Amy had found her visit with Mary Blong unsettling. The girl had had some sort of fit in her presence, but Amy thought she was acting.
“Her mother is forced to wait on her hand and foot, to the detriment apparently of the little brother, who is also clearly the apple of his father’s eye,” she told Murdoch. There was a sharp note in her voice. Amy was, Murdoch knew, the only girl in a family of boys.
“I tell you what, I’ll have a word with Professor Broske. He might be able to give some advice, even see the girl if need be. I’m sure he’d be more than happy to do so, and it will enhance your value in the councillor’s eyes…No, I’m only joking.”
“I’m not offended. What sort of tight-laced spinster do you take me for? I’d polish Mr. Blong’s shoes and anything else, if that would get me a permanent position.”
Murdoch had made a sound of disbelief.
Later, he invited her to share his bed, but she declined, pleading fatigue. She left with a deep kiss and a whispered promise and he went to bed alone but content.
The following morning, he slept late again and had to get moving in a hurry. He washed and shaved as fast as he could, swallowed a cup of cold tea left over from the night before, and jumped on his bicycle. He decided to drop off the vial of medicine that Brackenreid had given him at Dr. Ogden’s house before going to the station and to ask her how he could get in touch with Professor Broske. It was a glorious spring morning, with clouds like dandelion fluff, scattered across a robin’s egg blue sky, and he happily took a shortcut through the Horticultural Gardens. Buds had burst out on the trees and shrubs overnight, and flocks of starlings were twittering shrilly in the branches. He would have broken out into song himself if he hadn’t feared to upset passersby, so he hummed loudly instead, until he realized he had unconsciously been singing “Ave Maria,” which seemed incongruously ecclesiastical for his decidedly carnal feeling of well-being.
When he arrived at Dr. Ogden’s house near the corner of Gerrard and Parliament Streets, a prim, elderly maid told him he was too late and that Dr. Ogden had already left.
“Friday is her surgery morning,” she said in a disapproving tone, as if he should know that.
“Ah, yes. Did Professor Broske call for her, by any chance?”
“He did.” More disapproval, but Murdoch thought it was for a different reason.
He’d packed the vial in a box with an explanatory note and he handed it to the maid. “Will you ask Dr. Ogden to telephone me at the station as soon as she can?”
The maid dropped a perfunctory curtsy. “Very well, sir. But I don’t know when she will return home.”
He tipped his hat and left. He hoped the good doctor and professor weren’t going to go sightseeing after she’d dealt with her patients. He was curious to know what Broske would say about Mary Blong.
He bicycled back to the station, stopping briefly at a baker’s shop to buy half a dozen macaroons, two of which he crammed into his mouth almost before he left the shop.
Gardiner was on duty again.
“Good afternoon, er I mean, morning, Murdoch. Your clock still isn’t working properly, I see.”
Murdoch grinned back at him. “Yes, it is. I had to bike up to see Dr. Ogden, which is why I am ten minutes past the hour.”
“Constable Fyfer is waiting for you in the duty room. He says he’s got some news regarding that case you’re working on.”
“Good.”
“I warned him to make sure the tea was fresh,” Gardiner called after him.
Murdoch tossed his hat on the hook by the door and went into the duty room, where Fyfer was filling a tea pot with boiling water.
“Good morning, sir. Lovely day, isn’t it?”
“It is indeed, Fyfer, it is indeed.”
He dropped the bag of macaroons on the table. “Pour me a mug of tea, there’s a good lad, and you can have one of these.”
The young constable did as he asked and handed a steaming mug to Murdoch.
“The sergeant says you have some news for me.”
“Yes, sir.” Fyfer took his notebook out of his chest pocket and flipped the pages. He glanced at Murdoch, his eyes shining with excitement. “I have found a witness, a reliable one, I swear. His name is James Whatling and he is a coachman to a Dr. Maguire who lives on Mutual Street right at the corner of Shuter Street. You know where those private grounds are on the west side?”
“Yes. A nobby place. What’s he have to say for himself?”
“When Constable Crabtree and I were going door to door on Thursday, both the doctor and Whatling were out of town. He’d taken him to Markham early that morning and got back late last night, which is why I only just got his statement. I made a point of going around before I came to work this morning.”
“Please read it, Fyfer, I can hardly contain myself.”
“Yes, sir, sorry, I didn’t want you to wonder why I didn’t give this to your earlier. Anyway, here’s what the man had to say for himself. I took it down verbatim.” He took up a somewhat formal pose, the notebook held in front of him like a hymn book.
“He said the following. ‘I had driven Dr. Maguire, my employer for the past twelve years, to a concert at the new Massey Music Hall, which was to start at eight o’clock. The weather was inclement so rather than wait for him as I might ordinarily do, he gave permission for me to return home and he would take a public cab at the conclusion of the concert or stay at his club, which is within easy walking distance. The doctor is a bachelor so would not disappoint anyone who might be waiting up for him –’”
“My God, Fyfer, the man is long-winded. Can you get to the point?”
“Yes, sir, I’m almost there. ‘I came home via my usual route at quite a fast pace because it was raining heavily and neither the horse nor I wanted to be out longer than need be’ – it’s coming, Mr. Murdoch, I promise. ‘As I traversed in a southerly direction down Mutual Street, I crossed over the intersection at Wilton Avenue which meant I was passing the Cooke Livery stable where I now know Mr. Daniel Cooke was the victim of a savage attack –’”
“Is that how we referred to it, ‘a savage attack’?”
“That didn’t come from me, sir. I merely said that Mr. Cooke had been found dead under suspicious circumstances. I believe it was one or two of the newspapers that called it ‘a savage attack.’”
“All right, go on.”
“‘As I went past the stables, I saw a woman standing underneath a tree close to the fence that surrounds the livery. She turned on her heel on seeing me coming and walked away in the direction of Wilton Street…’ That’s not the exciting bit, sir. It’s coming. ‘Shortly afterwards, I saw a man walking very quickly, almost running, in fact, also going in a northerly direction, that is to say in the direction of the stables. I continued on my way, not paying too much attention –’”
“Sounds like he was paying a lot of attention, but never mind, continue.”
“‘I was about to turn into the gates of Dr. Maguire’s estate, with some relief I must admit, when I saw yet another person also hurrying toward the stables. This man I recognized. It was Daniel Cooke himself.’” Fyfer stopped reading.
“Is that all?”
“No, sir. Sorry, Mr. Murdoch, I couldn’t help but save the best to last. I asked Mr. Whatling if he could give me a description of the two people he had seen on the street before he saw Mr. Cooke. Here’s what he said. ‘I had the merest glimpse of the woman, who I am certain was trying to avoid detection but she was dressed in dark clothing, perhaps a mackintosh. She was of an average height. She had a black large umbrella –’”
“Oh very useful, Fyfer. No sense as to age or anything that would distinguish the poor woman from a half the female population of the city?”
“No, sir. But this is what he had to say about the second fellow, the one he thought was hurrying toward the stables.”
“It was pouring with rain, who wouldn’t hurry?”
“I know, sir, but I pressed him on this question. Obviously Cooke was rushing to his unknown rendezvous from his own house. The times fit perfectly if we give Whatling five minutes or so to get from Massey Hall. Did you get a good look at the man ahead of Cooke? I asks him and he says, ‘Yes, I did. He wasn’t carrying an umbrella. He was of medium height and of a stocky build. There is a lamp on that side of the street and as he went past his face was clearly visible in the light. There is no doubt in my mind, he was a coloured man, not young but with a hard cruel look to him as if he had lived a life of depravity.’”
“That does sound like our messenger fellow, although the life of depravity didn’t impress itself on Ferguson. So we have confirmed that Mr. Cooke was running to a rendezvous set up by this mysterious darkie. It’s impossible to say if the woman in the mackintosh was involved, but for the moment let’s assume she was and she was waiting for them to arrive. As I’ve said, I think the attack required two people.”
“But a woman to do something so cruel, sir? It’s hard to believe.”
“It is, indeed, constable, but we can’t let our bias cloud our mind. The fair sex is just as capable of crime as we are. I’d like you to continue making your inquiries. Go farther afield. I want everybody in the vicinity questioned.”
“Could we be dealing with a mad man, sir? I could telephone the lunatic asylum and see if they’ve had any elopements.”
Murdoch clicked his tongue. “I can’t see our fellow being insane. There’s evidence of careful planning here. Besides if there were two of them, it’s hard to imagine two mad men working well together. But there’s no harm in following up on that. Give the matron my regards.”
“Yes, sir. And Constable Crabtree and I have been making progress with the tradesmen. They are to a man angry with Mr. Cooke about his failure to pay and were wondering if, now he’s dead, they will be properly reimbursed.”
“I wouldn’t count on it, not from what I’ve seen of his widow. I presume all their alibis check out?”
“So far they do, sir, but we still have three more to talk to. Cardington, the roofer, Kirkpatrick, the harness man, and McArthur, who delivers the wood.”
“Go and do that right away then. I’ll speak to Whatling. You’ve done a good job, Fyfer, but a second interview is often even more productive.”
“Yes sir, of course.” But Murdoch knew the young constable considered he had done all that could be done. He’d learn. Police work wasn’t like that.