Night's Child (15 page)

“They were quite dry. But I’ll go now. I don’t want to get you into trouble.”

Honoria knew she was being played on like a church organ, but the child looked so perishing and woebegone, her indignation began to melt.

“You can’t stay here, you just can’t. Get off on home and say you’re sorry. Or why don’t you go to your sister’s like they think?”

Lydia gave her a wan smile. “You’re right. I was being silly. It’s not that late, is it?”

“Yes, it is. It’s almost midnight.” She picked up her candlestick. “Come on, I’ll see you to the door.”

The girl didn’t argue and Honoria walked her through the outer office. She was telling the truth about the door at least. It was intact. And unlocked, which was very unlike Mr. Gregory.

She ushered the girl into the hall and escorted her down the stairs to the street. Once again, she was jolted. As they paused on the threshold, the light from the street lamp fell across the girl’s face. This close, Honoria saw what hadn’t been obvious in the low candlelight. What she’d taken as high colour, she saw now wasn’t natural. The rosiness of the cheeks was too even, the shadows of the eyelids was too blue. She smelled faintly of scent. Before she could comment, the girl turned and hurried away.

She was a sly one. You don’t paint your face like that unless you’re up to something wicked. She was nothing better than a doxie. And so young. So very young. She wondered if she should tell Mr. Gregory but almost immediately decided she wouldn’t. If you were coloured, you never went to your boss with trouble in your hands. The likelihood was that it would blow right back in your face.

She stared after the girl. Her shoulders were stooped and she thrust her hands into her sleeves for warmth. Honoria shivered in the cold air.

“Wait!” she called.

CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN

D
awn was only a lightening of the darkness with no sun at all showing through the grey clouds. Even the snow on the shore and lake looked dingy. Levi Cross wrapped the strips of linen that he used for boots tighter around his legs and hefted his sack on his back. Although the surface of the snow had softened in the brief thaw and rain had pockmarked it, he could still make out traces of the footprints and the swath of something being dragged out on the lake. He’d been scavenging along the beach when he’d noticed them. He grinned to himself. Along this section of the beach, nobody would tramp out onto a frozen lake, dragging something heavy, unless they were up to no good. People were always disposing of things in the winter. Dogs and cats were the most common, but he’d even found a small donkey once, stiff and mangy. Money saved from the farrier by leaving the beast on the ice until spring. Not that finding a donkey did him much good, but the dogs and cats he carried back to his hut on the beach. When they thawed, he skinned them, cured the hide, and cut it into strips. The cat’s fur he sewed into scarves, which he sold to gullible women as mink; the dog skins, if they were short-haired, made good gloves, which he claimed to be kid leather. It was a decent living, all things considered.

The tracks were easy to follow and he could see where two men, for they looked like men’s boot prints, had alternately carried and dragged the box. They’d gone to a lot of trouble and he was excited about what he’d find. He could see the tracks returning without the box, so they had left it somewhere. A dog for sure, and a big one at that. Probably the servants being sent to dispose of the dog, a pure breed no doubt, fat and pampered with good skin.

The soft snow made it difficult to walk and he must have trudged for ten minutes before he spotted the chest. It was shoved under the overhang of a short promontory. Snow had been piled around it to hide it, but some of that had melted in the rain and the lid was visible. Levi hurried over and eagerly brushed away the remaining snow. The trunk was wooden with metal ends, the kind used for travelling. It didn’t look particularly expensive, and had obviously been well used. It was tied around with an old leather belt. He tugged at it but it didn’t move, held fast in the ice now. That didn’t matter, he had his tools. He lowered his sack and took out a saw. The leather belt was stiff but it was easy to cut through. He tried to lift the lid again but it didn’t move. There was a brass lock and either it was locked or frozen shut. He picked up his jemmy, inserted it under the lock, and started to pry it open. It was hard going, which told him the trunk was locked, not frozen. He grunted and exerted more pressure with the jemmy. Suddenly, the lock snapped open. He tried the lid again. This time he could lift it and he peered into the chest. There was a piece of velour curtain on top of whatever was in there, and he pulled it away.

At first, unable to take in what he saw, he thought he was looking at a large doll. Then he realized it was the naked body of a young boy, curled up tightly into a fetal position. Levi lost his breath for a moment, every instinct telling him to run. Then sense took over. He’d handled many a dead creature before now. The body was squashed into the trunk, but he was able to feel down the sides. You never knew if you’d find something worthwhile. His fingers touched some silky kind of fabric and he tugged at it until it came free. What the hell? It seemed to be some kind of hat, gold coloured, with a sprig of feathers in the front. There was a metal brooch in the front studded with what were obviously fake rubies. He unfastened it and put it in his pocket. The hat he returned to the chest. Now that he felt calmer he had a closer look at the corpse and he shook his head. Somebody had had a go at the lad good and proper. His hair was caked with blood and his nose was destroyed. He dropped the lid, frightened, and glanced around to see if someone were watching him. Then he picked up his sack and began the trek back the shore. He supposed he’d better notify the police. They might be glad of the information.

Ruby raked out the ashes from the stove and shovelled them into her cinder pail. She worked quickly, not because she was late, she wasn’t, she never was, but because the kitchen was cold. A puff of fine white ash went up her nose and she sneezed. She returned some of the larger pieces of cinder to the bottom of the stove, laid strips of paper on top of them, then added kindling, not a lot, just enough to get the blaze going. She balanced chunks of coal on the wood. She already blackened and polished the stove and the coal and iron reflected to each other their hard shiny surfaces.

“You’re too particular,” Mrs. Buchanan had chided her, but Ruby knew she was pleased.

She took a match out of the box, struck it, and lit the paper. The flame jumped up immediately and licked at the dry wood and Ruby sat back on her heels and watched for a moment. Miss Georgina had shown her how to draw flames.
Think of a holly leaf with its sharp points. That’s the shape. That and pine tree branches.
She’d got Ruby practising on pieces of scrap paper and she was right. Add some logs, easier to draw than pieces of coal, and you had a believable depiction of fire.
She’s a talented girl
, said Mrs. Crofton, and Miss Georgina had ruffled her hair and said,
What would we do without her?
Ruby had flushed with pride. Sometimes in her secret heart, she pretended she was actually Miss Georgina’s child who had been snatched away at birth by the gypsies and that someday the truth would be revealed and she would claim her real family and they her.

She waited until she was sure the fire had caught, then closed the door.

Her next task was to drain the large teapot on the draining board by the sink and she got the strainer and poured the cold tea into a cup. Mrs. Buchanan believed the tea had medicinal qualities and used it to bathe her eyes.

Never squint, child. I used to have the eyesight of a fox but I squinted in poor light and now I’m as good as blind.

Not quite. The housekeeper’s keenness of sight was variable, or so it seemed to Ruby. She could detect a hurriedly dusted sideboard from across the room.

A clean house and a clean soul are side by side in God’s heart
, she’d declare. Mrs. Buchanan was full of sayings and proverbs and offered them daily. Ruby never felt impatient with these repetitions. The words rounded and softened in her mind, pleasant as pebbles worn smooth by the waves rolling in on the lakeshore. She stored them like provisions.

Laying the table in the breakfast room was the next task, but she had plenty of time. Neither of the mistresses rose early in the winter, and Mrs. Buchanan took advantage of this and stayed in her warm bed until eight o’clock.

Old bones feel the cold much more than young ones
, she’d declared.

Ruby picked up the heavy housemaid’s box. After her other tasks were done, she would come back to light the kitchen lamps and make the room bright and cheerful for the housekeeper. No sense in doing that now.

At the end of the sink, Ruby had tucked a dish of water out of sight under the window ledge. Whenever she was alone either coming into the kitchen or leaving, she dipped the tips of her fingers into the water and touched her forehead and chest. A girl at school had told her that Papists did that when they went to church and they asked for God’s blessing. You were supposed to have magic water, but Ruby had collected rain water from the barrel in the garden, thinking that it would be almost as good. Now she said her own prayer.

“To Lord Jesus and particularly to your mother, Mary. Please keep me safe and in this house forever until I am an old lady. Please keep Mrs. Buchanan in good health and also Mrs. Crofton. Please help her with her bunions.”

She dipped her fingers again in the water and wiped her forehead. She needed as much power as she could get.

“Please, Jesus, will you especially take care of Miss Georgina. She is so good and she doesn’t mean any harm, she truly doesn’t. Please ask your mother to protect her and keep her secret safe.”

Even admitting Miss Georgina had a secret was frightening to Ruby, but she thought that in the silence of the sleeping household she could say it to Jesus at least. She needed to unburden herself somewhere.

CHAPTER
NINETEEN

T
he chill winter morning air had hit Murdoch’s lungs as soon as he stepped outside and he savoured it. He put thoughts of Enid out of his mind. He was struck by what Arthur had said and he felt an awareness of his own health he hadn’t had before. He hurried, driven by the cold, aware that he could move fast if he had to, that his legs responded. He was a little breathless by the time he reached the station, but he knew that would soon pass. His body worked.

He entered the warm, snug hall of the station. Sergeant Gardiner was on duty and Constable Callahan was already at the telegraph and telephone desk.

“Early, aren’t you?” Murdoch said as he walked by on his way to his cubicle.

“I’m just trying to keep ahead, sir. Do you want I should bring you a cup of tea? I am not yet officially on duty and you know what it’s like trying to get a cuppa when the duty shift changes.”

“Indeed I do. They should start coming in any minute now. So yes, in answer to your question. I like it hot, strong, and sweet if you please.”

“Sounds like you’re talking about an amour, Murdoch,” chipped in Gardiner. “Are you holding back on anything?”

Murdoch liked the sergeant and usually didn’t object to getting into randy banter with him. This morning, however, he was in no mood for jokes and innuendos about his love life.

“If I am, I’ll tell it to the rushes first, sergeant.”

Gardiner looked puzzled, but Murdoch didn’t give him an opportunity to say any more. He hung his hat and sealskin coat on the peg by the door and went through to his office. The constables who were on the morning shift would soon be arriving for their inspection. Hales, the patrol sergeant, would make sure they were “all present and correct,” then he would march them out to the different beats to replace the bone-chilled, hungry constables on the night shift, who had probably been counting the minutes for the past three-quarters of an hour.

Once in his private space, Murdoch felt a little better. He took some notepaper from his desk drawer, dropping a kiss with his fingertips on the photograph of Liza as he did so. He found writing out his thoughts and impressions helped him when he was on a case. These were for his use, and were not the official notes he handed in to Inspector Brackenreid. Where to start? No avoiding now; no letting softer feelings interfere with rationality.

Amy Slade
. He had been taken aback when the schoolteacher had entered the boarding house, but she had made no secret of her address. Her explanation that her fellow boarder, Seymour, had recommended him was reasonable. But what if there were more to it than that? Murdoch could not imagine Miss Slade being a liar, but he forced himself to examine the possibility. Possessing and taking pornographic photographs certainly constituted an illegal activity. What if Seymour was implicated and she wanted some way to draw attention to this without revealing her identity? If she had a typewriting machine, she could have written the letters, which definitely showed evidence of education. By her own admission, she hadn’t told Seymour the precise nature of her visit to Murdoch. Was she somehow in Seymour’s thrall or afraid of him and thought the only way out was in this covert manner?

He wrote a large
no
beside that note and underlined it. Nothing he had observed about Miss Slade fitted that notion. She was one of the more independent-minded women he had met in a while. And poor Seymour! Here he was, entertaining the idea that Charlie indulged in a perverted sexual appetite. Murdoch sighed. He wasn’t on as sure ground here. Men were capable of splitting off their sexual fantasies and activities and keeping them in some dark secret place while on the surface they lived exemplary lives.