Night's Child Read online

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  EPIGRAPH

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  TREAT YOURSELF TO OTHER DETECTIVE…

  EXCEPT THE DYING

  UNDER THE DRAGON’S TAIL

  POOR TOM IS COLD

  LET LOOSE THE DOGS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY MAUREEN JENNINGS

  COPYRIGHT

  For Iden as always, and this one for

  Peter Outerbridge, the best Murdoch imaginable

  “…he is but Night’s child.”

  (said of Tarquin, who has ravished Lucrece)

  –William Shakespeare, The Rape of Lucrece

  PROLOGUE

  She hadn’t liked Leonard Sims one bit. He was sly and spiteful, never missing an opportunity to make a jibe at her expense. In spite of her resolve not to, she’d often been reduced to tears and he’d laughed at her in triumph.

  See. You’ve got the backbone of a slug. You feel like one too.

  No one cared enough to protect her from his unrelenting cruelty, but perhaps they didn’t even notice. That was the more likely explanation, and she was used to not being noticed. So when she understood that Leonard Sims was dead, she was glad at first. Serves him right, she thought. He’d pushed just once too often. But then she had to go with them when they carried the body in a chest down to the frozen lake. They needed a cab to get there and at first none came by because it was late and the snow was thick and blowing in everybody’s face. The cabbie hadn’t wanted to take them, said his horse was tired and he was on his way to the stables.

  This poor girl has got to visit her old aunt who lives near the shore. You can see how perishing she is. Open your heart.

  The cabbie agreed when they paid him double the usual fare.

  They didn’t bother to tell her what they were doing and, of course, she didn’t ask. After the cabbie left, she had to stand there, in her too-thin coat, shivering with cold, to keep lookout. She was so afraid, she was actually whimpering, but the swirling snow blotted up the sounds as the two men vanished into the darkness.

  They hauled the chest across the lake to where a short promontory thrust out from the shore. Here they must have shoved it under the overhang. It took them almost ten minutes to trudge there and back through the knee-high snow and they both cursed the weather.

  Never mind. When the ice melts, the bloody thing will sink to the bottom and never be found. Goodbye, Sins, and they had both laughed at the joke.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Miss Amy Slade was seated at her desk, surveying her class. For the moment, the room was quiet, the only sound was of chalk moving on slate boards. By rights the children should have been writing in notebooks, but Miss Slade had taken spare slates from the lower standards and used them for rough work. “Then you don’t have to worry about perfection, which as we know doesn’t exist,” she told her pupils. She caught the eye of Emmanuel Hart and frowned at him.

  “How many times must I remind you, Emmanuel? The mind is like a muscle and must be exercised else it grow flabby and inert.”

  The boy bent his head immediately to the task of long division. He was a big boy, too old to still be in the fourth standard, but he had missed a lot of school and his reading and writing was barely at the level of the younger children. In a different classroom he would have been either the bully or the butt of ridicule. Not here. Miss Slade, without ever resorting to the cane, ran a tight, disciplined ship. She was strict about what she called the rules of order, which she’d established on the first day of the term. No talking when there was work to be done; only one voice at a time when there was a question-and-answer period; absolutely no tormenting of other children. Any infraction of these rules and the offending child, almost always one of the boys, was sent to the Desk of Thoughtfulness, which was right under her nose. Here he had to sit and reflect on his behaviour while all around him the class enjoyed the games and competitions that Miss Slade used to liven up her lessons. “Learning should be the most fun you ever have,” she told her pupils. And so she made it. On her desk was a large jar full of brightly coloured boiled sweets. The winner of the competition could choose one. But it was not just the succulent bribery of raspberry drops that won the children’s devotion, even though that helped a great deal. What they came to respect most was Miss Slade’s justice. She dispensed praise and occasional scoldings with an absolutely even hand whether it was to a hopeless case like Emmanuel Hart or to Mary, the clever, exquisitely dressed daughter of Councillor Blong. One or two of the girls, already too prissy to be saved, disliked and mistrusted her, but the others loved her.

  This was Miss Slade’s third year of teaching at Sackville Street School and her fourth placement. Although her pupils didn’t know it, her contract was precarious. She was far too radical a teacher for the board’s taste, and if she hadn’t consistently produced such excellent results, she would have been dismissed long ago.

  She waited a moment longer, enjoying the put, put sound of the chalk on the slates. Then she clapped her hands.

  “Excellent. There is nothing quite as fine as the silence of the intelligent mind at work. What is it that makes so much noise? Hands up if you know the answer.”

  Every arm shot up, hands waving like fronds.

  “Good. I would expect you to know the answer to that as I have said it innumerable times. Who hasn’t answered a question lately? Benjamin Fisher, you.”

  The skinny boy’s face lit up. “The most noise in the brain comes from the rattle of empty thoughts, Miss Slade.”

  “Yes, of course. You can get a sweet later. Now, wipe off your slates, everybody, and put them in your desks.”

  There was a little flurry of activity, desk lids lifted, as the children did as she asked.

  “Monitors, open the windows wide, if you please.”

  Florence Birrell and Emmanuel Hart got up promptly and went to push up the window sashes. Cold air poured into the classroom, which was hot and stuffy. The large oil heater in the centre of the room dried out the air. The girls who were sitting closest to the windows wrapped their arms in their pinafores for warmth while the boys remained stoic.

  “Good! Stand beside your desks, everybody, and assume your positions for cultivation of the chest.”

  The children stood in the aisles, their heels pressed together, toes turned out at an angle.

  “Re
member now, your weight must be forward on the balls of your feet. Let me see. Rise up.”

  One or two of the boys deliberately lost their balance, which gave them an excuse to flail their arms and grab on to the desk beside them.

  “George Strongithorn, stop that. You will sit out the exercise in the Desk of Thoughtfulness if you misbehave again. You are quite capable of standing on your toes. All right, children, you may assume your correct position once more.”

  Miss Slade began to walk up and down, inspecting her pupils. She had her cane pointer in her hand but not to whack at any child, merely to correct.

  Benjamin’s older sister, Agnes Fisher, who was directly in front of the open window, shivered violently. She was wearing only a thin cotton jersey underneath her pinafore.

  “Agnes, come to the front. It’s warmer out of the air.”

  Miss Slade faced the class. “Now, all together. Inhale…and exhale as you say the word far. Whispers please. Farrr.”

  There was a soft sighing throughout the room.

  “Twice more. Joseph, for goodness sake, your mouth should be closed, not catching flies.”

  A giggle ran through the ranks.

  Miss Slade, whose chest was well cultivated, lead the way. “Inhale through the right nostril only. And exhale through the left nostril.”

  Henry Woolway had a bad cold and blew out some snot as he exhaled. He wiped it away with his sleeve. Without comment Miss Slade handed him a clean handkerchief from her pocket.

  The children continued to breathe, first through one nostril then the other, puny chests thrust out and upward.

  “All right, we will pause for a moment. Isaiah, you are still prone to making your shoulders do all the work. That is wrong. It is the lower chest that must rise.”

  “Sorry, Miss Slade. My chest bone hurts if I breathe in too deep.”

  Isaiah had a persistent dry cough.

  She tapped hard on her own chest with her two fingers. “This is what you must do every day without fail, Isaiah. Firm percussion for five minutes. Then splash cold water on your neck and chest, followed by a dry warm towel. Within three weeks, we should see some improvement.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  There were four younger children in Isaiah’s family and the closest he got to water in the morning was a damp rag that his mother made him whisk around the face and ears of the two next down. She didn’t seem to notice whether he did the same to himself. Miss Slade read his face correctly.

  “On second thoughts, Isaiah, we’ll do the exercise when you come to school and I will be able to supervise.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Now, everyone, let us move into rapid breathing.” She consulted the gold fob watch on her bodice. “I think we are ready to try for three minutes. When I say go, breathe in through the right nostril as rapidly as possible, then out through the left. Are you ready? Shoulders down, mouth quite closed. Begin. Quietly please.”

  With finger and thumb to their noses, as they had been instructed, the children began, Miss Slade keeping time like a band conductor. “And in…and out…Inhale and exhale.”

  The class was breathing in unison, sounding like an animal in its death throes. The two-minute mark was just reached when suddenly Agnes Fisher, with a barely audible gasp, fell backwards, gracefully and quietly as if her body had turned to cloth. She lay still, her eyelids fluttering.

  “Goodness me, Agnes.” Miss Slade ran over to her, knelt down, and took one of the girl’s hands in hers. She began to rub it. “Agnes! Agnes! Can you hear me?”

  The girl’s face had turned as white as the chalk. The other children gathered around them, their faces sombre and afraid. Benjamin looked down at his sister in terror.

  “It’s all right, Ben. She’s just fainted. See, she’s coming around. She had a bit too much oxygen, I’m afraid.” Miss Slade slipped her hands underneath the girl’s arms and helped her to sit up. “Children, please return to your seats.” She waited for a moment to make sure her order was obeyed. “Agnes, are you hurt anywhere?”

  The girl put her hand to her head. “I feel a bit dizzy, Miss Slade.”

  “Stay where you are then. It will pass. Ben, get a sweetie from the jar, quick as you can. A barley sugar.”

  The boy hurried to do what she said. Miss Slade offered it to the girl.

  “Pop this in your mouth and suck on it slowly.”

  She noticed that there were small dark bruises on the child’s wrist and a larger one, already yellowing, above her eyebrow, which her hair had hidden. It was not the first time she had seen such marks.

  “Can you sit at your desk now, do you think?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” whispered Agnes.

  With her teacher’s help she got up slowly, then returned to her place.

  “Did you have any breakfast, Agnes?”

  “No, ma’am. We were late getting up.”

  Miss Slade knew better than to ask why. Mrs. Fisher had died more than a year ago and the children were left to fend for themselves most days. Mr. Fisher, as Miss Slade had discovered, was a man of intemperate habits.

  She regarded the worried faces in front of her.

  “Children, I think it’s time for recess. Yes, I know it’s a little earlier than usual, Maud, but I think we all need some time in the open air. Florence and Mary, will you accompany Agnes? Walk a few times around the playground. Don’t forget, heads up, breathe through your nose.”

  She placed her hand over the girl’s. “Are you feeling better now?”

  “Yes, ma’am, thank you.” The girl’s habitual dull look had returned. She was one of Miss Slade’s least responsive pupils.

  “Off you go, then.”

  The children made a dash for the hooks on the wall where they’d hung their coats and hats. Florence and Mary had a little scuffle as to who would link arms with Agnes. Mary won, and with a precocious maternal expression, she lead Agnes out of the room. Benjamin trailed behind.

  Miss Slade sighed. Although the Fisher children weren’t the only ones who came to school with bruises, they seemed to have them more often than any of the others.

  She stood up and went over to her own desk, where she had left an iced cake the day before. Whenever possible she celebrated birthdays. It gave her an excuse to bring in cake for children who never had any at home. She took a clean handkerchief from the pile she kept ready, wrapped the cake, and went back to Agnes’s desk. She raised the lid, intending to tuck the cake into the back of the desk as a surprise, and stopped in mid-motion. Pushed into the far corner was a photograph. When she lifted it, she discovered more. Four in all.

  The top one was a stereoscopic photograph, a staged studio portrait of a young man in formal attire, who was about to embrace a woman dressed as a maid. Both of the faces had been scratched out. The maid’s back was to the camera and she was nude except for apron strings and gartered stockings. The man was naked from the waist down and was in a state of extreme sexual arousal. The caption at the bottom read, Mr. Newly-wed meets the new maid.

  Miss Slade was no prude, but neither was she a woman of the world and she felt herself turn hot with embarrassment. She could not imagine how such a photograph had ended up in the desk of one of her pupils.

  She looked at the second card, which was a single, hand-tinted photograph of a beautifully gowned baby in its cradle. At first glance, the infant appeared to be sleeping peacefully, but the photograph was bordered in black, signifying death. Along the bottom, the caption read, CALLED TO JESUS in the year of Our Lord, 1895. She turned the card over.

  Somebody had printed words that made her gasp. Even she, a professed atheist, was not immune to such appalling blasphemy.

  The third photograph was of a young man, naked except for an absurd silk turban with an elaborate brooch in the front. He was lying languorously on a Turkish couch. There was a black border around this card as well.

  The last card was also a double image for the stereoscope. This caption read, What Mr. Newly-w
ed really wants.

  “No!” she whispered and, in shock, she turned the card face down so she couldn’t see it.

  CHAPTER TWO

  As usual, there was a roaring fire in Inspector Brackenreid’s office, and cigar smoke, both stale and new, clogged the air. Murdoch waited whilst the inspector alternately drew on his pungent cigar and gulped at a mug of tea that he had fortified with a dash of brandy, “against the cold.” Neither Murdoch nor Constable Crabtree had been invited to sit down and so they stood in front of the desk.

  “Have you made any progress with the Smithers case?”

  “No, sir. Constable Crabtree and I have taken statements from all of the servants and we also spoke to the staff at the funeral parlour, but they all swear they didn’t steal the brooch.”

  “Where is it, then?”

  “According to Mrs. Smithers’s personal maid, her mistress often misplaces things these days, more so since old Mrs. Smithers died. Apparently, they have a way of showing up in unexpected places at a later date.”

  “What’s your opinion, Crabtree?”

  “I’m inclined to believe they are all telling the truth, sir. The house servants are upset at being accused because they have been with the family for a long time.”

  Brackenreid nodded. “The woman is probably losing some of her slates. By her own admission, the brooch isn’t valued at more than ten dollars. Hardly worth making a fuss about. She and her mother-in-law both attended my church, and in my opinion, they were both mad as hatters.” He drew on his cigar, remembered his manners, and added, “May she rest in peace.”

  He blew out a thick smoke ring, which gradually expanded so that by the time it drifted across the desk to Murdoch, he couldn’t have put his finger through it however tempted he might be.

  “Anyway, I don’t want either of you wasting any more time with it.”

  “No, sir.”

  Brackenreid emptied his tea mug in one long gulp.

  “Crabtree, you can leave. Murdoch, stay on for a minute.”

  Murdoch felt a twinge of uneasiness. Brackenreid usually went out of his way to avoid private interviews with his detective. On the rare occasion the inspector could find a transgression in Murdoch’s performance as an officer, he preferred to administer the scolding in front of others. He wondered what he was going to be chastised for that merited privacy.