I started out with "astrology" and stared at a map of 1903 Toronto for quite a while. This is the result. Always grateful for feedback. Enjoy!
Chapter 2: Conundrums of the Cosmos
Station House Four, Tuesday, June 6, 1905, 8:00am
"Well would you look at this," Inspector Brackenreid declared, waving the morning's Telegraph at the bullpen. "Another column by that gentleman Mister—what was his name?—Verb-uh-SEE-noo? Crabtree's new best mate." He shot a sly look at the man across the desk from Crabtree. "Sorry, Higgins."
Watts broke in before Higgins could say a word. "Actually, sir, I believe it's 'Vair-bee-say-AH-noo."
"Course you do," muttered the inspector.
"Let me see that," ventured a guarded Crabtree, reaching for the newspaper.
"Sir, let me!" Henry nearly snatched it out of Brackenreid's hand, then, remembering where he was, shrank in fear of the inspector's ire.
Brackenreid glowered at Higgins, briefly enjoying the trepidation he was able to inspire in the man, and then grinned and handed the paper to him. "Right, then, Bugalugs, why don't you do the honours this time?"
George closed his eyes and took a deep breath, resisting the impulse to hide his face in his hands. He had been anticipating this day, and had decided to approach it as gamely as he could. No one knew he was the reason the column was there, and if Miss Cherry had decided to incite public unrest once again, well, he relished the thought of parading her into the cells.
"Very well, then, Higgins, let's hear it," Crabtree said with as much bonhomie as he could muster. Eyebrows rose around the bullpen, and Henry shrugged.
"Well! I suppose so, then," Higgins said, and began to read.
In this column I should like to consider the matter of astrology, or the science of determining information about a person's life and character traits by closely examining the arrangement of the stars and planets at their birth. Astrology, the oldest science in the world, was practiced by the ancient Egyptians—
"Egypt!" George beamed. Henry glared at him, and continued.
—ancient Egyptians, who used the position of the stars to calculate This venerable science—
"'Science,'" Murdoch snorted, leaning on the frame of the door to his office. George noticed he was still guarding his arm. "Perhaps this Mister Verbiceanu"—he pronounced it correctly, with a withering tone—"is confusing astrology with astronomy. Attributing traits of personality and outlook to the positions of the stars and planets in the sky is just ludicrous. Now there is indeed quite a lot of interest and value in studying the movements of the celestial bodies, but not just those near the ecliptic! Why anyone would restrict their analysis of the heavens to only a small strip of them?"
Higgins lowered the newspaper. "The ecliptic, sir? What's that?"
Watts held up a hand. "The ecliptic is the yearly path of the sun across the sky. All the constellations of the Zodiac appear within 8° above and 8° below it, as do all the planets and the Moon."
Henry looked puzzled. "But how do you know where the stars are when the sun is out?"
"Higgins! It's the same sky, just at different times of day! Does the arrangement of your room change when it's dark?" Crabtree nearly shouted.
"But… when the stars are out, how do you know where the sun was? I mean, it's not there anymore."
"Henry! Think, man! You record the path of the sun relative to what you see here on Earth."
Higgins stared at him. "But how do you record it? You can't write on the sky."
Murdoch's eyes widened with dismay, and Crabtree shook his head, smiling in disbelief. "Good Lord, Higgins. You draw a map. How do you even put your trousers on in the morning?" Brackenreid snorted, and grabbed the newspaper out of the baffled Henry's hands.
Watts turned to Higgins to try to explain, but Brackenreid held up a hand to silence him. "Higgins, you daft gawby, you wouldn't know your own arse from a bucket. Now where were we?" He shook out the paper grandly, and donned his glasses to read. "Now. 'This venerable science…'"
After Brackenreid had finished, the bullpen broke into a buzz: all the constables were asking each other their star signs. In an attempt to redeem himself, Higgins had taken notes, which were in much demand as everyone tried to decide whether the declared characteristics of each astrological sign were at all accurate. Murdoch heard snippets of conversation: "…so Virgos are loyal, hardworking, shy, and serious? When's your birthday, Riordan?"—"…he said a Scorpio is jealous and intense. Michaels! You've got to be one of those…"
The discussion was so animated, and the lads were having such a grand time, that Murdoch got no attention at all when he pointed out that the sample size of the men in the bullpen was so small that it could not possibly be said with certainty that one's character could be correlated with—let alone caused by—the timing of one's birth. Why, he himself was born under the sign of Cancer, supposedly predisposing him to be quiet and negative, domestic and rapacious, lazy and restless…
He trailed off when he finally noticed that nobody was listening to him, making a mental note to grouse to Julia later about the utter absurdity of wasting time on such rubbish. And he was hardly lazy, or rapacious. He headed back into his office, shaking his head, and closed the door. Why was the inspector tolerating such nonsense? Murdoch looked through the window to see Brackenreid riveted to a conversation with Higgins—Higgins!—and gesticulating at the column and the constable's notes.
Murdoch thought for a moment. Taurus, he realised. The inspector was born under the sign of Taurus. What did the column say about that? 'Strong-willed and courageous.' 'Artistic.' …oh.
He reflected for a moment.
Well, I suppose like George's watch, an astrologer can be right twice a day. He rolled his eyes, and turned to the paperwork on his desk.
Bosca Hall, House of Providence, Power Street, June 7, 9:00am
Like so many other recent immigrants living in the sprawling House of Providence, Teodosio Calabrese was deeply conflicted about the new city he had travelled so far to reach. He had been a resident at the House for just over five months now, and he was once again struggling to stay optimistic about his prospects in Canada.
When he arrived in New York on the cargo ship from Napoli, he had debating staying there. But his cousin Giorgio was in Toronto, and his train ticket was paid for, so on to Toronto he went.
Ted—he found the locals much more accepting when he called himself that—was a gifted stonecarver and mason. When he arrived in his new city, he found that Giorgio had been jailed for cockfighting, and so he was on his own. For his first five months in Canada, he was deeply humiliated to find himself mostly jobless. Every day the foremen of Toronto's many construction sites, humming with activity as the city recovered from the great fire, came to the Ward to choose day labourers. Every day, he and many of his countrymen who had made the journey from southern Italy were passed over in favour of blonder, blue-eyed men from farther north. Teodosio was a proud man who refused to accept the pittances that the foremen offered him: he knew his work was worth far more than that. He knew he was worth far more than that.
His usually steadfast confidence in himself and his abilities, though, slowly eroded away with each passing day that he did not use his hands for the work he believed he was born to do. He had held out for a decent wage, so that he could save up and send for his family, and look where his pride had gotten him: a cot next to dozens more in a decrepit room in the House of Industry, and a steady diet of porridge, bread, broth with the occasional bit of meat and vegetables, and not much else.
After three months he finally accepted a job paying half as much as what he wanted, simply to continue to survive. He found himself working alongside a dozen other men, none of whom had any experience in masonry, but who apparently looked hardworking and rugged and pale enough that the foreman kept them on.
Looking back, he supposed it was inevitable: the only question was that of who would be at fault, and who would suffer. The loud, unskilled, boisterous men who worked at his side seemed to care not a whit about the dangers of slinging about large metal hammers and spikes to bash apart massive chunks of stone.
It was Pawel Kedzierski, careless and distracted as always, who brought down the fateful hammer that day, and Teodosio himself who took its blow. His right hand was shattered: he would never work as a mason again.
For weeks after the accident he spent a lot of time wondering why he was still alive, and wishing he weren't.
He abandoned his room and slept on the streets. Now and again he would panhandle, scrounging just enough to eat to make the light-headedness subside for a few hours. Sometimes people who saw his hand would take pity and give him a bit more than usual. One such night he bought a bottle of rye whisky, sat down in the snow in an alleyway, and drank the entire pint. He stared up at the sky, and hoped this would be the night he froze to death.
He awoke at the House of Providence. Some kind soul—he would never learn who—had found him in that alley and delivered him to the Sisters of St. Joseph, who had taken him in, promising him a safe bed and a hot meal each day for as long as he wished to remain. So far, he had been there for five months.
A home for hundreds of the poor, the sick, the old, and immigrants like himself, with his family as far away as ever, was not where he had hoped to be nearly a year after arriving in Toronto. But the kindness that his unknown rescuer had shown him, as well as the gentle attentions and charity of the nuns (well, most of them), had rekindled his wish to live. He wanted to be able to help someone else the way strangers had helped him.
He did not, though, wish to continue living with so many strangers. He wanted his wife and his three sons at his side, in the family's own house in this city that he burned to conquer. If he could not build with stones, he would learn English and find a new trade, and he would master it, and he would bring his family from Catanzaro.
His English was improving steadily, but lately he was experiencing a deep sense of dislocation. Sometimes he forgot words in Italian, words he didn't even know in English, and at times he would wander the streets of Toronto, looking for something—he knew not what—that he might never find. Perhaps it was himself.
He would dream in English, strange dreams in which he was an alien descended from the heavens. Apart from Mass, the night sky was the only real constant between his life in Canada and his life back home. The stars and planets were at a slightly different angle here, but they were the same ones he'd watched all his life, and he found their presence deeply comforting.
The people around him? Not so much. His classmates were mostly decent men, in circumstances similar to his—they were all very pleased to learn the idiom "in the same boat"—but most of them had only just recently arrived in Canada and joined the class, and it was exhausting to try to communicate with them for any length of time without a common language.
Their teacher, Sister Anna Maria, was a prim and devout young woman, fresh from making her perpetual profession after only three short years of postulancy, novitiate, and temporary vows. Teodosio thought she couldn't be much past twenty-three or four. He was (barely) old enough to be her father. She held tightly to her faith as he once had: he had even considered the seminary, briefly, before he met his beloved Letizia and married her. Now, he found it difficult to be around someone as rigid and dogmatic as he used to be.
For two hours every morning, Sister Anna Maria gave her students the language for the basics of life in Canada. She taught them the English names for foods, items of clothing, occupations, buildings, animals, (most) parts of the body, whatever she could think of that they might need to know. For the first few weeks, the lessons were very concrete. She would enter the makeshift classroom laden with bags of props—fruits and vegetables, packaged foods and medicines, pens and pencils, tools, toiletries, dishes and kitchen utensils, anything she thought they might encounter in the course of an average day, and lead the class in choral repetition of the new words and sentences that used them.
The men progressed at different paces in their study of the new language; Ted was one of the better students. He applied himself diligently, and found that he was starting to be able to decipher articles in the newspaper with the help of a well-worn Italian-English dictionary, one painstaking word at a time. Reconnecting with what was happening in the world lifted his spirits.
His spirits were, however, not unfettered. Sister Anna Maria spent the rest of day on religious matters. She was deeply concerned about spiritual well-being, and saw only one acceptable path for anyone to achieve it. Attendance at the study sessions after midday Mass was mandatory to remain a resident at the House, and so the men spent least three hours each afternoon focused on Scripture and such texts as the Douay Catechism. Often the bag of props would contain rosaries and crucifixes and prayer beads and pocket tokens and medals bearing the images of saints. She insisted that the men keep the items, even if they were not Catholic. Ted was at first amused by the baffled expressions of his classmates who were not "Papists," as he frequently heard himself and his co-religionists called, but he could see how much it wore on the Greeks and Romanians and Poles. Eventually even he began to find the constant proselytizing more than a bit grating.
Ted had never considered himself particularly devout. The rituals of the Church were comforting in their familiarity, certainly, but they had never led him to feel any deep connection with the divine. Over the five months he had come to resent the required attendance at daily Mass: it felt like wasted time to him. He would much rather be poring over articles in the newspaper, and studying the job listings to understand what professions were in demand. He wanted to get on with his life.
The arrival of each day's newspapers was an event at the House. The elderly residents would monopolise most of the copies, while a few would make it down to Bosca Hall for the students. Older newspapers tended to stay around for a few days: sometimes the men would take them back to their rooms, or discuss them over the tables in the dining hall. On this particular Tuesday, the Romanians were abuzz about a feature by one of their compatriots.
"Look! Look! Bonifaciu Verbiceanu! Romanian man! Ted! Ted! You read!" Mihai thrust the paper toward him as he came through the door. He shrugged, took it in his good hand, and peered at the page. The other Romanians stared at him intently, waiting to hear what their countryman had said.
Ted studied the column for a while, and finally spoke. "He write stars," Ted told them, then he paused. He corrected himself. "No. He write about stars. Signs. Toro, Leo, Acquario. Stars in sky, when you born."
Ted had a passing familiarity with astrology—his Nonna had been fascinated by oroscopi, and she always placed great value on the readings done by a woman in the village where she had grown up. Ted slowly made his way through the column, consulting his dictionary as needed, and by the time he finished, the entire class was enthralled.
Ted's classmate Artur—no, Arthur, he was calling himself now—was nearly dancing with joy. He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a small, well-worn volume, holding it with great reverence. The words "Note despre zodiac" were stamped in gold on the front cover. "Horoscop! I know horoscop. I show you. My grandfather book! You, Radu? Your birthday today?"
He opened the book gingerly to the appropriate page. "You Gemelli. Gemini." He paused, and corrected himself. "You are Gemini. Gemini very… loyal. Hate fight. Hate to fight." The two men spoke in rapid Romanian for a few moments, both, nodding enthusiastically. Arthur finally noticed the puzzled looks on most of the other faces, and switched back to English. "I read for him. I tell him future. His future."
The two men returned to the Romanian, both nodding enthusiastically and peering down at the book. Radu tried to touch it, but Arthur pushed his hand away. He clearly held it very precious.
"You see future? With book?" the other students demanded, and crowded around him. It was clear the day's formal English lesson was over.
Sister Anna Maria was nearly apoplectic. She had chosen a section of Scripture for the day's reading lesson, and was most vexed to find the class set of Bibles ignored in favour of this… this heresy! The men were all so captivated by Arthur's explanations of the various signs that only a few noticed when she finally stopped fuming at them and fled the room.
Station House Four, Friday, June 9, 10:15am
George looked up from a stack of almanacs to see Ruth Newsome sweep into the bullpen, a lace parasol under one arm and a bundle of some sort under the other, and her blonde curls piled high under quite an extravagant hat. A Gainsborough, if I'm not mistaken. Aunt Primrose is partial to those.
Miss Newsome was in fine form, sailing toward Higgins' desk to greet him with several pecks on each cheek and an ebullient "Henrykins!" Henry beamed, not noticing that everyone else looked a little queasy. "I have so much excitement to share with you!" She waved a sheaf of paper covered in flowery script, and then a book whose title George could not quite make out. She noticed him staring at her, and greeted him with a request: "George, be a dear, will you, and give me your chair?"
George's eyes widened. "Miss Newsome. Perhaps you might not have noticed that it is currently in use? By me?"
She blinked, a little stunned, as if George's need for his own chair had not occurred to her. "Oh! Well then."
A faint smirk crossed George's face. "Perchance you could avail yourself of Inspector Brackenreid's chair instead. I'm sure he'd be delighted."
Ruth brightened, and started to swish toward the Inspector's office. "Of course! I'll just borrow his. I'm sure it's much more comfortable!"
Brackenreid, seeing her approach, rose and stood in his doorway. "Higgins!" he bellowed, glowering at the skittish constable.
Henry scrambled to standing. "Ah, my precious Ruthiekins! Let me offer you my chair." He gestured at it grandly.
She thought for a moment. "But… then you won't have one, my sweetest dearest poopsy doodles!"
George was sure he wasn't the only one in the room who was decidedly queasy.
Henry glanced at Brackenreid, who was still staring daggers at him, as Ruth took another step toward the inspector's door. "It's all right, my lovely honey bunny, I'll just sit on my desk."
"Well, I suppose," she said, and sat down without another second's hesitation. "I'm so excited!" she gushed. "I've found a book all about astrology, and I've started readings for everyone in the station house!" She stopped and looked around the room, as if awaiting applause.
Reactions to her declaration were decidedly mixed. A few of the constables glanced heavenward, and got back to whatever they were doing. Others, though, looked up with naked curiosity: what do the stars have to say about me?
"Oh, Ruthy-wuthy!" Higgins burbled.
"Yes, my dear, dear, sweet Henry-wenry?"
Crabtree tried not to gag.
"Do mine first! Please!"
"But of course, my darling Snoogy-woogums!" She fanned herself a little.
Did she… pull that fan out of thin air? George was slightly awed by her sleight of hand.
"Now, did you think I hadn't already started yours? Don't be silly!" She beamed as she startled to rifle through the sheaf of papers, finally withdrawing one from the pile that bore Henry's name at the top in an elegant, ornate hand. "Now you, you marvellous thing, are a Cancer. Your sign corresponds with Zebulun, or "dwelling," and you are most well suited to "domestic proclivities and great love of home." She gave him a meaningful look, and his eyes widened.
"What else does it say?" he managed.
Before she could continue, Detective Watts, who had been leaning inconspicuously against the wall, cleared his throat. "I beg your pardon. Is that Zebulun, sixth son of Jacob and Leah, and founder of one of the twelve tribes of Israel?"
Ruth paused, and thought for a moment, picking up the book to rifle through it. Her eyes lit up when she found the right page. "Here we are. Page 20. Yes, that's it exactly!"
"And there are twelve signs of the Zodiac, and twelve mmmonths in the year. And the Chinese Zodiac is based on a cycle of twelve years. Which leads me to be curious about other ways in which the Chinese Zodiac might correspond with the western one."
George blinked, impressed. He hadn't thought about the relationship, if any, between the Chinese Zodiac and the star signs that he had researched and written about. He dimly recalled his friend Wu Chang mentioning the twelve-year, twelve-animal cycle, but they hadn't discussed it in any depth. The two men had had far more pressing matters on their minds the night that George had hidden the fugitive man in his room at the boarding house, not the least of which was Miss Pratt's clear disapproval of George's guest. The intimidating landlady had looked askance at George for weeks afterwards, especially after news of Wu's hanging was splashed all over the newspapers. George always became melancholy when he thought of his noble friend who gave up his own life to save his sister's.
He shook himself back into the present. Good Lord, man, enough woolgathering! Everyone's talking about your column, and Louise didn't even butcher this one much at all. "Is—is that the one that goes by year? Where each year is represented by one of twelve different animals?"
"Yes, indeed it is." Watts nodded decisively. "And each animal is said to represent a set of traits and characteristics of the people born in that year."
Murdoch scoffed. "Now that's just ludicrous. It's hardly plausible at all that everyone born in the same year would share aspects of personality—"
Watts was unfazed. "Constable Crabtree. The year of your birth?"
"1867," George replied, and grinned a little, wondering where this was going to go.
Watts looked up, far away for a moment, and then returned from wherever he had been in his mind. "You, Constable? You are a Rabbit."
George gave a lopsided grin. "A Rabbit, am I then? And what, pray tell, is that supposed to say about me?"
Murdoch rolled his eyes. Watts ignored him, and continued. "Rabbits are communicative and kindly, and very loyal. Sociable and prudent. Quite trustworthy, and good with money. Eloquent. Witty and imaginative."
Murdoch watched Crabtree brighten seemingly with every word. "Why, sirs! This sounds remarkably accurate!" He beamed. "How satisfying to hear my most favourable characteristics enumerated so!"
Murdoch looked irritated, but George could see the slightest hint of mirth in his eyes. "Well, I would hate to argue against the presence of any of those traits in our Constable Crabtree, but George, as you yourself have said, a broken watch is indeed right—"
"Twice a day. Yes, I know. But, well, sir, you must admit it's all quite fascinating. And Detective Watts is apparently quite knowledgeable about the subject." George looked at Watts admiringly, while Murdoch turned a sceptical eye toward him. George smirked.
"Watts! How do we know you didn't just make all that up out of thin air?" Brackenreid demanded.
"I assure you, I have not, sir. I've spent a great deal of time studying various forms of the Zodiac, and I dare say I've… aaaacquired rather a solid—albeit not comprehensive—knowledge of the"—he cleared his throat—"subject." He hunched over and stared directly hard at the inspector.
"Course you have," muttered Brackenreid, and glanced upward. George watched as the exasperation was gradually replaced by curiosity; Brackenreid took a breath. "And what does all that poppycock have to say about people born in 1855?"
"Wwwell—" Watts thought for another moment. "You? You would be a Tiger. Tigers are bold and adventurous, born leaders as well. Seekers of thrills. Impulsive and passionate. Honourable annnd… brave."
"'Honourable and brave.' Brackenreid beamed, his chest seem to swell with each word. "Maybe there really is something to this tomfoolery."
"It is arguable, sir. Were all the lads you attended school with of a temperament similar to yours?" Murdoch inquired, poker-faced.
Brackenreid's mouth tightened. "Not so's I'd remember, I wasn't in school with them for very long." George remembered the inspector had once before alluded to leaving school early and going to work to support his family, but he knew no more than that. A few brows furrowed around the bullpen, but the questions remained unspoken, and Brackenreid did not let them hang in the air. He looked around quickly, noticing Miss Newsome at Higgins' desk leafing intently through the large book full of numbers and strange symbols.
"Miss Newsome!" he bellowed, startling her. She blinked wide, bewildered eyes at him. "Right then! What does all that have to say about someone born on May 2?"
The smile she returned to him was dazzling. "Why, Inspector! I'm quite surprised! My dear Henry said you would quite disdain such astrological inquiries."
"Did he, then. Are you sure he wasn't talking about Murdoch?"
"Henry said…"
"Never mind what I said, Ruthie-poo!" Henry broke in quickly. "May the second? That would make the inspector a… Taurus, would it not?"
George wasn't sure how, but Ruth Newsome's smile grew even wider. "Yes, Henry! Excellent! You're learning quickly! Inspector, you are a bull."
Brackenreid first looked mildly surprised, and then intrigued. "A bull, am I."
"That seems fitting," Murdoch muttered, quietly enough that only George could hear him. Crabtree snickered, and the inspector shot him a look.
"And what, pray tell, does that book say about people like me?"[i]
Ruth flipped theatrically to the appropriate page. "Taurus. Taurus. Let me see. Yes! Here we are. Page 40." She scanned the tome briefly. "You, Inspector, are courageous." Brackenreid drew his shoulders back proudly while Ruth continued. "You are a lover of art. Broad-shouldered, full-faced, fearsome when enraged. A Taurus is a natural leader, with 'strong passions and a good deal of jealousy in their nature…'" She flipped through a few more pages. "'When they get into a rage they should have perfect quiet till they entirely regain their self-control, as the stouter ones are in danger of breaking a blood vessel or in some other way injuring themselves during the paroxysm.'"
Murdoch and Crabtree studiously avoided looking at each other, and at the inspector. He's not going to take this well. Ruth continued. "And my goodness, it says here you are also capricious and fickle, and 'sometimes very hard to get along with.'"
Brackenreid reddened, and clenched his jaw. "Right. That's enough, Miss Newsome. All you lot have been malingering long enough. Back to work, all of ye!"
"But sir! You were the one who—"
"Shut it, Higgins." He glanced at Ruth, still seated at Henry's desk, and then back to Henry again. "And the station house of the local constabulary is no place for courting or canoodling!"
Murdoch smirked a little, a baser part of him silently disagreeing. He and Julia had enjoyed quite a few canoodles in his office over the years—it could indeed be quite a suitable place for such activities, although perhaps not the wisest one. He did suppose, however, that the door and the shades gave him and his beloved the privacy that Henry and Ruth were certainly not afforded out here.
"Very well, then!" Ruth adopted an imperious air, and swept up the stack of books and papers from Henry's desk. "I'm afraid I shall have to continue my work at home!" She tossed her head, paused briefly to give a giddy smile and blow a few kisses to Henry, and then swept out the door.
It was at that moment that the station house's main telephone line rang. Constable McNabb took the call.
"There's been a body found at the House of Providence on Power Street," he reported as he placed the receiver down. [ii] "A nun. Looks suspicious."
"Right next to St. Paul's," mused Murdoch, surprised and a little dismayed by the body's proximity to his own church. "Right, then. George? With me."
Watts looked up. "House of Providence? I'll join you. Such a fascinating place."
Third floor corridor, House of Providence, June 9, 11:15am
"Well, given the lividity and the progress toward rigor mortis, I'd estimate the time of death to be about twelve hours ago, perhaps a bit more," Julia said as she straightened up from leaning over the petite corpse in its black and white habit. "This was a young woman, perhaps twenty-five years old. Her hands show signs of a struggle, and a cursory examination indicates likely strangulation. No other obvious signs of trauma that I can see without undressing her. I'll have to examine her further in the morgue." She turned to one of the morgue attendants. "As soon as Detectives Murdoch and Watts and Constable Crabtree are finished with the scene, I'll release the body for transport. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to return to the morgue to finish another post mortem." William nodded to her. They exchanged a tender look, and she was gone.
"Sir? This is Sister Benedicta. She was the one who found the body in the closet here." Crabtree stood with a distraught older nun who was wringing her hands. Murdoch looked more closely and saw that they were working a rosary.
He removed his hat and bowed his head. "Sister, I'm Detective William Murdoch. I'm deeply sorry for your order's loss. I'm a parishioner at St. Paul's."
She let the rosary beads fall to her waist, and took his hands. "I know, my child. We follow your work very closely here. It's such a blessing to know there's a Catholic looking out for our neighbourhood!"
He blushed a little. "Thank you, Sister. What can you tell me about the victim?"
Sister Benedicta's eyes grew sad. "Sister Anna Maria. She was only twenty-three years old! She just came to us from the novitiate in Kingston. She was teaching English to some of the immigrant men who are staying with us. I… the men… they sleep here every night after the English and Bible study classes, and dinner and the evening activities are done. Sister Jeanne said that Sister Anna Maria left their room at about nine-thirty to retrieve a book from her desk in Bosca Hall, and never returned."
Crabtree looked up from writing in his little notebook. "Bosca Hall?"
"It's the space in the basement where she teaches—taught—her classes. The men who don't have rooms sleep there." Sister Benedicta swallowed a sob.
George tried to keep his tone as gentle as he could. "And you found her here? When was that?"
"Oh, it was terrible!" Sister Benedicta lamented as she picked up the rosary beads again. "We were looking for her everywhere. Her class was to begin at nine o'clock, and Sister Francine came looking for her at about nine fifteen. It was so unlike her to be late! We launched a search. I was opening every door in the place just on principle, because I knew she couldn't be here! I mean, what could she have possibly been doing on this wing at all? And then—" She broke off, tears filling her eyes.
Murdoch regarded her with great sympathy. He felt about ten years old again to see a weeping nun, as if her tears were somehow his fault. "And then what happened, Sister?"
"She was just… just lying there on the floor, pale as a ghost. I called her name, and of course she didn't move. I touched her skin and it was cold. Suddenly Sister Irene was there, and Sister Alberta and Sister Victoria. I suppose I must have screamed to summon them."
"Has anyone touched the body otherwise?"
"Oh, no, Detective! As soon as we found her, we sent everyone away and closed the door again while the Reverend telephoned the Constabulary."
Murdoch's eyebrows shot upward. "You sent everyone… away."
"Yes, of course!" she said earnestly. "To make it easier for you to collect evidence. Oh yes, we've read about you! We were all hoping you would be the one who came."
Whoever was nearby might well have been evidence, Crabtree thought but managed not to say. Murdoch just looked at her and swallowed hard. "Sister, where is 'away'? Where did everyone who was here go?"
"Go?" She blinked. "Oh. I suppose I don't know! Some of them might have gone to the men's dining room down on the second floor, for some lunch. Or—no, wait! To the chapel, for midday Mass! Of course. That's where they'd be."
"And how many men arrived for class this morning?" Crabtree's pencil was poised above his notebook.
"Sister Francine would know. She would observe Sister Anna Maria teach now and then. She wished to be a teacher as well. Sister Francine came upstairs because no one knew where Sister Anna Maria was." She broke off sadly. "And yet here she was the whole time…"
"Sister, again, I'm terribly sorry for your order's loss." Murdoch told her. "I was wondering—"
A thought struck her. "Oh, dear! She couldn't receive Extreme Unction before she passed!"
Crabtree looked quizzically at Murdoch. "Last rites, George," the detective muttered quietly.
"Ah," said George, and nodded even though he wasn't sure he understood. He would have to ask the detective more about such ritual practices later. For as long as he'd worked with the man, he was surprised by how few specifics he knew about the detective's faith. Although I do suppose the detective knows very little about the practices at the Masonic Lodge…
Murdoch cleared his throat, and pursed his lips sympathetically at Sister Benedicta. "That is indeed a shame, Sister," he told her, and George saw he meant it.
"Sister, could we, ah, could we speak with Sister Francine? And the men from the class?" Crabtree stepped in.
"Oh, of course! I'll fetch her, and then she can tell you who was there." Sister Benedicta lowered her rosary once again, and bustled away down the corridor.
Murdoch's office, Station House 4, June 9, 2:45pm
"Well, sir, while you were interviewing Sister Francine, I began to speak with all of Sister Anna Maria's students. A rather eclectic group of fellows, I should say. Some of them were rather more capable in English than others, but with Watts' help, after quite some time and a bit of assistance from some of the other residents, we were able to take statements from all of them."
George was exhausted. It was hard work teasing out and negotiating meaning with so many people over so many hours. He could only imagine what it was like for the men he had spoken to, trying to live their daily lives in a tongue not yet their own.
"Detective Watts does have quite the impressive facility with language," Murdoch said, and inclined his head in approval toward the slight, dark-haired man. Crabtree noticed how Watts had positioned himself next to Murdoch's desk, one foot up on a chair, and it struck him that from a certain angle, the younger detective appeared to be folding himself into something resembling a pretzel.
"Ahh, I am a mere dabbler who has picked up bits and pieces of various tongues along the way. It is fortuitous that the English skills of the House residents complemented my abilities in their languages as well." Watts looked away.
A corner of Crabtree's mouth turned up. "Detective Watts is far too modest. We were able to glean several significant facts from the men we spoke to."
"And what would those be?" Murdoch asked.
"Well, sir, first of all, there were eighteen of them. Each man noted that this was unusual, for there are twenty-two enrolled in the class, and this was the first day in at least three weeks that any of them was missing. They all live in the house, you see."
"Go on." Murdoch was intrigued.
"It took only a few minutes' investigation to determine that two of them had fallen ill with food poisoning overnight and were in the infirmary. It seems they had shared a delicacy that had come from the home country and did not travel well. What was it called?"
"Krupniok," Watts offered.
"Krupniok! Yes, that's the name. A blood sausage from Silesia. Pig's blood and pork offal and buckwheat, apparently. One of the men was describing how they are prepared—"
"Thank you, George!" Murdoch cut in. "So that rules out two of the missing men as our suspects. What about the other two?"
"The other two," echoed Watts. "One of them is an Arthur—Artur—Vasiliu, and the other is a Ted—Teodosio—Calabrese. Neither of them has yet been accounted for."
"And several of the men mentioned that Sister Anna Maria was most upset yesterday about a discussion in the class. She left abruptly, and was quite out of sorts when the students returned for the afternoon session after lunch and midday Mass."
"And what was the topic of that discussion, George?"
George hesitated for so long that Watts stepped in. "Astrology, Detective. Apparently the men had read the column in the Telegraph that has kindled such interest here at the station house, and began quite a lengthy conversation about their respective star signs."
George tried not to wince at the mention of the column. Watts continued. "It seems one of the missing men—Vasiliu—was quite the astrology enthusiast. All of the men mentioned that he had a book that he claimed could help him divine anyone's fortunes according to his date of birth. And Calabrese, the other missing man, did his best to translate fortunes for the other students into English."
"I wonder what Mister Vasiliu would have predicted for Sister Anna Maria," George muttered under his breath.
"George," scolded Murdoch.
"Sorry, sir." George looked away sheepishly.
"Have you found any evidence?" Murdoch asked, rather sharply.
"We have indeed, sir. We've lifted fingermarks from the doorknob and doorframe of the closet. To be thorough, we'll also be sending a few of the lads to speak to those who sleep in Bosca Hall this evening, to determine whether they were there last night, and if so, whether they saw anything."
"Any idea how many men slept there last evening?"
"Sixty-seven, Sister Francine… told us," said Watts.
"Yes, sir, sixty-seven. I have the list right here. The Sisters of St. Joseph keep meticulous records. Although I suppose we're somewhat fortunate that this didn't happen in the winter—Sister Benedicta said they can house up to one hundred and twenty on the colder nights."
Murdoch sat back a little as he realized the potential scale of the investigation. "Right, then, George, let me know what the constables learn about the gentlemen in Bosca Hall, and from inquiries into the backgrounds of Mister Vasiliu and Mister Calabrese."
"Very good, sir."
"And I'll start reviewing these interview notes."
Station House 4, 7:30pm
Crabtree poked his head in the door of the detective's office. The evidence that George had brought him was spread out on his desk and worktable, and his chalkboard was full. "Sir, how long are you planning to stay this evening?"
"As long as necessary, George."
"Sir. Are you sure that's wise? You yourself have pointed out the lack of mental acuity that comes with fatigue..."
"George, a woman sworn to the service of God is dead. There is a violent murderer at large in the home of some of the most vulnerable people in the city. We have a moral obligation to ensure their safety."
George looked down, abashed. "I suppose so, sir. What have you found? I saw Doctor Ogden here earlier—she brought you dinner, did she not? And news about the cause of death?"
"She did indeed," he noted, glancing back at the tureen of mutton stew on his desk, "and she sent far more than I'd like at the moment. Would you care for some?"
George gave one of his rare wide smiles. "Indeed I would, sir! Thank you! I was thinking it smelled quite delicious." Murdoch gestured vaguely at his worktable, where the pot of stew rested next to a stack of bowls.
"Help yourself, George. Now, Doctor Ogden reported asphyxia as the cause of death, resulting from strangulation. The hyoid bone was fractured, and there was evidence of pre-mortem bruising around the victim's throat, consistent with the shape of fingers. There were also signs of struggle about the hands. There was blood under the fingernails on the right hand, and bits of shredded paper stuck to both."
"Now who could have done something so dastardly? Murdering a nun." George was indignant as he tucked into the stew. Not as good as Aunt Hyacinth's, he mused, but passable.
"I know, George." Sadness passed across Murdoch's face as he glanced at his chalkboard. "We've ruled out most of the residents and staff. Sister Anna Maria was new to the House and had worked only with the immigrant men in her class, so few of the other residents were familiar with her. She shared quarters with Sister Mary Anthony, Sister Berthe, and Sister Jeanne."
"Yes, I spoke with them, sir, and they all provided alibis for each other. They each stated independently that they were all in their quarters when Sister Anna Maria departed to retrieve her book from Bosca Hall, and did not leave until it was time for morning prayers."
"And they didn't think it strange that Sister Anna Maria had never returned? They didn't raise any sort of alarm?"
"Sister Berthe told me that Sister Anna Maria had a bit of a habit—if you'll excuse the pun—of wandering the corridors late at night. She apparently had difficulty sleeping."
"Hm. So perhaps the murderer was someone who knew of her proclivity for nocturnal expeditions through the House."
"And those expeditions would have provided opportunity. That is indeed quite possible, sir. Now Sister Anna Maria was a petite woman, so nearly anyone larger than she was would have had means as well."
"Right, George. All they needed was a pair of hands, and the element of surprise. What about—"
"Yoo hoo! Detective? Constable?" Murdoch and Crabtree looked up to see Ruth Newsome swishing toward the detective's office. Both men closed their eyes briefly and sighed.
"Miss Newsome." Murdoch's greeting was polite but cool. "What brings you in this evening?"
"Well I was just bringing some supper to my dear, dear Henrykins, and I also wanted to share what I've learned about everyone here from my study of astrology! And I realised I hadn't any information about the birth dates of the two of you!" She beamed at both of them expectantly.
"Miss Newsome. We are in the middle of a murder investigation. It hardly seems an appropriate time for such frivolity."
George had had a long day, and he was feeling punchy and mischievous. "Miss Newsome. I do believe you'll find the detective's date of birth to be July 2, 1863—"
"George!" Murdoch was not pleased, but George continued nonetheless.
"—and as for me? Well, I've always celebrated my birthday on March 21."
"You've… always celebrated then? Am I to take it that you're unsure of the actual date?"
"I am indeed, Miss Newsome. Truth be told, I've no idea whether I'm a Pisces or an Aries."
Her face fell. "But how is that possible? Everyone knows their own birthday!"
"Well, when my mother left me on the steps of a church, none of those who took me in was quite sure how old I was. I could have been a day old, or a week. So the Reverend just chose the date that I was brought to him."
Ruth sputtered as she began to fathom the implications of what George was telling her. She started to rifle through the astrology book. "But… but that means you don't know your sign! Oh, dear! How ever can I do a reading for you now?" She paled. "How can you even know who you are?"
George opened his mouth to respond, and for once, he was quite lost for words. He closed it again.
"Miss Newsome." The detective stepped in. "I think we all have a very good idea of who Constable Crabtree is, without the assistance of such an… analysis." He gestured at the book, his contempt only thinly veiled. "Now if you'll excuse us? We do have a murder to solve."
Ruth stammered a little. "Well good heavens! I… but… how can Henry know whether George is a compatible friend for him if we don't know George's sign?"
"Good evening, Miss Newsome," Murdoch said firmly, and held his hand toward the door. She huffed, and swept away toward Henry's desk. George closed the door behind her.
Murdoch shook his head. "George, this astrology nonsense is getting out of hand."
"Well, sir, you are familiar with my fascination with, shall we say, unconventional lines of inquiry…" George watched Murdoch's mouth tighten. "I dare say I've been intrigued by astrology for some time, but it hardly seems to be the sole determinant of a man's character. Truth be told, sir, I sometimes wonder whether it should best be regarded as merely a bit of… entertainment."
Murdoch's eyebrow rose. "Entertainment, George?"
"Well, yes, sir. I mean, you do see how talk of it entranced the lads. But given its capability for such great inaccuracy, sir, well, it certainly can't be a reliable guide to everyone and their fortunes, can it?"
The detective looked a little stunned. "And how did you come to this conclusion, George?"
"Well, sir, I took the liberty of consulting Miss Newsome's book with regard to your date of birth—"
"You did what, George."
"Your sign is Cancer, sir."
"Cancer. The crab. I am aware."
"Yes, sir. According to M. M. MacGregor—"
"MacGregor?" Murdoch's expression was somehow horrified and indulgent all at once.
"The author, sir. According to him, you should be feminine, lazy, jealous, domineering. Fond of money for its own sake. I… I can't see how any of those characteristics might apply to you, sir."
Murdoch's eyes were wide with impatience. "George."
"Yes, sir."
"Are you quite through?"
"Well, sir, I could add what the book has to say about your compatibility with Doctor Ogden—"
"Thank you, George. That won't be necessary."
"Very well, then, sir."
"You know this is all quite ridiculous, George?"
"Well, a week ago I might not have thought so, but I suppose the idea that it is absurd merits some consideration." They both glanced through the window to the bullpen to see Miss Newsome gesticulating animatedly toward the book and a sheaf of paper, with several of the lads paying rapt attention.
"I must say I'm quite surprised to hear you speak this way, George." Crabtree shrugged. "And to think all this started with that wretched column in the Telegraph."
Crabtree swallowed. "I suppose it did, sir. I suppose it did."
Station House 4, 10:00pm
Murdoch's door opened, and Watts ambled in. "Detective," Murdoch nodded in greeting. "This is an unusual time to see you."
"Mmmm, well, I believe it was St. Augustine who argued that time does not exist in reality, but only in the mind's perception of that reality." [iii]
"Good heavens, Watts," a fatigued Crabtree complained, looking up from a stack of interview notes. "My perception is that now is hardly an ideal time for such philosophising!"
"What have you, Watts?" asked Murdoch.
"Well. I've just returned from the House of Providence after interviewing the men on the third floor and in Bosca Hall tonight, and I've also searched the effects of our two missing students."
Murdoch perked up. "And what have you found?"
"No one who slept in Bosca Hall reported seeing the victim or either of the two main suspects last… evening. Mister Calabrese's roommates told us that the last they saw of him was in the men's dining room, at the midday meal yesterday. He did not return to class in the afternoon. Mister Vasiliu did attend the lesson, as well as the evening meal, but several of the men stated that he seemed distracted. No one can account for his whereabouts after the end of the repast."
"And what about evidence?" Crabtree asked.
"Mmmwell, there were several sources of that. Constable Hynes sorted through the janitor's sweepings from the third floor hallway, and retrieved a number of scraps of paper. Constable Crabtree! Perhaps you could assist me in examining said scraps."
"Yes sir. And Detective, you mentioned the missing men's effects?"
"I… did." Watts hoisted a foot onto the edge of George's chair, and leaned over onto his knee. "Both men had a copy of the Verbiceanu column in with the rest of their belongings."
"The column." George's eyes widened, and he felt a little sick.
Murdoch grew pensive. "The interview notes do mention that astrology was the topic of the day in the English class, against the wishes of the victim, who usually instructed them in practical vocabulary and grammar as well as religious texts." He turned to Crabtree, who looked more a little green. "George. Do you recall whether any of the men you and the constables interviewed—are you quite all right, George?"
George took a deep breath, and steeled himself to lie. "Just a touch of queasiness, sir. It must be something I ate."
Murdoch pursed his lips in sympathy. "I hope it wasn't the mutton stew."
"I hope not, sir. You were saying?"
"Right. What was the demeanour of the men you spoke to when you discussed the topic of astrology?"
George closed his eyes briefly to retrieve the memories. "Well, sir, they were most enthusiastic. Mister Vasiliu's book on the topic was of particular interest. Apparently it belonged to his grandfather."
"So I read." Murdoch glanced at the notes on his desk. "And the men seemed to believe that Mister Vasiliu was using the book to engage in divination."
"Fortune telling. Yes, sir. He apparently made some very specific predictions for some of them."
"Mmmperhaps what he predicted led directly to Mister Calabrese's disappearance," mused Watts.
Murdoch's eyes lost focus for a moment as he sorted through his recollections of the constables' notes. "Vasiliu told Calabrese he would have contact with a family member, and he should be willing to take a great risk. George. What have you learned about the backgrounds of Mister Calabrese and Mister Vasiliu?"
Alleyway, somewhere near Agnes and Elizabeth Streets, 10:00pm
Teodosio Calabrese sat huddled in a doorway. As he had been five months before, he was utterly despondent.
He was furious with Artur, and furious with himself. He had been so gullible, so trusting when Artur pored over his magical book and told him what he wanted so desperately to hear. A long-lost family figure was about to take on major importance in his life, and a great good fortune would befall him should he take a significant risk. Teodosio's faith in the divination had utterly ruined him.
He had been all too eager to hear such wonderful news. The idea of great fortune had led to visions of his wife and children stepping off the train at Union Station to greet him. A long-lost family member? The only relative he had here in Toronto was his ne'er-do-well cousin Giorgio. Teodosio had rushed to visit him in the gaol.
Despite Giorgio's convictions for multiple crimes involving cockfighting, he had hardly given up his involvement in the practice. Giorgio told Teodosio of a secret late-night cockfight behind a decrepit rooming house in the Ward, and assured him that he could win a princely sum by betting on the underdog of the two miserable creatures. Teodosio was loath to see animals suffer, but he was nearly giddy with the prospect of a reunion with his beloved family. He supposed he could place his bet, and then, during the fight, look away.
He counted out every penny of his remaining money, and tucked it all back into the pouch he carried around his neck. He made his way across the city on foot, and, after a bit of wandering, located the ramshackle building of which Giorgio had spoken. He went around to the back, took a deep breath, and knocked carefully in the rhythm Giorgio had shown him. The door opened slowly, and he introduced himself.
The men inside, all Calabrian like himself, welcomed him warmly as soon as he told them who he was and why he was there. Apparently his cousin's name held some cachet here. He inquired as to the evening's event, and one of his hosts, a bald, muscular man named Carlo, accepted his bet. He put the very last of his meagre funds on the underdog as he had been instructed.
Before the match, the others offered him a large shot of grappa, and then another, and another. He hadn't drunk alcohol since that fateful night last winter, and it hit him hard. An evening in the company of men from his own culture, speaking effortlessly in his own language, singing and dancing to the music of home—it was all a much-needed respite from the austere life at the House. He felt immense relief to soothe the ache of homesickness, at least for an brief while. More grappa, and more again. Joyous dancing, and then a stumble. And then—what? He had no idea.
He was alone when he finally woke up in a heap in an alley. Slowly it dawned on him that he was penniless, with no idea of where he was, or which poor creature had won the fight. He lurched to his feet, and his head swam. His drinking chums were nowhere to be seen. He began stumbling around the streets, trying to orient himself. The back lot—once he finally found it again—looked as if no one had been there for years.
He had spent the day wandering aimlessly through the Ward, far too ashamed to return to the House of Providence. He wished he were drunk, but he was destitute and too proud to beg. Now and then he would hide in a doorway and weep, convinced once again that his life might as well be over.
A newspaper blew by. He caught it, hoping to use it as a blanket for himself when he finally found a corner suitable for sleep. He was smoothing it out to fold it when the images on the front page gave him the shock of his life. A photograph of Sister Anna Maria, a drawing of Artur Vasiliu, and a drawing of his own face stared back at him.
Station House Four, 11:45pm
Crabtree stood staring at the bits of shredded paper that he had carefully arranged on the detective's desk. "Sirs?" he ventured. "I believe I have something here."
"What have you, George?" George was taken aback to notice that Murdoch had loosened his tie, very slightly. This case must be getting to him.
"Well, sirs, the scraps of paper appear to be from several different pages, likely torn from a book. I don't recognize the language."
Watts shuffled over and peered at the reassembled pages. "Romanian," he said flatly. "Likely from a book about… astrology. Look." He pointed out a few words. "Capricornul. Zodia Gemeni."
"Oh, for the love of Pete," Crabtree squeezed his eyes closed and exhaled sharply. I wish I had never written that blasted column—
"Sirs!" Higgins burst into Murdoch's office. "We found Mister Vasiliu!"
Murdoch, Watts, and Crabtree all jumped up at once. "Where, Henry?" Murdoch demanded.
"In the cells, sir!" Henry puffed out his chest a little, very pleased with himself.
"Henry," Murdoch hissed.
"Higgins, it's far too late at night for such tomfoolery." George raised a hand to his forehead.
"George?" Henry's bafflement appeared genuine. "What?"
"Where did you find him, Henry?" Murdoch snapped. He was tired, and his fuse was much shorter than usual.
"Oh! Of course, sir. He was camped in a lean-to, in the alley behind a rooming house on St. David, near Regent Street. The landlady caught one of her residents smuggling him some food, and was not at all pleased to have an indigent man availing himself of what she had prepared specially for her tenant. Well, I suppose he's not her tenant anymore, given the row she was having with him as we were collecting Mister Vasiliu… In any case, sirs, she's the one who telephoned. We recognized him immediately from the description and the sketch from the men at the House of Providence."
"Good. Very good," said Murdoch. "Henry, please bring Mister Vasiliu to the interview room."
"Sir, I believe that to conduct a proper interview with Mister Vasiliu, we will need someone fluent in Romanian," Crabtree ventured. "He is only very recently arrived in Canada and his English is quite basic."
"And, George?"
"Well, sir, do you speak Romanian? I do not."
Murdoch looked expectantly up at Watts, who shook his head. "Merely a few words and basic phrases, Detective. I'mmm… sorry to disappoint."
Murdoch grimaced. "So I suppose we will have to wait to get a full statement until an interpreter is available."
"And that won't be until morning, sir."
Murdoch narrowed his eyes. "What about the other suspect?"
"Mister Calabrese?" George shook his head as well. "Still no sign of him. The lads have scoured the entire neighbourhood."
"Then it will be necessary to look farther afield. George, have a few men posted at the House of Providence, and I suppose we will need to resume the rest of our investigation in the morning."
"Very good, sir." Crabtree turned toward the door, then back to the detectives. "Sirs? Which one of them do you think did it?"
"I don't know yet, George," answered a weary Murdoch. "We'll have to speak to them both to explore potential motives. But not tonight."
Station House Four, 8:15am
Artur Vasiliu sat in the interrogation room, weeping that he had not killed Sister Anna Maria, eager to point the finger at a man who would have called him a friend. "I no kill her! Calabrese! Ted! He done it! I see him! He kill her!" He lifted his hands in a choking motion to demonstrate. "He kill her!" He lowered his head to sob, then finally raised it again. "He go hang! Ted! No me! No me!"
Murdoch regarded the crying man evenly. He was about to ask Vasiliu, through the interpreter, to flesh out the details of exactly what he had seen, when there was a knock at the window. Crabtree, thin-lipped with a hint of excitement in his eyes, stood peering in. He inclined his head to summon the detective outside.
Murdoch excused himself. The look on his face suggested that he believed the suspect's tears as genuine as those of a crocodile. He emerged from the room, wishing he had not used his left arm to push himself away from the table, and closed the door.
"Sir. There's been quite a development in the case."
"Yes, George?"
"Quite significant, sir. I think we're quite close to cracking this one."
"Out with it, George!" Did… his nostrils just flare?
"Well, sir, it would seem that Mister Calabrese just walked into the station house."
9:30am
Inspector Brackenreid raised his palm to his forehead. "So let me see if I've got this straight. The Romanian says the Calabrian did it, the Calabrian himself has confessed, and you three think they're both lying and the one they both say didn't do it actually did."
"Yes, sir," Murdoch acknowledged.
"Would you care to explain." Crabtree felt the inspector's eyes boring into Murdoch.
"Well, sir, first of all." Murdoch spoke with the confidence that came with the knowledge that he was right. "Found on the person of Mister Vasiliu was a small, worn leather-bound volume titled Note despre zodiac."
George cringed inwardly. Wretched zodiac.
"All the men who mentioned that book in the interviews said that Mister Vasiliu held it very dear. It was his grandfather's. And the pages that Constable Crabtree reconstructed from the torn scraps at the crime scene are a perfect match for those missing from the book."
Brackenreid inclined his head. "But we don't know who tore them out."
"No, sir, we do not," Watts replied. "The evidence is quite clear that the scraps indeed are the missing pages, and we have a strong suspicion about who destroyed them, but we cannot yet offer proof of the identity of the person whose activities led to such bibliophobic… vandalism."
"So. What do you know?"
Crabtree chimed in. "The men in the English class all mentioned that Sister Anna Maria was most upset about what she considered to be the heretical nature of Vasiliu's book. She was a particularly devout young woman, you see. Reportedly quite inflexible. Our theory is that she stewed for the rest of the day and into the evening, and then finally followed Vasiliu to his quarters to demand it. She confronted him in the corridor, snatched the book out of his hand, and defaced it."
"And since it was his grandfather's, and seemingly his last remaining tangible tie to his family and his… home country, he could not tolerate the damage, and strangled her." Watts cleared his throat.
"Right. Makes sense for motive. What about Calabrese? Can we eliminate him definitively?"
Murdoch nodded. "There is no apparent motive for Mister Calabrese to have killed the sister. There is, however, the matter of means, sir. Doctor Ogden was quite clear that bimanual strangulation was the cause of death."
"Yes, yes. What about it? Both men have hands."
"Well, that's just it, sir," Crabtree piped up. "Mister Calabrese's right hand is quite maimed. The man is a former stonemason forced out of his trade by an injury. He would not have been capable of strangling anyone, not even someone as petite as Sister Anna Maria. The man can barely hold a pen."
Crabtree exchanged a glance with Murdoch, who continued where George had left off. "But there was equal pressure applied to both sides of the sister's neck, and contusions left that are just the same size as Mister Vasiliu's fingers."
"Bloody hell. So Artur Vasiliu is our killer." Brackenreid regarded the men triumphantly, and then his eyes widened. "Right. Go let that other poor sod go."
Louisa and Terauley Streets, 10:30am
Teodosio had thanked the police officers who freed him, even though when he had arrived he was willing to let them take him to the gallows. He could hardly believe everything that had happened since that vile column had come into Bosca Hall. Not three days ago he had a bed and a daily hot meal, and he was clawing his way toward success and perhaps even respectability in a new profession. Accounting would do, he had been thinking, he had always been good with numbers—and then suddenly he was once again utterly disgraced and sleeping rough. Artur was going to hang for Sister Anna Maria's murder, even though he had tried to take his place.
He had thought that by confessing he could take two pigeons with one bean, as the saying went in his language. He had meant, with a single profession of guilt, to both end his own miserable existence and exonerate someone whom he considered a friend. (Later he would look back and wonder how he could ever have thought so, when Vasiliu was so utterly unconcerned by the prospect of his demise.) The kind, persistent detectives—especially that peculiar Watts—were resolute in his quest to clear him, and he supposed he ought to be grateful. Perhaps this was the great gift from the heavens that Artur had predicted: a third lease on life. Most men were lucky if they got more than one.
Once again he meandered without direction through the Ward. He would probably return at some point to the House of Providence, if only to thank some of the sisters and wish them well. But not yet. He needed time to think, and pray. He wasn't sure if he believed prayer would have any effect, but it was at least a way to honour the memory of a woman who had dedicated her short life to the service of her God. Teodosio hadn't been fond of Sister Anna Maria, but she did not deserve the fate that had befallen her.
He turned a corner, and glanced up from his feet to see a dimly familiar face in an archway. Two dimly familiar faces, now that he looked more closely. He stared at them longer than was polite, and they looked back uneasily. It dawned on him how he knew them: they were at the cockfight! Carlo and Maurizio!
The two men looked from him to each other. Their expressions were grim. "Teososio," Carlo said, his tone resigned. Blood roared in Teodosio's ears as his body debated whether to take them on in a fight, or run for his life.
Maurizio scowled, and muttered, "È cugino di Giorgio. Dagli i soldi." He's Giorgio's cousin. Give him the money.
What? Teodosio felt himself flush. Nearly all he could hear was his own pounding heart.
Carlo glared at his companion. "Credo di si," he grumbled. I guess so. He reached into his trousers, and looked around cautiously before he withdrew a bundle of worn, wrinkled bills. He counted out exactly $200, and thrust the sum at an astounded Teodosio.
"Cos'è questo?" Teodosio finally managed. What is this?
"Le tue vincte." Your winnings.
Teodosio reached out a shaking hand. Carlo pressed the money into it. You got so drunk. You wandered away before the fight, he told him. We couldn't find you when you won.
Teodosio was speechless. This money would bring his family to Canada, and pay for a home and English lessons until he could find a job. He stood there, rooted to the ground, hardly daring to believe that what he saw in his hand was real.
"Vai ora. Non tornare indietro." You go now. Don't come back. Maurizio stared at him with cold, beady eyes.
Teodosio nodded mutely, and stuffed the bills into his pocket. He nearly fell as he backed away, slowly at first. When he went back around the corner, he broke into a sprint, or at least as much of one as he could manage with his hand still buried in his pocket. He could not bear to release his windfall even for a second.
He was somewhere near Wilton Crescent when his voice finally returned. "Dio è buono," he cried out. God is good. "Dio è buono!"
Teodosio was overjoyed: he would see his family again.
Station House Four, noon
"Now the implementation of Sir Sandford Fleming's idea of Standard Time has had a major impact on the study of star signs and charts, for it is far easier now to calculate charts based on birth dates and times than it was before there was any established point of reference. And for what one might consider a truly accurate assessment, it would be nnnecessary to include a much larger number of variables determined at the moment of birth, including the time of day, the location of birth, the position of the planets as well as the stars…"
Crabtree was listening intently. "So you're saying it's possible that there could be something to all this to-do about horoscopes after all? I… I don't know what to make of that."
Murdoch's eyebrows had climbed skyward at "accurate," and continued to rise with each additional word. "Nothing, George. There is nothing to be made of it. Detective Watts."
"Yes, Detective Murdoch?"
"You do know this is all quite preposterous, do you not?"
"I confess I find it mmmost intriguing."
"So you do believe?" Crabtree asked eagerly, his eyes wide.
"I believe I am… agnostic with regard to the topic." Watts shifted, looking uncomfortable.
"But… why?" George was fascinated. He studied Watts' expression. The man was thoughtful, and suddenly wistful as well. George's voice dropped. "Watts? What would a student of astrology say about you?"
"I am a… Sagittarius. I have seen various sources describe those such as I, those who share the month of my birth, as generous. Idealistic. Insatiably curious. Tactless and undiplomatic." Watts paused a moment to let the words sink in while Crabtree swallowed a chuckle. "We are apparently also… lovers of philosophy, and of being… out of doors."
"Why, that's you to a T, Detective!"
"Aaand… I dare say some of the divinations that can be made from my star chart have proven disturbingly accurate." Watts shrugged.
"And yet Mister Vasiliu, a remarkably dedicated practitioner of astrology, insists that his responsibility for the death of Sister Anna Maria is somehow mitigated by the alignment of celestial bodies around Earth when he committed the crime. His defense is essentially that the sky made him do it."
"That is it in a nutshell, George," Murdoch replied. "Most irrational."
Watts' expression grew distant. "'This is the excellent foppery of the world,'" he recited, "'that when we are sick in fortune we make guilty of our disaster the sun, the moon, and the stars; as if we were villains by necessity; fools by heavenly compulsion; knaves, thieves and teachers by spherical predominance; drunkards, liars, and adulterers by an enforced obedience of planetary… influence.'"
"Lear. Act 1, Scene 2," Brackenreid declared.
"Indeed, sir." Watts picked up a pen, and attempted to spin it before it fell on the floor.
"You know, I-I-I've quite tired of the talk of astrology and horoscopes. Perhaps we could discuss something else?" Crabtree ventured.
"Like what, George?" Henry asked, and smirked. "Your outlandish stories?"
George reddened.
"Like getting back to work!" Brackenreid bellowed. "And don't just discuss it, do it! There's been more than enough lollygagging about with that blasted astrology bollocks in here for the past few days."
Murdoch smiled thinly, and retreated into his office. The constables, chastened, all returned to their desks, and Crabtree went back to typing up the last of the report about poor Sister Anna Maria before he took it to Murdoch for a signature.
Murdoch was looking it over when Crabtree interrupted him. "Sir, ah, might I ask a rather… unusual question?"
Murdoch sat back, a little surprised. "What is it, George?"
"Well, sir, I, ah… well, two of our recent cases have been directly related to columns published in that… newspaper."
"The Telegraph. I suppose so, George. What of it?"
"Sir, do you think there's anything… well, nefarious going on? Regarding the columns?"
"What do you mean, George?"
"Well, we both know who's at the Telegraph." George scowled at the mere thought of Miss Cherry. "She's certainly not above inserting herself into a story in a bid to sell newspapers..."
Murdoch considered for a moment. "That… seems a little far-fetched, George. How could she possibly have caused a man to murder a nun in a fit of rage? Or ensured the death of a vagrant in an illegal boxing match?"
Crabtree sat back now. "I… I suppose I don't know, sir. But it seems more than happenstance that two columns so far have coincided with deaths directly related to their topics."
"And how many columns in that publication have had no such correlation, George? Dozens? Hundreds?"
Crabtree pursed his lips. "I take your point, sir. But this particular column, about the supernatural? Perhaps this one is cursed!"
Murdoch regarded him sceptically. "George."
"Sir?"
"Cursed, George? By what, the pharaohs?"
George bristled. "I—sir. Never mind, then." He would have to rethink how to explain to the detective why he was fearful: so far, two of the three times so far that Miss Cherry had posted one of his columns (or at least a version thereof), someone had died. She had nine more to publish at her leisure, and a gut feeling nagged at George that each time she did, more people would find their way to the morgue.
[i] M. M. MacGregor, Astrology: The Influence of the Stars on Character, and on Success in Friendship, Business, and Matrimony. Philadelphia: The Penn Publishing Company, 1905.
[ii] Mabel MacPhail-Pillar, Providence Villa and Hospital, 1978.
[iii] "Time," Internet Encyclopedia of Philosophy.