Murdoch heard the clock in the hall strike midnight. He was still awake and sleep seemed to have no intention of visiting him. He couldn’t calm down his thoughts.
The house is quiet. I wonder if Amy is asleep. I’m sure she is, she’s never troubled with insomnia the way I am. Thoughts are chasing their tails through my brain. “Count sheep, Will,” Mama used to say. “Imagine them jumping over a fence one by one. One, two, three.” But that rarely worked. Sleep came eventually when I knew Harry was asleep and I could hear his drunken snore. But even then I’d lie there, sometimes until dawn, tense and agitated, going over the latest ugly scene in my mind, rehearsing responses I never had the chance to act upon until I started to grow taller and Harry knew I would fight him if I had to. Oh God, why am I thinking of that again? Is it the whipping that was laid on Cooke? I’ve seen corpses before and violent death is always disturbing, but these two are among the worst. The pain inflicted upon Cooke was lingering and he wasn’t a young man. Neither was Thomas Talbert, he must have been well into his seventies. At least he died immediately. But why? Had he known he was going to die? Had he been afraid? He seemed like a man of courage but faced with death, don’t we all quail? Wouldn’t I? George is determined the culprits are Elijah Green and his brother, but I can see no motivation. Robbery in the case of Cooke makes sense, but the whipping changes that completely. What was the connection between Cooke and Talbert except that long-ago purchase? Did Talbert and an accomplice whip Cooke? And then that accomplice turn around and shoot Talbert? Thieves falling out? But why leave forty-one dollars? – Wait a minute! How could I miss that? Two of the notes were stuck together. Perhaps it was meant to be only forty dollars. The price of betrayal, Judas money. So Talbert’s murderer considered he had been betrayed. That makes sense except that…there were two people present at the shooting. Thieves then falling out. On the other hand, it could be nothing to do with money. A deliberate ruse to mislead. Did somebody truly consider Talbert a traitor to his own race? Or an impudent coloured man cohabiting with a white woman? Mrs. Stokely and Talbert seemed to have kept their marriage a close secret, but perhaps it had leaked out. The murderer or murderers were familiar with Talbert’s routine or they were lucky. He was always by himself on Friday nights. Would they have killed Mrs. Stokely as well if she had been at home? But why was Talbert tied into that cruel position after death? Is Mrs. Cooke involved? She stands to gain much by her husband’s death. I can easily see her shooting somebody, yes, but not the whipping or the desecration of Talbert’s body. But then again, as Amy reminds me, I tend to be sentimental where women are concerned. Was the intention to whip Cooke to death or whip him so many times and then shoot him? Thirty-seven to thirty-nine stripes. Why does that sound familiar? Where have I heard that before? Prisoners here are usually given ten or fifteen lashes. Thirty-seven is a lot. Oh, thoughts switch off. Think of sheep, fluffy happy sheep jumping over a fence. One, two, three, four…Charlie is so happy I almost envy him. Would I feel like that if Amy agreed to marry me? Yes, I would, but she says she loves me now and asks why I feel the need for some fossilized ritual? Because I do. Because I’m not a New Man, I suppose. I want to stand in front of the altar and say, “I take you, Amy Henrietta Slade, to be my lawful wedded wife, in sickness and in health…till death us do part.” That’s it, isn’t it? As if making a holy vow out loud before God makes it certain that death will not separate us. As if we are then protected against typhoid, consumption, and all the other ills the flesh is heir to. That’s why I want to have and hold her the way I never got the chance to with Liza. I am as superstitious as a Protestant peasant, as my mother would say. Life is so transient. I see Mrs. Stokely weeping for a husband she is not able to tell the world about. Jump, little sheep. Why did my mother ever tell me to count sheep? We lived in the country and I saw sheep all the time and if they did jump a fence it was because they were afraid of something and fleeing for their lives. I cannot fall asleep if I see frightened sheep. I want them to be secure, ignorant of the fate that awaits them, just enjoying lush grass and sun. I’d better think of something else to count. Count how many times I can strike another human being with a whip for no reason except to hurt him. I know we still punish some of our prisoners like that. I had to witness Pryor being whipped, tied on the triangle, sentenced to be punished with fifteen lashes for raping a child of ten. A heinous crime, but I couldn’t bear to stand and watch his back as the welts raised until they were oozing blood. To hear his screams of pain. Only fifteen lashes for him and that was enough. And now we’re back to crime and punishment, are we? What punishment fits the crime and what doesn’t? I accept imprisonment, but lashing or hanging even doesn’t undo the crime or reverse time, and whipping Pryor gave no solace to the raped child, although perhaps it did to her parents. Revenge is Mine, sayeth the Lord. Mrs. Dittman’s maid isn’t that far removed from slavery in terms of her age. I wonder if she once was one. She could have been. Is that it? Are these two women the ones I seek? Is it a vendetta that I don’t know the details of? If so, why these two particular victims, one white, one coloured?
He sat up in bed and leaned over to light his candle. Maybe a pipe would calm him down. He took out his tobacco pouch from his drawer, tamped his best Badger into the bowl of his Powhattan, lit up, and took in a deep, satisfying draw.
After his request to Mrs. Dittman to search her room, he’d felt he had to follow through although he suspected it would be a waste of time. And it had been. He’d looked in the wardrobe for Talbert’s missing coat, but it wasn’t there. He’d asked both her and Faith to empty out their suitcases; nothing there either. Nothing unusual except a bottle of laudanum in Mrs. Dittman’s valise and a bottle of liquor, unlabelled, in Faith’s. If they were implicated in the murder of Talbert, they could have disposed of the revolver anywhere. He finally left them, both still and silent, Mrs. Dittman looking haggard. What was the secret they were afraid he’d discover? Were they lovers? Things like that happened and he had witnessed that peculiarly intimate gesture in the garden. Was Mrs. Dittman afraid of the scandal if it came out that she, a white woman, had a liaison with her coloured maid? That was possible, he supposed, although he sensed there was something about their relationship that could not be explained that way. Faith reminded him of a dog whose entire life was focused on its mistress. A fierce dog, he thought, one that wouldn’t hesitate to bite. And Mrs. Dittman? She gave orders the way one would to a servant but…but what? Was she too solicitous? Too careful not to be autocratic, or was that just an American trait? He wondered again why she had been so shocked when he told her what had happened to Talbert. No doubt most women would be appalled, but she had reacted to the post-mortem violation, not to the murder itself. Faith had not been shocked.
He was feeling sleepy at last, and he was just about to extinguish his pipe when he heard a light tapping at the front door, the knock of somebody trying to gain access without waking the entire household. There it was again. He got out of bed, pulled on his trousers, picked up his candleholder, and hurried downstairs. No other lights were lit, so the knocking evidently hadn’t yet disturbed anybody else.
Paul Musgrave was standing on the steps, and Murdoch could see a carriage at the curb behind him.
“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Murdoch. I saw your light so I knew you was still up.”
“What is it?”
“I thought you might like to take a little ride with me, sir.”
“At this time of night?”
“Yes, sir. It has to be at this time of night because this is the only time it happens.”
Musgrave was clearly enjoying being mysterious, and Murdoch felt like shaking him. He heard the wail of one of the twins from the back room. He stepped across the threshold and held the door closed behind him.
“You’d better have a good explanation, Musgrave. We have two babes living here and it sounds as if you’ve woken one of them up. What do you want to say, man?”
“Just this, sir. You know Mrs. Cooke complained that somebody was taking out the carriages and horses without permission or payment. Well, it’s true and if you come with me, I’ll show you who it is and where they go.”
“Tell me now.”
Musgrave touched the peak of his cap with his forefinger. “Allow me my bit of fun, Mr. Murdoch. I’d rather you see for yourself. I promise you it will be worth your while.”
“Damn it, Musgrave. If you’re leading me by the nose, I warn you I have sharp teeth.”
Murdoch stared at him. The man was full of his own importance and clearly was not going to yield up any information until the last minute.
“I’ll get my clothes on.”
“I’ll be at the carriage, sir.”
Both twins were howling and the light was showing underneath Katie’s door. He hesitated for a moment but decided not to disturb things even more. He dressed quickly and went outside.
Musgrave gave him another irritatingly conspiratorial wink. “We have a companion.” He opened the carriage door and Murdoch got in. The blinds were down on the windows, but an oil sconce was burning on a low wick and he could make out a woman’s figure in the corner. It was Mrs. Cooke. She had abandoned her widow’s bonnet and veil and was wearing a plain felt hat.
She flicked her hand at the cabbie. “Get going, Mr. Musgrave. We don’t want to get too far behind. Good evening, Mr. Murdoch.”
“Good evening, ma’am.”
Musgrave called to his horse and the carriage started to move at a good clip.
“Where are we going?” Murdoch asked. He lifted the blind sufficiently to determine they were heading west along Queen Street.
“I don’t know. I have put myself entirely in Mr. Musgrave’s hands. He is the one who is determined to get to the bottom of this pernicious thieving. I’m thankful that somebody cares.” Her tone was aggrieved, as if Murdoch had been negligent in not pursuing the matter with the ardour it deserved. Their eyes met, and for a moment he saw something soften in her expression. “I am aware, Mr. Murdoch, that you consider me an unfeeling woman who has not shed a tear for her husband. I will not stoop to divulging my private affairs to you, but suffice it to say that my marriage had been unhappy for some time, and we were husband and wife in name only. My affections for Daniel were destroyed many years ago.”
She leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes, giving Murdoch no chance to pursue the topic.
“Paul warned me the journey might be a long one,” she said. “So, I will take the opportunity to rest a little. This has been a most wearing time.”
Murdoch had felt a twinge of sympathy for her when she had spoken so honestly, but the moment had passed and all he could see on her face were the marks of entrenched discontent. He took the opportunity to check out her boots. They were of good leather, old-fashioned and round-toed. She hadn’t said a word about Thomas Talbert’s death, but he didn’t have the impression that she was trying to hide something. She seemed to be completely preoccupied with her own affairs. After a few minutes, he, too, leaned back.
He was awakened by the carriage door opening. Musgrave pulled down the step.
“Here we are. Mr. Murdoch, I suggest you come with me and Mrs. Cooke should remain in the carriage.”
“I will most certainly not,” she said and followed right behind Murdoch as he climbed out.
“Are you sure, Adelaide? They’re a rough crowd.”
“I haven’t come all this way to sit in a carriage.”
So, it is Adelaide now, thought Murdoch. Musgrave handed him a grubby woollen scarf that smelled of tobacco.
“Wrap this around your chin and pull your hat low. You don’t want anybody to recognize you. It could make things most awkward. Follow me. Adelaide, give me your arm. We should hurry.”
They had stopped on the edge of an open field that sloped away from them and disappeared into a thick stand of trees. The air was pungent with the smell of crushed grass and horse droppings. Oil lamps were hanging from posts around the perimeter and he could see several other carriages. Musgrave had unhooked the rear lantern and he led the way down a path of trampled grass. In a few minutes, Murdoch could hear voices that grew louder as they finally emerged from the trees. About fifty feet in front of them was a dense crowd of men, buzzing with excitement and all facing a brightly lit, roped-off ring.
“It’s a prize fight,” said Murdoch.
“Quite right about that, sir. They happen here regularly, but don’t let on I told you.”