CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Murdoch had taken the names that were on the perimeter of the city limits. The first address was on Bloor Street not far from the Church of the Redeemer. However, when he got there, he found the house boarded up. When he inquired at the next-door neighbour’s house, he was told that the family had left the city and returned to England.

“Too much sorrow here,” said the neighbour, a plump young matron who had a child in her arms and one at her skirt.

The second address was at a large house on Lowther Avenue, and he had to walk there from the end of the Bloor streetcar line. A sweet-faced young maid left him on the doorstep while she went to see if her mistress was “at home.” She was, and he was ushered into a drawing room crammed with furniture and, like the Smithers drawing room, lavishly decorated with black crepe and silk ribbons. The lady of the house was seated at the piano, sorting music, when Murdoch entered. She greeted him politely but her voice was enervated, as if she had no energy left for the world. He explained the reason for his visit and expressed his condolences, which she accepted graciously. She was expensively dressed in a black velvet gown that managed to be a garb of mourning and fashionable as well, with its tight waist, full sleeves, and glitter of jet at the collar and cuffs. He had the sense she hadn’t enjoyed the short taste of motherhood she had experienced. There were several framed photographs on the mantelpiece revealing a wife considerably younger than her husband. Yes, they had a photograph taken at her husband’s insistence by their friend Mr. Notman. He didn’t usually do mourning portraits but had agreed as a favour. At Murdoch’s request, and after a search, she unearthed the photograph. It was quite unlike the one Amy had found, the baby was bigger and darker and was photographed lying in a crib sumptuously covered with satin. He thanked her and took his leave.

His last call took him to the north end of Yonge Street, to the home of Mr. and Mrs. James Hickey, who lived above a butcher’s shop. There was no maid. Mr. Hickey answered the door and reluctantly allowed him in. His wife was seated on the sofa and he joined her there, sitting close, not altogether to give her comfort, Murdoch thought. He explained his mission again and once more offered condolences. Hickey told Murdoch angrily that no, they would never have a mourning photograph taken because their son was born with a cleft palate, among other deformities. He had died when he was six weeks old. The man seemed to be blaming his wife for delivering a defective product or perhaps his anger was masking dreadful grief and disappointment. The woman hardly spoke, simply sat red-eyed, her hands in her lap. Murdoch left as soon as he could.

He was more than happy to hear the clang of the streetcar coming up behind him as he reached Church Street. He jumped aboard, dropped his money into the conductor’s tin box, and sat down, huddling into his coat. The heater at the rear of the streetcar was stoked high, and the mingled smell of coal and damp woollen coats permeated the air. When the conductor called out his stop, Murdoch felt almost reluctant to leave the warmth of the streetcar.

Amy Slade answered his knock. “Oh do come in. You must be perished.”

Murdoch tried to wipe the slush from his boots as best he could on the scraper and followed her inside. He suddenly felt shy and awkward, almost missing the hook on the coat stand as he hung up his coat. This time there was no appetizing smell coming from the kitchen and no light showed below Reordan’s door.

“Where’s the chef?”

“I don’t know. He’s gone out, which is very unusual for him.” She smiled. “I thought we could meet in my room.” She hesitated. “Charlie isn’t back yet.”

“Don’t worry, Miss Slade. I won’t tell anybody we’ve met alone in your private chamber.”

He was attempting to make a joke, but it fell totally flat. She looked at him in surprise.

“That concern hadn’t entered my mind.”

They went upstairs, she leading and he studiously focusing on a spot between her shoulder blades. She had changed into her bloomer outfit again, the over tunic was cinched at the waist by a leather belt.

“In here,” she said, and ushered him in.

He had expected either the same conventlike furnishings as the rest of the house or, influenced perhaps by the flowing bloomers, a room of drapery and plump cushions. This was neither. Amy had divided off her sleeping area by a tapestry screen and a double set of bookshelves crammed with books. The rest of the room was a sitting area, rather cramped because of the division but pleasant and colourful. Two brocade armchairs were in front of the fire, a dainty mahogany desk was against one wall, and there was a corner shelf unit where he glimpsed a collection of china ornaments. The lamps were turned high and the fire was blazing.

“Here, take this chair. I can offer homemade hot ginger beer, can I pour you some?”

“I’d like that,” said Murdoch, not entirely sure if that was true. It was not a drink he’d had before.

She had a small hob on the fire and she removed the steaming kettle, poured the hot water into a jug, added the ginger beer from a bottle, stirred and poured it into a mug.

Murdoch drank some, found it rather stimulating and with a strong aftertaste.

“Very tasty,” he said in reply to her inquiring look. He put the mug on a small three-legged table and took out his notebook. “Why don’t we start while we’re waiting for Charlie. What did you find?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. Neither of the families that I visited could afford photographs. In that respect my help was not fruitful, but I must tell you, Mr. Murdoch, this has been one of the most harrowing experiences I have ever spent. In both cases, the state of the family, especially the mother, was so dire, I, a stranger, could offer them little comfort. The first child succumbed to influenza. They should not even have gone to the expense of publishing a memorial notice but it was a matter of pride. I stayed there for a long time as the mother had a great need to talk about what had happened. When I finally left, I went to the address on Queen Street, which turned out to be the home of a woman I have encountered when I have been shopping. The dead child was her fifth and, like the others, he lived for only two months.” She sipped on her own mug of ginger beer. “The poor woman cried out to me for some words of wisdom but I had none, trite or otherwise.”

Murdoch remembered how he’d felt when Liza died and how angry he became with the priest who tried to quote church doctrine on the mystery of God’s will.

“Sometimes sympathetic silence is the best comfort,” he said.

“Perhaps.”

They were silent, each in their own thoughts. Finally, Amy said, “Did you do any better with your investigation?”

“Not at all.” He relayed to her what had happened. “Let us hope that Seymour did better.”

At that moment, they heard the hall door open.

“That must be him,” said Amy and she went to the door. “Charlie, we’re up here.”

Seymour came hurrying up the stairs and into the room.

“Will, good news. I’ve identified the baby in the picture.”

“Well done. Who is it?”

Seymour handed his piece of paper to Murdoch. “They were my last visit, would you believe? They’re a young couple and the babe was their first child, a boy. When I went into the parlour, I saw the photograph immediately. They’ve got it in a fancy silver frame on the mantelpiece. Their name is Dowdell, Geoffrey and Sophie, and the photographer they used was a woman, Miss Georgina Crofton. She lives on Gerrard Street.”

“Did you ask the Dowdells if they knew Martha or Agnes Fisher?”

“Of course. They said they didn’t. They can’t afford to keep a regular servant. I also threw in the name of Leonard Sims, but nothing there either. Here’s their address. The other two people on my list had not had pictures taken.”

Suddenly, Murdoch couldn’t help himself and he had to stifle a yawn. He stood up.

“It’s too late to call on Miss Crofton tonight. I’ll go first thing in the morning.”

“I hope it leads somewhere,” said Amy.

“So do I. I’m sorry we’re not making faster progress.”

She met his eyes. “Do you think Agnes has come to harm?”

“I don’t know.”

He wished he could say he was certain the girl was safe but he couldn’t, and there was something about Amy Slade that precluded platitudes. She looked so pale and tired, his heart went out to her. “If I may say so, Miss Slade, I think you should retire for the night. You have been most helpful.”

“What shall I do now?” asked Seymour.

Murdoch fished in his pocket and took out the list he’d made of photographic studios.

“You can start checking on these tomorrow. I’ll join up with you as soon as I can.”

“John seems to have deserted us,” Amy said to Seymour. “I’m worried about him. He was acting so strangely when he saw the photographs.”

Seymour shrugged. “He gets that way sometimes. You don’t always know what will set him off. And they weren’t the easiest pictures to look at. I’ve known him vanish for one or two days at a time. It’s as if his memories press in upon him and all he can do is move like a homeless dog.”

Murdoch offered his hand to the schoolteacher. “Thank you again, Miss Slade.”

She smiled at him rather mischievously. “You seem in a hurry to leave, Mr. Murdoch. Don’t tell me you have another duty to perform.”

He could feel himself blush. “Not a duty, ma’am, but a prior engagement. And I’m terribly late as it is.”

“I hope your friend will forgive you.”

“So do I.”

“You will keep us informed of your progress, won’t you?” Amy asked.

For a split second, Murdoch wasn’t sure what she was referring to.

“Yes, of course. Good night to both of you. No, don’t worry, Miss Slade, I can let myself out.”

He left them, aware that Amy was gazing after him.