CHAPTER FOUR

When the two of them arrived back at Station House 4, Inspector Brackenreid met them at the door. "Murdoch!" he called. "In my office!"

John made his way over to George Crabtree's desk and flopped down. "That," he breathed, "was a hell of an interview. W-we were surrounded by a bar full of guys who looked like they were out for our skins," he told George. "I thought we'd had it," he said, closing his eyes, taking a moment, replaying the events in his mind. He opened one eye. "George?" John asked of the other constable.

"Huh? Oh, John. You're back," George said absently. He flipped the ledger he was rifling through closed. "So, your interview went well, then?"

John leaned forward. "We managed to discover that our dead man had an altercation with Connor O'Neill, one that Mr. O'Neill never mentioned." He looked over George's shoulder to the Inspector's office. "We think they may have been fighting over Brendan Walsh's wife."

George raised an eyebrow. "That's a good motive, I'd say."

"George," Murdoch came out, stopped by the desk. "What have you on Parkington Whiskey?"

George gestured toward the ledger. "On paper, everything seems above the board, Detective," he told Murdoch. "Pay their bills, numbers are in order, at least what they report to the city in taxes, that is. If there's anything strange happening there, it-it's not in the money."

Constable Jackson came over to the three of them. "Sorry to interrupt," the big constable apologized, "but Henry Parkington from Parkington Whiskey is here," he told them.

George tapped the ledger. "I should get this back to city records," he said.

"George, let's look into their safety record next," Murdoch told him.

"Ah, see if there's something happening there more'n a few bottles missing here and there?" George nodded in agreement. "I'll look into it." He waved at them with the ledger as he headed for the back exit.

Murdoch returned his attention to Henry Parkington, offered the distillery's owner a hand to shake. "Mr. Parkington," he said. "This way, please," he said, gesturing to Inspector Brackenreid's office.

"I don't appreciate being dragged from my business," Parkington complained, brushing past Murdoch. He flopped dramatically into one of the Inspector's chairs, earning him a raised eyebrow from Thomas Brackenreid. Murdoch gave him an imperceptible shrug as he moved to stand behind the Inspector's desk. The whiskey magnate crossed his arms and glared at the two.

"Mr. Parkington, you don't seem terribly upset that one of your men was murdered this morning," Brackenreid mentioned.

Parkington sighed. "I'm sorry," he said, not really sounding it, "Of course, I am upset that Mr. Walsh is dead."

"I'm not entirely sure I find you honest," Murdoch told him. "Mr. Parkington, who has keys to the grain storehouse?"

Parkington seemed affronted by the insinuation of his character. "My foreman, Alexander Martin, whom I believe you mentioned this morning."

"And what can you tell me about Brendan Walsh?" Murdoch crossed his arms over his chest, matching Parkington, an unspoken point that he could keep up face as long as Parkington could.

"Who?"

"Your worker," Murdoch tried to keep a reign on his tone of voice. "The man who was found dead in your grain storehouse this morning." Parkington's lack of empathy was infuriating.

"Ah, the Irishman. I don't know anything about him, I'm afraid. I don't spend time out with the workers, I'm much too preoccupied with the business side of things."

"You do seem to run a tight ship," Murdoch replied. "You're one of the richest men in Toronto, isn't that right?"

Parkington puffed up a bit. "I am indeed, and my whiskey is sampled by the finest gentleman in the country."

"I've tasted it," Brackenreid spoke up.

"Have you now?" Parkington smiled widely. "You have a very refined palate, Inspector."

The Inspector shook his head. "Wasn't my taste," he said flatly, and Parkington bristled.

"Where were you last night between one AM and the morning bell, Mr. Parkington?" Murdoch interrupted before he had to deal with a second murder too close for comfort.

Parkington balked. "Are you accusing me-"

"Just covering our bases, Mr. Parkington," Murdoch said smoothly. "We'd like to get you back to your office as soon as we can, and your men back to your jobs."

"I was at home," Parkington said, standing up sharply. "My wife can confirm it." He glared at the Inspector. "Is that all, Inspector?"

Brackenreid made it a point, Murdoch noticed, to reach for the glass on his desk. "We'll be in touch, Mr. Parkington," Brackenreid said, plastering a smile on his face. The other man barely offered either of them a backwards glance.

Murdoch glanced over at Brackenreid, who toasted him with a glass of scotch. "He's a real philanthropist, isn't he," Brackenreid said dryly.

"Indeed," Murdoch noted. "He certainly seems more concerned with his bottom line than Brendan Walsh."

"I'm sure he's indifferent about it, sir, seein' as how it's not the first incident they've dealt with at Parkington Whiskey," George said, knocking on the door. "Sorry to interrupt," he apologized, "but I thought you might want to hear about this. I put in a call to a friend over at Station House Two who mentioned that before the city redrew the jurisdiction lines, he used to get calls over there all the time."

"What sort of calls?" Murdoch asked, interested.

George licked a finger and flicked to the page. "Nothing so big as murder, sir, but small disputes and fights, and a few safety things here and there." He glanced down the list. "Some burns from the equipment, dropped bottles resulting in cuts and bruises…" He looked at Murdoch. "There was one incident, sir, a man checked into Toronto Mercy with a-" He paused, attempting to get the word right, "-a laceration to the right temple. He said he was hit by a shovel."

"Oh 'm sure the shovel just leapt up and clocked him. Bad enough to send him to the hospital, eh?" Brackenreid said. "Who was that, then?"

George flipped his notebook around so Murdoch could see the name. "Alexander Martin," he read. "The foreman. Did Mr. Martin bring charges against who hit him?"

"No, but my friend at Station Two said everybody knew who did it," George explained. "Brendan Walsh."