Chapter Two
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 10
ACTING DETECTIVE WILLIAM MURDOCH crouched beside the dead girl and lifted the dark hair away from her face. Despite the pallor of death, there was still a sweetness in the curve of her cheek, the skin unmarked by life’s experience. He felt a pang of pity at the sight. Behind him Constable Crabtree shifted nervously and the ambulance driver leaned over from his seat to gape. Fortunately, the gathering crowd at the entrance to the laneway were being kept in check by young Wicken, but even at this early hour on the Lord’s Day a ragtag mob had formed, roused by the clanging alarm. One man had even brought out a stool to stand on so he could see better.
“Fetch a blanket, will you, Crabtree?” Murdoch called over his shoulder to his constable.
He sat back on his heels, shielding the body as best he could. The girl was lying on her back close to a rickety wooden fence. On the left side of her body were the purple marks of lividity. Rigor mortis was advanced, the head unmovable, the arms and legs frozen. Her eyes were closed, and he lifted one eyelid. The pupil was a mere pinprick in the light blue iris. The right eye was the same. He bent and sniffed at her mouth but there was no detectable smell of liquor. At first sight the cause of death was not apparent, no blood or obvious wounds. He leaned closer. There were three small bruises at the left wrist. He placed his own fingers on the spots. They fit. There was also a largish contusion on the inside of the forearm and another at the elbow. Gingerly, he examined her hands. The nails were cut short and there was nothing caught there that he could see. He ran his finger over the cold flesh of her palm, feeling the slight roughening. He brushed aside the snow and checked her feet. The toenails were likewise clean and there were no scratches or marks on the soles.
“Here you go, sir.” Crabtree handed him a grey hospital blanket. “She looks to be about the same age as my sister. Fourteen, if that,” he said.
“I’d put her older, myself.”
The face was youthful, especially with the thick dark hair loose about her shoulders, but her body was voluptuous, the breasts full and the hips and buttocks rounded. Murdoch covered her over and straightened up, frowning.
“Bloody peculiar, Crabtree, her eyes …”
He stopped as the police horse whinnied. There was an answering neigh from the street. Wicken was pushing the onlookers back as a two-wheeler turned into the laneway. The constable went over to hold the horse, and the elderly driver got down stiffly. He was wearing an old-fashioned houndstooth cloak and stovepipe hat and his lower face was wrapped in a white silk scarf. When he reached Murdoch he muttered, “Abscess tooth,” and indicated the scarf. He looked down at the body.
“… happened here?”
“I don’t know, sir,” answered Murdoch. “One of our constables found her about forty minutes ago.”
He pulled away the blanket so the coroner could see.
“Whoze she?”
“We haven’t determined that yet.”
“A doxy?”
“I don’t think so, sir. She’s quite clean and the constable on this beat says he hasn’t seen her before.”
The coroner indicated the purple stains on the side of the body. “… you move her?”
“No, sir, somebody else did.”
“Clothes?”
“Nowhere around. Probably stripped.”
“Heathens.” He tried to bend closer but the movement caused pain in his jaw and he straightened quickly. “She’s dead … right enough, but I …” He frowned at Murdoch. “Where’ve … seen you before?”
“Last December, sir. The Merishaw case.”
“Course, remember now. Shocking … heathen!”
The Merishaws’ servant girl had given birth to a stillborn child and tried to bury the body in the neighbour’s front yard, where some children had found it. Arthur Johnson had been the attending coroner in that instance and without the excuse of an abscessed tooth he had been just as perfunctory.
“Bring the body … morgue postmortem examination … too cold here … Get a report …”
Murdoch didn’t make out what he said. “Beg pardon, sir.”
Johnson pulled the muffler away from his mouth, then winced as the cold air hit his tooth. There was a waft of oil of cloves in the air. “I’ll get an examination done at once and send you the report.”
He quickly wrapped himself up again and started back towards his carriage, muttering something else undecipherable. Crabtree gave him a lift up into the seat, and he slapped the reins at the docile bay mare, which trotted off briskly.
Murdoch replaced the blanket. He’d never encountered a situation like this before, and although he’d felt pity for the dead girl he was also keenly aware that it might prove to be a noteworthy case. The notion was agitating. Promotion was difficult to come by in the city’s police force. The last few years had been hard economically for the city and the council had refused Chief Grasett’s request for a bigger budget. The police force could not expand. Murdoch had been acting detective for three years and unless somebody above him in rank died or retired he was stuck there. Lately he had fretted beneath that yoke, hating the need to kow-tow to men he despised. There was a chance the dead girl could bring him some glory if he handled himself well.
The constable in charge of the ambulance called out. “D’you think you’ll be much longer, Mr. Murdoch? It’s perishing cold for the horses.”
“Put their blankets on, then.”
Richmond was a chronic complainer and lazy to boot. Murdoch had no time for him.
Grumbling, the constable got down from his seat, took two blankets from the back of the wagon and threw them over the horses. Their breath smoked in the cold air. The snow continued to drift down and bits of ice were crusting on Murdoch’s moustache from the moisture of his breath. He was grateful for the warmth of his long sealskin coat and forage hat, which he’d acquired in exchange for three plugs of Jolly Tar from a dying prisoner. The nap was gone under the arms of the coat, but it wasn’t obvious and his landlady had managed to remove most of the stains.
He motioned Constable Crabtree to come closer.
“We’d better find out who she was. Take down some notes, will you?”
Crabtree took out a black notebook and inserted a piece of carbonized paper between two pages. He was a giant of a man, made taller by his high round helmet and wider by the serge cape. His broad, ruddy face was guileless as a farmer’s, but he was shrewd and Murdoch liked and respected him.
“Righto, sir.”
“The body is that of a young female between fourteen and sixteen years of age. She has light blue eyes, dark brown wavy hair. She is approximately five foot three inches, and would weigh about nine stone. There is a small wen to the right side of the nose. No scars or pockmarks. She is wearing silver ear hoops. Got that? Before the postmortem examination we’ll get some photographs just to be on the safe side. Cavendish is the best for that, and Foster can do the drawing in case we need it for the papers. When the rigor has passed we’ll take proper Bertillon measurements.”
Crabtree was surprised. “Is it worth it, sir? You said you don’t think she’s a slag.”
“We might as well. You know how the chief feels.”
Chief Constable Grasett was very keen on Bertillonage, and he’d sent all the detectives and acting detectives on a special course the year before. In fact, Murdoch thought the laborious system had its faults, but it was better than nothing, and there were reports, probably exaggerated, of some resounding successes. Murdoch had heard that the American police were experimenting with a method of identification using fingerprints, but so far the Toronto police had no knowledge of it.
He called to Richmond. “Bring over the stretcher.”
The constable pulled it out of the wagon and placed it on the ground beside the body. Crabtree went to help him. As they began to lift, the blanket slipped and the forearm and hand appeared, pointing toward heaven as if in supplication. The other man tried to get it covered over again. Murdoch snapped at him.
“Take care with that arm, you’ll break it.”
Richmond swore under his breath but finally managed to slide the girl over. Crabtree seized the lower handles of the stretcher and the two of them carried it into the ambulance. The driver jumped up on the front seat, clucked to the horses and set off down the lane. There was a burst of excited chatter from the watchers. At the same time a carillon of bells sounded from St. Paul’s Church, signalling the Mass. Murdoch sighed to himself. He was a Roman Catholic, but last Sunday he’d stayed in bed reading, and it looked like he’d miss this week too. Father Fair wouldn’t be happy; nor would Mrs. Kitchen, his devout landlady.
As Crabtree joined him, Murdoch pointed to the depression where the body had lain.
“Before she was moved, she was lying on her left side facing the fence. Her head was west towards Sackville, feet easterly towards Sumach Street. Her legs were drawn up close to her body and her arms were folded against her chest.”
He stepped aside and dropped to the ground, curling himself into the position the girl had been in when she died.
“What does it look like, Crabtree?”
“Like she might have tried to get a bit of protection from the wind here where the shed juts out.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Murdoch clambered to his feet and brushed the snow from his coat.
“Was she hickey?” asked the constable.
“Don’t think so. There was no smell of liquor. We’ll have to wait for the postmortem examination to be sure. But something was wrong. I don’t like the look of it at all. As far as I know, you don’t die naturally and have pinpoint pupils. And she was bruised. Could be from somebody gripping her arm hard. If this is a crime we have to be careful. I don’t want his nibs using my stampers for boot cleaners, if we’ve missed something. At the very least we’re dealing with desecration of a dead body. Back east they used to say, when you’re not sure which way the wind is going to blow, keep your deck clean, your sail up and your Man Thomas down.”
Crabtree grinned.
Murdoch took out a retractable tape measure from his inner pocket.
The snow of the last few hours had been steadily filling up any dints, and the coming and going of the constables overlaid whatever prints had been there previously. However, at the edge of the depression where the girl had lain, he saw one clear toe print. It was narrow and pointed, as from a fashionable boot. He measured it carefully.
“Let’s have a gander down the lane.”
“Are we looking for anything in particular, sir?”
“Fresh droppings of any kind. Nothing’d last more than two days in this place, so we don’t have to worry whether it’s new or not.”
The dirt lane ran parallel to Shuter Street from River Street as far as Yonge. Over at that westerly end within sight of the cathedrals, Shuter was respectable and well tended, most of the residents professional men. You could find more doctors per square inch on Shuter and adjoining Mutual Street than bugs on a pauper’s pillow. Here, though, the houses shrivelled in size and demeanour, taken over by working-class families who were too tired or too indifferent to maintain them. Not even the covering of snow could prettify the narrow-faced, drab houses and untended backyards where the outhouses sat.
Slowly the two officers walked down the lane on each side, but there was nothing out of the ordinary that they could see. At the Sumach Street end they halted, and the people jostling against the rope barricade stared at them. One woman had her child with her, clinging sleepily to her chest underneath her shawl. There was the usual sour odour from clothes that were never washed or removed.
“What’s going on, Officer?” the man on the stool called out.
Murdoch recognized him. “Hello there, Tinney. You’re out early.”
“I didn’t want to miss anything, Sergeant. What’s happening? We heard some tart got a nubbing.”
“You heard wrong.”
“She’s dead, though, ain’t she?” interjected a scrawny red-nosed youth.
“Unfortunately she is that. So listen, all you folks. The police will need your cooperation. I’m going to give you a description of the girl and if you know her, know of her, or saw her anytime last night, speak right up. Is that clear?”
All eyes were on him, and a few of the crowd nodded eagerly.
“Is there a reward?” asked a short, round man who was protected against the weather by a long moth-eaten raccoon coat and fur cap with earflaps.
“Shame on you, Wiggins,” hissed one of his neighbours.
“Lay off, Driscoll. You’d shat your own mother if there was a dollar to be got.”
Mr. Driscoll scowled, but the crowd who heard the repartee laughed.
“Stop this at once,” roared Wicken. “You’re not at a music hall.”
Murdoch continued. “If there’s any reward it’s the one of knowing you might be saving some poor mother hours of heartache from wondering where her child is. Now listen. The girl is about fifteen or sixteen years old, dark hair, blue eyes. A bit over five feet. Same height as Wiggins. She has a small mole to the side of her nose. Anyone know her?”
There was a murmur and buzz but nobody answered him.
“Well? Poor girl died in your laneway, you must know her.”
Then Tinney offered, “There was a widow woman lived at the corner of Sackville and St. Luke’s a few months back. Could be her.”
At least four voices shouted him down.
“You’re leaky, John Tinney,” jeered his friend Driscoll. “That woman was on the downhill side of forty, for one thing, and she was as long as the copper, for another. Six foot if she was an inch. The sergeant says the poor girl was short.”
Tinney shrugged. “You never know.”
“When would she have passed on?” a woman asked Murdoch.
“Last night, probably between eleven and twelve o’clock.” He pointed to Crabtree. “This officer is going to write down all of your names and addresses and any information you can give him. Honest information, mind. No queer or you’ll find yourself with a charge. If you prefer a bit of privacy you can come to the station. You all know where that is, don’t you?”
There was a mixed response to that question. Some of them knew only too well.
He turned to Crabtree. “When you’ve done with this lot, stir up Cavendish, then trot over to the station just in case anybody’s come asking. Join me as soon as you can. I’m going to start knocking on doors.”
He went back down the laneway to where the body had been. Directly across from him was a row of six narrow, two-storey houses with sharp gables, each one leaning slightly towards its neighbour as if for comfort. All of the houses showed candles or lamps except for the end one, which was in darkness. Murdoch wondered if the inhabitants were sound sleepers. He decided to find out.
There was a ramshackle fence with more boards missing than standing. The gate had long gone and Murdoch stepped through the gap into the yard, taking careful notice of the tracks in the snow. From the back door, the snow was trampled down into a narrow path, unfortunately with so much overlay he couldn’t make out anything distinctly. Maybe that was the top of a needle-toed boot, maybe not. He straightened up and turned his back to the house. The place where the girl had died was easily visible.
Suddenly an angry voice shouted.
“Oi. What you doing? Get out of here.”
A woman was at the back door watching him. She was carrying a covered chamber pot that she was presumably about to empty into the outhouse.
“Detective Murdoch. I’d like to ask you some questions.”
The courteous address wasn’t really necessary, given the sort of woman she was. Her stained yellow wrapper was carelessly fastened and her unkempt hair straggled around a face that looked none too clean. She was young but her thin face was haggard.
“What sort of questions?” she said, not moving from the doorway.
“Tell you what, it’s cold as Mercury out here. Why don’t I come inside where we both would be more comfortable. And miss, if you can scrounge me up a mug of tea, I’d be right grateful.”
“I haven’t even lit the Gurney yet,” she said, yawning widely and showing discoloured and chipped teeth. “I just got up, matter of fact.”
“Lucky you. I’ve been up so long I’m ready for bed.”
“That’s not an invite, is it, Sergeant?”
Murdoch grinned, still willing to appease the woman, but he remained out of reach in case she decided to fling the contents of the pot in his direction. It wouldn’t be the first time.
“What do you want to know?” she asked as she emptied the chamber beside the door, turning the snow yellow.
“Like I said, we’d both be more comfortable inside.”
“Suit yourself.”
She stepped back and Murdoch followed her into the gloomy hallway. Two closed doors were to the right and at the far end was a curtained archway through which came the dim glow of a candle. The air was cold and stale.
The woman deposited the chamber pot in her room.
“We’re in here,” she said and led the way through the portieres into the kitchen. Here a second woman was bending over a large black range, fanning at a meagre fire that she had started in its belly. She was trying to get it to blaze but succeeding only in wafting clouds of smoke into the room. She turned around, coughing, when they came in.
“Bleeding hell, Ettie, will you see to this shicey stove. It won’t go.” She saw Murdoch. “Who’s he?”
“Copper. Wants to ask us some questions.”
“What about?”
“Don’t know, do I? Says he wants some tea.” She went over to the stove and peered at the fire. “Sod it, Alice, I told you to wait ’til it draws to put the coal on. You’ve smothered it.”
Murdoch stepped forward. “Let me. I’m good with fires.”
“That’s a surprise. I thought frogs were good for nothing.” Alice scowled. She too was in a day wrapper, this one a dingy green flannel. It gaped open at the neck, revealing her breasts, but she made no move towards modesty. She looked older than the young woman she had called Ettie by a good ten years.
There was a pair of tongs in a bucket beside the stove and Murdoch took them and removed the big lump of coal. Then he propped up the few bits of kindling and began to blow on the smouldering paper. A couple of good puffs and a bright flame appeared. When the wood began to crackle, he fished out some smaller pieces of coal from the bucket, put them on the fire and closed the stove door.
“Give it a few minutes,” he said, dusting off his hands.
The two women had been watching him silently.
“I suppose he deserves his chatter broth after that,” said Alice. She went to the sink and pumped water into a blackened pot. “It’ll take a while. Stove isn’t hot yet.”
“You’d better sit down before you knock out the roof,” said Ettie. The ceiling was low and Murdoch was six feet tall.
“Here.” She pulled forward a wooden chair. The back slats were almost all gone and Murdoch didn’t fancy the thing collapsing underneath him.
“I’ll stand,” he said, but he unbuttoned his coat and put his hat on the chair. Then he took his notebook and fountain pen from his inner pocket. The silver-nibbed pen had been Elizabeth’s Christmas present to him before she died, and it was his pride and joy. Both women took stock.
“First off, I need to know your names.”
“Why?” asked Ettie.
“Because, miss, the body of a female person has been found in the laneway. Practically in your back garden, as you might say.”
He paused for their reaction, but there was none. No expression of any kind, except stillness. They reminded him of two cats who’d come into the yard of his lodging house last winter. Lean and tattered, with pale, wary eyes. When he’d tried to befriend the starving creatures, they had growled and spat at him and would have bitten his hand if they could.
Alice shrugged. “This weather’ll kill you, that’s for certain. Poor old dolly.”
“Who do you mean, miss?”
“The stiff mort.”
“I doubt she was a tramp, and she wasn’t old. Possibly no more than fifteen or sixteen.”
“Shame that.”
They stared at him but he didn’t say anything.
“What’s it to do with us?” Ettie said finally.
“That’s for you to tell.” He paused. “We don’t know who the girl is as yet. I’m making enquiries.”
He wanted to see if either of them would offer information that they shouldn’t have or try to mislead him in any way. Ettie spoke again.
“What kind of girl was she, then? A working girl, for instance, or a young lady?”
Alice guffawed. “Bleeding hell, Ettie. Young lady? What would a lady be doing in the lane?”
Ettie shrugged. “Takes all sorts,” she said.
Murdoch knew this exchange was entirely for his benefit. He decided to play out the line a bit longer.
“We can’t tell yet. She was mother naked.”
Alice grimaced. “Couldn’t have had much in her idea pot if she was stark in this weather.”
She was overtaken by another fit of coughing, and she grabbed a cup from the table and spat into it. Dispassionately, she studied the sputum she had deposited.
“Just phlegm.”
“What’s your last name, Alice?” Murdoch asked.
“I’m Alice Black.” She pointed at her partner. “She’s Ettie Weston.”
“Bernadette Weston,” the other woman corrected her. “They just call me Ettie.”
“Just come over did you?” he asked Alice.
She shrugged but the other woman laughed. “She’s been here since she was a nipper but you’d never know it.”
“And you?”
“Do you both live here?”
“Yes. We’ve got a snug down there.” She pointed down the hall.
“You get use of the kitchen?”
Alice snorted. “Use! That’s a joke, that is. We supply the rest of this shicey household, if you ask me. We have to fetch the coal scuttle into our room at night, else it’d be empty as a cripple’s stomach by morning. Don’t notice Mr. bloody Quinn bringing in a bit of coal, do you? But he’s quick enough to come in here and warm his chilblains when we’ve got it up, isn’t he?”
“Come on, Alice, he helps us out in other ways.”
“You maybe, not me.”
“Who is this Mr. Quinn?” Murdoch interceded.
“One of the other dudders that lives here. He’s got the room next to us.”
“Who else?”
Ettie answered. “There’s two brothers upstairs. Say they’re lumberjacks. Don’t know what they’re doing here if that’s the case. Aren’t going to cut down many trees in this neighbourhood, are they? And they’re both lumpers. Bang around like horses up there.”
She looked as if she was going to continue with a diatribe against the absent brothers but Murdoch stopped her.
“What’s your occupation?”
Ettie grinned at him. In spite of her bad teeth she had an attractive face when she smiled. Youth still lingered there.
“I’m a glover. Alice the same.”
“Where do you work?”
“Here. We work from home, don’t we, Alice? We mend and clean.”
“That’s right. We specialize in men’s articles. Of the best pigskin.” She met his eyes impudently. “We fit them.”
Murdoch knew that sexual protectors were made from fine pigskin, but he didn’t take the bait. They were toying with him and the slightest sign of annoyance or embarrassment on his part would be seen as a victory they would chortle over for weeks to come.
“Who employs you?”
“Mr. Webster, the tailor. He’s over on Queen Street.”
“We’re always in demand,” added Alice. “The shops are using machines these days but we find most gentlemen still like the work done by hand, don’t we, Ettie?” She laughed. “It’s hard work, Sergeant. At the end of the day we’re spent many times over.”
“Alice, don’t be vulgar. What’ll the sergeant think?”
“I’m thinking I’ve had enough of you two. This is a serious matter I’m investigating.”
In spite of his resolve, he’d got irritated.
Alice was still laughing. It became a coughing fit that shook her scrawny body so painfully Murdoch winced.
“Bad cough you’ve got there, Alice. Have you seen a doctor?”
She thumped herself on the chest. Her face had turned almost blue with the effort to get breath. “It’s just a cold. Winter does it to you.”
Murdoch went back to his notebook.
“Do either of you know anything about this young girl, then?” He went through the description again. “Fullish figure but short. Bit shorter than you, Ettie.”
“Don’t know her, do we, Alice?”
“No.”
“Did you hear anything last night? Any cries? Shouts?”
They both shook their heads emphatically. “You were home all night?”
“Yes,” said Alice. “Tucked up in bed, good as gold.”
“No, Alice!” the younger girl spoke sharply. “He means earlier. You were at the hotel ’til almost ten.” She stared her companion down.
“I will be checking,” said Murdoch.
“See. Don’t confuse him.”
“Oh yeah. Sure I didn’t know what you meant, Constable. I did spend the early part of the evening at the John O’Neil with friends. But I was here with Ettie the rest of the night. Didn’t move.”
“What about you, Ettie?”
“In bed at eight, I was. Not a peep ’til just half an hour ago.”
Ettie went to the stove and poked at the fire even though it was blazing merrily. She didn’t turn around. “No, not a thing.”
Alice giggled. “Come on now, Ettie. Don’t give him the queer.”
Ettie swivelled around, staring.
Alice continued. “Truth is, we was disturbed in the night. ’Bout two o’clock.” She eyed Murdoch expectantly.
He sighed. “Get on with it, Alice. What woke you?”
“Terrible cries.”
“Well? What was it?”
“Probably the Virgin Mary.”
She laughed again so heartily at her own feeble joke, she went into another coughing spell. This produced another gob of sputum, which she tried to deposit in the cup and succeeded only in catching the edge.
He looked at her sharply. There was no possibility she could know his religious affiliation, but she was teasing about something.
“Would you please explain what –”
At that moment a loud yowling cry resounded down the dark hall. Pitiful moans and howls. Not quite human, though, as if some animal were in pain. Alice and Bernadette grinned at each other.
“Jesus save us,” said Alice. “There it is again. Exact same cries as last night.”
“Sounds like a dog,” said Murdoch. “Must be hurt.”
He went into the hall. The racket seemed to be coming from the far room.
“Who lives down there?” he called to the women.
They came to the archway, arms around each other.
“Samuel Quinn,” said Alice.
“Does he own a dog?”
“He does. He’s a regular dog fancier.” She smiled but Murdoch didn’t miss the quick warning poke from Ettie.
“I’ll be right back,” he said.
The noise stopped abruptly; then a soft plaintive howl filled the air, eerie, full of sorrow. He banged hard on the door.
“Open up. Police. Open up.”
The piteous howling suddenly changed to the everyday identifiable barking of a dog. A lighter treble joined in, the yapping complementing the loud, deep warnings of the first dog. Murdoch kicked the door.
“I’m going to break down this door if you don’t open it.”
That did the trick. As fast as it might have taken the occupant to get out of bed, the door opened a crack. A young man stood there in his nightshirt. He was holding on to the collar of a small black and tan dog. It was hard to believe so loud a sound could come from an animal that size.
“Is something wrong with the dog?” Murdoch bellowed.
Before the man could answer, the animal gave a quick twist of its head and moved backwards, leaving the man holding an empty collar. In a flash, it slipped between his legs and darted off towards the kitchen.
“Princess, stop!” the man yelled. At that moment another dog, tiny and long-haired, appeared from behind him and scampered off in pursuit, yapping excitedly.
“Ettie, catch him!” the man shouted again.
At the kitchen threshold, the bitch halted and began to jump up and down, barking at top volume. The little one was right behind and reared himself up on his hind legs in an attempt to mount her. His erection was bright scarlet. The hound turned her head and snapped at him over her shoulder as indifferently as if he were a fly. Not daunted, he gripped her more tightly, a difficult task as she was easily twice as tall as he was. Ettie, with Alice peering over her shoulder, burst out laughing. The young man in the nightshirt pushed past Murdoch and ran down the hall. Quickly, he snatched the tiny dog up in his arms, where he wriggled wildly, trying to get back to his pleasure.
“Grab Princess.”
Ettie tried to oblige but it was easier said than done; the dog was dancing round her feet, barking non-stop. She shouted to make herself heard above the din. “Does she want a bit of meat, then?”
The dog stopped barking as if a switch had been thrown and sat down abruptly, her tongue out, tail wagging. Ettie smiled lovingly, her voice as tender as if she were addressing a beloved child. “Come on, my chick, I’ll see what I can find.”
She went over to the pine cupboard next to the sink.
The dog in Quinn’s arms was still yipping shrilly but Quinn smacked him smartly on the nose and he shut up, snuffling in surprise.
“Thank God for that,” said Alice. “What a din.”
Quinn became aware of Murdoch standing behind him and smiled disarmingly. “Sorry about all the noise.”
“Sounded like she was being tortured.”
“I know. It’s ’cause she has hound blood in her. Really she just wanted to get out and see if Ettie had any treats.”
Alice scowled at that. “Dog has a better life than I do,” she said. “What a fuss.”
Quinn was standing barefoot in the cold hall, dressed as he was, in his nightshirt, and he started to hop from one foot to the other.
“Didn’t I hear you shout ‘Police’?” he asked Murdoch.
“He’s a detective. Mr. Mud something. He wants to ask you some questions,” said Alice. “Hope your pot’s clean.” Her glance at Quinn was full of malice.
“Oh? What about?” Quinn looked decidedly uneasy.
“Let’s go to your room, and I can speak to you there,”said Murdoch. He was keen to regain some control of the situation.
Ettie came back from the kitchen, Princess behind her.
“Is that all you want from us?”
“For now. But Quinn here will catch his death if he doesn’t get some clothes on.”
The little dog was struggling wildly to get free, and suddenly Quinn thrust him into Murdoch’s arms.
“Carry him, will you? Hold him tight.”
Murdoch had no choice but to obey. It was a small dog but it must have weighed a good ten pounds, most of the flesh in its portly belly. The dog’s long, silky coat was caramel-coloured and smelled like violets, as if he’d recently been bathed with perfumed soap. He had a squashed-in face, long ears and bulging eyes that were nonetheless bright with intelligence. Or lust. His major aim at the moment seemed to be to get back to the bitch. Quinn caught Princess by the scruff of the neck and half dragged, half pushed her down the hall to his room. He stepped back to usher in Murdoch.
“My humble abode, as they say.”
The room was stiflingly hot, and the warm air poured out into the chill of the hall. A fire was blazing in the hearth and a candle was lit. There was one tall, narrow window currently hung with a piece of torn cloth that might have once graced a table. No fresh air had entered via the window since the house was constructed but Murdoch didn’t expect anything else. Fresh air was a prerogative of the wealthy, who in the winter could afford coal to heat cold rooms and in the summer employed servants to deal with the dust that sifted through every aperture.
Quinn pulled forward a wooden box that had formerly contained lye and placed a red plush cushion on top of it.
“Sit yourself down,” he said and plucked the dog out of Murdoch’s arms. Ignoring the beast’s protests, he thrust him into an old hat box that was beside the bed. Airholes were punched into the sides and Murdoch could see a keen brown eye as the dog stared out at them. The bitch collapsed with a sigh and a smacking of lips and promptly closed her eyes.
“What’s his name?” asked Murdoch, indicating the yapper.
Quinn looked bewildered. “Name? I, er, oh sure, Prince – his name is Prince” He grinned. “Looks a bit like him, doesn’t he? Pop eyes, fat stomach.”
“He certainly has the same appreciation for females,” said Murdoch. “Looks like a quality dog. Where’d you get him?”
“Actually, he’s not my dog. Belongs to a pal of mine. I’m taking care of him for a few days.”
“That’s kind of you.”
“Eh?”
“It must be a lot of trouble.”
“Not really. Good little dog, aren’t you, Bertie?”
“Thought you said his name was Prince?”
“What? Yeah. It is. Prince Albert. Got bloodlines, this animal.”
He had perched on the edge of his bed but he jumped up nervously and went over to the fire, where an iron kettle was hissing away on a spit. “I was going to make myself a pot of char. Can I offer you a mug?”
“Thanks, that would be appreciated.”
Quinn reached under the bed and pulled out another box. This one was cardboard and advertised gloves. He took out a tin of tea, a brown, chipped china pot and two mugs, placing them on a japanned table next to Murdoch where there was a silvered milk jug and sugar basin.
“What can I help you with, Officer?”
“I’ll wait for the tea, then we can get down to it.”
“Be ready in a jiffy.”
Quinn spooned the black tea leaves from the tin into the pot, filled it with boiling water from the kettle and covered it with a blue, knitted cozy. His movements were the deft, practiced habits of a bachelor. He was a short, stocky man, rather bandy-legged. His complexion was swarthy and badly pockmarked but there was something open and humorous in his expression. Murdoch couldn’t help but take a liking to him.
“Could you go for a bun with your tea? I’m a baker. They let me have the leftovers.”
Murdoch could feel a trickle of sweat down the back of his neck. With the two of them in the tiny room and the fire roaring like that, it was becoming unbearably hot.
“Here, give me your coat,” said Quinn. He took the seal coat and laid it across the bed. An old army blanket, heavy and greasy looking, seemed to make do as a cover. Murdoch hoped the coat wasn’t going to collect any livestock.
Quinn pulled forward the single chair in the room, removed the pair of trousers that was draped across the back and sat down. He had produced a biscuit tin from the window shelf and he opened it, revealing two currant buns and one half-eaten slice of bread. Princess opened her eyes and raised her head, recognising the possibility of food. Murdoch took one of the buns and bit into it. His teeth made no impression. Quinn grinned.
“Better dip it into your char to soften it up a bit. Here.”
He poured some tea, thick and black, into one of the mugs, added two spoonsful of sugar and a splash of milk and offered it to Murdoch. Princess sat up on her hind legs and begged. She let out one demanding yelp. Quinn broke off a piece of his bun and gave it to her. Murdoch followed suit.
“Alice called her the Virgin Mary,” he said.
Quinn grinned nervously. “Did she now?”
Murdoch sipped at the hot tea, almost burning his tongue. Quinn drank some of his, not looking at him. Murdoch gave the end of his bun to Princess.
“All right, to business, then.”
He told Quinn about the dead girl.
The man put down his cup. “Why, that’s terrible, that is. Just terrible. Young, you say?”
“No more than sixteen.”
The candle and the fire cast so many shadows it was hard to read his expression completely, but as far as Murdoch could tell, Quinn was genuinely shocked.
“How did she die?”
“We don’t know ’til we get the postmortem examination.”
Quinn shook his head in disbelief.
“I’m trying to find out if anybody heard or saw anything last night. Between ten and midnight particularly.”
“I wasn’t here, myself. Like I said, I’m a baker. I have to work from ten-thirty to seven. I’ve not long got home, as a matter of fact.” He indicated his nightshirt. “I sleep during the day.”
“Do you usually leave by the back door?”
“Eh? Oh, er, no. By the front. To Wilton Street. She was in the laneway, you say? I wouldn’t have seen her at all.”
“Don’t you have to relieve the dogs before you go to work?”
“Yes, that’s right. I did that. Yes, I did take them out but it was earlier. Weren’t no dead body there then, I promise you.”
Murdoch made a note. “Can you be precise as to the time?”
“Yes, I can. I was thinking I’d better start getting ready for work. Looked at the clock. Ten minutes before ten. ‘Come on, Princess,’ I says, ‘let’s go for a bit of a stroll.’ So we did. Didn’t see nothing, like I said.” Suddenly he slapped his thigh. “No, what am I thinking? I saw Alice coming home.” He winked and tapped the side of his nose. “As she would put it, she was hickey as a lambskin.”
Murdoch wrote that down. It confirmed the time Alice had given.
“Where do you work, Mr. Quinn?”
“The Union Hotel on King Street. I do all their dinner rolls for them. And the pies and tarts. Very tasty, if I say so myself. You can’t tell from that one, it’s a bit stale. Drop by for breakfast one of these days. I’ll serve you a Bath bun like you’ve never had. Melt in your mouth.”
“Thanks, I might do that.” Murdoch wiped at his sweaty face. “I’d better get going. I’ve got to talk to a lot of people.”
“Wonder what the poor girl was doing in the laneway at that time of night. Not to mention it was colder than Beelzebub’s bottom. Was she a, er, lady of the night?”
“I don’t think so. Course it’s hard to tell with no clothes. She was naked.”
“Sweet Jesus, you don’t say. How did that happen?”
“They were stolen, most likely. Which is a serious offence in the eye of the law.” He put away his notebook and stood up. “By the way, didn’t you take Prince Albert out last night?”
“What?”
“You know, to relieve himself. He must have needed to go as well. You just mentioned taking out Princess.”
“Oh, no … Fact is I just got him this morning. From me pal.”
“He must be quite a swell to own such a nobby dog. Bloodlines and all that.”
Quinn tugged at his sidewhiskers. “Oh, no. This dog ain’t worth a dime. Who’d pay money for a funny-looking tiddler like him?” He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Fact is, the fellow, this pal of mine, is going on his honeymoon. Didn’t want to leave the little fellow with his mother ’cause she doesn’t see so good. What the heck! I felt sorry for the man. And I do like dogs, as you can probably tell. Said I’d take care of him ’til he got back.”
The words had come tumbling out and now he stopped, eyeing Murdoch. His full cheeks glistened in the firelight.
Murdoch went to the door.
“If anything else comes to you, drop in at the station and give us a report. Do you know where we are?”
“Sure. The corner of Parliament and Wilton.”
“That’s it.”
“I will. For certain I will. Terrible pity.” Quinn ran his fingers through his already dishevelled dark hair. “Best of luck.”
Murdoch stepped out into the hall, which seemed wondrously refreshing after the furnace of Quinn’s room. He headed back toward the kitchen. The man might be a likeable fellow, but his guilty conscience was as thick in the air as the smell of the dogs.