Except the Dying

As Murdoch expected, the search of the kitchen yielded nothing. Next, they investigated Samuel Quinn’s room, but except for a bag of smelly, rotting meat that was inexplicably tucked in the back of his washstand, they found nothing untoward. Neither Quinn nor the dogs were anywhere to be seen.

The two out-of-work brothers upstairs protested the search with such aggression and anxiety that Murdoch decided to send out a bill on them to Muskoka. Find out if they had guilty consciences. But he found no women’s clothes in the untidy, sweat-saturated room the two big men lived in. By two o’clock, he had to declare the search finished. When they came downstairs, both Ettie and Alice were sitting in the kitchen drinking tea, and they followed the officers to the front door. Alice was singing nonchalantly, a song that turned Crabtree’s ears crimson and made even Murdoch uncomfortable. Ettie was quieter, but the wariness never left her eyes. The trail was cold but not totally so.

In the summer, sugar maples lined both sides of St. Luke’s and the lush foliage hid the dilapidation of the houses, but the trees were bare now, the branches dark against the dull winter sky. A wagon, drawn by four massive Percherons, lumbered along laden with barrels for the Dominion Brewery, but otherwise the street was deserted.

Murdoch wrapped his muffler tightly to cover his chin, and Constable Crabtree shrugged the collar of his cape higher around his neck.

“That’s it, then, sir. I thought for certain we’d find something. Disappointing, isn’t it?”

“To be expected, really. Those two women are a shrewd pair. At least that Ettie is. They haven’t really had time to get the clothes to the Jews and they’re too clever to be using them as yet. Alice slipped up on the boots, which sure as shooting are stolen.”

“Could they have an accomplice, sir?”

“Maybe, but it’s nobody in the house. We’d better check out the neighbours, but somehow I don’t think anybody’d help these doxies. I got the impression when we went around before that Miss Weston and Miss Black aren’t too popular.”

“Women like that are a disgrace to their sex, if you ask me.”

Murdoch didn’t comment. He knew many of his fellow officers had similar opinions about prostitutes.

“Shall we start on the next house, then?” asked Crabtree.

Murdoch hesitated. “Let’s go back to the laneway for a minute.”

They walked down Sumach. The police ropes were still intact, but the curiosity of the locals must have been sated as there was nobody lingering there exchanging misinformation. And it was, after all, a working day.

They ducked under the barricade and walked to the place where the girl had died. Murdoch looked towards the backyard of the lodging house that was directly opposite. A soft glimmer of light shone through a crack in the curtain of the backroom. If he didn’t know better, he would have considered it warm and inviting.

“Put yourself in their boots, Crabtree. You’re frightened of being seen, you know there will be a search, where would you hide a few clothes?”

Before the constable had a chance to reply, Murdoch exclaimed, “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I wonder–” He held out his hand to Crabtree. “Lend me your lamp, will you? And I want you to stand guard. Over there where you’re out of sight of their room. If anyone leaves the house, detain them.”

“What are you thinking of, sir?”

“I’m going to the privy.”

“I wouldn’t recommend it, sir.”

Murdoch laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m going to give it another look.”

“I did check it before, sir.”

Crabtree’s face was disapproving. They’d done their job. However, he did as he was told and took up a position where he was shielded by the adjoining privy. Murdoch went back through the gate and quickly slipped inside the outhouse. There was only one aperture and the inside was gloomy and so noisome he was afraid to breathe too deeply.

Striking a match, he lit the wick of the lantern and a warm light flared in the cramped space. The rough wooden structure seemed completely bare, just a plank across the rear wall with two holes, one covered by a lid. He bent over the open hole and lowered the lantern into the space. All he could see was human waste not far below. Fortunately most of it was frozen, which cut down on the stench. A fat, black spider scuttled along a thread turned to silver by the light. Its meal waited, neatly wrapped in the centre of the web.

Murdoch straightened, moved the lid over from the second hole. Nothing! Bugger. He had convinced himself he had the right hiding place. He leaned down even deeper into the hole with the lantern.

Bull’s-eye!

Beneath the neck of the plank he could see the edge of a piece of tartan cloth. He took off his hat, unwrapped his scarf so that it was out of danger and reached in with his gloved hand. The cloth was part of a bundle that had been hooked over a nail. He tugged and, cursing softly, finally managed to pull it back up through the hole. It was a tight fit and picked up some unpleasant smears as he did so but he didn’t care.