EPILOGUE

The Kitchens and Mrs. Jones and Alwyn had come out to see the games. They were seated on benches at the edge of the tug-of-war strip and were watching the police team hammer in the wooden blocks they used as wedges for the pull. There had been a thunderstorm earlier that morning and the ground was soft and muddy. Not good conditions for a tug-of-war.

“Crabtree seems fit now, Will.”

Murdoch grinned at Arthur Kitchen. “He’s much looser, that’s why.”

“Mr. Murdoch, shame on you,” said Beatrice, but they all laughed. He’d told them what had happened. Brackenreid had been reluctant to abandon his poisoning theory but Crabtree had improved so dramatically when he stopped the strengthening pills that the inspector had been forced to concede.

“Watch me, Mamma,” called Alwyn.

Enid Jones turned to smile at her son. He had picked up a rock and was heaving it the way he’d seen Crabtree heave the shot put not too long ago. Murdoch was glad to see him behaving more like a healthy lad instead of the sober-eyed, clinging boy he was usually. Although he knew he was not being fair, Murdoch had felt impatient with Alwyn since the Shaw case. Lily’s life had been tragic and it would be a long time before the memory of Freddie’s terror and misery stopped haunting him. Thank God, Annie Brogan was doing everything she could to make up for lost time.

Alwyn ran over to his mother for a kiss and stayed there, leaning against her knees.

It was Beatrice Kitchen who’d persuaded the widow to accompany them to the tournament and Murdoch was delighted. He’d never seen Enid so carefree or so pretty. She was wearing a dress of pale pink muslin with delicate flowers on the skirt. Her white straw boater was trimmed with a green band. He thought she looked entrancing.

Henry Pedlow’s death had created no stir at all in Toronto society. Murdoch heard from Louise Kenny that the story given out was that Henry had died from an accidental dose of morphine. Even his disease was described as “tropical.” The coroner, of course, had ruled otherwise, but Walter seemed to have kept the newspapers away, and the verdict was never published. There was gossip in Dolly’s neighbourhood for a while, but it seemed to Murdoch only two people knew the truth, himself and Maud Pedlow.

“My, you are in a study,” said a merry voice from behind his shoulder.

Murdoch turned. He scrambled to his feet, tipping his straw hat. “Miss Kirkpatrick, how nice to see you.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. I came down with my friend and we’ve been wandering around ever since the race trying to find you so we could officer our congratulations.”

Murdoch hadn’t won, beaten by half a wheel by some wiry, bandy-legged detective from headquarters. However, he’d ridden well and he was satisfied.

“Thank you. If I had known you were watching, I would have tried even harder.” He glanced around. “Where is your friend?”

“Oh, she saw someone she knew.”

The Kitchens and Mrs. Jones were eyeing the young woman with frank curiosity and Murdoch hurriedly introduced them.

“Miss Kirkpatrick is in my dancing class,” he said.

“And he’s the best partner I’ve ever had,” Clarice said with a laugh.

“I’m not surprised. Many a night I’ve heard him practising,” interjected Enid. “Mind you, then, I’m not complaining. He is one of the most considerate fellow boarders imaginable.”

She seemed a little flushed, and it was the most Murdoch had ever heard her say of a personal nature.

“Why, thank–”

“Men, are you ready?” called the referee, and their attention was diverted to the competition.

The twelve men on each team gave one final spit on their hands and kicked at the wooden blocks to make sure they were solidly in the ground. The thick rope lay across their feet. Crabtree was the anchor for the police team and he had wrapped the rope through the steel rings on his special leather belt.

“Oh my, you must explain the rules to me, Will,” said Clarice.

“Man the rope!” shouted the referee.

Both teams picked up the heavy manila rope, holding it tight but not pulling yet. Standing to the side were the coaches. The police team’s was Archie Wilson from the mounted division in number-seven station. He was a slim fellow, dressed in his best suit and hat for the occasion, and he was regarding the opponents the way he studied the horses at a sale. Get a sense who was strong, who had some weakness. Puller number four looked to be in pain. He was favouring his right leg. Use that at the crucial moment.

“Take the strain!”

With one sharp movement, all the men leaned backward, their muscles taut. The spectators who lined the strip were silent, expectant.

“Steady–pull!” The referee drove his red-and-white striped stake into the ground at the point of the white centre marker. Immediately, the grenadiers took the advantage and the red ribbon wrapped around the police team’s rope moved forward two inches. Dangerous. Wilson called out.

“Hold.” His voice was clear and commanding. Murdoch almost expected him to click his tongue. His men grunted. They were all wearing black knee-length drawers and sleeveless undershirts. The muscles in their calves and arms bulged. Crabtree crouched low to the ground. The team held. The ribbons didn’t budge on either side.

“Yeah! Come on, George, pull.” Murdoch cupped his hands and yelled at his constable.

“This is so exciting,” burbled Clarice. He glanced down at her. She hardly reached to the middle of his chest if you discounted the foliage on her hat. Her face was aglow with pleasure.

“Mr. Murdoch,” said Enid on his right, “what is the significance of the red ribbons?”

“They are the markers for each side. If it passes the referee’s pole, the team has lost the pull.”

Wilson was standing with his back to his team. His hand was behind him and he was giving signals with his fingers. Number four of the grenadiers was ready to crumble. Wilson swirled around with a little jump like a dancer.

“Now!”

The police team heaved, all together, one body. The grenadiers were dragged forward. Their marker was only three inches from the referee’s pole.

“Oh, Will. I don’t think I can watch.” Clarice turned her head away so she was practically hiding in his arm.

“Mr. Murdoch, what are those blue bands for?” Enid touched his other sleeve.

“Pull!” cried Wilson.

“Dig!” countered the other coach.

The men dug in, grunting with the effort and took the strain. Murdoch fastened on the white marker as it wavered in the centre of the rope.

“Pull!”

It moved an inch to one side, toward the police team.

“Mr. Murdoch?” repeated Enid.

The marker moved back an inch toward the grenadiers.

Murdoch willed himself to focus his attention on the competition.