CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Murdoch hurried back to the station. It was time to inform Brackenreid what was going on and he wasn’t looking forward to it. The inspector had the finesse of the old barber surgeons. Oh, got an ingrown toenail, have you? We’d better amputate that foot then. Murdoch had a growing and deep conviction that this case required all the delicacy it could get. One slight misstep and Agnes Fisher might be a goner, if she wasn’t already. To his great relief, however, Gardiner told him that Inspector Brackenreid was at home with a stomach upset. Murdoch beckoned to Constable Crabtree and headed for his cubicle.

He told him the whole story, beginning with Miss Slade’s discovery of the photographs and the disturbing tie to the body found on the lake. Crabtree’s broad face flushed slightly when Murdoch showed him the photographs, but then he looked angry. He had children of his own.

“George, I’d like you to go to visit Agnes’s father. Maybe the sight of a uniform will jolt his memory about his older girl’s whereabouts. Do whatever you need to do, frighten him to within an inch of his life if you have to.”

“Be happy to, sir.”

“There’s a young woman living downstairs. See if she can give you anything to go on. Ask the neighbours if they have any idea where Martha Fisher is in service. If you get the slightest lead, take it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If that’s a dead end, I want you to start walking up and down the nobby streets. Start with Jarvis. See if anybody has recently taken on a new servant.”

“Can we get some more help, sir?”

Murdoch sighed. “Let’s see how this goes first. The girl might have taken a place not too far from home. You might find her quickly.”

“And if the younger girl is with her?”

“See if she will come down to the station willingly, but if not, you’ll have to make her. She’s in danger.” Murdoch stood up. “I’m afraid I don’t have many leads, just a bad feeling in my stomach that I’m going to acknowledge. I’m going to visit Gregory’s Emporium and see if I can shake anything loose there. Let’s meet back here in a couple of hours.”

“Yes, sir.”

At the entrance to the cubicle, Crabtree hesitated, then turned to Murdoch.

“I have a daughter, as you know, sir. I find it incomprehensible what has been done to Agnes Fisher. I don’t care if my feet fall off, I’m going to find her.”

“Thank you, George.”

A slightly tousled Mrs. Gregory opened the door of the studio. She brought a recalcitrant strand of hair under control.

“We’re not open for business today.”

Murdoch beamed at her. “I do apologize, ma’am, but I’m about to head back home and I’d like to get my photographs. Save you having to post them to me.”

She hesitated, then stepped back and let him come in. “I think they’re ready. Just a moment.”

While she was checking in the desk drawer, Murdoch wandered closer, composing his face into what he hoped was a suitable leer. “Mrs. Gregory, I can tell just by looking at you that you’re a liberal-minded woman…I’ve heard a man can get, you know, er, special cards…Naughty ones, if you know what I mean.”

Her expression turned so icy, he quailed. He had no real proof the studio wasn’t utterly respectable and now he had possibly insulted a decent woman.

“I have no idea to what you are referring, Mr. Murdoch.” She thrust the package into his hand. “Here are your photographs. The balance on account is two dollars and twenty-five cents.”

He handed over the money and she snatched it from his hand as if it were contagious.

“We will keep the negative plates for one month and if you want more prints you must let us know at once. Good day, sir.” She picked up a pen from the tray and jabbed it into the inkwell so sharply, he almost winced.

There was nothing for it but to leave. When he was in the hall, he heard the door lock behind him.

The light on the stairs was too feeble for him to get a good look at the photographs so he waited until he was outside where the thin winter sun had reappeared and the sky was the pale blue of old, faded eyes.

He studied the photograph, looking for any detail at all that was the same as in the picture of Agnes Fisher. There was nothing. The backdrop was just as Gregory had set it up for him. Perhaps an expert could tell the difference from one camera to another the way Enid could distinguish typewriting machines but he couldn’t.

Then he looked at the whole image, himself in the Prince’s study. He grinned wryly. He looked quite distinguished, if he said so himself. Add a desk and bookcase, make your subject stare sombrely into the camera, and you’ve got a man in the professions with an illustrious career ahead of him. For a moment, Murdoch felt a pang of disappointment. Such a possibility was closed to him. Roman Catholic men with no family connections and no education beyond standard six would never enter any of the professions. Even being accepted into the detective division had been a chance thing. At the last minute one of the applicants had fallen ill and Inspector Stark needed a man to fill his quota. Murdoch was it, although he had been relegated to acting detective for three years now and he didn’t know if that status would ever change.

He returned the photographs to the envelope, feeling frustrated again with his lack of progress with the case. Was Mrs. Gregory and the studio what they seemed to be? He couldn’t tell and unless he got a search warrant, he wasn’t any closer to finding the telltale props. He thought of going in search of Crabtree but another thought niggled at the back of his mind. The coincidence of the anonymous letters bothered him. Paradoxically, the discovery of the murdered boy had been a relief. Reluctantly, he’d let himself entertain the possibility that his friend, Seymour, might have perverse sexual appetites, but he’d bet his life that the sergeant wouldn’t have been party to the vicious beating and strangulation of a young man. He decided this was when discretion could be put aside. Seymour had to come clean.

Murdoch headed along King toward River Street, his thoughts suddenly jumping away to his own situation. The Kitchens and Enid were all on the verge of leaving him. Rationally, he knew that they didn’t have much choice. Moving to Muskoka might save Arthur’s life and he understood why Enid couldn’t ignore the summons to go home. But damn it, all three of them at the same time! He’d even had a fleeting thought after Mrs. K.’s announcement that Enid could move back into the house when they left. He knew she wouldn’t, though. Not without a landlady to chaperone them. He’d never quite given up being surprised that she had consented to having connections with him. Not just consented, actually seemed to welcome it. That thought stirred him up, but was followed as quickly by shame.

I saw your face, Will. She saw that he didn’t want to marry her. And that was why she was going back to Wales.

By the time he reached Seymour’s boarding house, he was thoroughly chilled. The sky might be blue but the price was wind with an Arctic bite to it. He’d walked straight past the planing mill, no dancing on logs today.

Reordan let him in. The livid burn marks on his face seemed even more disfiguring in the winter sunlight. He wasn’t very welcoming either.

“Charlie has stepped out. If that’s who you’re calling on.”

“Yes, it is. Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“Half an hour at the most.”

“Can I wait for him then? I don’t want to walk all the way back to the station if he’ll be here soon.”

Reluctantly, Reordan stepped back so Murdoch could enter.

“I won’t disturb you. Shall I wait in the kitchen?”

“That’s private quarters.”

“Seymour’s room, then? I can’t just stand here.”

“Top of the stairs on the right,” Reordan conceded reluctantly.

He shuffled off, leaving a strange, malodorous miasma behind him. Reordan was not a man for washing.

Murdoch went up the stairs. Like the hallway, the walls were bare and painted the same white. The only concession to comfort was a grey sisal runner. Last year, Murdoch had visited his dying sister in the convent where she was a cloistered nun. There had been the same air of austerity and scrupulous cleanliness about the convent halls. He almost expected to see a crucifix here. There wasn’t one, but at the end of the landing there was a small table over which hung a large framed photograph.

He went to have a look at it. The table was of polished walnut and on it was a silver candleholder and a little silver dish filled with dried rose petals. He examined the photograph, a formal studio portrait of a balding man, probably in late middle age. He had a strong nose and a white, neatly trimmed beard that couldn’t hide the powerful thrust of his chin. The compelling thing about him were his eyes, which were heavy lidded and dark and bespoke both compassion and intelligence. It was an attractive face. There was no name attached to the photograph and Murdoch couldn’t identify him. He was about to turn away when he spotted a stamped imprint at the bottom right side of the picture. It was a circle around a triangle with the letters S.O.M.A. written between the circle and the triangle. Murdoch was familiar with most Masonic Order symbols and this wasn’t one of them, but he guessed it was some kind of esoteric order. The little dish of flowers, faintly perfumed, and the candle could be some kind of offering or just decoration, he couldn’t tell. The unknown man didn’t look like the kind who solicited adoration, but who knew for sure. He took out his notebook, copied the symbol, and turned to Seymour’s room. The door was slightly open, a low fire in the grate and a lamp lit. Clearly the sergeant hadn’t intended to be gone for long. Murdoch went in. He was uncomfortable with anything that might imply spying, but he also knew he wouldn’t get another chance like this.

Like the rest of the house, Seymour’s room was neat and underfurnished. A narrow bed, covered with a grey blanket, was against one wall. Two cane chairs were arranged in front of the fire, one with a footstool. There was a wardrobe, oaken and plain, a washstand and a small desk. The only decoration, if you could call them that, were two high bookcases on either side of the hearth. They were loaded with books and binders of newspapers. Murdoch walked over to get a look at the sergeant’s taste in reading material but was stopped midway by what he saw on the desk. A stereoscope was lying beside a pile of view cards. For an instant, Murdoch froze, not wanting to go any farther. However, he had no choice. He picked up one of the cards.