, and the object of Murdoch’s affections.
At the top of the landing, he could see that the door to his little sitting room was open and the soft glow of a candle spilled out. He walked quietly down the landing and went in.
Amy was sitting in the armchair fast asleep. She was in her dressing gown, her hair in a night braid. He stood for a moment, still at the stage of love when it is a delight to study the sleeping face of your beloved and marvel at its mystery. Even in the shadowy candlelight, the softness of her well-shaped lips were visible and stirred him.
Suddenly she opened her eyes with a gasp. “Will, you startled me. What are you doing standing there?”
“Looking at you.”
“For how long?”
“Only a moment.”
“Thank goodness for that, I was probably sleeping with my mouth open.”
“No, you weren’t. And even if you had been I would still consider you a sight for sore eyes.”
She made a sort of harrumph sound and picked up the book that was lying in her lap. “I was intending just to wait for you and read a book, but I fell asleep. What time is it?”
“Almost half past one.”
“Why are you so late? Surely the lecture didn’t go this long? Don’t tell me you were called to a case.” She scrutinized his face for a moment. “You were. You’re wearing your detective look.”
“I’m not even going to ask what you mean by that, but yes, you’re right. Crabtree came to the lecture hall and fetched me.”
“A murder?”
“We don’t know yet, but it was very nasty.”
“If it’s all right with you then, you can tell me that part in the morning. I don’t want nightmares.”
He bent over and touched his finger to her chin tenderly. “Nightmares? I can’t imagine my brave Amy having nightmares.”
“But I do. You haven’t known me long enough yet.”
“I shall be glad to ensure that at any time, as you know.”
She smiled. “Speaking of beds, which you were about to, I had better get to my own. I believe the school inspector might pay me a visit tomorrow and I should have all my wits about me.”
“Was there a particular reason you were sitting up for me?”
“There was, but it can wait.” She gave him a quick kiss. “Good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”
In spite of his jangling alarm clock, Murdoch found it hard to wake up, and Amy had left by the time he went down to the kitchen. When he arrived at the station it was well after eight and later than he’d wanted. Gardiner was the sergeant on duty, Seymour having the luxury after a twenty-four-hour shift of a long sleep-in.
“Morning, Will. Crabtree has given me the report on last night’s incident and I took the liberty of sending him and Fyfer to start the search of the stable.”
“Thanks, John. Is there any tea brewed? I need a large cuppa before I join them.”
“I just mashed a pot half an hour ago. It’ll be good and fresh.”
The front door opened and a man entered. He was middle-aged, with a neatly trimmed beard and soberly dressed in a grey fedora and long tweed coat. Murdoch couldn’t quite place his occupation. Not a doctor, nor a minister, but with an air of calm authority about him that men in those professions often have. The man lifted his hat to Murdoch.
“Good morning, do I have the privilege of addressing Detective William Murdoch?”
“I’m Murdoch.”
The man extended his hand. “My name is Cherry, Earl Cherry, and I am actually conveying a message from Inspector Brackenreid.” He held out an envelope.
Murdoch opened it, bewildered. Brackenreid had been away from the station for the past few days, supposedly suffering from a bad cold, which had become code for a severe hangover.
Dear Murdoch. I know we have had our differences, but when it comes to the wall, you are a man whose discretion I trust. I am sending a friend of mine with this letter. I am temporarily incapacitated with the aftermath of what was probably an attack of gastritis and I am staying at a lodge to recuperate. With some time on my hands, I have need of something to read and what better opportunity than to make a thorough study of the minutes of the city council. I’ll settle for the ones for 1894. They are bound in a volume on the second shelf from the top in the bookcase by the window. As it includes the report of the chief constable, it would be better if it were kept private. I would like you to wrap it securely and give it to Mr. Cherry, who will bring it to me. Your help in this matter is much appreciated and will not be forgotten.
Your servant, Thomas Brackenreid.
Murdoch couldn’t hide his astonishment. It was impossible to imagine the inspector recovering on his sickbed with a rousing volume of the council’s report. Besides which, the request to keep it private was absurd. The minutes were available to the public, who were encouraged to look at them. Cherry was watching him.
“Mr. Brackenreid speaks highly of you, Mr. Murdoch.”
“Does he, indeed? He has certainly kept that a secret from me.”
“Ah,” replied Cherry with an understanding nod that to Murdoch looked far too professional. Now he knew what the man reminded him of. An undertaker.
“The inspector says he’s at a lodge, recuperating from gastritis. Where is he?”
Cherry glanced over at Gardiner with a little shake of his head. The sergeant was rather obviously trying to pretend he wasn’t listening.
“John,” said Murdoch, “would you be so good as to fetch me the tea you mentioned? And perhaps one for Mr. Cherry, here.”
“No, no, not for me, thank you, I just breakfasted.”
With some ill grace, Gardiner headed for the duty room where the officers took their tea breaks.
“Well, Mr. Cherry. What is this all about?”
Cherry lowered his voice. “This must be kept in strictest confidence, Mr. Murdoch.” He paused and Murdoch almost expected him to bring out a Bible for him to swear on.
“Inspector Brackenreid is at the moment a resident at the Ollapod Club.”
It was all Murdoch could do not to burst out laughing. So the old sot had finally admitted his problem. The Ollapod Club was a nobby establishment over on Wellesley Street that claimed to cure chronic addictions to liquor. It had the reputation for being a conscience sop to wealthy clientele who stayed there for months at a time in well-tended sobriety. Rumour had it, however, that when released, a high proportion of the graduates fell back into their old ways with alarming speed.
“I see you know of us, Mr. Murdoch. You can understand therefore why the inspector wants discretion. Not everybody would see his decision to enter the club in the correct light.”
“Which is?”
“An act of courage. To acknowledge one’s weaknesses is not always easy, especially for a man with such pride and integrity as Thomas Brackenreid.”
Murdoch had never previously ascribed these qualities to his inspector. It was a novel view.
Gardiner returned with a mug of tea that Murdoch accepted gratefully, gulping down a big swallow of the hot strong brew.
“Mr. Cherry, why don’t you have a seat on the bench over there. The inspector has asked me to find a certain book for him. I’ll just be a moment.”
Brackenreid’s office was on the second floor of the station. In spite of his complaints that the division didn’t receive enough money to function as he wanted it to, the inspector had furnished his office in a luxurious fashion. There was a thick Axminster carpet on the floor and the large desk by the window was polished oak, a far cry from Murdoch’s scarred and stained pine desk, which had been dragged in from God knows where.
The room was chilly because the fire hadn’t been lit for some days, but there was a lingering smell of the rich cigars that Brackenreid favoured. Murdoch went over to the glass-fronted bookcase. There were several fat volumes of the council’s minutes, all pristine-looking. He took down the one for 1894. What was Brackenreid after? He was about to riffle through the pages but found he couldn’t because they were glued together and there tucked snugly into a little nest cut into the pages was a silver flask. He pried it out and opened the top. One whiff confirmed what he suspected. The minutes of the city council for 1894 had become the inspector’s private cellar. No wonder he’d made a weak excuse for wrapping the book. If he was at a facility devoted to curing inebriates, it wasn’t too likely they would want him to have a flask of good whisky in his possession. What to do? Tell on him? Murdoch went over to the desk and took out a piece of paper.
Dear Inspector Brackenreid. I have great sympathy for your current struggle. Some days will be more difficult than others I’m sure, but I know you will come through it. All the best, William Murdoch.
He folded the paper and put it into the empty space. He poured the whisky into the aspidistra on the window ledge. It needed watering anyway. Then he took a sheet of one of the newspapers stacked ready to light the fire and wrapped the book. He found a ball of twine in the desk drawer and tied up the parcel, cutting the string with Brackenreid’s cigar clippers.
Cherry was waiting quietly in the hall. He did not seem to have engaged Gardiner in any conversation, and the sergeant was busy writing his night report in the duty roster.
Murdoch handed Cherry the package. “Here you are, sir. And please give the inspector my condolences and wish him a speedy recovery.”
“I will.” He paused. “I understand Mr. Brackenreid was requesting a particular volume. Was it in good condition, would you say? What I mean is, was it suitable for reading?”
There was a look of friendly skepticism in his eyes, and suddenly Murdoch liked him much better.
“Let’s say, I removed any unnecessary items so that the inspector wouldn’t be distracted.”
Cherry smiled. “Ah, I see. The old flask-in-the-middle trick, was it?”
Murdoch nodded.
“You’d never believe the tricks some of our pat – I mean, some of our guests can get up to when they are in still in the grip of the demon,” said Cherry. “I thank you, sir. Your good inspector might not have the same gratitude now, but he will, I promise you he will.”
“I hope so. How much longer will he be with you, do you think?”
“It depends on his progress. So far, he has been somewhat resistant. He did not enter the club solely of his own choice. I believe his wife was adamant.”
“A week then? Two? More?”
“I’m afraid it is impossible to tell, but what I will do is to see if he can give some direction as to what he wants done at the station here. We are trying to avoid his condition becoming widely known. He seemed to think you would be able to manage without him, but you might need a more formal acknowledgement. Perhaps he could appoint you deputy inspector or something like that.”
“Me? Oh I don’t think so. I doubt he’d want that.”
“No, I meant what I said, Mr. Murdoch. He does speak of you with admiration.”
Suddenly he glanced up at the clock on the wall. “My goodness, I am late. It will be time for the morning medicine and I should be there. Good morning to you, sir. And thank you for your help.”
He left and Murdoch picked up his mug. “I’m going to my office, sergeant. Tell Crabtree to come and see me when he gets back.”
Hmm…if he was deputy inspector for a few weeks maybe he could sit upstairs and enjoy a nice coal fire and a couple of cigars. Perhaps he’d been too hasty in emptying the whisky flask.