CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
0500 hours Dominion Day, Saturday July 1st
222 Ontario Street
"Thank you, Mrs. Kitchen. You did not have to get up this early with me." Murdoch took a bite of fresh, warm bread, smothered in apricot jam. The two of them had shared this table now for more than a decade, ever since he'd taken his first job with the constabulary, through his ups and downs, his promotions, his courtship of Liza and marriage, her husband's illness and death. He'd had Mrs. Kitchen in his life longer than he'd had his own mother; he treated her with respect, as someone to protect. She returned the respect and treated him maternally.
Her voice was firm. "No trouble at all, Mr. Murdoch. You know how I am always up early because I look forward to this holiday all year. Better than Christmas it is, because there is no snow! Even rain is better than that," she laughed. "All the boarders know to shift for themselves in the larder today, because everyone but you have the day off!" This time she gave him a concerned look, apparently not liking what she saw. Now he guessed the reason she'd gotten up so early with him was for the privacy it afforded. "Are you all right? I worry sometimes…"
He used a sip of coffee to hide his reaction. It could not have escaped her eagle eye that he no longer wore his wedding ring. Mrs. Kitchen, a devout Catholic, had given up her prayer campaign to repair his marriage months ago. Before I did, he scolded himself. She was naturally nervous and worried about the peril to his soul, and more practically, worried about the house. Lying to her would be unworthy, useless and unkind.
"Mrs. Kitchen...Beatrice...I will be blunt. I am sure it is no surprise, after all this time...Liza is not coming back. She has asked me to divorce her." Mrs. Kitchen gasped, immediately dabbing her eyes. "Unless she files first. Please do not worry. It will not be ugly, and it will not affect the house. Our home." He reached over to pat a blue-veined hand.
She looked stricken. "That big envelope. I am so sorry, Mr. Murdoch. But a divorce…" Her other hand made the sign of the cross. "Have you talked with Father Cullen?"
"I will, I promise," he lied to her, despite promising himself mere seconds ago that his honour could not bear it. This is getting to be a habit, lying to people who care about me. "Right now, I have to go. Don't expect me. If the weather cooperates, have fun today at the fair and tonight at the fireworks."
She still looked so shocked. "Maybe things happen for a reason."
He shook his head at her. He was the last person who believed in fatalism. No, he believed in choices.
"Can you ask for an annulment?" she asked as he stood up.
Her suggestion shocked him - Mrs. Kitchen was more Catholic than the Pope. Shaking his head, he tried to lighten the mood, laugh her off. "Someday. For now…" he trailed off, looking at the floor. Before turning around and heading out.
"You deserve happiness," she called out after him.
Happiness? He found it so hard to remember what that was.
"You do," she insisted.
William kept on walking. Thing is, considering the mess he'd been making of his life, and now with his work, he wasn't so sure he deserved any of it.
5 am - Dominion Day, Saturday July 1st
Toronto
Julia quietly left her rooms while it was still dark out, dressed in her most expensive business suit and hat, trying not to make too much of a commotion while juggling two bags and a basket of food past an impassive front desk clerk and on to her motorcar. She got everything packed in the back seat, for the umpteenth time regretted not having a coffee, removed her hat, and nosed her vehicle out of the garage to navigate south along the shore on the relatively new concrete highway stretching from Toronto to Hamilton. Once past the city limits, she pushed her engine a bit, letting the 16/40 open up, waiting for the sun to rise outside her driver's window before putting on more speed. At this hour, almost no one was on the road. Driving was an exhilarating substitute for the lack of caffeine, and certainly better than fretting over Olive Routledge's children until Monday when she still would not be able to do a damned thing about it.
On the seat next to her under her cloche was a clipboard with a map and directions to two orphanages in St. Catharines and the names of the children she was seeking. If she drove straight through, she should get to the first orphanage by eight or eight thirty. She also had the name of the neighbor who cared for Olive's children and an invitation to meet. That gave her five hours, give or take, to search the orphanages and interview the matrons and - with any luck - see the two little girls, Autumn age three, and Catherine an infant. Julia was doubtful she herself had a maternal bone in her body, but woe to anyone who got between her and those girls.
0600 hours
Station House No. 4
The broken communication devices sat forlornly on his worktable. He'd been correct; their delicate tuning and instrumentation were not up to surviving much abuse. But did Crabtree have to throw his at Jonathan Worcester as a way to bring a fleeing suspect down?
He told himself there was no point remaining irritated.
Despite the early hour, Crabtree greeted him with a cup of coffee as soon as he walked into work. "Good morning! Wasn't that something last night?" he said with a huge grin. "I...I was so excited I...I could not sleep!"
"Coffee?" Murdoch offered as explanation for the insomnia.
"Why y...yes. Dr. Ogden gave me some of hers," Crabtree said, raising his cup and completely missing the point. "I..I have been thinking about Corporal Worcester's case you and I both know what it was like during the war and occupation...so...so much chaos so many opportunities...do you think it is possible Cpl. Worcester was railroaded?"
Crabtree was talking so fast, Murdoch guessed this was not his first cup of the day. "I hate to think so. I cannot imagine such a travesty happening under Brackenreid's command. However, all it takes is for Miss O'Mara and Mr. Worcester's brother to believe Cpl. Worcester was unjustly accused and convicted to feel enough rage for a motive for revenge."
"Well, sir. Beliefs, feelings are fickle things, aren't they? One day you believe, then the next day - somehow you don't."
Oh, you have no idea. "You take point on this case while Hodge works on the Rocco Perri angle with me. Your priority is tracking down Miss O'Mara's whereabouts - especially when and where she says she was with Jonathan Worcester - giving them both alibis. Start with the date of Father Doulton's death. Then move on to connections with Knox and Landswell." He gestured to his second chalkboard with his new Venn diagram.
Crabtree nodded, making a note. "Yes. The harder one will be Mr. Landswell; and as for Mr. Knox - well, we know even less about exactly when and where he got ahold of the poisoned cognac."
"Agreed, which is why I want you to send two men back out to find anyone on our short list of strychnine purveyors who recognizes either of them. You took Jonathan Worcester and Lydia O'Mara's photographs last night as I asked?" he asked.
The constable's eyes lit up. "Ah...brilliant, sir. Yes, I have them drying in your darkroom as we speak."
You were up early. "Excellent, Crabtree. I want copies of every victim and suspect please, for my office. We only looked for Miss O'Mara in the vicinity of Landswell's office. Miss O'Mara swears it was only she who visited Landswell, despite there being a letter from Jonathan Worcester asking for an appointment. Now we have a new image to show around, of Jonathan Worcester. Find out if he was ever there. Send four men to do a thorough job this morning, before the shops close early for the holiday - might turn something new up. If she and Worcester committed these murders together, I need evidence. If Worcester duped her, used her, I need to know that as well. Make enough photographic prints we can send them to Detective Travers in Hamilton and have Higgins take them around to the Crown Club as well. Might as well cover all our bases. Please see each day in Miss O'Mara's timeline is thoroughly covered by one of the men - down to the letter - with written, signed statements if possible. If there are holes in their alibis, if they are guilty, we must have proof before I question Jonathan Worcester, understood?"
"Understood. What will you be on to today, sir?"
He stood, satisfied Crabtree was more than capable of carrying out orders. "While your men either corroborate or poke holes into Miss O'Mara's story, Hodge and I are going to follow up on the illegal distribution of alcohol. On a holiday like this, you can imagine there will be a demand, and deliveries are happening as we speak." He grabbed his hat and Mackintosh, left a detailed message for Hodge with the desk and began his day.
Dominion Day, Saturday July 1st
Protestant Orphan's Home, Ontario Street, St. Catharines
Julia was confident this was going to work. It is not just Ruby and Detective Murdoch who can get what they want from an interview.
Unfortunately, at the moment, she had to convince the obstinate woman in front of her of that. Miss Ostrow, the orphanage administrator, reminded her of her calculus teacher: barely five feet tall, including the grey top-knot bun - and just as unmoved by pleas for mercy and understanding.
"Miss Ogden-"
"It's Doctor Ogden, and I am not leaving here without getting this resolved."
"Doctor Ogden, these children are young enough that they will have no memory of their mother and I am doubtful if they ever knew either of their fathers. No man has come forward to claim them, of course. Miss Routledge had no ties to the community; no family has inquired. I rather think it doubtful her family will be willing to claim children born out of wedlock, especially children of an unstable mother at that. There is nothing to resolve." Miss Ostrow folded her hand in front of her, assuming that settled the matter.
"So, these children are to be wards of your orphanage? That's it?" She tried not to sound shrill.
"Would you have them grow up, illegitimate, under the shadow of a mother who abandoned them in the cruelest and most selfish manner? Here, they will be cared for, taught good Christian values - something their mother obviously neglected -" the woman sniffed, "learn a trade and be sent out in the world, when the time comes, to be a productive member of society."
"No adoption?" She was incensed about that. She had to ask even when she knew the answer.
"No. You must realize, even if we offered an adoption, not many upstanding couples will take the child of an unstable woman for fear it will turn out the same."
It took several more minutes before Miss Ostrow relented - only so far as to allow Julia to visit the creche, where she found two healthy-looking children, one in a wooden-slat crib, and the infant in a smaller crib-cradle. There were ten such cribs in the room, tended by one young woman in a grey dress and white pinafore. The room was oddly quiet. She wondered if the children were drugged to make them more compliant.
"Autumn?" she asked, and the toddler smiled up at her. "Is that your sister?" she pointed to the infant in the next crib. Autumn nodded and began a cheerful chatter until she was shushed by the young child-minder. Autumn started to tear up, giving the minder a fearful and angry look. Julia bent down to listen to the child.
"When is momma come?" Autumn asked, turning the edges of her dress in chubby hands.
She patted the child on her light brown curls. "My name is Julia. I will find your family, if it is the last thing I do." From her bag, she brought out the first toy, a plush bunny Olive's neighbor gave her, and handed it to Autumn. The hand crochet little manekin, perfect for a small child's teething mouth, she gave to Catherine. They toys were left behind when the children were taken from the neighbor's home - both girls immediately lit up as if these scraps of cloth were treasures.
Her heart nearly broke when she had to turn her back and leave those little girls behind. On the drive back to Toronto, Julia saw the thunderclouds coming straight for her, challenging her to get home before it poured. She settled her hands on the wheel, pressed the accelerator and told the storm not to bet against her, not today.
