Chapter Twenty-Two
THE LAST TIME Murdoch had been in the horticultural gardens pavilion was with Liza. They had gone to hear the Grenadiers band and he remembered it as being unbearably hot inside the pavilion, because even with all the windows opened wide to get a cross breeze, the sun had beaten down all day on the glass. Ladies fanned themselves desperately but sweated nonetheless. In spite of the heat, a small area had been cleared for dancing and several couples were jumping around with more vigour than grace, to the military two step. Murdoch didn’t know how to dance then and no amount of cajoling on Liza’s part could get him onto the dance floor. He wasn’t about to make such a fool of himself. Since she died, he’d taken dance lessons and had to admit he had enjoyed himself. If onlys were useless, but they slipped into his thoughts more often than he liked.
A long greenhouse abutted the pavilion porch and its entrance was from the porch. Murdoch pushed open the double doors and felt as if he had stepped into summer. The air was warm and moist and heavy with the smell of vegetation. He was in the main pergola and even though outside was grey and sunless, here the lush green plants and banks of multicoloured flowers made the day seem much brighter. The horticultural gardens and the greenhouses were the pride of the city and were as well tended as any private garden.
Just inside the entrance a young couple was sitting close together on a bench. They quickly moved apart as he came in and the woman straightened her hat. She was fair-skinned and her blush was obvious. Her sweetheart also looked discomfited. Murdoch realized he must have frowned at them, but it was not from disapproval, it was envy. He made himself smile, touched his hat, and walked around to the other side of central island where the trees and shrubs hid him from view. A squirrel had got trapped inside the pergola and it was chittering in fear and indignation, otherwise the greenhouse was quiet, any noise of drays or carriages shut out by the glass.
Murdoch looked around him. There were more benches on this side and behind them was a wide flowerbed. Each variety of shrub and flower was labelled. Many of them were unfamiliar to him, but he didn’t have time or inclination for horticultural lessons. In the middle of the island was a fanciful structure set up as part of a living room. A fireplace was made of ivy that had been trained to grow around a wooden frame. Above it were blue and yellow patches of some other climbing plant masquerading as the kind of marble you might find in a nobby house. There were real pieces of coal in the grate and red and orange flowers growing among them to simulate fire. A birdcage of twigs swung from a branch of a nearby tree. There was a fake bird in the cage made also of intertwined twigs, but the bars were wide enough to allow real birds to enter and a sparrow was hopping in and out of the cage. Murdoch was about to walk on when the bird fluttered down and lighted on the arm of the bench close to him. It took a couple of quick pecks at something between the slats, then hopped to the path and pecked some more. Murdoch dropped into a crouch, scaring the bird into flight. It was a big assumption, of course – who knows how many people had come through this pergola? – but he wanted to see what the bird was eating. There was a light scattering of crumbs on the bench and the path and he could see they were cake, not bread or biscuit. He took a blank envelope from his pocket and scooped up as many of the crumbs as he could. Later, using a magnifying glass he might be able to determine what kind of cake it was.
At that moment, he heard the ring of hobnailed boots and Constable George Crabtree appeared.
“How’d you track me down, George?”
“Sergeant said as how you’d been called up to Miss Dignam’s and I was heading up there when I seen you going into the greenhouse. I thought I might be some help.”
“Good man. Among other things, I’m trying to see if I can find a cake tin here somewhere.”
He quickly filled in the constable on his interview with Miss Dignam and her story of the missing tin and the bad odour in the church.
“It looks like we’re after a tramp then, doesn’t it, sir? When she ran off, he went back to his prey, took the boots and watch, saw the cake tin and picked that up as well. He’d hightail it over here till the coast was clear, I’ll wager.”
“It’s looking that way. But what we need is some hard evidence. So let’s start where Reverend Swanzey says he met up with the wayfarer. He was in the adjoining greenhouse.”
Murdoch led the way through the connecting doors. This building was warmer and even more lush than the pergola.
“The wife and kiddies love coming here in the winter,” said Crabtree. “She says it shortens the season. She even talked me into coming to a concert in the pavilion last summer. Very good it was. Some cove was a whistler, you know, he sort of cupped his hands and blew through them. Sounded exactly like a flute.”
“Ah yes. I’ve heard that. I know somebody who does it.”
“Did you ever go yourself?”
“Not to that one … anyway, George, I know the constables searched this entire place, but we’ve got to go over it with a toothcomb.”
“Do you really think a tramp would throw away a cake tin, sir? The ones I’ve known wouldn’t. They always prize something where they can keep their baccy or any extra food.”
“You’re probably right, George. I’m thinking we’re more likely looking for old boots,” said Murdoch. “If he stole good boots from the pastor, he’d want to wear them right away. In which case he would have to get rid of his own. Why don’t you start on the other side and we’ll meet at the far end.”
Like the pergola, the greenhouse had a central island of tall shrubs and flowering plants that the path encircled. Crabtree turned to the right and Murdoch began to walk slowly down the path to the left. He was using his eyes, but he was also trying to put himself into the skin of the unknown tramp. In spite of what Dr. Ogden had said, Murdoch thought it was likely the murderer would have some traces of blood on his trousers and shoes. In which case he would want to get rid of them. A few feet down from the entrance was a rock garden, and water cascaded from a discreetly hidden pipe near the ceiling, over a manufactured rocky incline, and into a pool below. He could see fat goldfish swimming lazily among the lily pads.
There was a low railing around the pool, presumably for the safety of the public and no doubt the goldfish. There were masses of small cresses growing around the rocks, and he thought some of them near the lip looked crushed. If you wanted to clean off your boots and trousers, this was the easiest place to reach the water. He wished he’d brought his magnifying glass. He examined the spot as closely as he could but couldn’t really see an imprint of a boot or shoe. A slate slab overhang was chipped at the end, but that could have happened a long time ago. Not yet what could be considered hard evidence. He straightened up and continued to move slowly along the path.
He had only gone a little way when he was struck by a sweet scent drifting on the air. He halted. Surely not! But there they were, a mass of purple hyacinths in the flowerbed. He always thought of them as Liza’s flowers now. “Oh my dear,” he said softly.
“Mr. Murdoch, sir. Over here.”
Crabtree was calling to him, his voice excited. Murdoch ran around to the other side, where he saw his constable kneeling by the edge of the path. Here there was another small pond and on its far bank were a shed and a small water wheel that was revolving slowly. Crabtree, his sleeve rolled up, had his arm thrust deep into the water.
“I think I’ve got something, sir.”
He bent even closer to the water and with a tug, like little Tom Horner, he pulled out the plum. One black boot, soles split, dirty. He repeated the action and fished out a second boot.
He beamed at Murdoch. “That wheel was making a funny noise. It was hitting something as it went around. I thought it was a good idea to see what was the trouble.”
“Well done, George. Well done. Is there anything else in there?”
Crabtree fished around. “I don’t think so.”
Murdoch knotted the shoelaces together so he could carry the boots. “Let’s continue the search, but I think we’ve got as much as we’re going to get.”
They stayed in the greenhouse for another half an hour but found nothing more that could be remotely seen as significant. There was no sign of a cake tin, with or without peacocks.