CHAPTER 7
George Crabtree had been many different things undercover in his time with the Toronto Constabulary. A waiter, a sailor, a carriage driver, a nudist (on one memorable occasion he'd just as soon forget); whatever position Detective William Murdoch needed him to fill, George was more than happy to oblige for his friend and colleague. This was his first time as a grain hauler at a distillery, however, and as a consequence of that, the nerves were becoming more pronounced. He took a moment to study his surroundings, something he hadn't done since he'd been hired on. He was standing in front of the grain storehouse; next door to that was the mashing room, where the barley was ground up and put into large mashing tuns, mixed with hot water and mixed to extract the sugar. In the corner of the complex were the stables and the wagons were kept for deliveries around the city.
George adjusted the brim of his fisherman's hat over his eyes as he spotted Connor O'Neill coming from the direction of the fermentation building. The loader was talking with a couple of other men, but they stopped when they caught George staring at them, choosing to push their way to the front of the men waiting for the foreman to unlock the doors on the grain storehouse. George looked away quickly on the pretense of getting his bearings. There was a gap between the buildings that led to the offices, and then the side of the complex closest to the river housed the buildings where the whiskey was distilled, aged and bottled. From there, the whiskey was loaded onto carts, motorcars and train to head into the city and beyond. He needed to learn every inch of the place if he was going to do well blending in.
"Let's get a move on!" The booming voice of Alexander Martin bounced off the buildings, and George turned hurriedly to get in line, slipping his way through the commotion until he was in a position to stand in the line that took the wheelbarrows of grain next door. At least I don't have to try to lift those sacks of barley, he thought to himself with relief. George was relatively fit-you had to be, to be a constable- but trying to lift those sacks was a bit out of his wheelhouse.
He worked solidly with the others until the lunch bell rang, and then followed some of the crowd off the complex to Smoky's, keeping his hat low over his eyes in case they recognized him as George Crabtree, Toronto Constabulary. He crossed his fingers, hoping that most of the crowd that frequented at night was too drunk to remember him in the daylight. He hadn't been kidding when he'd said he and Henry Higgins had broken up more than their fair share of brawls on the premises.
He ordered something simple, affecting a highly overexaggerated version of his own Newfoundlander accent. Then, he sat back to eavesdrop. Men loved to talk when there weren't eyes. He nursed his drink. Most of the conversation dwelled away from work (and rightly so, George thought, work should be kept at the office), but every now and again he'd pick up things about the distillery, though nothing worth mentioning.
This is getting me nowhere, he thought. Glass in hand, he got up and worked his way through the crowd, finally sitting down at a table for four with an empty chair. To his surprise, one of his tablemates was Connor O'Neill. "I gotta say, you lads impress the hell out of me," George spoke up, acutely aware they were all staring at him like he'd grown an extra head. He rotated his shoulder and winced. "Don't know if I'll ever be able to do this job for a full day without feelin' as though I've been run over by a train."
"It's noon," one of the men said, exchanging a look around the table.
"Is it only that?" George shook his head. "My God, feels like I've been at it for days. Whoever it was that told me you boys are no more than stockboys was sadly mistaken."
"Who the hell told you that?" Connor O'Neill asked him.
George glanced at him, raised an eyebrow. "Well, an idiot, apparently," he said, raising his glass in salute to them.
That broke the ice. The table chuckled. George set his glass down and offered a hand to Connor. "George Jennings," he introduced himself.
"Connor. This is Nick and Seamus," Connor pointed around the table.
"Pleasure," George nodded. "So, bein' my first day and all, I figure you gents are the ones to ask…." He lowered his voice. "The hell is with the man in charge?" he asked them. "Martin, or whatever his name is. Seems like a real peach."
Seamus snorted. "He's a right bastard, he is."
"He doesn't like us one bit, but fact is, nobody else in this city'll do this job," Nick added. "So he puts up with us."
"Until you try to get promoted over him," Connor muttered.
Nick pointed with his glass. "Aye, there is that," he said. He turned to George. "Keep your nose to the ground and he'll give you no trouble, and be happy where you're at in the peckin' order."
George nodded slowly. "Good to know. I gotta worry about anyone else around here?" he asked, making it a point to look around the bar.
His tablemates were silent. "Not really," Connor said finally. "Most of the boys 'round here are decent enough."
"Better'n my last job," George said. "Workin' over at the sawmill." He rolled his eyes. "Surprised half the men there had limbs left. Feel as though I was lucky when they fired me to have escaped with all of me intact!"
The men laughed. "You're an all right one, George," Seamus said. Outside, the bell rang, announcing time to return to work. The group stood up. "You stick with us, we'll show you the ropes," Seamus told George.
"And make sure you keep your important parts!" Nick guffawed, clapping him on the back. George grinned as he followed the group, noticing that Connor stayed quiet the whole walk back. Are you upset about your friend, Mr. O'Neill? Or is there something else going on? he wondered.
John Brackenreid threaded his way through a group of boys playing marbles on the street in front of Violet and Brendan Walsh's tenement. He hesitated in front of Violet's door, but only for a moment. Instead, he knocked on the door next to hers and waited.
A moment later, a young man around his age opened the door, a little girl in pigtails clutching onto his leg. "Who are you?" he asked John, eyeing him warily.
"Constable John Brackenreid," John introduced himself. He smiled at the little girl. "I just had a couple of questions for you, Mr…?"
"Allan," he replied. "Allan Potter."
"Mr. Potter," John said, laying on some of his mother's manners. "Do you have a moment or two?"
Allan Potter continued to stare at him, as if he was waiting for John to reveal some ulterior motive or drag him out of the house. After a minute or two staredown, he finally nodded and moved back so John could enter the house. Allan half walked, half dragged the little girl over to a rocking chair and pulled her into his lap. "My sister, Lydia," he said, shaking his head. "She's shy."
"I've got a little brother at home," John told him. "Though Bobby's not near as clingy as this one." Lydia stuck her tongue out at him and John's eyes widened. His automatic, big brother response, was to stick his out right back at her, and she buried herself in her brother's shirt. "Your folks around?" John asked him.
Allan shook his head. "They're both working. Ma's over at the laundry and Pa works at the Queen's Hotel."
"The hotel?" John whistled. "Nice work," he said. "How about you?"
Allan shook his head. "Ma and Pa don't feel good about leaving Lydia home alone, so I take care of her."
"Isn't there a couple of boys next door she could play with?"
Allan eyed the little girl clinging to his suspenders. "Does she look like she would go play with two boys?" he asked, eyebrow raised.
John chuckled. 'No, I guess not. Speaking of your neighbors, I don't know if you heard about Mr. Walsh?" he asked, turning serious.
"Yeah. Terrible stuff," Allan said. "I liked him. He had a sense of humor that Ma didn't approve of, and he would tell me jokes early in the mornings before he went to work."
"Do you know a man named Connor O'Neill?"
Allan nodded. "Yeah. Him and Brendan would be outside sometimes singing and drinking."
"They were friends?"
"Oh yeah. Really good friends," Allan assured looked at John. "Connor's been by the house since Brendan died. Making sure Mrs. Walsh and the boys are okay."
"Is he…" John paused, trying to figure the right way to phrase his next question. "Friendly, with Mrs. Walsh?"
Allan shifted Lydia in his lap. The girl was half asleep, and he waited a moment or two before answering John. "Do you mean did he kill Brendan so he could marry Mrs. Walsh?" he asked John pointedly. "No. No way."
"They were arguing about violets the night that Mr. Walsh was killed," John explained.
"Well, it wasn't about her," Allan said. "Must be a mistake, and anyone else around here'll tell you the same thing. Connor didn't kill Brendan." Lydia yawned and fisted his shirt. He stood up carefully. "I think it's time you left," he said.
John stood up along with him. "Right. Thank you," he said. He let himself out and leaned against the wall of the house. It was going to be a long afternoon.