"How dare y….." he shouted before his body hit the wall with a solid thud, echoed a fraction of a second later by his head snapping against the vertical surface and jarring his teeth violently. A gasp, then a groan escaped his lips.
"Shut up, you hypocritical degenerate. It seems you just never learn, do you?" came the answer, close and hot in his ear.
"You can't threaten me anymore," he whined, scrabbling ineffectively at the fists which hiked his jacket up around his thick neck and round, protruding cheeks.
"No. Not anymore. You have only two choices." A loud voice argued back. "Pay the price with me, or….pay the price with her!"
Both men reacted to a sharp banging sound by jumping apart.
"Oy! I said, quiet down! I run a respectable establishment here. If you can't hold your peace or your liquor move along! Now!"
Madame Le Chabanais's elegant white plume bent awkwardly when she brought her head back inside the window. She petted the feather back in place and scowled as she grasped twin brass handles on the window sash and pulled down to settle the window closed and block any more noise from the alley. All she saw were two shadows thrown by the streetlight, grateful they appeared to be moving away into the night, along with their oddly familiar voices. She could not afford any unwarranted attention being brought to her door, especially tonight, considering whom she was entertaining a mere twenty feet away.
She turned to inspect the well-appointed hallway, decorated with velvet drapes at the windows and a thick patterned runner laid down on polished oak floors. She'd spared no expense to bring an elevated sense of style and adventure for the discerning clientele, coupled with absolute discretion, to her new establishment. She even sought out the French furniture maker, Soubrier, which crafted her siege d'amour (at a heart-stopping cost) in addition to other helpful items, to enhance the pleasure of her customers. The siege was particularly sought after by men like King Edward who were so portly they would crush a woman in the course of trying to have normal relations. Men who needed physical support in the act of love were gladly willing to make use of it-at a hefty price. She could not, and would not under any circumstances allow anyone or anything to derail her enterprise or disappoint her investors.
Of course, 'Le Chabanais' was not the paternal appellation her father had given her-after all she never did know the bastard's surname. So the Madame, (née Goby, from Limehouse in the east end of London), grimaced automatically at the irony: And I am supposed to be the bastard?! she thought. But if the grand French name was good enough for the comfort of Good King Edward whist he sojourned in Paris, it was good enough for Toronto!
'Mademoiselle Chastity' poked her head out of one of the gleaming doors with a questioning look on her artistically - enhanced face. Each of her girls was named for a virtue, no matter what vice the customer requested from her. The Madame slowed her breath and sent her voice into her trademark throaty contralto purr, in stark contrast to the fish-wife scream of a minute ago. "Mademoiselle, please, there is nothing to fret over. Merely some gentlemen who over-imbibed. Tell your Monsieur I will send champagne to make up for the interruption." She motioned to her time-piece then flicked her fingers to indicate the girl needed to get back to business tout de suite, and made her way back to her salon. Passing through the hallway, Madame straightened an embroidered sampler on the wall, grinning at the flowery Latin made in such delicate silk stitches.
"Tempus fugit indeed," she murmured to the swishing of her skirts.
It wasn't even the first time that day that Julia's expertise had been sought on this particular matter. It seems that after a downward lull, the nostrums cooked up by con men had once again reasserted themselves in the poorest neighborhoods of the city. As she counseled another patient on the dangers of yet another 'patent medicine', Julia wasn't so convinced that either Opium or Heroin were quite the wonder drugs many touted them to be. Then there was the unfortunate habit the makers of these products had of putting something in to deliberately make the person who took it sick, to convince the naïve and uninformed person that the medication was working and strong enough to do some good.
At the very least, these potions should only be obtainable through a trained physician, she thought with considerable annoyance. As she walked away, she made a note to add instruction on the dangers of such products to a future lesson and gritted her teeth, determined to get through the afternoon.
Mrs. Perkins was yet another unfortunate who was trying to treat her "hysteria" with a tonic, and who was worried about the growing dependence she had on it. Julia shook her head in disbelief. I wager she'd cure her hysteria if she just pleasured herself, or allowed herself to enjoy her husband, she crudely smirked in her head before quickly reminding herself that she was being unfair. It was a damned shame that society taught women that the sexual act, even within marriage, was still dirty and something to be avoided. Julia had long believed that many of the supposed cases of "female hysteria" could be frustration at a lack of sexual outlet or opportunities for fulfillment outside the home. An upper-class woman could simply visit a certain doctor who would manually provide relief from her vexations, or take up horseback riding, whereas a poor woman couldn't afford the discreet service, and would instead partake in various tonics in effort to relieve their symptoms.
With licorice, chamomile, pleurisy root, Jamaica dogwood, black cohosh, life plant (whatever that was), fenugreek seed, and dandelion root, Julia suspected that it probably didn't taste half bad and might even be something of a treat. While it was true Lydia E. Pinkham's "Vegetable Compound" did indeed treat the symptoms of many "female problems", it did so through its copious use of alcohol rather than any true medicinal properties it may have-hence Mrs. Perkins' growing dependence upon the product; the woman was becoming a regular drinker of a medicinal liqueur. At 19% alcohol, it was merely masking her issues as opposed to curing them and while this was unfortunate, it wasn't the saddest story she had heard in relation to these nostrums. Those would be the infants she encountered who were already addicted to opium, as their parents were treating colic with it. Julia wasn't sure the number of infant deaths wasn't actually heroin or opium overdoses unreported. Sometimes, medical issues weren't the root cause of many of the problems, and were merely symptomatic of the greater societal issues that went largely ignored. Of course Julia and the other professors did their best to counsel the patients against the use of such nostrums or "patented medications", but when such formulas were one of the few things that brought relief to an otherwise hard life, she wasn't sure how much their advice would be heeded.
St. Andrew's Church was a large parish kind enough to allow the Women's Medical College space to operate a community clinic two Wednesdays a month, and as typical for such a day, Julia was running to and fro between the various rooms, ensuring that all was going accordingly, or at least as close to it as practical, entreaties to stop medicating newborns with opiate tinctures aside. After lining up inside, the patients would enter the vestry, where a professor would assist first and second year students with the categorization of triage, to the Small Hall, where classed accordingly, third year students would carefully document their symptoms and other pertinent details. There they would wait to be called into the Parish Hall, where the fourth year students treated patients under the watchful eye of their professors. Though the University of Toronto medical school also operated such clinics, the plethora of the city's poor ensured that there was still a shortage of affordable medical care.
In Julia's opinion, this clinic attracted those even more desperate than the university clinic, as these patients were so insolvent and ill, they were beyond caring about the gender of their health practitioner.
While it hadn't been Julia's idea to start operating such a clinic, she'd jumped at the opportunity to assist the medical college in establishing one as a teaching tool and community outreach, using her experience at various free clinics over the years to help fine-tune this one into a well-run machine, using the abundance of womanpower to ensure that things ran as smoothly as possible. Or at least as smoothly as was possible in an environment where it was becoming readily apparent that many of the patients had already attempted to take matters into their own hands and use one of the nostrums currently for sale in many shops in Toronto. Perhaps it would require someone more gifted with words to fully convince them of the danger of such potions, tinctures, and salves.
Speaking of alcohol, she was quite looking forward to the wine that would accompany her dinner. And I'm not going to beat around the bush…it won't cure my 'woman troubles' whatever those may be, but it will help me relax, she thought with derision. As for those pesky female issues, perhaps William would be feeling better this evening and she would seduce him, lest she encounter the affliction of hysteria, she thought with a pleased countenance.
Whatever smile upon her face was short lived as she spied a woman she'd seen before, who had previously asked about contraception. This time she was here again with all five of her children, and visibly pregnant with another. Pity that William won't entertain the thought of compensating such a woman for her child, she thought. I'm not sure he understands how much this woman is already drowning under the obligations of such a large family, she mused to herself, watching another student and professor interact with her.
Given that the Medical College followed the laws of the land, they did not counsel on matters of family planning, but that did not mean that Julia couldn't or wouldn't be above making a house call to educate the woman herself. After her earlier incarceration and trouble with the authorities concerning birth control, she'd become less vocal, even more so in regards to how such activities might negatively impact William's career after they'd married. Perhaps so, but this didn't mean that she couldn't take such matters quietly into her own hands.
Pity that there isn't really an effective nostrum for controlling the size of your family, she thought to herself again before remembering with a bitter laugh that alcohol was a contributing factor to many an unplanned pregnancy, including her own back in university.
"Sir. Mr. Goshen from the Toronto Gazette insists on speaking with you, privately." Constable Henry Higgins cautiously poked his head into his superior's office to deliver this request from the aforementioned newspaper man.
Detective William Murdoch fought his inclination to sigh, grimace or scowl at the interruption. Despite waking up in a wonderful mood after a restful night's sleep in the arms of his loving wife, he was in the grip of a nasty, unyielding headache. William recognized the fact that even Henry, who was generally oblivious to such things, was tip-toeing around him meant that his attempt at covering up being under the weather was not successful—only adding to his misery. William put on a neutral face and agreed to the interview, waving his guest to a chair and at Henry to close the door.
"Mr. Goshen," he said as sternly as possible after the man sat. "I explained to you before that I will not be conducting any interviews about our current cases…"
"Yes. Er…no, I mean that is not why am here. My friend, and fellow newspaper man from the Toronto Tattler, Mr. Norris Snow, is missing and I insist you begin an investigation, immediately." Thomas Goshen ran his Homburg's brim round and round through nervous fingers like he was steering a ship that was battling heavy seas.
"Missing?" William tried to pay attention- at least the sunlight was hitting the back of his head and not blinding him painfully in the eyes.
"Yes. We were to meet first thing this morning and he did not show. He is not at his lodgings and not at his office. I want to officially report him missing."
"I see. And how long has he been missing?" William asked, with his pencil poised over a blank page.
Mr. Goshen tried to sell the importance of his mission with a steady gaze. "Why, since yesterday evening."
William pinched the bridge of his nose. "Mr. Goshen, Mr. Snow is a grown man and less than twelve hours is not gone long enough to be considered missing," he offered reasonably. "He could be ill in hospital, in the midst of a story, in the company of a lady or even recovering from a bout of drinking…"
The reporter abruptly guffawed and sat forward in his seat in a challenging way. "Speaking from personal experience, detective, are we?" He sat back abruptly with a sarcastic smile on his face. "No! None of that checks out for Norris. I tell you he is missing and I suspect foul play, and I... "
William cut him off a little loudly. "….And your concern is certainly not enough to call on the resources of the constabulary to locate him for you." William was irritated in the extreme to be have his headache mistaken for having a hangover.
"Detective Murdoch. I have been fair to you in the past. My editor and my paper, The Gazette, has been fair to you. Please! Norris is my friend and he would never not keep a scheduled appointment any more than he would miss a deadline. He is never out of touch like this. I tell you something is terribly wrong!" Mr. Goshen rose to stand.
William winced, looking at the remains of a very nice hat clutched in the reporter's hands, in ruins because of the passion the man felt about his colleague's absence. The detective bit the inside of his cheek and opened his notebook again, looking up at the man who was shaking against the edge of his desk in indignation and worry. "All right, Mr. Goshen. Give me the particulars and I will have a constable make some inquiries. If we have the time."
After writing down the facts and offering no explicit guarantees, William ushered Mr. Goshen out and walked to the bullpen to locate Constable Crabtree. "George? See what you can find out about a Mr. Norris Snow with the Toronto Tattler. I am told he may be missing."
George's eyebrows rose as he accepted a sheet of notes. "May be missing, sir? I've met the chap. Seemed like a decent enough fellow. What are the circumstances of his disappearance?" George saw the detective hesitate fleetingly.
"He missed his morning tea," William deadpanned. "Just do your best," he advised solemnly.
George left and the detective surveyed the remaining constables sorting boxes of evidence according to the new systematic record system he was instituting. My only hope is that the Inspector stays away long enough for me to finish the job, he thought, and then chastised himself for wishing the man a longer journey than was necessary. Satisfied with what he saw in the bullpen, William then turned on his heel to go back to composing a report on their most recent case. There was still a lull in actual murders since Inspector Brackenreid's departure, allowing for a certain amount of manpower to be spent towards his desire for improvements and enhanced efficacies.
It was the one bright spot in his workday. Picking up his pen, he dropped his gaze to his desk top and began…
George thanked Mr. Snow's landlady and tried to shoo her away from the door. The hard-looking woman stood there with her arms crossed and fists balled, suspiciously watching him as he viewed her boarder's room, as if he was going to steal something. From his employer he'd learned that Norris Snow was good at his job and no one believed there was anything amiss; from his landlady he'd already learned that her boarder kept odd hours but was quiet about it, paid his rent on time and seldom ate the food which was put out morning and evening for him and the three other men who lived in the tidy house—all things which made him the ideal renter; therefore she did not want him discommoded in the least. Her eagle-eye was going to make sure of that.
George sighed and surveyed the room, keeping his irritation in check. He was aware that not every member of the constabulary was as honest as he, but his loyalty to the job prevailed, so he allowed her to stand guard. The bed, dresser and washstand seemed ordinary. There was what was to be expected in the wardrobe and drawers at least superficially—the woman refused to let him turn the contents out to check further, pointing out: Unless you tell me he is arrested for a crime or you have his permission, you will do no more than look, constable! I run a respectable establishment and I will not have anyone's privacy violated. You can't even prove he is missing!
She had a point. George's attention was therefore fixed on a large wooden kitchen table, apparently being used as a desk, set up with an Oliver typewriting machine, books, a blotter, pens and pencils with their tops carrying teeth marks, and a straight-backed chair pulled up tight against it, all facing the room's single window for maximum light. Small coloured bottles perched on the window sash cast cheery shapes on the smooth writing surface. George frowned and noticed: There is not a single piece of paper on it.
George compared his own lodgings and his own identity as a writer to his inquiry regarding Norris Snow.
I myself write whenever and where ever the muse strikes, always making notes. Using his imagination, George looked more closely at the room's furnishings for hiding places where papers could be stored, and walked towards the mattress with an urge to turn it over and search underneath. The landlady started rumbling, so he left it alone—there was nothing of interest in plain sight and he had no cause to pry further. He exited the room, hearing a key rather noisily rotating in the lock, knowing the landlady was communicating her displeasure. He thanked her politely and went down stairs to chat with another renter before travelling back to the station house, none the wiser for his efforts.
His superior was still pinned to his desk when George returned with his slim results.
"What have you George? Did you locate Mr. Snow?" William looked up hopefully.
"No sir, I did not." George offered a folded newspaper for the detective to review. "I went 'round to his boarding house and spoke with his landlady, sought out his fellow lodgers, talked with his co-workers at the Tattler and at the local pub where he eats his dinner. His friend is correct—Mr. Snow has not been seen since last evening. However, no one else but Mr. Goshen is surprised or concerned. Even his editor, a Mr. Alexander Wick, is not worried. He describes Norris Snow as a good reporter, even though he characterized him as a little 'loose American,' whatever that means, but has yet to miss a deadline. Mr. Wick was rather coy about exactly what story Mr. Snow was working on. He did give me a copy of the next edition of the paper." He gestured to the pages the detective was perusing.
William scrunched his eyes and turned the newspaper pages in his hands to and fro. "There does not seem to be much 'news' in this newspaper."
"Yes, sir. As you can see the Tattler is long on advertisement and rather, um…short on copy. That is why Mr. Wick is so intent on having Norris Snow as a reporter. He hired him away from a paper in Chicago, to write sensational stories that will sell papers. The real money, you know, is in the advertisements, and for that you need a wide circulation."
"Any enemies? Known conflicts or confrontations?" William saw George shake his head. "Vices?" he asked as a follow up.
George replied. "Nothing I discovered today. But, funny you should say that. That was the only thing his editor would tell me: that Mr. Snow was writing about vice in Toronto the Good."