Except the Dying

“Does he now? I didn’t see him meself, but we can ask Forsyth. He could have booked one of the private chambers.”

“What are they?”

“Four rooms at the back where the members can stay if they’re too tired or too full to go home. Or if they want to do some private entertaining.”

“Gigglers?”

“On occasion. Not always. Might be some special business.”

“Is the doctor the sort of man who’d pay for his pleasures?”

Kelly hesitated. “I’ve only been here a month, Willie. It’s not a thing I would know.”

“His wife spat it out like a fishwife, but then they both shut up tighter than a pair of clams. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean nothing by it,’ says she. ‘Oh, I’d never do anything so wicked,’ says he. Liars both of you, says I. Anyway, he claims he was here on the night of Alice Black’s murder and at his consulting rooms when Therese Laporte died.” He put down his empty glass. “How about showing me these nice private rooms?”

Kelly nodded. “We can go the back way.”

“Can’t have the members running into a police officer, can we? What’d they think?”

The steward grinned, shamefaced. “That’s the truth of it, Will. And sooner or later they’d get around to blaming me.”

He led the way down the hall and through a heavy door to a narrow, uncarpeted passageway. At the far end was a second door, and this opened into another wider hall with thick carpeting and rich flock wallpaper. There were four doors on one side.

Kelly opened the first one. Rather to Murdoch’s surprise, at first appearance this room was quite plain. It was only when you looked a little closer that you could see the excellent quality of the furnishings. Around the marble fireplace were grouped two armchairs and a sofa, all upholstered in brown suede leather. The tables and sideboard were cherrywood, the lamps fine porcelain. Above the fireplace was a large gilt-edged mirror and, to one side, another portrait of Her Majesty Queen Victoria. On each of the side walls were reproductions of celebrated oil paintings, all depicting royal occasions: the young queen in a white gown addressing Parliament, the wedding of the Prince of Wales to Princess Alexandra of Denmark and so on. Opposite was a beige felt curtain, to the right a louvred door and to the left, double doors.

Murdoch pointed. “Where do they lead?”

Kelly went over and pulled open the double doors. Behind them was a put-away bed.

“Do ye want me to take it down?”

“Not at the moment. And there?”

“That’s the crapper room. The water closet.”

Murdoch went to have a look. In the small alcove behind the louvred door was a washbasin fitted with brass faucets, a deep bathtub and an oaken water closet. Curious, Murdoch pulled on the chain and watched as the water came swooshing down into the porcelain bowl, swirled and disappeared.

“The members certainly have all the modern conveniences, don’t they?”

“That’s what they pay for.”

Murdoch walked over to the felt curtain. “Is this the back door?”

“That’s it.”

He drew back the curtain, which smelled of cigars. There was a door behind it, an iron key in the lock. As he opened it a rush of cold air hit his face. He was facing directly onto a laneway. It looked just wide enough for a carriage and had been well used, the ground showing many overlays of wheels. When he leaned out, he could see there was a service bay to his left where tradesmen could bring their carts.

He closed the door, let the curtain drop and stepped back into the room, dusting some of the light snow from his shoulders.

“The members could easily come and go without being seen if they used the laneway.”

“That’s the idea.”

“Is there any way to know if Rhodes used this room?”

Kelly thought for a moment, then slapped himself on the forehead. “May I be taken without shrift for my sins if I’m not an idiot … We have chits. The members like it better. They simply sign for their drinks and meals as they have them and pay their accounts at the end of the month. Each chit is stamped. It makes settling up with the waiters easier. I’ll fetch them.”

While he waited, Murdoch examined the room. The books in the walnut glass-fronted case were properly sober and edifying. There was a beautifully illustrated volume of Master Thoughts in Poem, Prose and Pencil, which he’d recently seen in McKenney’s Bookshop on Yonge and had coveted. He replaced it carefully and opened the doors of the walnut sideboard. It was empty except for two new packs of cards and a blank notepad. For a moment he was disappointed, but he checked himself. What had he expected? A box of French letters? Syringes and hookah pipe?

The lavatory also revealed nothing personal. A razor, a soapdish and brush and thick satin-damask towels were provided. There was no indication whatsoever in this tastefully furnished room of the kind of activity that Kelly had hinted at.

He sat down in one of the armchairs, sinking back into the soft upholstery. He could see himself sitting there, his crystal glass of Glenmorangie beside him, his leather-bound book of Master Thoughts at his elbow.