The White Feather Murders Read online

  * Or ever to drive again.

  † And then proceeded to sound as if he had been given the parish at Rosings Park.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Beyond the obvious devotion she must demonstrate toward her husband and her family, a woman must prove that she is also dedicated to the well-being of others, both in her own community and her country at large.

  Dorothea Fairfax, Handbook to Bachelor Girlhood

  Jasper’s return to the stationhouse after assisting Ray with a crude and short-term solution to his front window was a somber one. He was in a wretched mood after listening to his friend’s despair over everything: McCormick’s dismissal of him, his inability to heed Ethan’s advice, that Jem wasn’t home waiting for him after all.

  When Kirk informed Jasper that Tipton requested an audience, he was surprised that his first inclination wasn’t to follow orders with his customarily punctilious fashion, but rather to cut and run.

  He hadn’t seen eye to eye with his commander for as long as he could remember. He wondered if the chief had something to do with Ray’s dismissal.

  “Sir,” Jasper said after being given leave to enter.

  “Where were you all morning, Forth?”

  “Skip McCoy rang about the Hog. Someone has seriously damaged the newspaper office. McCormick sacked Ray DeLuca.”

  “I fail to understand you. You want to make sure that I am paying attention to this white feather business and to the files you have presented me on the Ward, and you, a senior constable, take half of your shift to see about a little vandalism at a rag newspaper.”

  “Sir—”

  “We do not pull in special favors for friends here, Forth. Because you are so eager to help with such situations, perhaps it’s time I reassess your duties.”

  “You cannot put me back on traffic duty. I—”

  “Hush, Forth. For now, you can see to a skirmish in the Armories while I decide how best to use your particular talents.”

  “You know my talents.”

  “Right now they seem best suited to discovering who threw rocks through windows.” Tipton’s voice was far from complimentary. “Take St. Clair and see to this fist fight.”

  “If it’s the Armories, I am sure military police are nearby.”

  “Not for two men on the outside of the facilities merely waiting to sign up,” Tipton explained.

  Jasper wanted to say at least a dozen things in retort. Nevertheless, he counted to ten, bellowed for Kirk, and tucked his annoyance under his hat.

  A short ride later, the three men stood outside of the overbearing brick structure that seemed to gobble up half of University Avenue from Queen Street. Turrets and flags lent the place a regal motif, while the half-moon windows recalled the grandeur of the city’s most opulent offerings of the past century.

  Jasper told Kirk to wait nearby, and he gave them a small salute. As St. Clair and Jasper walked through the front doors and toward the front desk, they were intercepted by a man draped in regulation khaki with boots Jasper could see the overhead lamp’s reflection in.

  “Tipton sent you, eh?” His voice was clipped perfunctorily. “Follow me. You are welcome to use one of our training rooms for your interview.”

  “Very kind of you, sir,” Jasper said.

  They entered a small classroom where, seated at a desk facing a blackboard full of military tactics, a man held a handkerchief to a bloody nose. In the seat adjacent sat another young man with a purple bruise undercutting his eye.

  “Why are the police involved in what appears to be a fist fight?” one of the two seated men asked Jasper.

  “Once you are in the trenches in France, we subscribe to a different law. But for here, for now, you are Toronto citizens and must abide by our laws,” St. Clair began. “I expect the truth.”

  “What were you fighting about?” Jasper asked calmly.

  “Tensions were high at the enlisting tent,” the accused said. “This fellow shoved me, and now he reports me to the police.”

  “The lines were crowded, and you stepped out of your way to get into my space.”

  Jasper was remembering too many conversations of a similar ilk—men flinging blame about like snow in a snowball fight—from his demotion to traffic patrol.*

  “Well…” St. Clair hedged.

  “My little brother was the target of a bully on Center Street last night, and this was the bully,” the young man said, jerking his thumb at the man beside him.

  The other remained silent while St. Clair approached his desk. “A bully?”

  “With reason, sir,” the man said. “This fellow’s brother was seen with a bunch of Kraut kids. They could have been a gang. Who knows what kind of meeting they were coming from?”

  St. Clair stood back, folded his arms, and turned his direction to the accuser. “Is this so?”

  “These are his school chums! He came home with a black eye and bloody nose. Just for playing stick hockey with school chums.”

  “Stick hockey?” the accused retorted. “That can account for numerous sins.” He leveled eyes with St. Clair. “Sir, I am enlisting so that I can fight the very evil I encountered on Center Street last night. I believe that their tactic is to instill this philosophy in the young and turn them against us. My father encountered enough of this with the Boers, sir, and he knows that Canada does not have room for those who are slaughtering our men on the field. Any day now, and they will turn on us.”

  Jasper stepped forward to control the situation, but he was superseded by St. Clair.

  “This young man,” he pointed to the accused, “makes a salient point. And we know that violence begets violence.”

  “Are you going to charge us?” the accuser asked.

  “I would charge you,” St. Clair mulled. “Partly for your blindness and stupidity. But for the time being, I am hoping the two of you will shake hands like men, and you will keep a closer eye on your little brother.”

  The men rose and limply shook hands, the accused wiping his nose on his sleeve.

  “If you’re truly going to see action overseas,” Jasper said, halting them as they made their way to the door, “you can expect skirmishes and tensions that run far higher than this, and you will want to do your country and your mothers proud by behaving like men.”

  They both nodded at him and mumbled something that could have been “sir” before setting off.

  St. Clair and Jasper took their time through the corridors of the Armories before starting a brisk walk toward the station.

  “St. Clair, the more time I spend with you, the more I realize that we approach everything about our work and the war from completely different angles. You honestly believe that this young man’s brother is in league with the Kaiser for playing stick hockey with German boys in the Ward?”

  St. Clair adjusted his hat brim. “We can never be too careful, Jasper. Besides, we go round and round in circles on this point. You’re a right good cop. A corker at your job. But we need our minds to be fit. We need to be able to see a few snakes in the grass, eh?”

  “But children playing hockey? Bully tactics? Suspicion? That just sets us up in a web of fear and degradation.”

  “Or it keeps us alert.”

  Jasper didn’t respond, and they continued their journey in silence. Jasper wondered why St. Clair was so readily accepting of an assignment that saw him dealing with combatants in a fistfight when Jasper’s first skeptical instinct was that Chief Tipton wanted him distracted.

  “We recognize that aid in our national crisis impresses as much of a duty on our women as it does on our men!” Jem and Merinda heard the words even as they passed through the double doors of the cathedral and took seats near the back. Merinda watched several hats adorned with feather plumes bob in agreement as the woman continued. She was dressed in the colors of suffrage imported by British supporters: purple for dignity, white for purity, and green for hope, with a Union Jack ribbon affixed to her lapel. She continued in a strong alto that reverberated t
o the rafters and seemed to rattle through the towering pipes of the grand organ.

  “Our role is not diminished because we are keepers of the hearth. Our patriotism not subdued because we are charged with trinkets, good luck charms, teary goodbyes, and favorite songs as our parting gifts. Our sacrifice is no less important because we give our sons and husbands over to the King and not ourselves. Imperial daughters, our job is no less important and our duty no less great. I am inspired by the promise that we are keeping this home safe so that our men have something to fight for. So that our children can benefit from the sacrifice our brave make every day as they leave on trains and ships to the yet unknown horrors awaiting them.”

  The woman went on for several more minutes with the same cadence and conviction. Finally, she moved to the side of the podium and invited Lady Adelaide Pelham to speak. Upon rising, Lady Adelaide was met with thunderous applause.

  “Ladies, I echo what our esteemed friend has told us today. We will need ‘all hands on deck’ in order to ensure we are giving as much as our brave husbands, fathers, and sons. To this end, I am pleased to be appointed the chair of the Ladies Auxiliary for the Preservation of the Beloved Home Front. Our first order of business will be to canvas the streets to raise a collection for a most worthy and noble project…” Lady Pelham paused for effect, “… a hospital ship!” She paused again, and this time she was rewarded with a fervent response from the audience. “Our brave men need the best medical supplies, and how exciting is it that we Canadian women can be at the forefront of the highest medical care as our men set off to the battlefield?”

  Lady Adelaide continued with a genuine dedication toward her cause, and while Jem was admiring her trim tailored suit and ivory silk gloves, Merinda was eagerly assessing the way she pumped her fist in the air and the light that gleamed through her bright eyes.

  After several more speeches, a young woman well known to both Jem and Merinda from previous cases† took the podium. “My name is Martha Kingston, and you may know me as an advocate for women’s suffrage and as a reporter. But, sisters, I am here in solidarity with Lady Pelham. You know that until now there has been no greater cause for me than the liberation of women and the breaking of our chains with the woman’s vote. But now, with our men fighting overseas, we must temporarily redistribute our passion and fervor for that cause with a higher one. For how can we possibly hope for the freedom we are determined to win in our future if our entire country is overrun with evil? No. We must devote ourselves to this immediate cause for Canada and for Britain before we return to stomping out the injustice afforded us by men who continue to see us deprived of the vote!”

  She finished to applause, and the congregation of women sang “God Save the King.”

  “I don’t know whom I want to speak with first!” Merinda said eagerly as the throng began to exit in the direction of the refreshments promised in the lower auditorium. “Martha Kingston or Lady Pelham.”

  “Perhaps our acquaintance with Martha will lead to an introduction to Lady Pelham,” Jem said helpfully.

  “Brilliant!” Merinda whispered as Martha caught her eye from the aisle and waved.

  Merinda and Jem slid out of the pew to greet her. Martha was enthusiastic, pumping their hands with spirit. Her long red hair was fashionably dressed under a tilted hat, and her eyes sparkled.

  “Ladies, you are a dream!” She appraised both of them. “A dream! All of the stories! Chicago! Roosevelt! And now I hear women about town are sporting bowlers and wearing trousers.” Martha fanned herself with a hand. “Not that the weather has been conducive to their wear! Nonetheless, this city is one after my own heart. I cannot believe I have been here a fortnight and this our first encounter! Come, you must allow me to introduce you to Lady Adelaide Pelham! Lady P is always dying to meet the city’s brightest—” She swiveled on her heel. “Lady P!”

  Lady Adelaide turned, adjusted the pin in her wide-brimmed royal blue hat, and stepped toward them. “Of course I know you,” she said as she extended a gloved hand to Merinda, who shook it with relish, and then to Jem, who pressed it only to the degree of social propriety.

  “It’s very nice to meet you, Lady Pelham,” Jemima said. “We were so moved by your words.”

  “And I by your deeds!” Lady Pelham flashed a genuine smile. “I have been so excited to follow your adventures.”

  “And now we are eager to turn our enthusiasm for justice toward your benevolent cause,” Jem said.

  “How happy I am to have you.” She appraised Jemima’s eager blue eyes and Merinda’s odd attire kindly. “Why, you must join me for a little party tomorrow evening.” She turned to Martha. “Won’t it be a lark to have the girls there? I’ll even wear a bowler!” She clapped her hands. “I’ve had one fashioned. I affixed a little rose at the brim. A lark!”

  Merinda couldn’t stifle a sputter. Jemima compensated with a polite gasp. “That sounds delightful!” she said. “I am eager to see it.”

  Lady Pelham provided them with the particulars of the gathering, and they promised to attend.

  “And you are both cordially encouraged to bring a guest. The more the merrier!” She looked between them. “I assume the two most sought-after women in Toronto have beaux?”

  “You would assume correctly,” Merinda said cheerily. Jem spluttered loudly in surprise.

  “Splendid! I look forward to welcoming you to Pelham Park.”

  Jem and Merinda made the usual pleasantries to Lady Pelham and Martha before taking their leave of them.

  “A beau?” Jem said, slyly, once they were alone. “My goodness, Merinda. Is Constable Citrone expected?”

  “I am not going to Pelham Park without Jasper,” Merinda explained lightly. She looked at Jem shrewdly, “And we must find DeLuca. We can’t be everywhere at once on that grand estate. We’ll need our men.”

  Merinda led Jem to the refreshment table with the express purpose of placing cucumber sandwiches in a napkin and stealing out the side door into the twilight. A swath of pink, mingled with a lemon hue, colored the low clouds, offering a glimpse of day languorously giving way to evening.

  “Here I am pursuing the next step in a case when Ray must be beside himself.” Jem’s voice was exasperated, her head throbbed, and her side ached something fierce.

  “Cracker jacks, Jem. The day is just catching up with you. Ray is a proud man. If he wanted to find you, he would.”

  “Merinda, it isn’t that simple.” But even as she said the words, Jem knew her friend was right.

  “We’ll go back to King Street, and you can attempt to reach him by telephone.”

  “If he hasn’t had the service cut off.” Jem worked her teeth over her lip.

  “Then we’ll try Jasper.”

  “I suppose that will have to do.”

  Ray had a notebook, a stub of a pencil, and a sense that the world had turned against him. He was on his fifth cup of coffee at a Chinese restaurant in the Ward. He had first made his way toward the Wellington, but he knew he might be discovered there. Worse still, sought out. He needed time. Even Jemima and her probable eager and altruistic quest to find him was more than he could handle.

  On his sixth cup, he accepted the plate of egg drop tarts a small woman presented him. She spoke little English, but her smile was a strong statement.

  He turned a tart around on his plate. Some part of him had known that McCormick would turn him out eventually. He had a penchant for walking on thin ice. Nonetheless, so much of his identity was constructed of his need to build what meagre livelihood he had with words. Now more than ever, he knew his voice was needed. An empathetic tie to the experiences plaguing those who were not unlike him in circumstance and fear.

  Yes, fear. What if Montague’s hold pulled so tightly that they were forced out of their homes altogether?

  He opened a blank page of his notebook and poised the pencil over a grainy sheet.

  The last time he had considered finding an alternative source of income was when Jemim
a informed him she was expecting a baby. He still remembered how the thought of eking out a living by any other means than words pulled his chest tightly. He flexed his fingers, spared of the gnarled and scraped contractions so common with men employed at the Roundhouse or in the viaducts. But what choice did he have? If it were only him, he could scrape by with odd jobs typesetting or writing copy for second-rate pamphlets. But there was Jem and there was Hamish, and there was a house in Cabbagetown and electricity and food.

  The Scripture Ethan Talbot had so confidently quoted at him after Jem’s accident surfaced with a subtle mockery. How could God be doing a work in his days when there was no work for him to do? Inasmuch as it was difficult for him to accept that particular snippet of their conversation, he was drawn back to Talbot’s words about Jem. He owed it to her to let her in. To shake out of his pride for a moment and allow her the opportunity. She had, on more than one occasion, shed her resolve on his behalf, and he owed her the same courtesy.

  * A disciplinary measure that had occurred more than once during his association with Merinda Herringford.

  † Readers familiar with Herringford and Watts’ adventures in A Singular and Whimsical Problem and Of Dubious and Questionable Memory will already be familiar with the redoubtable Martha Kingston.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It is most discourteous for a woman to extend an invitation to a gentleman. A proper relationship cannot recover from a woman’s audacity to inhabit a role best assumed by a member of the opposite sex.

  Dorothea Fairfax, Handbook to Bachelor Girlhood

  I need you to be my escort,” Merinda said eagerly. While Jasper was delighted to accept her last-minute dinner invitation, routine dictated that because it was not his usual weeknight for a visit, her insistence was a result of her needing a favor.