Chapter Ten
MRS. KITCHEN CAME OUT OF THE PARLOUR just as Murdoch was hanging up his coat and cap. She held out her hand to him. “Please accept my condolences, Mr. Murdoch.”
“Thank you, Mrs. K. You got my telegram then?”
“Constable Crabtree brought it over this afternoon. And he also wanted me to convey his regrets. The inspector has given you a leave of absence until Friday.”
Murdoch shrugged. A leave of absence meant no wages, and he would have been glad of the distraction of work. However, the inspector always insisted that any of the police officers who suffered bereavement take some time off. Murdoch had decided some time ago that this had nothing to do with genuine compassion and everything to do with saving money.
He unlaced his boots and, unbidden, Mrs. Kitchen took his slippers out of the brass slipper box by the coat stand and gave them to him.
“I have some supper waiting for you.”
“Thank you indeed. I forgot to book a seat in the dining car, and the sittings were full. The last acquaintance my stomach has had with any food was about five o’clock this morning. One of the nuns brought me some vegetable soup.”
“For your breakfast?”
“That’s what they always eat apparently.”
Beatrice allowed herself a mild tut-tut of disapproval. “I’ve braised you a pork chop.”
He followed her into the kitchen.
“How is Arthur?”
“A little better today.” She smiled. “He complains dreadfully about the cream and eggs, but I am certain they are helping him. He isn’t as weak and is coughing less. Don’t you think so, Mr. Murdoch?”
If he were honest, he would have to say he hadn’t noticed much improvement. Arthur had some days that were not as bad as others, but the progression of the illness seemed relentless.
Murdoch made a noncommittal sort of grunt. He didn’t want to be the one to dash her hopes either.
“He asked if you would care to join us after your supper.”
He sat down at the pine table, and Mrs. Kitchen took his plate out of the warming oven.
“I’ll let you have your meal in peace.” “Please stay, Mrs. K. I would enjoy some company.”
“I’d be happy to.”
She perched herself in the chair opposite him. The pork chop was overcooked and dry and the potatoes lumpy, but he made enthusiastic sounds of appreciation for her sake. It didn’t take long for him to consume everything. He sopped up the grease with a piece of bread.
“I was there at the end, but they wouldn’t let me get close or touch her. I only saw her shadow through a grille. She is buried in the private cemetery of the convent, and I didn’t see that either.”
Mrs. Kitchen got up to remove his plate. She brought over a piece of apple tart and placed it in front of him. Murdoch rubbed at his eyes. He was overwhelmingly tired.
“If I may say so, Mr. Murdoch, the nuns were only doing what they ought to do. That is their vow. They call it ‘enclosure,’ I believe. Once in, the only people ever allowed to see them are a doctor or a priest. I know my cousin’s daughter entered a cloistered order. She went down to America, but they never clapped eyes on her after she took her final vow.”
“It’s unnatural.”
“I suppose you could say that, but it’s a sacrifice they and the family make for Our Lord’s sake.”
Murdoch knew it was useless to argue with Mrs. Kitchen on certain matters, especially if they pertained to the church. She was as good-hearted as a woman can be, but any questioning of their mutual faith made her uneasy. She was rigid and dogmatic to the point of superstition. Besides, it was too late and he was too tired to talk much. However, as she had done so often in the past, Mrs. Kitchen surprised him.
“Frankly, if it had been up to me, Mr. Murdoch, if I was the prioress, I would have broken the rules in those circumstances. What the harm is in a man saying a final farewell to his only sister, I don’t know.”
He smiled at her, his irritation gone. “Thank you, Mrs. K. I cannot say I detected any softening in the nuns. Not that I saw them either. Even the funeral was conducted with them on the other side of a wall. I could hear them chanting, but that was it.”
She spooned three generous spoonsful of tea leaves into the teapot and added boiling water from the kettle.
“Let it steep for a minute. But before I forget, there’s a letter for you. The constable brought it over with the telegram. I’ll fetch it.”
She bustled off and he got up to pour his tea before it became strong enough to dissolve the enamel on his teeth. Mrs. Kitchen came back with a long envelope in her hand. There was a seal on the back with an official-looking stamp in it. Murdoch used his knife to slit open the flap.
The letterhead was that of James Massie, the warden of Don Jail.
Dear Mr. Murdoch. Will you be so good as to call at my office as soon as possible. One of our prisoners is anxious to have communication with you. A morning hour would be best at your earliest convenience.
Your servant, J. M. Massie, Warden
“Not bad news I hope,” said Mrs. Kitchen.
“No, probably good news. I believe I mentioned young Adam Blake to you a couple of months ago, the lad convicted of pickpocketing? I was the one nabbed him, and I thought he might be set straight with a good talking to. He wasn’t that receptive I have to admit, but I told him I’d come and visit when he saw the error of his ways. I assume a spell in jail has brought clarity to his mind.”
“So it should.” She reached in the pocket of her apron. “By the way, Mr. Murdoch, I took the liberty of cutting this for you.”
She took out a wide strip of black silk.
“Thank you, Mrs. K.”
He raised his arm and she fastened the band to his jacket sleeve where he would wear it for the next few months as a sign of mourning. He sighed. Poor little Cissie.