Murdoch spent the rest of the afternoon alone. Charlie was on duty and Katie had taken the twins to the Toronto Islands for the day. Amy was visiting one of her students who was ill, she feared with the consumption. In the late afternoon, feeling restless, he decided to drop in at the station to see if any of the constables had come up with new information. Then, on impulse, he turned along Queen Street to St. Paul’s Church. He had been in another church this morning, an apostate one, and even though it was a visit conducted in the line of duty, as it were, he knew Father Fair would assign him a penance if he heard about it. Not that he was looking for absolution, but something drew him to St. Paul’s, some need he could hardly articulate.
As he was arriving, a flock of birds swooped around the bell tower, twittering frantically, and landed in the big maple tree that grew in the front yard. The din continued as Murdoch walked up the steps. The light was growing softer as the day began to wane and he was finding it hard to shake off his mood. He’d dealt with other cases before that were soaked with tears, cases where people of blameless lives had been murdered, but this latest death had affected him. Talbert was an old man and had surely not deserved to be killed violently and certainly not to have his body treated with such indignity.
Murdoch pushed open the heavy oaken doors and entered into the vestibule where the smell of incense from morning mass hung in the air. A bank of votive candles flickered, and a woman was kneeling at the prayer rail. Whatever she was saying a novena for absorbed her completely, and she didn’t glance up when Murdoch took up a taper and lit a candle. He, too, dropped to his knees. Dear Lord, I ask your prayers for the soul of Thomas Talbert. May he be with you in eternity. I ask this in Jesus Christ’s name. Amen.
There were so many candles burning they were giving off heat. He regarded them for a moment, each tiny flame representing a plea to Almighty God to intercede or perhaps to give thanks for a prayer heard. He crossed himself and got to his feet. The woman didn’t stir. Her rosary was threaded through her fingers and he could see her lips moving silently. Her face was careworn and her clothes shabby. There was something about her that reminded him of his mother, perhaps the desperation with which she told her beads. He’d seen his mother do that many a time, trying to find solace in her faith, and he remembered how intense his own feelings were, a mix of anger and helplessness. Anger at the source of her unhappiness, his father, and helplessness because he was too young to do anything about it. As he found himself doing so often, Murdoch wondered where Harry was.
He reached for a taper, dropped a nickel in the box, and lit another candle. He didn’t kneel this time but said quietly, “Help me to find forgiveness in my heart, Lord, for those I perceive as having wronged me and those I loved.”
The candle flame danced in its red dish, as if it were mocking him.
As soon as he walked into the station hall, Murdoch knew something had happened. Charlie Seymour and a young constable third class, the stenographer, Bobbie McCarthy, were the two officers on duty. Charlie greeted him. His face was alive with humour as if he’d just been exchanging a joke with McCarthy.
“You look like the cat that got the canary,” Murdoch said to him.
“I feel as if I ate a pigeon, not the canary,” Charlie replied. “You will too when you see who’s here.” He grinned. “Go down to your office. He’s waiting for you. Oh just a minute, there’s also a letter come for you. Don’t ask me who from because I don’t know, some urchin brought it in then took off like a rabbit seeing a fox. It must have been the sight of McCarthy here.”
The stenographer laughed, not minding the teasing that was often directed at him. He was a country boy, apple-cheeked, hardly a frightening figure even to the half-wild boys of the city poor, who were ever wary of the frogs.
“Who’s waiting for me?” Murdoch asked Charlie.
“It’s a surprise. Go on. He’s been here at least half an hour.”
Murdoch put the envelope in his pocket and went through the rear door to his cubicle. He pushed aside the reed curtain. At his desk, leaning back comfortably in his chair, arms behind his head, was Inspector Brackenreid.
“Murdoch! Come in.”
“Well, I, er…”
Brackenreid stood up. He was not in uniform but was wearing a fawn suit that anticipated summer. He had put a stylish bowler on the desk.
“No, that’s all right, sir. I’ll sit here.”
He took the sagging chair that served for visitors.
“I couldn’t wait to get back to the station, Murdoch. I think I surprised our duty sergeant out of a year’s growth.” He frowned in the old, familiar way that was something of a relief. “A bit much, if you ask me, I’m not exactly Lazarus returned from the dead.”
“No, sir, I suppose he wasn’t used to seeing you out of uniform.” Or in such a jovial mood. “How are you feeling, sir?”
“Good. Better than I’ve felt in years.” He patted his pocket. “Don’t happen to have a cigar, do you, Murdoch? I could do with a smoke.”
“No, sir. I’m sorry, I don’t.”
Brackenreid pulled open the desk drawer. “Yes, you do, you rascal. Here’s a box of the best Cuban.” He placed the box on the top of the desk and chuckled. “I thought the least I could do was treat you to a cigar, Murdoch, considering I owe you my life.”
Murdoch thought the inspector must still be in the grip of the lingering effects of inebriation. “Not exactly that, sir.”
“As good as.” He took one of the cigars, took a pair of cigar cutters from his pocket, and snipped off the end.
“The matches are in the other drawer,” said Murdoch.
Brackenreid lit up and enjoyed a luxurious draw of smoke.
“Good Lord, Murdoch, I almost forgot to offer you one. They are for you, after all.”
“I won’t at the moment, thank you, sir, but please help yourself.”
The inspector waved his cigar tip. “You could do with a new office, Murdoch. This isn’t fit for a broom closet.”
Murdoch winced. Small and unlovely as his cubicle was, it had served him well for a long time.
“What I’ve been thinking is that the room next to mine just down the hall would be a more suitable space for one of my most promising officers. At the moment, there’s nothing in it but an old filing cabinet, a couple of broken chairs, and a table with three legs. What do you say if we moved all that stuff out and fitted the room up as your office?”
“Well, sir…I don’t know what to say.”
“Good, it’s done then. You might as well keep this desk, but we’ll get you a couple of better chairs and a decent cabinet.” He grinned at Murdoch. “The room could do with a coat of paint to liven it up. I’ll order work to start right away. But you’ll have to promise me you won’t draw your damn maps on the wall.”
Bob Cratchett must have had similar mixed feelings when Scrooge went through his metamorphosis, thought Murdoch. Brackenreid was positively beaming at him.
“Thank you, sir. That is very generous, but really I’m so used to this space by now, it serves me very well.” And it’s far away from your office.
The inspector was not to be denied, however. “Nonsense. I’ll order everything tomorrow.” Suddenly the rather ridiculous air of conviviality dropped away. “I am trusting to your discretion, Murdoch, about what happened at the spa. My wife was most upset that I had left, but she is willing to see how I do, as she put it. I have to stay sober or I won’t have a place to hang my hat any more. So I’m counting on you, William. If you see any signs whatsoever that I am backsliding, I want you to pull me up short. No matter what I say or however much I fight you, you must tell me the truth.”
Murdoch groaned inwardly. It was not a responsibility he relished, but all he could do was to agree.
“Would you put that in writing, sir?”
“What? Oh you’re poking fun at me. But I will, if you insist.”
“No, sir. I was joking. Perhaps we could shake hands on it as gentlemen though. No matter what you say, if I deem it necessary, I will speak out what’s on my mind.”
“Only if you see me backsliding, Murdoch. Not about everything.”
“Quite, sir. Another joke.”
Brackenreid knocked the ash off his cigar. “I must be going. If I’m a minute later than I said I’d be, Mary will be in hysterics. I’ll be in tomorrow, Murdoch, and then I’d like to be briefed on what’s been happening here. You look as if you are in the middle of a case.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell me tomorrow then. You will have my full attention.”
As that was an experience Murdoch had not had professionally for a long time, he merely nodded. This new inspector was going to take some getting used to.
After Brackenreid left, the reed curtain snapping and cracking behind him, Murdoch went around the desk and sat in his usual chair. He pulled open both drawers in case the inspector had left other gifts, but the cigars were it. Then he remembered the letter that Seymour had handed to him and he took it out of his pocket.
Dear Mr. Murdoch. I am in dire need of your help. Will you please meet me in the stables this evening at six o’clock sharp. This must be in strict confidentiality. I have in return some information to impart concerning the death of Thomas Talbert, which you will find very helpful. Please do not fail me.
Yours, Adelaide Cooke.
Murdoch pulled out his pocket watch. Damn. It was almost six. He had five minutes to get to the appointment. He wondered what it was she needed. His sense of Mrs. Cooke was that, whatever it was, she wanted it immediately and it didn’t matter whether it was convenient for anybody else.