CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

5:20 PM, Friday June 30th

Station House No. 4

Murdoch gratefully reentered the station house to find it empty of constables and his boss on the way out, hat and walking stick in hand. Instead of yelling orders, a satisfied smile bloomed under Brackenreid's mustache.

Perfect. I can get work done...

"Just in time," Brackenreid caught him. "While you were gone, I did some fishing of my own and now the both of us can go see what I've caught. No, no...keep your hat on, we are going for a little ride."

Murdoch gritted his teeth. He was looking forward to the cool darkness of his office. He glanced over his shoulder to his desk and two blackboards, thinking seriously about declining the invitation. His boss actually winking at him and so full of himself meant Brackenreid believed he was on to something important, so he merely nodded, placed his hat back on his head and turned on his heel, out again into the afternoon sun.

Crabtree brought a police motorcar to the door. Murdoch asked what the plan was, but Brackenreid just motioned him to the back, taking the front passenger seat and only speaking to give directions.

Brackenreid is looking smug.

Crabtree kept his focus on the road and his own mouth shut, not making eye contact with him in the rear-view mirror. Crabtree knows what is up, so it cannot be a secret, therefore Brackenreid is having some fun at my expense. Murdoch was not sure about this arrangement. He rolled the window down for some air. The weather had broken, a high-pressure area and a breeze from the north bringing momentary relief from the heat and humidity, finally clearing out his headache. It didn't mean he was not exhausted and looking for the day to be over.

"Sir," he began, whether Brackenreid wanted to know or not, "I have new information on several fronts. I think we can eliminate the idea Father Doulton was going to disclose anything from a parishioner giving confession, and I am having doubts about the Hamilton constabulary's theory of motive. The painting Miss O'Mara was asking about at Mrs. Ogden's house had been purchased in London back in 1915. The current owner, who denies it is stolen, of course, is trout-fishing in Scotland. His solicitor gave me the name of the agent who sold it to him-"

"Crabtree, take the next left." Brackenreid directed and Crabtree complied.

Murdoch went on. "...I also made inroads with how Rocco Perri's organization is likely acquiring alcohol in quantity. Combining what we already learned in the investigation and what Dr. Ogden added-"

"Oh, I see. You have now deputized the new coroner, have you?" Brackenreid's tone was somewhere between sarcastic and teasing.

"Er...she has been helpful, sir." He found himself defending her, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "As soon as we hear back from the men's inquiries on the streets, I believe I can make a case for exactly how the poisoned alcohol flowed, as it were, into our victim's hands." He saw Brackenreid nod once in acknowledgement. He expected...more, feeling confused and irritated with his boss for the moment.

"Take the next right," was all the man said as Crabtree lined up behind another vehicle, waiting to make the same turn.

I am tired and hungry and Brackenreid acts like we are on our way to a mystery picnic. "Sir, what are we doing out here, and where exactly are we going?"

"Stop being a bloody back-seat driver. We'll get there soon enough. You're worse than the wife and sons on a Sunday drive in the country. Crabtree, look for a set of stone gates, and turn in there."

He sank against his seat in defeat. Outside the window, trees were getting thicker, lining the road or dividing up farmer's fields. His watch told him it was twenty minutes before Crabtree turned in between twin stone pillars, up a gravel drive to a circular apron in front of a Georgian- style house. Brackenreid had the vehicle door open before the vehicle was properly parked.

"Thank you, Crabtree. You and Murdoch..." he pointed at them both, "watch my six and learn."

Crabtree gave an eye roll behind Brackenreid's back. At the door, Brackenreid rang the bell, announcing himself to a butler when the door opened: "Will you please tell Lieutenant Swift that Captain Brackenreid would like a word?"

Murdoch followed the manservant through a well-appointed entry hall to a beautiful set of leaded-glass doors, which opened into a greenhouse full of plants. A long central aisle in flagstone provided him good views of Mr. Swift's collection - ferns, orchids, bromeliads and a selection of North American woodland species - while he remained eager to exit the hot, humid space for the out of doors.

Their host, Randolph Swift, was close to Brackenreid's age, early to mid-forties perhaps, with jet black hair and piercing blue eyes above an aquiline nose and generous lips. The house had appeared well-appointed, old enough to have been a family home, filled with memorabilia and furnishings. Swift, he decided, was old money.

"Thank you for coming out, Captain Brackenreid. Detective Murdoch and Constable Crabtree, is it?" Swift escorted them to chairs on the back terrace of his house. "Please have a seat, gentlemen."

Crabtree got his notebook out while Brackenreid settled in to admire the lawn. The manservant brought lemonade, then withdrew. Murdoch kept a polite smile, reining in his frustration while continuing to assess their host, who, unlike Brackenreid, did not retain any military aura in civilian life.

"It's Inspector Brackenreid now. Murdoch here was my lieutenant, and Constable Crabtree was in our unit. I understand Adam Doulton, Howard Knox and Conrad Landswell served with you."

Murdoch did a double take, cursing himself for stupidity. I never finished pursuing Landswell's background after his identity was confirmed. Of all things to drop the ball on!

Swift responded. "Y...yes. You can imagine how shocked I was to learn two of them died so-"

"Coincidentally?" He blurted out, getting a harsh look from Brackenreid for his trouble.

"One or two deaths may be a coincidence, Detective, but when I saw Knox's picture in the papers today, well, that was an unpleasant shock. Especially after receiving this." Mr. Swift produced a letter which he passed to Brackenreid. "It has to do with an incident...in France."

Brackenreid scanned the page, his eyes bugging wider as he read. "Good God! Some man named Worcester is accusing Knox of lying under oath in a court-martial!"

"I found it hard to credit, myself." Swift sat up straighter. "The men in my unit were green, but so were we all. My Captain, God rest his soul, was an exception, of course, but most of us had never been soldiers before, just volunteered for our patriotic duty to King and country. I believed we all served honourably, so I thought the letter did not deserve the dignity of a reply."

Murdoch got his brain in gear and found his tongue. "If that is the case Mr. Swift, Mr. Landswell went to great lengths to erase any sign of his war service, as did Howard Knox. Do you know why that was?"

Swift gave him a short angry look, then took another draw on his smoke. "You served, Detective. Not all of us came back with the same joie de vivre we left with, or with pleasant memories."

Murdoch watched Swift intently. Brackenreid ignored Swift to lean forward over the table, pointing at the letter Swift had produced.

"Crabtree. Does this name sound familiar? Didn't you tell me there was some bloke named Worcester who was writing Landswell?"

Murdoch swiveled to see Crabtree turn page after page in his black notebook until he found what he was looking for. "Sir. A man named Jonathan Worcester made an appointment to see Conrad Landswell. He wrote asking for help with his brother, asking if Landswell remembered him. Two Worcesters, can't be a coincidence."

"Mr. Swift. Can you explain to us what this incident was in France?" Brackenreid interrupted.

Swift appeared to hesitate, as if telling the story was difficult. "It was all in the course of our duty, the harder parts, perhaps."

Murdoch held his breath. The worst part of their job had been dealing with cowards, deserters, or men who tried to shirk their duty by faking an injury. The 'Red Caps' had often been despised by the common soldiers for their role in military justice - something else no one ever discussed in polite company.

Swift took a drink of his lemonade and lit a cigarette, cupping his hand around the flame just as if he were back on the line in the trenches. He exhaled a trail of smoke, seemingly lost in thought.

Brackenreid broke the uncomfortable silence. "And this Worcester?" He waved the letter. "Did he run afoul of you?"

"Our duty, as was yours, included making sure no one stole from the locals. The last case we investigated as a unit was over stolen property. I remember it because it was right before my three-year tour was up. Cpl. Worcester, one of the Princess Patricia Light Infantry, was caught with the goods. Four men in my squad were instrumental in breaking up a theft ring. Worcester was brought up on charges, went to trial, was convicted and sentenced. I have no idea what happened to him afterwards."

Murdoch asked for the letter, noting a return address in Toronto no less, his mind whirring. How wrong have I had this whole thing?

Crabtree was bug-eyed, his pencil frozen over his notepad.

Brackenreid was clearly dismayed. "Then why is his bloody brother writing to you to ask about Howard Knox?"

"I have no idea, Inspector. I did not wish to engage with such a distasteful business, especially after so many years. And I did not know how to find Knox, so I had nothing to say. When I saw Knox's picture in the papers and a request to contact the constabulary with any information, I called and got you. Now you are here with Detective Murdoch." Swift paused, giving his three guests a meaningful look. "Is Knox dead?"

"Why do you ask?" Murdoch was instantly suspicious.

"You have a certain reputation, Detective Murdoch." Swift smiled. "Someone must be dead - why else would you be here? Did this Worcester fellow find Knox and kill him in some sort of misguided act of revenge?"


Station House No. 4

Brackenreid was barking orders the moment he went in over the station house threshold. "Sergeant Weston, call the day shift back in, right away. Leave the evening men on their duties, but when they report in, you tell them we are searching for one man, Jonathan Worcester, last known address 15 Spruce near River street. We've already checked - no one at home right now. Murdoch is going back out with Crabtree to lay in wait. He'll want you to send reinforcements to close the net on him."

Murdoch raced behind, leaving Crabtree to gas up the car and return. Brackenreid kept shouting orders. "And Weston, take out your telegram pad. Murdoch here is going to dictate one to Canadian Expeditionary Force Judge Advocate General." When Weston remained motionless with his mouth ajar, Brackenreid shouted: "Move it!"

"Sir! The evidence…" Murdoch remained stubbornly insistent, their argument in the car having produced a stalemate. Meanwhile he'd been planning how to actually capture Jonathan Worcester without endangering a house-full of boarders and half the neighborhood. Anyone who killed three people was unlikely to go quietly.

"Murdoch, that's it!" Brackenreid nearly snarled it. "We have three dead soldiers. Three! From the unit in which we both served! Find Worcester's brother!" Brackenreid repeated. "Get Corporal Worcester's military file, and get me a list of all the names from that damned squad of Swift's. Tonight!"


Spruce Street

"S.A.R.A. and I are in position, sir."

"Thank you, Crabtree," Murdoch acknowledged over his new two-way communication devices to which they were giving a trial run. "But not so loud, though," he hissed.

So much for being undercover. He was hoping no one was looking suspiciously his way because of the cacophony just transmitted on the device. He and Crabtree had a description of their target, so they concentrated the male passersby in the available light, while scanning the street quickly.

"The volume button is on the right," he whispered back, "let me know the moment you spot Worcester." His modification of the Detroit Police Department's radio receivers gave them four hours of communication before needing to be recharged; if Worcester was returning tonight there was going to be plenty of time.

He was standing where he could see Spruce Street and Worcester's front door, while Crabtree had the back door and River Street covered. Both were in civilian clothes, trying to blend in with the neighborhood as night fell. Other officers took posts farther away to make a loose net around their quarry. Getting this wrong worried him. To his left, a shopkeeper closed up his business as workers walked from their factories or the docks to rest for the night in one of the boarding or rooming houses along Spruce. Other people were out for the evening to the local taverns with Friday pay packets to spend. He and Crabtree planned to apprehend Worcester before he entered the rooming house, and failing that, to follow him until more men could capture him, safely. Murdoch made the communication devices small enough to be carried and to work reliably as long as they were not jostled, but he cringed at the idea of trying to run after a fleeing suspect while trying to lug it along.

Spruce dead-ended on River Street. To his back was a large open area leading down to the river, almost directly opposite the Don Jail on the other, eastern, side of the ravine. For a moment he recalled his wonderful evening in Julia's motorcar as she sped him along the side of the Don River waterway on their way into the countryside.

He shifted on his feet, impatient with himself for wool-gathering, especially for wool-gathering about a woman and her motorcar. It is the motorcar you are hankering over, right? he asked himself. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled when the two-way communicator made a sizzling sound, the first part of Crabtree's message lost against background noise.

"Say again!" he whispered.

"Coming your way at your three o'clock."

He looked to his right, not seeing who Crabtree meant, until under a meagre streetlamp he saw someone completely unexpected. The communicator rasped again, louder than ever, getting the notice of a red-haired woman and her companion. He swore under his breath and yelled: "Police!" In a panic, the red-head and the man with her split apart and just ran in opposite directions.

"You get him, I'll get her George!" he yelled, then dropped the communication device and chased after the woman. She had a twenty-yard head start and was surprisingly fleet-footed and agile, weaving ahead of him through pedestrians and vehicles. Farm girl indeed, he thought. She was fit and fast from a lifetime of physical labour. She darted between two buildings, losing precious seconds as she slid on some grease while turning the corner, and he followed, gaining ground. He saw her jump for the bottom rung of a fire escape, and she might have made it too, except he managed to get his fingers on the hem of her skirt and haul it downward, pulling her hands off the rung and flinging her backwards into his arms, struggling determinedly.

"Let me go!" she insisted, jabbing into his ribs with her elbows and his shins with her heels.

He clamped down harder on her wriggling form. "Miss O'Mara, I presume."