Murdoch was glad of the opportunity to clear his nostrils of the stink of death, and he bicycled slower than usual over to Shuter Street, where Thomas Talbert lived. The warm spring sun seemed to have drawn out half the city’s population, and Yonge Street was crowded with passersby. Women with enormous hats decorated with enough flowers to fill his front yard strolled arm in arm down the street, studiously ignoring the loud pleas from the shopkeepers standing outside their stores to “come in and look around, no obligation.” A flock of four or five boys, playing truant from school, raced alongside him in the gutter, pretending they were horses and agilely avoiding the droppings of the real creatures.
“Why aren’t you in school?” he called out, and they scattered into the crowd. He turned onto Wilton Street, less busy, but still humming. Two elderly priests in their saucer hats, countrymen for certain, dark crows amid colourful birds of paradise, threaded their way nervously in and out of the throngs of women. As he went by, Murdoch called out, “Bless me, fathers.” And they both hastily made the sign of the cross in his direction. He grinned. This life may be transitory, but it was preferable to the irrevocable stillness of death that he had just been so close to.
Mutual and Shuter Streets were a physician’s enclave with brass plates on almost every second gate. The houses were large and elegant with generous private grounds, all impeccably maintained by fleets of gardeners. Number thirty-three Shuter was a tall, narrow house that looked squeezed in as an afterthought between the two wider houses on either side. However, it, too, looked well cared for. There were bushes in the front yard, already in bud, and the flowerbed that edged the path was thick with yellow and purple crocus and scattered with snowdrops. The grass, albeit still anemic, was freshly raked, cleared of all the sodden leaves of autumn. Murdoch wondered how Mr. Talbert, a stable hand, could afford to live in such a nobby neighbourhood. He knocked on the door. The shiny brass knocker was in the shape of a horse’s hoof.
He didn’t have to wait long. The door was opened by a plump, pink-cheeked woman wearing the dark formal gown and white starched apron of a housekeeper. Murdoch tipped his hat.
“Good morning, ma’am. I wonder if I might have a word with Mr. Talbert?”
“He doesn’t usually see visitors in the morning. He does his correspondence.” Her voice was pleasant.
He took out his calling card and handed it to her. “I’m Detective William Murdoch from number four station. I’m afraid it’s a matter of some urgency.”
“Oh dearie me, is it about Mr. Cooke? We heard there was a terrible incident in the livery.”
Murdoch wondered how much had already been distorted by rumour. “Yes, ma’am. I am here concerning Mr. Cooke.”
“You’d better come in. I’ll see if Mr. Talbot is available.”
Murdoch stepped into the narrow foyer while she scurried away, disappearing through a curtained archway at the end of the hall. Sunlight was streaming through a beautiful stained-glass window above the door lintel, but there were no dust motes to catch the light in this foyer. There was a pleasant smell of beeswax, and the wooden floor gleamed with polish as did the simple coat stand and small table beside it. Murdoch was about to have a look at the framed pictures hanging on the wall when the housekeeper emerged.
“He said he’ll see you but for no more than an hour.” She smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid he can be rather determined about his timetable no matter who it is. Let me take your hat. Come this way, if you please.”
For a stout, middle-aged woman, she moved quickly and lightly. She pulled back the green flowered portière at the end of the hall and opened the door to usher him in.
“Detective Murdoch, Mr. Talbert.”
She bustled off immediately, leaving Murdoch on the threshold.
An elderly man with long white hair was seated by the fire, which had been built up to a roaring blaze, making the room stiflingly hot. He turned around at Murdoch’s entrance.
“You wanted to see me?” His voice was flat and unwelcoming, his expression suspicious and unfriendly.
Murdoch could barely hide his surprise. Talbert was a negro.
“You are Thomas Talbert, are you not? You work at the livery owned by Mr. Daniel Cooke?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I understand from your housekeeper, sir, that you already know about the death of your employer.”
Talbert stared at him for a moment, then he got out of his chair and walked over to the tea trolley that was nearby. He was a tall, wide-shouldered man, thin and straight-backed, who even at his advanced age emanated strength and authority. However, Murdoch wondered if he had even heard what he’d said or comprehended it.
“Mr. Talbert?”
“I do know. Elijah Green came and told me last night. He said Cooke had been whipped.” Talbert started to pour himself a cup of tea, his back toward Murdoch.
“The assault brought on a heart seizure, so it has become a case of manslaughter. Which is why I am here.”
“What do you want from me?” Talbert returned to his chair with his teacup in his hand. “Don’t tell me you’ve got me in your sights? Why is that, mister? Is it because I’m a nigger man? I’m a bit too old to be going around assaulting men, wouldn’t you think?”
His tone of voice was conversational, but a sharp edge was close beneath the surface and he’d got under Murdoch’s skin.
“I haven’t got you in my sights, as you put it. And, frankly, I had no idea you were a negro until I came into this room.”
For some reason that amused Talbert and he laughed out loud. “I could see that. It was written all over your face. For a frog, begging your pardon for the expression, you reveal too much. Just because I live on the same street as a dozen rich sawbones and my house is well kept and I have a nice plump pink housekeeper, you thought I was white. Must have been a shock when you found yourself staring at an old darkie.”
“A surprise, more like.”
Talbert waved in the direction of one of the chairs. “Why don’t you pull over that chair and sit down. And I suppose you’ll be wanting some tea?”
“Thank you, I’d like that.”
Talbert put his cup on the floor beside him. With a little grunt, he pushed himself to his feet and went over to an ornately embroidered bell pull beside the mantelpiece and gave it a hard tug.
Murdoch had never been in the house of a negro before, and he glanced around as discretely as he could. The room was well furnished and it looked like many others he’d been in. Not quite as jammed with furniture as some, but the pieces were of good quality, and like the foyer, any wood that was visible gleamed from beeswax. Over the mantel, there was a large oil painting of Jesus ascending to heaven, next to it, a large gold cross – without the crucified Christ that Murdoch was used to.
The housekeeper appeared immediately. “Yes, Mr. Talbert?”
“Bring another cup for the detective, will you, Mrs. Stokely? And if there’s any of your caraway-seed cake left, bring that too.”
She gave a little bob and hurried off. Talbert resumed his seat in the Windsor chair. He picked Murdoch’s calling card off the lap desk where he’d tucked it.
“So, Mr., er, Murdoch, just why have you come to talk to me?”
For some reason Murdoch couldn’t quite fathom, Talbert’s mood had altered and his tone was more friendly. He hadn’t yet expressed a single word of regret at Cooke’s death.
“Because I spoke to Elijah Green, who said you spell him off at the stables a couple of days a week. I understand you usually go in on Wednesdays.”
“I do, but I had a bout with my lumbago yesterday and begged off. Good thing I did, in the circumstances. I’m sure it wasn’t pleasant for Elijah to find the man strung up like that, but better him than me. He’s young.”
“Are you feeling better?” Murdoch asked politely. Talbert had been moving stiffly, but no worse than a man of his age.
“Yes, it’s almost gone. Thank you.”
“As I understand it, you used to own the stables. Or do I have that wrong?”
“Who told you that?”
“Nobody told me. I found a bill of sale in Mr. Cooke’s safe. I’m just making sure you’re the same Talbert who was named as the original proprietor.”
“Yes, that’s me. That was a long time ago.” He paused, then sipped some more tea. “Robbed, was he?”
“Why do you say that?”
Talbert chuckled. “Easy to work that out. You said you’d been looking in his safe. Probably Adelaide Cooke made you check, didn’t she?”
Murdoch shrugged. He’d never felt so much on the defensive during an interrogation.
“The first thing on that woman’s mind would be money,” Talbert continued. “She’d say he was robbed even if he weren’t. Dan was a fool about his money. He liked to see it mount up so he could gloat over it, but I doubt he let his missus know everything he had.”
There was a quick tap on the door and Mr. Stokely entered carrying a dainty china cup and saucer. She went to the trolley.
“Shall I pour, sir?”
“Yes, please. I hope you like your tea robust, Mr. Murdoch, because that’s what it is.”
“I do.”
Mr. Stokely smiled. “Sugar?”
“Two lumps and some milk will do fine, thank you, ma’am.”
“There was no more cake, Mr. Talbert.”
“Mr. Murdoch’s loss.”
The housekeeper was addressing her employer formally, but there was an easiness between them that seemed to Murdoch to come from more than long service. Or was he misreading the comfortable sense of warmth between then?
Another quick bob and she left. Talbert waited until Murdoch had sipped his tea.
“Indeed.”
Talbert helped himself to more tea. “Daniel kept a revolver in the drawer. Did you find it?”
“No we haven’t as yet.”
Talbert leaned back against his chair, his long, wavy hair showed startlingly white against the red brocade.
“You’re probably expecting me to express some sorrow for the poor deceased, some indignation about what has befallen him.”
“People react differently. Maybe you’re a man who doesn’t show his feelings.”
Talbert guffawed. “But I’m a darkie. Don’t you know all us coloured folks are emotional to the point of excess? We can’t help ourselves, so I’ve heard.”
“I have no comment about that, Mr. Talbert.”
“Good. The truth is that Cooke and I didn’t move in the same circles. I hardly saw the man.”
It wasn’t quite what he’d conveyed earlier, but Murdoch let that ride.
“We know that Mr. Cooke died sometime between eight o’clock and half past nine last night. Do you mind telling me where you were you at that time, Mr. Talbert?”
“I was right here. Same chair, same room. I never go out at night.”
“Is there anybody who can vouch for you?”
“Mrs. Stokely will. She has a room upstairs, but she always keeps me company in the evening. But you can’t ask her now, I heard her go out. It’s market day.”
“I’ll have to come back and talk to her.”
“Suit yourself, but she won’t say anything different.”
“Why? Because you’ll tell her not to?”
“No, because it’s the truth.”
Talbert was probably old enough to be Murdoch’s grandfather, but there was nothing frail about him. From the beginning he had taken charge of the situation and kept Murdoch off balance.
“Did Mr. Cooke have any enemies that you know of, Mr. Talbert?”
“He was a boss and he was well off. That’ll get you enemies every time. There’s always men who like to grub around in their own jealousy and malice.” Talbert dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. “He was also a man who enjoyed a little flutter now and again so he knew a few touts. He wasn’t always quick to pay his debts, perhaps one of them lost patience.”
Murdoch put his cup and saucer on the trolley and took out his notebook. “Do you know the names of these men?”
“No, not a one. I’m not a gambler myself. I don’t like to squander my hard-earned money.”
“Would anybody else know who these men were?”
“That’s for you to find out, isn’t it? I only go to the livery twice a week. I didn’t hob and nob with the others, nor they with me.”
“Did Elijah Green and Cooke get along?”
“’Course they did. Why shouldn’t they? Elijah took damn good care of those horses, and Dan got away with paying him a pittance because he’s a coloured man.”
“What about the other cabbies? What’s your opinion of them?”
“I don’t have any one way or the other. We don’t mix.”
“Mr. Wallace implied there might be something a little untoward going on between Mrs. Cooke and Mr. Musgrave.”
Talbert laughed. “That’s hard to believe. She’s not the most attractive specimen of the fair sex I’ve ever known. But there’s no accounting for taste, is there? And now I suppose she will inherit a nice sum of money. That can surely turn a pig’s ear into a silk purse, can’t it? You should investigate those two, Mr. Murdoch. Dan’s death sounds suspiciously convenient to me and Musgrave’s a man I wouldn’t trust as far as I could throw him, which isn’t far these days. He has a keen nose for which side his bread is buttered.”
Murdoch put away his notebook.
“That’s it, then? You’re done?”
“For the moment. But there is one thing I could ask you…you sold your livery to Mr. Cooke for a paltry two hundred dollars. Why was that?”
This clearly wasn’t a question Talbert was expecting and he paused for a moment.
“I’d had a run of bad luck, horses getting ill, a fire in the tack room. He bailed me out. At the time I was grateful for whatever I could get.”
“It must have been difficult to go from being the boss to being an employee.”
The old man’s face revealed nothing. “I didn’t work for him right away. I did other things. I’ve only been going into the stable the last couple of years. Elijah asked me and I accepted to help him out.” He raised his head and glanced over at the clock on the mantelpiece. “That’s all the time I can spare you, detective. I have more letters to write. Your hour is up.” He picked up his lap desk and began to shuffle through sheets of paper.
Murdoch stood up. “Thank you for your co-operation, sir.”
Talbert waved his hand at the door. “Let yourself out, will you?”