EPILOGUE

Murdoch wanted to take one last look around the house to make sure it was sparklingly clean for the new arrivals. Not that he needed to. Mrs. Kitchen had spent two entire days before she and Arthur left for Muskoka, polishing and washing everything, floor to ceiling. Murdoch limped into the parlour. His right foot had blistered badly, and he still found it painful to draw in a deep breath, but he was on the mend. He’d been given two paid weeks leave of absence, which was astonishingly generous coming from Brackenreid. However, he was in the inspector’s good books. The case had received a lot of attention in the newspapers and Brackenreid felt his police officers had come off in a favourable light. He had even intimated that Murdoch would be promoted to full detective as soon as the opportunity arose.

Bartholomew Gregory had not survived his injuries, and his widow told the police everything they needed to know about her husband’s sideline. Clara Hill had been at her boarding house when the fire happened, but she too testified to her role in the taking of pornographic photographs. As far as Murdoch could tell, she was unrepentant. It was a job like any other. Both she and Mrs. Gregory swore they knew nothing about the misuse of children, but Murdoch didn’t believe either of them. He was sorry when Clara got a reduced sentence by providing a list of Gregory’s customers. As far as Murdoch was concerned it was a depressingly long list.

It turned out that Agnes Fisher was safely hidden away at the home of a coloured woman, Honoria Davis, who cleaned the studios and sometimes modelled for the more benign photographs. The day after the fire, when Honoria discovered what had happened, she had brought Agnes to the police station where she told Brackenreid what she knew, including details concerning the murder of Leonard Sims. Later, Murdoch discovered that the inspector had been openly skeptical of Agnes’s story and profession of innocence but Honoria supported what she had said. Honoria wasn’t charged but Agnes was placed at once in the Girls Home on Gerrard Street.

Murdoch brought Brackenreid the photographs that Amy Slade had found because they would be needed in the inevitable investigation. In the meantime, however, he slipped the Dowdell photograph into a folder. When Agnes went before the police magistrate, she could plead coercion with regard to the obscene picture but she would be in serious trouble if the magistrate saw what she had written on the back of the mourning card. Murdoch didn’t think it necessary for anybody else to know about it. Amy Slade had engaged the services of the hirsute Mr. Wilkinson, and Murdoch felt confident that Agnes wouldn’t be sent to the Mercer Reformatory.

Aggie had revealed the address of her older sister and Murdoch wasn’t surprised to hear it was the Crofton residence, Martha Fisher metamorphosed into Ruby Adams. When he limped over with Seymour to inform them of the situation, Georgina and her mother had declared unswerving loyalty to their maid and had promised they would act charitably toward the younger sister and brother. Murdoch had noticed the ambivalence on Ruby’s face, and he felt sorry for her. She had obviously hoped to make a clean break from the squalor of her family life. He thought there was still something covert about Miss Crofton, but he didn’t know what it was and frankly didn’t care. She seemed to him to be a generous-hearted woman, eccentric yes, but basically decent. Ruby’s adoration of her counted for a lot as far as he was concerned.

Ben was left with his father, but Seymour and Murdoch had paid a visit to Mr. Fisher and scared the life out of him. They made it clear they would not tolerate any misuse of the boy and if Ben so much as had a scratch when he showed up at school, Fisher would be held accountable.

Murdoch glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was a handsome piece of ormolu and brass, a parting gift from Enid. She’d managed a smile when she gave it to him. “Perhaps when you check the time, you will think of me.” He’d taken her in his arms at that, but she had not returned his embrace. She had already left him. For a week, Murdoch had moped around the empty house, relieved only by daily visits from Charlie Seymour. It was he who had come up with the request. With Reordan dead, his aunt who owned the River Street house had decided she would sell at once. Seymour, Wilkinson, and Amy would soon be homeless. Wilkinson moved back into his parent’s home, and Seymour asked Murdoch if he could rent a room in the Kitchens’ house. Murdoch was more than happy to do so.

“What about Amy?” he asked.

“Well, I was wondering if she could move in as well. She’s reluctant to approach you herself, she doesn’t want to impose, so I’m asking for her.”

Murdoch was flustered. His previous experience of attractive boarders had been with Enid, who had lived here for a while. She had moved out, claiming that proximity should not be mistaken for love. In that case she was probably right, and Murdoch didn’t want to repeat the mistake with Miss Slade, around whom his feelings swirled and surged like an adolescent boy’s.

However, it seemed churlish and embarrassing to refuse her lodgings and he’d agreed. Yesterday, both she and Seymour had brought over their belongings. Charlie was taking Enid’s old room and Amy was in the front parlour.

Over the evening meal, which Murdoch had cooked to perfection, if he said so himself, Amy had made her own request. “My situation is shaky enough,” she said. “I don’t want my schoolboard to know I’m living with two bachelors,” She had a proposal and this Murdoch had accepted willingly. This afternoon, he was getting his third lodger.

There was knocking at the door and he limped off to answer it. Amy Slade was standing outside. She had an infant in her arms, bundled up against the cold. The baby’s mother was holding the twin.

“Will you hold Jacob for a minute?” Amy asked. “I have to pay the cabbie.”

She thrust the baby into his arms. Alarmed by the sudden transition, Jacob let out a wail of distress. His brother immediately answered in kind.

“Mrs. Tibbett, do come in, and welcome,” said Murdoch. He had to raise his voice above the din. Shyly, Kate came into the house. She looked pale and ill-nourished although the babies seemed bonny.

“Your room is down here. I hope it will be suitable for you,” said Murdoch. Kate looked as if she was about to burst into tears but she followed him down the hall to the room that the Kitchens had occupied. Little Jacob’s cries were unabated and Murdoch held him close against his chest, jiggling him slightly. Abruptly the baby stopped crying, reduced to some snuffles. His tear-filled eyes looked up at Murdoch, who smiled down at him.

“There you are. I’m not so bad, am I?”

Jacob reached up with his plump hand and grabbed Murdoch’s moustache, causing him to yelp in pain.

“What have I got myself into,” he wondered.