Chapter Thirty

HIS ALARM CLOCK WAS CLANGING, and Murdoch rolled over and pressed the lever to stop it. He would have happily gone back to sleep for a while longer, but almost immediately there was a tap on his door.

“Mr. Murdoch, here’s your hot water.”

“Thank you, Mrs. K. You can bring it in.”

He pulled his coverlet up around his neck as his landlady opened the door.

“Shall I pour it?”

“You might as well. I’m up, at least I think I am.”

He yawned so hard he thought he was going to swallow himself.

“Did you not sleep well?” Beatrice asked him, as she poured the hot water from the jug into the basin on his washstand. He glanced at her quickly, but her comment seemed without guile. As far as he knew, she had not awakened when he had come home last night, which wasn’t surprising as he was floating at least two inches above the floorboards.

“Thank you, I did, Mrs. K. And yourself?”

“Soundly, thank you. And Arthur had a good night. He was asleep at ten and didn’t stir until three o’clock and then he was only awake for a short while. The laudanum syrup does help him.” She put a towel on the rail. “There you go. I warmed it up by the fire. Shall I light the candle?”

“Yes, please.” He suppressed another yawn and waited for her to leave the room so he could get out of bed. At the door, she paused.

“Did you have a pleasant visit with Mrs. Jones?”

“Yes, indeed, very pleasant.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“She has asked me to have dinner with her tonight, so you needn’t put anything up for me.”

Beatrice frowned. He knew why. Although she liked Enid, the young widow was not a Roman Catholic, and Mrs. Kitchen would never be reconciled to a match between her and Murdoch. One evening’s visit was acceptable; a second closely following was not.

“Breakfast in ten minutes?”

“That would suit very well. I want to go directly to the Coroner’s office and see if he will give me an appointment.”

“I’ll let you get on then,” she said, and left. Murdoch got out of bed and shuffled into his slippers. Moving hurriedly to combat the cold of the room, he tugged off his nightshirt and got dressed. The steam from the hot water was evaporating by the second. He sharpened his razor on the leather strop, dipped the shaving brush in the water, and whipped up a lather in the soap.

At one point in the night, Enid had stroked his eyes and murmured something in Welsh. “Translation please, madam,” he had said, and she had kissed his lids one at a time. “There is too much weariness there.”

This morning, in the gloom of the early morning and with a short night’s sleep, he could see what she meant. There were dark shadows underneath his eyes, and his eyelids felt itchy and puffy. He daubed on the lather, then drew the razor down the line of his jaw and flicked off the wiped soap onto the towel. Unbidden, a memory flashed into his mind of him as a boy standing by the kitchen sink watching his father shave. The razor had made a scratchy noise as he’d scraped it down his cheeks. In the winter Harry grew a moustache and straggly beard, but in the summer he went clean shaven, more or less. If he was on a binge, he didn’t wash or shave for days at a time.

“Can we think of something more uplifting,” said Murdoch out loud to his own reflection. “Perhaps the delectable Mrs. Jones, for instance.”

He cupped his hands and scooped up water, already tepid, and washed his face. Perhaps Enid had not been as disingenuous as it had at first appeared. She knew Mrs. Barrett was away from home, and she had deliberately packed her son off to bed early. That was a big step for a respectable Baptist. He grinned to himself, not minding at all. He dried himself off and scrutinised the job he’d done shaving. Damnation. He’d nicked the underside of his chin, and there was a spot of blood on his white collar. He rubbed at it with a wet finger and only succeeded in spreading out the stain. He sighed. He didn’t have a clean one; this would have to do until Mrs. Kitchen could wash one for him. Enid said there was promise in intimacy, and she was right about that. He could see himself as the most faithful of men for the rest of his life. The religious issue, the huge differences between them, didn’t seem important at the moment. A small hill to climb, not an insurmountable Everest.

From downstairs, he heard the tinkle of the silver bell that Mrs. Kitchen used to summon him to breakfast. He dabbed at the nick on his chin again and hurried out of his room. At the top of the stairs, he leaned over the rail and called down.

“I’ll be right there, Mrs. K. Got to do something for a minute.” And he went down the hall to his sitting room. There was an old sideboard in there, where he kept odds and ends of stuff. He flung open the door and stared inside. Yes. He thought he had some notepaper and envelopes somewhere. No ink though. If he wanted that, he would have to ask his landlady. A pencil would have to do. There was a stubby one at the back of the cupboard. He blew off the dust, took a piece of paper, and sat down in his armchair to write. Damnation, he needed something to lean on. He jumped up, got a book from the bookcase, and started his letter.

Ugh. What sops. It was embarrassing. Suddenly a memory of Liza came into his mind. He had called her his sweet and his darling, and she had laughed at him. “You don’t have to decorate your feelings with silk and bows, Will; plain and unadorned is good enough for me.” But Enid had said he was a poet always searching for the right words. He tore the sheet of paper into shreds and began again.

He was going to cross that out, but it looked rude as if he had changed his mind. And that was his last sheet. He left it, folded the paper, put it in an envelope, and stowed that in his pocket. As he went to replace the book on the shelf, he saw it was one that Liza had given him for a birthday present. He touched it gently as if it were Liza herself. “Forgive me, dearest,” he whispered.

After a rather unappetising breakfast of blood sausage and hard eggs, which he gulped down quickly, he headed out for Dr. Semple’s office, which was over on Mutual Street near St. Michael’s Cathedral. There was a fancy hotel at the corner of Church Street and Gerrard, and usually a boy earned a few cents by keeping the sidewalk clear of snow so that the hotel guests could have an easy walk to the streetcar when it came by. Sure enough, there was a ragged-looking urchin leaning against the wall, waiting for customers. His hair was cut short, usually a sign of lice, and he’d wrapped a woollen scarf around his head to keep himself warm. His jacket and knickerbockers were patched and grimy and looked as if they had been passed through several other owners before getting to him. There was a strip of wind-reddened skin where the knickerbockers ended and his boots began. Murdoch beckoned to him.

“You, Titch. Come over here. Do you want to do an errand for me? I’d like a letter delivered.”

The boy didn’t move. He had a hard-looking face, too old for his size, and his eyes were dull, a boy who had already acquired a cynical view of the world.

“Where to?”

“Over on Sackville Street.”

“What’s the dibs?” “Five cents.”

The boy turned down the corners of his mouth. “I’ll get twice as much as that if I stay right here. I can do three or four ladies in the time it’ll take me to get there and back.”

“They’re not shopping this early in the morning, so don’t give me that guff. I’m making a good offer; take it or leave it. I’ll find another lad in a wink.”

“I ain’t seen nobody else about yet, and you look like a man who’s in a hurry.”

“Ten cents then and not a penny more.”

“All right.” The boy approached him and held out his hand for the letter. He didn’t have any gloves but was making do with a pair of socks pulled over his fingers like mittens. There was an angry red sore by the side of his mouth.

Murdoch had written Enid’s address on the envelope. “Can you read?”

“No.”

“Numbers?”

“Yes.”

Murdoch pointed to the envelope. “It’s number three one four on Sackville Street. The door is brown. Ask for Mrs. Jones. Got that?” Murdoch gave him a light flick on the side of his head. “If I hear you didn’t deliver it, I’m going to come back and tan your hide. I’m a police officer. A detective.”

The boy stowed the letter inside his jacket with elaborate care. “Is this official business then?”

“Never mind. Just go. Now!”

The arab turned and trotted off.

“Hey, Titch, wait a minute. What’s your name?”

“Billy.”

“From William?”

“I suppose so.”

“That’s my name, too, William Murdoch.”

“Is it?”

There was something disconcerting in the look he gave Murdoch. There was nothing endearing about this boy.

“Go on then, young Billy. Do your job.”

Murdoch watched him out of sight, then continued on his way toward Mutual Street. He was accustomed to the presence of boys who were scrabbling for money by doing what this urchin did or by selling newspapers or holding horses while the owners went visiting or shopping. The truant officers couldn’t keep them in school usually because what they earned was needed by the family, almost always too large, often in the care of a woman only. He didn’t know why he should be more sympathetic towards one of them today, but he was. He felt miserly that he’d only given the boy ten cents, although he knew most people would only have given him a couple of cents at a time. Murdoch looked up at the sky. The sun had struggled out, and there were blue patches in the sky. He grinned like a fool at the sight. It was amazing what a good and generous mood having loving connections with a woman put a man in.

Patrick Pugh couldn’t believe his good luck. He’d been heading down Church Street to make his report when he saw the exchange between Murdoch and the street arab. He slowed his pace, keeping his hat well down over his face, and when Murdoch had continued on, he set off after the boy.