Crabtree had written out a list of hotels and guest houses that were within comfortable walking distance of Cooke’s Livery, and Murdoch decided that the nearest of them would be his next call. Even though he knew Ferguson and Whatling had talked over the events of Wednesday night, and had probably influenced each other, he saw no reason to doubt Whatling’s statement. The negro messenger was likely the same man the coachman had seen heading up Mutual Street in the direction of the stables. As for the woman by the tree, whether she was connected with the case or just an innocent passerby, at this point, Murdoch couldn’t tell.
Also gnawing at the back of his mind was an incident that had shaken the city two years earlier. A young man from an affluent and respectable family had been shot on the threshold of his own home. The victim had not died immediately and was able to give a description of his assailant, but for a while the police went off on the wrong track, searching for a slim, dark-skinned male. Shortly afterwards, a mulatto woman confessed to the crime. She had been seen on several occasions dressed in men’s clothes, and it was difficult to know what had shocked the city more, the shooting or the masquerade.
That particular woman had passed easily as a man, and Murdoch wondered if Cooke’s messenger was in disguise. Both the messenger and the coloured woman who had inquired at the livery had been described as stocky, middle-aged, medium height. The raspy voice that Ferguson had mentioned was suspicious. But then, heaven forbid, it could be the other way around. The maid who had come to the stables might be a man, for all he knew.
He braked, stopped, and looked over his list. The closest hotel to the livery was the Elliott House, on the corner of Church and Shuter. It had the reputation for excellent service at a high price and for catering to American visitors, the proprietor being a Yankee himself. The widow that Green had mentioned seeking a cab could afford to keep her servant well dressed, and the maid had told Green they were American. He turned along Shuter and soon reached Church Street. To walk from there to Cooke’s Livery, he guessed, would take ten minutes at the most.
Elliott House was a large, gracious building, which sat in private grounds dotted with shrubs and well-placed benches, and he could see some of the guests walking on the sun-dappled lawn, enjoying the air. He parked his bike against the low iron fence that ringed the property and walked up the path to the door. A doorman, his back as straight as a sentry’s, was standing on the steps and he swept the door open for Murdoch to enter.
“Reception straight ahead, sir,” he said. Murdoch wondered if this little courtesy merited a tip but decided against it. Another young man with a ruler-straight parting in his black hair was standing behind the desk engaged in a telephone conversation.
“Yes, ma’am, certainly. I’ll make a note of that immediately. Have a good journey, it will be most delightful to see you again.”
He hung up, saw Murdoch, and greeted him effusively in a high-pitched voice.
“How may I help you, sir?”
Murdoch took his calling card out of his pocket and handed it to the young man, whose name plate identified him as Mr. Oatley.
“I’m trying to find two people who I have reason to believe are guests here, or were until recently.”
Oatley examined the calling card and looked at Murdoch apprehensively. “Not counterfeiters, are they? We had trouble last year, but I thought the gang had been broken up.”
“No, not counterfeiters. More like witnesses that I’d like to question. One is a widow from America, the other is her servant, a negress, middle-aged, medium height, dark skin. Are they staying here, perchance?”
Oatley frowned. “Oh dear, you’re talking about Mrs. Dittman. She arrived last week from New York. She does have a coloured servant with her. She’s the only one of our guests who answers to that description. Mrs. Dittman herself is not well and regrettably she has seldom been out since she got here. Is she in, er, is she in difficulties?”
“I don’t believe so, but I would like to speak to her.”
Oatley looked nervous and his voice squeaked even more. “Is it absolutely necessary, detective? We rely on our unblemished reputation for catering to a good class of people.”
“I shall be most discreet, I assure you. But, yes, it is quite necessary.” Murdoch was tempted to ruffle the clerk’s smooth feathers by telling him he was working on a case of assault and suspicious death, but he was afraid the clerk might have hysterics.
Oatley stood on his tiptoes, leaned over the counter, and pointed with the tip of his gold-nibbed pen. “She is in the dining room for her luncheon. The waiter will take you to her.”
“And her maid?”
“She is eating in the servants’ hall downstairs.”
For a moment, the young man’s eyes showed a spark of avid curiosity. “Am I to know the nature of the case, detective?”
“Not at this moment, sir. I cannot disclose details.”
With a nod, Murdoch headed for the dining room. Another liveried servant opened the door for him.
There was only a smattering of guests present, which gave the pristine white tablecloths and silver cutlery the opportunity to shine in the sunlight pouring in from the deep windows. The wall covering was flowered burgundy, the thick carpet was also lush with flowers. The room spoke of money. Lots of it.
“May I show you to your table, sir?” A waiter, as formally dressed as a clergyman, stepped toward him. He was holding a velvet-covered menu in his hand.
“I’m not eating, thank you. I’m looking for a Mrs. Dittman. Mr. Oatley said I would find her here.”
With the merest of sighs, the waiter returned the menu to the podium by the door. “Mrs. Dittman is the lady seated by the window. Come this way.”
“No, don’t bother. You have another guest to deal with.”
A portly man had entered the dining room. The waiter greeted him warmly and led him away. Murdoch stood for a moment, wanting to get a look at the woman in question, but either by choice or because she had been assigned that particular spot, she was partly obscured by a large potted fern. All Murdoch could see was the back of a thin woman, soberly dressed in grey. She was wearing a widow’s bonnet, but she had lifted the short veil while she ate. Her clothes signified she was no longer in deepest mourning, but it was anybody’s guess, with Her Majesty Queen Victoria as a model, how long she had been widowed.
Murdoch walked over to the table, his footsteps completely muffled by the carpet.
He hadn’t intended to startle her, but she jumped and twisted around to look at him. Murdoch removed his hat. “Mrs. Dittman?”
“Yes. Who are you?”
“Detective William Murdoch, ma’am. I wonder if I might have a few words with you?”
“What about?”
She had the abrupt, straightforward manner of speaking that he tended to associate with American ladies. Murdoch hesitated.
“It’s a rather private matter, ma’am. Do you mind if I sit down?”
“Not as long as you don’t mind if I finish my meal. I have paid enough for it and I don’t like cold bacon, even if you Canadians do.”
“Of course, ma’am. Please continue. I wouldn’t interrupt you in this way if it weren’t a matter of some urgency.”
“Pull up that chair, then.”
Mrs. Dittman must have been well into middle age, but she was still a strikingly handsome woman with strong, chiselled features and well-shaped hazel eyes. She would have been more so except for the gauntness of her cheeks and eyes that were too deeply shadowed. Her dark hair, drawn back into a knot at the nape of her neck, was liberally streaked with grey but was still thick and abundant.
He sat down, and she went back to her meal.
“I understand you have a maid, a negress?”
“That’s right, Faith. The best there is. Why? Surely there’s no problem with her staying with me. I’m not well. I need her. She’s not eating in here. She’s in the servants’ kitchen, but Mr. Hirsh said he had no objection to her sleeping in my suite. It costs enough.”
Murdoch was a little taken aback by the rush of words. “I’m not here to question your personal arrangements, ma’am. The reason I asked about your maid is because I am investigating a suspicious death and I have to track down anybody who might be considered a witness to the case.”
Mrs. Dittman dabbed at her mouth with the napkin. “You are being most mysterious, sir. What suspicious death are you referring to and how could Faith possibly be a witness? We are visitors here.”
“Did your maid go to Cooke’s Livery last week, to try to hire you a cab for the evening?”
“What day are you referring to?”
“A week ago, Tuesday last.”
“Ah yes. I did not know that was the name of the place but, yes, I sent her to find a cab. I wanted to attend a special lecture by a visiting professor of physiology, but as it turned out I was not well enough to go out. Why is it of import?”
“The stable hand said a woman of her description was inquiring at the livery on that particular night, and I need to confirm his statement.”
“I see.” Again she wiped the corners of her mouth with the napkin. “I do hope you’re not going to tell me he is the one who has suffered an unnatural death?”
“No, ma’am. It is the owner who has died. His name was Daniel Cooke. You don’t know him by any chance, do you?”
She frowned. “How could I know of him? As I just said, I am a stranger here.”
She pushed her plate forward and a waiter who had not been in Murdoch’s view suddenly appeared and whisked it away.
“May I bring over the sweet trolley, ma’am?”
“No, thank you. I have had more than enough.”
In spite of her insistence on continuing to eat and the price of the meal, Murdoch saw she had left most of the food on her plate.
“I do beg your pardon if I spoiled your luncheon, ma’am.”
“You didn’t. I lose my appetite very quickly these days, but that’s neither here nor there. Is there anything else you want to ask me?”
“I don’t think so, but I would like to have a word with your maid.”
“Faith? She won’t add anything to what I’ve just said.”
“I’d just like to hear from her personally, if you don’t mind, ma’am. It won’t take long.”
“Very well. They probably won’t let her in here and you probably don’t want to go to the servants’ hall. We’ll have to go to my room. I’ll have Oatley ring for her.”
She stood up, pulled the veil down across her face, and walked to the door. Her stride was steady enough, but Murdoch had the impression that it cost her something to move like that.