Let Loose the Dogs (11 page)

“Mr. Newcombe, we’re about to take tea. You can leave the dogs here with Bowling, and we’ll join Kate and her beau in the parlour.”

“Tell you what. I’ll just watch over them for a bit longer just to make sure they’re getting along; then I’ll help bring up the tea things.”

Mrs. Delaney considered him for a moment, as if ready to object on principle.

Flash was lying down by now, his paws outstretched in front of him. The puppy was trying to climb on his back, presumably intent on chewing his right ear. The innkeeper eyed them fondly, Mrs. Delaney with irritation. She nodded at Murdoch.

“Please come this way, sir.”

He followed her into the adjoining parlour. Mrs. Bowling was right about the bad smell. After a while you didn’t notice it. Only when he was in fresher air did he realise how repulsive it had been.

Mrs. Delaney led the way across to the far side of the room, negotiating her way through the heavy, old-fashioned furniture. There was a fire in the hearth, but it needed building up. Only one lamp was lit, the wick turned low. She drew aside the green chenille portiere covering an archway, and they went through to a second room. The air here was a sharp contrast to both the kitchen and the sitting room. It was cold with a slight smell of mildew. There was a threadbare Aubusson carpet on the floor, but no furniture at all except for one green velvet armchair and a small side table.

“My husband liked to sit here and smoke his pipe,” said Mrs. Delaney, and Murdoch wondered if it had formerly held furniture or if Delaney liked the lonely splendour of an empty room.

She sailed ahead of him to the uncurtained door on the opposite side.

“You are probably thinking we are eccentric or too countrified for your city taste, Mr. Williams, but we prefer to have our sitting room on the second floor, where there is more sunlight.”

“Very sensible,” said Murdoch, who had thought no such thing and wouldn’t have been able to differentiate country taste from the city if his life depended on it.

The door opened onto a flight of stairs at the top of which was a short hall. He could hear the sound of singing and an off-key flute.

“In here.”

The couple had their backs to him, but they were directly in front of the fireplace mirror and he could see them clearly. A young man, fair haired and clean shaven, was seated at a music stand, a flute to his lips. Close beside him was a young woman, rather tall and thin, whom Murdoch presumed was Kate Delaney, she of the overwrought affections. She didn’t stop singing or turn around, but Craig halted his playing and went to stand up.

“Don’t stop please, James,” said Mrs. Delaney, flapping her hand in his direction. “That is quite lovely. So accomplished.”

He resumed his seat. Kate acknowledged their presence with a curt nod, then bent back to her music. Craig raised the flute to his lips, and his eyes met Murdoch’s briefly in the mirror. Murdoch knew immediately they had met before. His name wasn’t James Craig then; it was John Carey, and he was standing meekly before Colonel Denison, the police magistrate.

Chapter Twenty-two

A
S QUICKLY AS HE REALISED
J
AMES
C
RAIG
and he had met before, Murdoch saw that the young man wasn’t aware of it. He couldn’t blame him for that. At the time he’d been focused on the magistrate and what sentence he was about to pronounce. Murdoch had a nab whose case was coming to trial, and he was sitting at the back of the courtroom waiting to make his statement. He might not have paid much attention to Craig/Carey except that the plaintiff was sitting directly in front of him. She was obviously a servant, and her mistress, an elderly woman, was beside her. The girl was weeping ceaselessly in spite of the frequent admonitions of her employer, who appeared to be the one who had dragged the girl to court and insisted that Carey be charged with seduction. The young servant was with child, and her mistress wanted to make sure her seducer married her at once.

Carey was a handsome fellow, with full side-whiskers and blond moustache. He had such a winning smile and a glib tongue, it was easy to understand why an unsophisticated girl would be led astray. Murdoch was mildly annoyed at Carey for having misused his charms in such a way and didn’t believe his repentant manner and his promise to make good. Obviously his pessimism had been justified. Carey had fled, either changed his name or assumed his real one, and it seemed was repeating his previous behaviour, this time with Miss Kate Delaney.

She was standing beside him, leaning forward slightly so as to turn the pages of the song sheet on the stand. There was such intensity in her body, Murdoch felt a pang of longing. Not for her, but for what he no longer had for himself. He could read in her stance the intensity of her desires, how much she simply wanted an excuse to brush against the shoulder of the man in front of her.

Kate finished the verse, leaving Craig to complete a shaky trill on his flute. Mrs. Delaney applauded them with enthusiasm, and Murdoch joined in.

“Very fine, Miss Delaney, very fine indeed.”

“Kate, this is Mr. Williams. He came up with Mr. Newcombe to deliver the puppy your father wanted. Mr. Williams, my daughter and her friend, Mr. Craig.”

Murdoch gave her a rather fancy bow, then offered his hand to Craig. They shook hands in a firm, manly fashion, and Craig eyed him appraisingly. Murdoch watched for the
haven’t-I-met-you-somewhere-before
expression to dawn on his face, but it didn’t.

“Newcombe tells me you’ve got a good little ratter yourself, Mr. Craig.” There was the Irish brogue again.

Craig grinned an acknowledgement, but before he could expound on the virtues of his dog, a young man who had been slumped almost out of sight in the window seat stood up and came over to them, hand outstretched.

“Don’t forget me, Ma. You are always forgetting about me.”

“Don’t be silly. I was just about to introduce you.” Mrs. Delaney’s voice was placating. “Mr. Williams, my son, Philip.”

Murdoch found his hand gripped in a painful crunch.

“How do you do, sir. I’m Philip Delaney, the youngest son of the house.” He pumped Murdoch’s arm.

“That’s sufficient,” said his mother, and the young man let go. He was plump with soft, womanish features. Like his mother and sister, he was in mourning clothes, a black suit that was too tight, as if he had puffed up recently and was trying to squash himself into clothes that were far too small. His chin, clean shaven, flowed over the high white collar. Up close, Murdoch could see there was something abnormal in the young man’s eyes. The pupils were almost erased in the blue of the irises, so that his eyes seemed to lack depth.

“I’ve ordered some tea to be brought up,” said Mrs. Delaney. “Why don’t you play another duet, Mr. Craig.”

“That depends on my partner,” said Craig. “Are you up for one more song, Miss Kate?”

“I’d count it an honour if you’d continue singing, Miss Delaney,” said Murdoch.

Kate’s sullen expression softened slightly, soothed by the wide Irish smile Murdoch was beaming at her. She turned her attention back to the song sheet. “Shall we start at the beginning, James?”

Murdoch sat down in the plush armchair by the fireside. Mrs. Delaney took the other. She picked up a fan from the side table and snapped it open. Philip wandered back to the window seat.

“Ready?” asked Craig, and he put his flute to his lips, gave Kate the note, and they resumed.

Oh promise me that some day you and I,
Will take our love together to some sky.
Where we can be alone and faith renew …

The song wasn’t one that Murdoch had heard before, but it was a good choice for their level of accomplishment. Her voice was thin but sweet enough; his accompaniment was rudimentary. Murdoch wondered if Craig had chosen the flute as his instrument because it meant he could cast soulful sideward glances at the singer. Murdoch thought he was grossly overdoing it, but obviously that was not Kate’s opinion. He suspected Miss Delaney was not blessed with true beauty, but the intensity of her feelings had turned her into an attractive young woman. She was quite flushed, and her eyes were bright with the sheen of infatuation. She had obviously made an attempt to overcome the dullness of her mourning apparel, and her black taffeta gown had white lace trim at the neck and sleeves. She had also twined a violet-coloured ribbon in her hair, and there was a frizz of fashionable curls across her forehead.

… sing / Of love unspeakable that is to be. /
Oh promise me …

An intriguing line
, thought Murdoch, given what seemed to be Craig’s history. However, as they finished the song, he clapped enthusiastically.

“Very fine voice, Miss Delaney, very fine.”

Philip added his applause, but he exclaimed loudly, “What did she do? What’s she done?”

His sister glared at him with an intensity of anger that would have withered a tree. “Please be quiet, Brother. Where are your manners?”

Mrs. Delaney looked embarrassed at her daughter’s outburst and fanned herself vigorously, while Craig busied himself with searching out another song from the sheets on the music stand. Fortunately, the door opened and Newcombe entered the room carrying a large tray on which sat a silver tea service. Mrs. Bowling was behind him with a two-tiered cake dish. Murdoch was relieved to see that she had changed her apron and was wearing one that was relatively crisp and white. She had even added a maid’s starched cap.

“You can put the tray on the sideboard, if you please,” said Mrs. Delaney.

The innkeeper did so, swinging the tray with ease. Mrs. Delaney stood up and went over to the sideboard. Philip got there before her.

“Ooh, tasties,” he said, and reached for one of the small cakes that were on the dish.

“Now, Mr. Philip, wait until your guests have had theirs,” said Mrs. Bowling.

“I’m hungry,” he said, and snatched a cake from the dish. Mrs. Bowling’s reaction was fast. She slapped his hand so hard, he dropped the cake.

“Ow, ow. Momma, she hurt me.”

Mrs. Delaney looked frightened. “Philip, please be a good boy and sit down …”

He raised his fist and Murdoch leaped out of his seat, certain Philip was going to strike his own mother. However, she jumped back and the boy pivoted toward the sideboard, grabbed the tray, and heaved it across the room. The plates and the cups and saucers flew into the air, and the heavy silver tea pot smacked into one of the lamps, sending it crashing to the floor. There was a flash as the oil caught fire.

“Momma, stop him!” Kate shrieked. Almost instantaneously, Philip, his eyes wild as a lunatic’s, snatched up a butter knife from the sideboard and started towards his sister.

Murdoch, already on his feet, caught Philip by the wrist, while Newcombe leaped forward to stamp on the flames.

“None of that.” He jerked the young man’s arm downward, pulling him around and forcing him to drop the knife. At the same time, he managed to grab the other wrist, crossing Philip’s arms behind him in a way that made it impossible for him to move. His mother stood where she was, petrified.

Suddenly Mrs. Bowling was at Murdoch’s side. Philip was alternately grunting and roaring with rage and trying to kick out at him. Mrs. Bowling stepped in front of them and caught Philip by the lower lip, twisting it in a way that horse dealers twitch a horse they want to subdue. He quieted down at once.

“You can let him go,” Mrs. Bowling said to Murdoch.

“I can’t do that, ma’am, unless I have his guarantee he won’t cause trouble.”

“He won’t.”

Reluctantly, Murdoch let go of Philip’s wrists. The boy made no attempt to remove the woman’s hold on him but stood still, whimpering a little.

“I’m going to let you go, but you must be a good boy.”

She released his lip.

Philip pointed at the mess on the floor, “Oo, what happened?” Newcombe had extinguished the fire, but there was a black sooty mark on the carpet and pieces of glass and china scattered around it.

“We had an accident,” said Mrs. Bowling. “Come on, we’ll fetch a mop and a broom and you can help me clean up.”

She directed Philip out of the room, and without another word Mrs. Delaney followed them.

Kate Delaney watched them go, her face tight with anger. She turned to Craig. “Let’s continue, James. I have a new sheet from McQuaig’s. We can learn it together.”

Craig gazed at her in disbelief. “Kate … what happened just now? I mean …” His voice trailed off.

She didn’t answer but riffled through the song sheets that were on the music stand and took out a sheet. “Here it is. A piece by Mr. Gilbert and Mr. Sullivan.” She thrust it onto the music stand.

“I don’t think I can play anymore,” said Craig.

Kate stared at the carpet. She appeared to be on the brink of tears but clenched her jaw and didn’t let go. “We mustn’t let him spoil everything. He always does. Never mind, though. I’ll fetch some more tea.”

She had to step over the blackened swatch of carpet as she left the room. Newcombe and Murdoch might as well have been invisible.

The three men were left in the ensuing silence like small boats bobbing in the wake of a steamer. Craig took a silk handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and wiped his face.

“Whew. What a show that was. Worthy of the theatre, if you ask me.”

“The poor fellow’s batchy,” said Newcombe. He tapped his own head. “Can’t help himself.”

“You acted with great presence of mind, if I may say so, Mr. Williams,” said Craig, “grabbing him like that. One might almost think you were a professional at it.”

There was a tap at the door, and Mrs. Bowling entered. She was carrying a broom and a pail.

“Master Philip is having a lie down.”

Craig got to his feet. “I’ll say good afternoon to you, gentlemen. I’ve lost my stomach for singing for today.”

“Such a pity and such a sweet song.” Murdoch couldn’t resist. “The ladies do so want us to make promises to them, don’t they?”

James Craig frowned. “I suppose they do.”

He left.

Newcombe was helping Mrs. Bowling pile up some of the cakes onto the dish, which was unbroken. She was making clicking noises of disapproval.

“One of these days, he’s going to set the house on fire, you mark my words.”

Murdoch took the coal shovel from the fireplace and held it, while Newcombe swept up the glass and bits of china onto it and dumped them into the pail.

“This is going to need to be scrubbed,” said Mrs. Bowling. “New carpet, too. Just bought it last month.”

Murdoch realised all of the furnishings looked pristine.

“New furniture too, I see.”

Mrs. Bowling frowned. “Sinful waste of money, if you ask me. The other stuff was quite good enough; but no, soon as the insurance money came in, Missus has to have everything new. But only in here, you might notice. Not where it’s really needed.”

“I don’t know how they’d manage without you, Mrs. Bowling,” said Newcombe. “You handled the lad like a lion tamer in a circus.”

She cast a rather triumphant glance at Murdoch. “He’s just a babe in a man’s flesh. His mother’s afraid of him, more’s the pity, and indulges him far too much in my opinion.”

Murdoch did not feel anywhere as admiring as his companion. The whole scene had brought to mind an incident that had happened some years ago when he was working at a logging camp near Huntsville. A travelling circus came to the camp one evening to entertain the loggers. One of the performers was a dwarf, who barely reached the knees of the big men around him. Near the end of the evening meal, he came into the hut with a huge brown, scruffy bear in tow. The bear lay down quietly beside him, while the dwarf sipped on a tankard of beer. One or two of the men, on the lookout for some excitement, began to yell out taunts. “What’s wrong with your doggy, little man? The cat would scare him half to death by the look of him.”

At first the dwarf ignored them but that only incited them to cruder remarks. “Shagged him to death have you?”

One of the loggers, more stupid and more drunk than the others, got up and swaggered over.

“Hey puss,” he said and reached out his hand. Suddenly, the bear reared on its hind legs and roared, showing ferocious yellow teeth. He was almost the same height as the logger and he swiped out with his massive paw. The man came within inches of losing the side of his face. He yelled out in fear and fell backward, scrambling to get out of the way.

Calmly, the dwarf got to his feet, looked up at the animal and snapped his fingers. With a growl, the bear dropped back to the floor. Another snap of the fingers and he rolled over on his side like a huge dog and buried his massive head in his paws. The dwarf sat astride his neck. The logger was discovered to have shat in his britches, which was the joke of the camp for weeks afterward. All the men were vastly impressed by the dwarf’s display of control over such a savage creature and he was showered with money. Murdoch was impressed for a different reason. He happened to be sitting close by and he had seen the dwarf touch the bear with his foot moments before the logger had approached. Stuck in the toe of his boot was a long needle.