Chapter Seventeen

THE MANCHESTER TAVERN WAS LOCATED at the far end of Shaftesbury Avenue, and Murdoch walked back from St. Clair Avenue and Yonge Street, which was as far as the streetcar terminal. He was glad of the exercise. Within the space of four days, his life had undergone an irrevocable and cataclysmic change, and he felt the need to sort out both his thoughts and feelings. He didn’t know when it would be the right time to tell his father that Susanna was dead. The recent meeting had been cut off abruptly. Tyler had come in and said Harry had to return to his cell at once. There had been some sort of barney in the exercise yard, and the warden was confining all prisoners in their cells until he sorted out what had happened. As he stood up to follow the guard, Harry called out, “Find out what’s happened to my dog, will you. He’s a game little fellow. Name of Havoc.”

He wondered what Harry’s reaction would be when he did tell him about Susanna. The new Harry, that is. The one with sensibility. When they were growing up, his father had not shown any more tenderness towards his daughter than he had to the two boys. He didn’t hit her, but he did bark out orders or angry reprimands if she wasn’t fast enough bringing him what he wanted. She had wept with the rest of them.

Murdoch’s stomach felt tight and on the verge of queasiness. Although he didn’t want to think about the expression on his father’s face when he was leaving, it kept jumping back into his mind. The raw nakedness of Harry’s longing was shocking. His father’s physical nakedness had been easier to witness. Winter and summer, when he returned from a fishing trip, Harry would strip down in front of the fire before stepping into the tub of scalding hot water his wife had ready for him. Will had sat and watched him, and one time when he was almost ten years old, Harry had caught an expression on Will’s face that had made him chuckle. He was enjoying the boy’s nervous curiosity. He hadn’t needed to say anything, but Will knew what it was all about and had hated the power his father held over him. After that he’d developed the ability to feign indifference.

He halted in front of the tavern, a long, squat building sitting alone in a patch of waste ground. In its first life it must have been a warehouse associated with the Canadian Pacific railway yards, which ran along the south side of the street. However, the ochre-painted walls were in good repair and the black trim fresh and shiny. On either side of the double doors were two urns, empty now but no doubt filled with flowers in the summer. In the English style, there was a hanging sign on which was painted a muddy-looking picture of a little brown-and-black dog, smooth coated, with sharp, pointed ears and spindly legs. Its front paw, the claws tipped with blood, was holding down a black rat. Printed in bold red letters was THE MANCHESTER TERRIER.

There was smoke coming from the chimney and lamps lit. He could see a woman, plump and dark haired, moving about in the kitchen. A large room took up the other half of the building and was obviously the taproom, with its long tables and benches. There was a big stone hearth at one end, but there were no customers warming themselves. He assumed the tavern was closed until the evening.

He continued walking. The macadamised street ended abruptly about fifty yards on and narrowed into a dirt path that disappeared in a stand of pine trees. There were no other buildings, and the fence opposite demarcated the end of the railway property. He followed the path through the trees to the brow of the hill and stood looking down into the ravine. A blustering wind stung his face.

Beginning slightly to the south of St. Clair Avenue, the land was cut by a series of faults that ran down almost as far as the lake, like gigantic sabre slashes. These ravines weren’t especially long or deep, but they were rough and thickly wooded and afforded dramatic terrain in the otherwise bland landscape, a reminder of the primeval forest so recently tamed.

Murdoch paused. In the summer the trees would be thick and lush, but now they had lost most of their leaves. The spruces and other evergreens were abundant, but he could see through the branches sufficiently to glimpse a narrow wooden bridge at the bottom of the hill. He fished his watch out of his waistcoat pocket and checked it. Ten minutes past two o’clock. He began to make his way at a steady pace down the path. The ground was hard and dry, but small drifts of snow had been captured in the ruts, which made the way slippery.

“Ahh!” He lost his footing and slid down in a rush to level ground, where he lay momentarily, feeling irrationally angry at the fall as if the earth had vindictively attacked him. A black Junco lighted on a branch nearby and twittered, cocking its head to look at him.

“Haven’t you seen anybody fall on their arse before?” he asked the bird in mock anger. “Humans do it all the time, you know.” The blackbird darted away.

Murdoch brushed some snow off his trousers and got to his feet. Down here the wind was less fierce. It was private and protected. Even with the denuded trees, the branches were thick; in the summer he would be completely invisible. He checked the time. It had taken only six minutes to descend from the top of the hill. Add four minutes from the tavern. Ten minutes more or less from there to here.

He walked onto the bridge and leaned over the railing. The creek was narrow and the banks sandy, about four or five feet high. The little river would be frozen before too long, but now there was only a thin skin of ice at the verge, the centre running freely. Just ahead, the path forked, one branch went to the left and disappeared around the bend of the hill. The other continued further along to the right then it too vanished as it wound its way up the hill. The railway bridge, the steel girders dark and slender, strode across the gap.

Murdoch took the right-hand path and walked a distance of about twenty feet. This was roughly the spot where Harry had been found lying in the thick summer grass. Delaney had been discovered in the creek further along. The banks here were higher than at the bridge but also sandy, and the rocks had been smoothed and rounded by the flowing water. He walked on a little further. The path he was on ran underneath the high railway bridge and seemed to be heading in the direction of Yonge Street. Then just around a slight bend, he came to a flight of steps, which zigzagged at steep angles up the side of the ravine. He began to climb upward.

He might have gone past the hideaway if he hadn’t been on the lookout for anything out of the ordinary.

On the left-hand side of the path was a rocky overhang and around it a clump of bushes, too neat and symmetrical to be quite natural. He slipped underneath the railing, clambered around the slope, and peered through the bush. He was looking into a hollowed-out cave. Branches were attached to a weather-beaten piece of wood that blocked the opening. He moved it aside and crawled inside the opening. The space was surprisingly large as the sandy wall had been hollowed deeper underneath the overhanging rock and there was just enough room to sit upright. He squatted and hugged his knees. Quite cosy really. Old moss and leaves piled on the floor made a soft cushion.

He and Susanna had had a hideaway in a cave in the cliffs that they could only reach by means of a knotted rope. He remembered the pleasure he’d experienced every time he crawled into that cold space and hauled up the rope, sealing off access. He sighed suddenly, flooded with bittersweet memories of his sister, timid, overly pious, and well behaved, but at rare times, carefree and a good companion. She’d loved to race him down to the seashore, and try as he might, he couldn’t outrun her. It was probably the only way she had to triumph, and she relished it.

Perhaps he should have insisted on seeing her face. He could have broken through into that dark room and looked at her. He grimaced to himself. Too late now.

He turned his head in the direction of the steps, which were just visible through the protective branches. There was a rough shelf wedged into the bush roots and on it lay a heap of stiff, dried squirrel pelts and a skinning knife, quite clean. He touched the blade, which was razor sharp. Next to that was the nub of a candle and a box of lucifers. Tucked underneath the shelf was a cigar box, which was pierced with holes. He pulled it out and removed the lid. Inside was a tiny frog skeleton. Murdoch frowned. He knew what this meant. Years ago, a boy in the village had showed him something similar. He said his sister was in love with a lad who didn’t want her, and she was trying to win his affections through spells. She had captured a live frog, put it in a box pierced with holes, and placed it in the middle of an ant heap. When she came back two weeks later, at the time of the full moon, the frog’s flesh had been consumed by the ants and only the skeleton remained. One of the bones had the shape of a fish hook, which she had to contrive to fasten to the garment of the desired one, and he would come to her. “And did he?” Murdoch had asked. “In more ways than one,” the other boy had replied with a leer. Gingerly Murdoch touched the tiny bones. The hooked piece had not yet been removed.

At that moment he heard the sound of a child crying, a grizzling kind of cry that usually tried the patience. Feeling foolish at the thought of being found in the hideaway, he hurriedly replaced the box and crawled out. Above him on the hill were a man and a child. Because of the incline, they were moving carefully, the man holding the little girl by the hand. She was complaining, seemingly not wanting to be walking. They saw Murdoch and immediately the child halted, stopped whining, and shrank against the man, presumably her father. He gathered her into his arms, but Murdoch heard her wail. No words, just a frightened, high-pitched cry. The man pressed her head against his chest. He hadn’t moved either, and Murdoch waved to him.

“Good afternoon,” he called out.

The fellow started to descend, and Murdoch was struck by his wariness. The child had hushed, but as they approached he saw how she clung tightly to her father’s coat as if she were a little wild animal.

“You startled us, sir.”

“Beg your pardon, I was in pursuit of a, er …”

He waved vaguely. Close up, Murdoch saw the man was young, ruddy complexioned. His eyes were intelligent enough but with the same air of caution he’d observed in his movements. He was a big man, with the wide shoulders and strong thighs of a labourer.

“I was just out for a walk,” replied Murdoch.

“Lost your way, did you?”

“Quite so. Will these steps take me to Yonge Street?”

“They don’t go anywhere except up to my cottage.”

Murdoch turned in the direction of the wooden bridge. “And where does that other path lead to?”

“That don’t go anywhere either, except to private property.” He shifted the child so she could ride more comfortably on his hip. She whimpered and tried to burrow her face deeper into his coat. “Hush, Sally.”

Murdoch rubbed his hands together. “You know what, it’s colder than I thought. I think I’ll turn back.”

“Forgo your walk, you mean?”

Murdoch grinned. “Yes, I think so. A dram of hot gin might do no harm. I passed a tavern up there on the road. Would you recommend it?”

The man’s face was still grim, but he said, “I’m going that way myself. I work there. I’d say the ale is as good as the Dominion brewery can make it, and the gin’s passable. But if you’re peckish, what we’re famous for is home-grown bacon.”

Murdoch fell in beside him, and they continued on down the steps. He guessed this must be the hired man, Walter Lacey. At the trial, his description of Harry had been caustic. A man to be avoided. A swarm of wasps would be less dangerous than him when he’d been drinking.

“Haven’t seen you around here before. Did you come all the way up from the city to walk in the ravine?”

Murdoch hadn’t set out with any particular plan in mind, but suddenly, it came ready formed. He knew he had to ask questions and have some reason to do so, but human nature being what it is, he thought it highly doubtful that he’d get much information if he revealed his true identity.

“As a matter of fact, I wasn’t just out for a stroll. I am on a case.”

“Is that so, sir? What kind of a case might that be?”

“I’m a detective and, er, I have a private client. He’s lost his dog. That might not sound too serious to us, but he’s an older gentleman and very attached to the little creature.”

Murdoch wasn’t comfortable lying, he never was, but he forged on, trying to sound as convincing as he could.

“He claims that he knows the name of the man who nabbed the dog. This fellow came by offering to do some handiwork; then the next thing he and the dog had gone. Pouf! He, my client that is, is offering a generous reward, and I am of course only too happy to pay for a person’s time and information.”

“What makes you think the dog is anywhere in this vicinity?”

“To tell you the truth, my client is a man of the Fancy. He likes to gamble. He trained the dog as a darned good ratter. He is convinced that’s why this man stole it, so he could enter it in some matches. He’d heard that you could pick up a game or two at the Manchester.”

“Is that so?”

“I’m not trying to fish out information from you, believe me. I’m dead against the gambling laws. If grown men want to wager, why shouldn’t they?”

Lacey shrugged. “It don’t matter to me.”

He was panting a little with the burden of carrying his child. He pried her away from his chest and put her on the ground, but she clung like a limpet to his trouser leg, another thin wail came out of her. She was wearing a white hooded cape of rabbit fur that looked too big for her. Murdoch crouched down and tried to meet her eyes, but he had to talk to the back of the hood.

“Hello. I’m sorry if I frightened you back there. I didn’t mean to.” There was no response, only a muffled whimper.

Lacey scooped her up again. “She’s not afeard; she’s shy. Don’t get to see many strangers.”

He didn’t speak until they were on the path, but Murdoch’s gesture seemed to have mollified him slightly.

“When did your client lose his dog?”

“A while ago. In the summer as a matter of fact. He’s been out of the country and hasn’t had a chance to look before. He said the man who took it gave him a name. Me, I doubt if it’s his real name, but he said it was. Merton, no that’s not right. Murdoch. Harry Murdoch.”

He felt the shock that jolted Lacey, who frowned at him, trying to read his expression.

“Is the name familiar?” asked Murdoch.

“Might be. Was the dog a scrubby little grey terrier?”

“I believe it was. He named him Havoc. Have you seen it around?”

“I have that.”

“With this man? He’s a tall cove, middle-aged. Thinning hair, brown eyes.”

“The dog was in the possession of such a person. He’s not now.”

“How so? Did he sell him?”

They were almost at the top of the hill.

“The man you’re talking about, this Harry Murdoch, he showed up here in August, but he murdered a man and if you want to talk to him you’re going to have to go to the Don Jail because he’s in there. The dog is being looked after by Mr. Newcombe, the innkeeper. He’ll probably be only too glad to get rid of him.” Lacey seemed in a hurry to end the conversation and quickened his pace. As they approached the tavern, he said, “We don’t open till five, but the missus will always find you a bite to eat. I’ll let her know. You can sit in the taproom if you want. Mr. Newcombe keeps a good fire going.”

He pushed open the door, and they stepped into a small, dimly lit hall. There was a delicious smell of roast pork in the air. Lacey set Sally down and pulled back her hood. Murdoch glimpsed a pretty child with dark eyes and wavy hair, but she noticed he was looking at her and she averted her eyes in fear.

“Come on, Sally. Don’t be so mardy. We’re going to see Maria.” Lacey’s voice was impatient, and Murdoch saw how the child withdrew from the harshness of it. “Go through there,” he said to Murdoch, indicating the door on the right. Then he hurried off down the hallway, almost dragging the little girl.

Murdoch went into the taproom, which seemed to be the entire establishment. The plank floor was covered with sawdust, which smelled newly laid. Along both walls were wooden benches with tables in front of them, and at the far end of the room was a hearth that looked big enough to roast an ox in. The fire was blazing, and he headed straight to it so he could warm his cold hands. On the mantelpiece was a fancy black marble clock with a brass plate at the bottom inscribed with lettering he couldn’t make out. He pulled out his watch to compare the times.

“That’s ten minutes fast, sir,” said a voice behind him. “I keep it that way because my customers tend to linger.”

Murdoch turned around. A stout man in a publican’s leather apron was standing in the doorway. Physically he resembled a jovial Friar Tuck, but the expression in his eyes was anything but benevolent.

“I understand you’re in search of a dog?”

“Yes, I am.”

The innkeeper stepped closer. Lacey was behind him, and Murdoch could see that he was holding an iron poker in his hand. He wasn’t smiling either.