Somebody had put two large clay pots of early daffodils beside the station door. Murdoch leaned his wheel against the wall and went inside.
“You’re looking a bit knackered, Will,” said Charlie Seymour, who was sitting at the duty desk. To Murdoch’s ears, the sergeant’s voice was tinged with reproach. Murdoch suspected he disapproved of the relationship between he and Amy Slade. It’s not me who won’t make it legal, he thought.
“I am. I didn’t get home until the early hours of the morning,” answered Murdoch, trying not to sound defensive. “You know about the case, don’t you?”
“I do. Crabtree and Fyfer filled me in. It’s a strange one. Any suspects?”
Murdoch shrugged. “You know how it is at this stage. Could be anybody. There are several unpaid tradesmen who might have lost their patience. Talbert, one of the stable hands, said Cooke ran with a fast crowd and liked to gamble. Talbert’s an old man, but he could be carrying a grudge from years ago when, I believe, Cooke cheated him over the purchase of his livery. Mrs. Cooke says her husband was robbed. One of the cabbies says another cabbie, Musgrave, was interested in Mrs. Cooke and implied he might have disposed of Mrs. Cooke for that reason. Another man claims to have witnessed a right barney between Mrs. Cooke and her husband a few days ago. Then Crabtree found a piece of blood-stained sacking in the closet of the other stable hand, Elijah Green, plus two Indian clubs and a strange-sounding note, so he’s putting his money on the darkie as the assailant.”
Seymour grinned. “You’re right, you’ve got more possibilities than the prince at a garden party. And speaking of George, he just got in. He’s in the duty room having his tea. He looks knackered too. You’d better watch it, might be something going around.”
Murdoch stared at Seymour, not sure whether he was making a joke, but Charlie’s face was impassive and Murdoch wondered, not for the first time, if it wasn’t his own guilty conscience that was making him project judgments onto his friend. Only last Sunday, Father Fair had chosen as his homily text the sacrament of marriage, denouncing in ringing tones those sinners who had carnal knowledge of each other outside of holy wedlock. Murdoch hadn’t been to confession for some weeks or he would have assumed the priest was particularly referring to him, but he’d shifted uneasily in the pew. When he was engaged to be married to Liza, both of them Roman Catholics, they had accepted, albeit impatiently, the church’s injunctions to remain chaste until their marriage. That chastity had become a cruel jest when she had died so suddenly of typhoid fever and he still regretted it. But when he had declared his love to Amy and he had actually proposed marriage, she had laughed. “It’s not for me, Will. We don’t need any public declaration and contract to bind us together. I believe we are quite capable of determining our own destiny. If you want me in your bed, unwed but faithful, I will come happily.” And so she had, and he had never known such pleasure in his life before.
Seymour snapped his fingers. “Will! Where are you? I said Crabtree claims he’s got some important news.”
“Oh, right! Sorry. I just went off in a little daydream.”
“You certainly did.” He reached underneath the desk. “I almost forgot myself. This was delivered this morning for you.” He handed Murdoch a plain white envelope. There was no stamp, just his name neatly printed on the front.
Detective William Murdoch. Strictest Confidence.
“Some little street arab brought it in, but he was off before I could find out who it was from.”
Murdoch tore open the envelope and took out a single sheet of paper.
For no eyes other than yours.
I would much appreciate it if you would pay me a visit. I am still in the place where I was before. We are allowed to walk in the gardens from 5 till 6. Meet me there today. It will be private. No matter what, Murdoch, please don’t let me down. I am counting on you.
Thomas Brackenreid.
P.S. As I will probably be away from the station for a while longer, you have my permission to use my personal office on such occasions as you need to.
“What is it?” Seymour asked.
Murdoch hesitated. Charlie was his friend and he respected him, but there was something about the situation with the inspector that silenced him. He’d poked fun at the man many a time and shared in the general disrespect Brackenreid had engendered in the station, but he didn’t feel like betraying a confidence placed in him even if he hadn’t exactly agreed to it.
“I’ll tell you later.” He put the envelope in his pocket. “By the way, who put the daffies out front?”
“I did.” Seymour gave him a shy smile. “It was Katie’s idea. She thinks the station should look a little more friendly. Improve our relationship with the general public.”
“Quite right too. The trouble with us, Charlie, is that we think too much like men and not women.”
Seymour laughed. “I don’t know if we can do much about that, but I know what you mean. On the other hand, God save me from women who want to wear the trousers.” He stopped short. “Oh, I’m not referring to Amy. I just meant, er, metaphorically.”
“Of course.”
The door opened and a man came in. He was short and wiry with the tanned face of an outdoorsman. In spite of the mild weather, he was wearing a long caped houndstooth coat and astrakhan hat.
“Afternoon, gentlemen, I’m here to see Detective Murdoch.”
“I’m Murdoch. What can I do for you?”
The man held out his hand. “My name’s Musgrave, Paul Musgrave. I’m a cabbie at the Cooke stables. Cooke that was, may he rest in peace. Dreadful doings that, dreadful.” Musgrave’s tone and expression were cheerful. His eyes were crinkled at the sides, but whether that was from perpetual squinting into the sun or from being forever affable with his customers, Murdoch couldn’t tell.
“One of your constables came over to my house. I was having a bit of a sleep-in and I didn’t know anything that had happened. Shocking, it was. Completely shocking. Anyway, the constable and me had quite a chin wag and he told me to come here this afternoon and talk to you. So here I am.” He was chewing vigorously on a wad of tobacco, and he looked around for somewhere to spit. Simultaneously, both Murdoch and Seymour pointed at the closest spittoon and Musgrave skilfully deposited a stream of juice. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Don’t worry about keeping me from my work. Today, I couldn’t get a customer to get inside my cab if I paid him. Sunshine’s bad for business, it is, especially in the spring. Hot summer’s better, but then, most of the time, the ladies don’t want to go out at all, do they?”
“Come with me then, Mr. Musgrave. Sergeant, would you tell Constable Crabtree to join us as soon as he can.”
Murdoch began to lead the way to his cubicle at the rear of the station, then he halted. Why not? He went back to Seymour and whispered, “Charlie, believe it or not, Inspector Brackenreid has offered me the use of his office while he is away. Tell George to come up there.”
Seymour gaped at him. “You’re joking with me.”
“Not at all. His exact words were ‘You have my permission to use my office on such occasions as you need to.’ I’m counting this as an occasion.”
Charlie grinned. “Be careful, Will, you might get to like being an inspector.”