Disclaimer: I don't own the characters; they belong to Maureen Jennings, Shaftesbury & the CBC.

CHAPTER THREE

Murdoch observed Connor O'Neill through the lattice on the interrogation room window. Connor O'Neill looked to be in this twenties, brown hair that curled around his ears. He was a bigger man, though not as large as Alexander Martin, the foreman at the distillery. The man had spent the last five minutes since Jackson had brought him in staring at the table, hands clasped together in his lap. Murdoch tapped on the door and came in. "Mr. O'Neill?"

Connor looked up. "Yes," he replied softly.

"Mr. O'Neill, my name is Detective William Murdoch. You might remember me from this morning?"

Connor nodded. "You were the fellow looking into Brendan's death," he said.

Murdoch took a seat across the table from him. "Mr. O'Neill, how well did you know Mr. Walsh?"

Connor took a deep breath and let it out. "We've been best mates since birth, practically," he said. "Came over together from Ireland, him with his family."

"And you both got a job at Parkington Whiskey?"

"Yes, sir. There's a bunch of us there," he said. "Working in the storehouse, hauling grain."

"When did you last see Mr. Walsh?" Murdoch asked him.

"Last night. Went out to the pub after work for a drink or two."

"Which pub?"

Connor thought a moment. "Smoky's," he said finally. "On Front."

"Not far from the distillery," Murdoch noted. "How many drinks did Mr. Walsh have?"

"His usual," Connor replied. "Just one." He smiled faintly. "Brendan lost his taste for whiskey after workin' at the distillery so long. Can't stand it hardly, and doesn't drink much else."

"So he wasn't drunk last night?"

"Not hardly," Connor responded, looking confused. "Brendan's usually the one gotta walk me home."

"You told Constable Brackenreid that Mr. Walsh didn't show up for work this morning. What happened between the time you left the pub and the morning bell?" Murdoch leaned back in his chair.

"I-I don't know. We parted ways 'round closing time, I suppose, and then headed home."

"Back to the Ward?"

"Yes." Connor returned his gaze to the top of the table. "Why're you asking me if Brendan was drunk last night?" he asked.

"Your friend's shirt was covered in whiskey," Murdoch told him. "From the smell of it, an entire bottle."

Connor shook his head. "Makes no sense, as I've told you, Brendan didn't drink."

"Care to explain how the whiskey might've gotten there?" Murdoch queried.

"No idea. But it wasn't from him," Connor said flatly.

Murdoch studied him. "Is there anything else you can tell me about last night, Mr. O'Neill?" he asked him.

The other man opened his mouth like he wanted to say something…then shook his head. Murdoch nodded slowly. "Very well. Mr. O'Neill, if you hear anything," he said, standing up. He handed the man one of his business cards. "Please, contact me."

"I will," Connor replied. "I should get back. I need to get back to work…and someone needs to tell Violet about Brendan."

"One of my constables took care of it," Murdoch told him.

Connor seemed surprised by that. "I-of course, I suppose that's your job, isn't it. Right." He stood up, fiddled with the card in his hand. "I can go?"

Murdoch gestured to the door, watched Connor practically run out the door.

"What do you think, sir?" George Crabtree asked him, coming round the corner.

Murdoch tapped his fingers idly on the table. "There's something he's not telling us. I believe I need to pay a visit to Smoky's."

"'s a rough bar," George noted. "Wouldn't surprise me if you go there and nobody knows a thing." At Murdoch's quirked eyebrow he added, "Don't know how many fights Higgins and I have had to break up down there," he explained. "Loads of folks, mostly from down in the Ward. N-not that they're all bad," George walked the comment back. Over Murdoch's shoulder, he spotted John Brackenreid coming through the door. "Ah, sir, excuse me," he said hastily, slipping past the amused detective.

John Brackenreid looked, well, if George had to choose a word, forlorn would be a good choice. "John?" he asked, watching the younger man slump into Higgins' currently unoccupied desk. The younger man didn't look up. George sat down across from him. "John?" he tried again. "Everything all right?"

John glanced up at him. "How do you do it, George?" he asked him.

"That depends on what 'it' is," George countered. "Look this good on six hours of sleep? That's a secret I can't tell you."

He got the younger man to smile, but only barely. "I had to go tell Violet Walsh her husband was dead. I made a mess of it. She fainted in front of me and then kicked me out when she came to."

George raised an eyebrow. "Oh." He nodded. "I wish I could say that gets easier, and that you'll always have the right comforting words to say, but…" He shrugged, reaching forward to pat the desk in front of John. "But it doesn't, and you won't. Best I can tell you is always be kind about it and by sympathetic. That's about all you can do."

John nodded, looking unconvinced. "What did you find out from her?" George asked him.

John thought a moment. "Only that her husband never came home from work last night and that he told her he was at the pub with Connor O'Neill."

"And Mr. O'Neill just informed me that they parted ways shortly after the pub closed for the evening, and that Brendan Walsh had perhaps one drink." Murdoch cut into the conversation. "John, let's go pay a visit to Smoky's."

"Anything I can do to help, sir?" George asked Murdoch.

"Actually, yes," Murdoch said. "Why don't you take a look into Parkington Whiskey, see if there's anything…interesting….in their records or their finances."

"Will do," George nodded.

Smoky's
Front Street

Murdoch expected, from George's description, that Smoky's would be a simple establishment. What he hadn't banked on was the sheer amount of people inside the pub at one in the afternoon on a Wednesday afternoon.

"Who do we talk to, Detective?" John asked him, looking around the room, hoping that his face didn't betray how nervous he was. Everyone was staring at the two of them, and John could understand it-they did stick out.

Murdoch ignored the looks (this wasn't his first time, after all), and he gestured for John to head for the bar. "We'll start with the bartender," Murdoch said. "And John?"

"Yes?"

"You might want to take a breath," the detective muttered under his breath. "You don't want these men hauling you out of here." He refrained from rolling his eyes as the constable took a visible breath and let it out. I forget sometimes just how green John is at this job, he reminded himself, making a mental note to give him some more guidance. Murdoch walked up to the bar confidently and waited for the bartender to finish the order he was on.

"Help you boys?" the bartender, a man not much older than Murdoch with a Scots accent and muttonchops, asked, sounding as though it was the last thing he wanted to do.

"We're looking for a couple of men who were here last night," Murdoch said. "Brendan Walsh and Connor O'Neill?" He handed over a photograph that Julia had taken at the morgue of Brendan Walsh.

The bartender took a gander at the photo. "Yeah, he was in here last night. Both of 'em."

"Did you notice anything unusual about them?" Murdoch probed. John watched with interest.

The bartender reached for a glass and started wiping it down. "Two men havin' a drink? Nothin' unusual about that."

"So they had their drinks and left?"

The bartender eyed him. "Lot of people in here last night," he said casually. "Don't much remember."

Murdoch raised an eyebrow and pulled some money from his inside pocket, plunking it down on the bar. The bartender swiped it smoothly off the bartop and continued, "Him and Connor got in a fight," he admitted. "Couldn't hear every word, Brendan yelled something about 'violets' and then he got up to leave and Connor followed him out."

"What time was that?"

The bartender glanced at the clock. "Must've been right after last call," he said. "Weren't many left in here at that point."

Murdoch nodded thoughfully. "One more question," he asked. "How many of the men that frequent here work at Parkington Whiskey?"

Apparently, "Parkington Whiskey" was a synonym akin to yelling 'quiet!' in a crowded room. The moment the words left his mouth, a hush fell over Smoky's. A murmur rippled through the crowd and lots of eyes turned to the bar. John tensed.

The bartender glanced around, then leaned across the bar. "I think it's best you gents head out," he informed them.

Murdoch nodded. "That actually answered my question," he replied. He nodded to the bartender. "Thank you for your time. Constable," he nodded to John, who followed him out the door. Once outside and a block away from Smoky's and prying eyes, John turned to Murdoch and let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

"Mr. O'Neill never said anything about a fight," John noted.

Murdoch shook his head. "No, John, he did not." He stopped walking, a thought occurring to him. "John, didn't you say that Mr. Walsh's wife's name is Violet?"

John's eyes widened. "Yeah," he said. "And they were arguing about violets. Maybe…they were arguing over her, sir?"

Murdoch picked up his pace. "Could be, John. That could very well be. And it wouldn't be the first time someone was murdered over a woman."