Except the Dying

“Can we unbutton our jackets, Inspector? It is very warm in here,” asked Murdoch.

“What? Oh yes. Take them off if you like. It is hot, now that you mention it.”

He unfastened the top button of his jacket.

Crabtree opened up his uniform, revealing a glimpse of red flannel underneath and an impression of redoubtable muscle development. He was the station’s prize athlete in the heavyweight division of shot put and tug-of-war, and even though the next police games weren’t until August, his chances were the subject of much speculation and interest among the other policemen. Murdoch could see the keen glance that Brackenreid sent that way, but he didn’t want to spend the next half hour discussing the possible condition of Sergeant Anstell, who was number-one station’s pride and joy. He unsnapped his collar studs and got back to the subject.

“I went to talk to the priest at St. Michael’s this afternoon, but he didn’t know the girl. It’s a big parish. However, he gave me his tithe list and tomorrow we can start calling on the parishioners.”

“Maybe she didn’t actually go there. She could have been lying. Taking that time to get up to mischief.”

“That’s possible, sir. But given that she was a Roman Catholic I think it’s more likely that she was reluctant to say much about her church at all in a family that was not of the same faith. People can be prejudiced.”

Brackenreid waved his fingers irritably at the detective. “And they don’t know anything about opium, I suppose?”

“Dr. Rhodes admits to using it in his medicines, which he makes up himself at the surgery.”

The inspector stared at Murdoch. “That don’t mean anything.”

“I didn’t make any implications. I’m stating the facts. The son, Owen, is a medical student and it’s quite likely he could acquire the drug if he wanted to.”

“It sounds to me like you’re trying to stick a pin on a donkey’s rear end, Murdoch. Just find out who seen the girl and we’ll have the answers. Why don’t you get out there and start asking some proper questions?”

“That’s what we’ve been doing for the past day and a half, Inspector.”

Crabtree wiped a damp spot from under his chin and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He knew only too well the extent of Brackenreid’s temper. His colour was rising, and it wasn’t only the heat and his “tea.”

“Have you gone to the Sheenies about the missing clothes?”

“Yes, sir. Two constables went to all the Jewish merchants on Queen and King but nobody has received anything resembling the goods. She left her uniform behind, but according to Mrs. Foy she would have been wearing a grey serge skirt, matching jacket with blue velvet trim–”

“I have no need to know all that. Can we get along? I’m still feeling poorly, I should remind you. Constable, what about you?”

“You’ve got my report there, too, sir,” Crabtree answered quickly. “I questioned the servants and it’s the same story. Nobody knows anything.”

“What about the stableboy? He’s a Barnardo Home boy, isn’t he? I’d say he’s a likely possibility.”

“He’s a timid little creature. Frightened of his own shadow. He never takes his eyes off you. Makes you think of a dog that’s been ill-treated.” Crabtree looked a bit embarrassed at his sortie into simile. “He’s only thirteen and small to boot.”

“That’s old enough. Boy in my father’s village had spawned two brats by the time he was eleven. Boys like that have no more Christianity in them than dogs.”

Murdoch was reminded of Alderman Shepcote’s words. Perhaps he and Brackenreid had had a good chin about it at one of the salon evenings for Miss Flo Wortley.

“By boys like that, do you mean orphan boys, sir, frightened boys, or boys from Ireland? As I understand, this one is English.”

Brackenreid stared at his detective for a moment, trying to determine whether or not to take offence. “Gutter boys, that’s who I mean.” He contemplated his mug, which was now empty. “Is that everything, Constable?”

“I’d say so, sir. The Foys claim they didn’t leave the house that evening and neither did the boy.”

The inspector fished a cigar out of a silver box on the desk and lit it. “Has anything come up with the Bertillon?”

“Not yet. The regular clerk is off sick and we don’t have anyone else who understands the system. By Friday, we should know if she has a file.”

Brackenreid blew a cloud of smoke towards the two officers. “I presume we are trying to get in touch with the family?”

“I sent a wire to the Windsor police and they’ll try to contact the local priest in Chatham. We don’t know exactly where the girl lived. It was a farm near there, but they’ve had a bad storm and the police don’t think they can get through until Thursday or Friday.”

Murdoch’s envelope was sitting on the table and Brackenreid took out the photograph and studied it for a moment.

“Perhaps she was a light-heeled gal, but she doesn’t look it. She’s got a sweet face.” He drew thoughtfully on his cigar. “Needless to say, I’d like to show that this station can work as well as any other, if not better. I want answers soon but I don’t want any feathers ruffled. Is that clear?”