The Coldest Dish
Chapter Three
Daniel Johnson shivered as he stepped out from the shelter of the crumbling tenements at the Old Town end of the North Bridge, and hoped his hat wasn't going to blow off. Since the east wind blasting across the bridge was strong enough to do so, he clamped his hand to his head, keeping the hat firmly in place. On the other side of the bridge, he crossed Princes Street and carried on into the New Town. Here, the streets were broad, clean and mostly empty, the windows of the houses reflecting a well-bred lack of interest in his progress, quite unlike the filthy, narrow closes and vennels of the Old Town where the unfriendly eyes of sharp-faced caddies, toothless crones and disreputable hawkers constantly watched him. Johnson's work took him all over the city, and he thoroughly knew every district of it, but he didn't often go on this sort of errand.
Lieutenant Ferguson had wanted to see him that morning, when he arrived at the police office in Parliament Square. "It would seem that one of our own Edinburgh callants is in here this week," he remarked as Johnson came into his office.
Johnson closed the door behind him. He saw Ferguson was holding that week's edition of The Police Gazette. "Who is it, sir?" he asked. "I don't remember that we contacted them about anyone."
"We haven't," responded Ferguson. "This has come from the Colonial Office."
Johnson listened to Ferguson droning away as he read out the description of an escaped convict named Alexander Murray, fascinated as always by the way the lieutenant's bushy eyebrows waggled when he spoke. "He was last seen boarding a ship bound for home in Sydney," Ferguson concluded, and held out the paper, pointing to one of the notices. "Here."
Johnson scanned the sheet, noting the sentence had been transportation for life. "So he came back. Man's an idiot." He put the paper down. "Do we know why he was transported?"
The Lieutenant rooted around on his desk and picked up a paper. Johnson listened to the sordid tale of Murray's conviction for embezzlement and culpable homicide with contempt. This turned to dawning recognition as Ferguson described how Murray had killed his uncle's chief clerk, when the man had discovered that he had been embezzling funds from the firm to pay off gaming debts. "That Murray!"
"Yes, Johnson, that Murray," said Ferguson, leaning back in his chair and steepling his hands. "And given the particular notoriety of that case, we should make every effort to recapture this man." He tapped the paper on the desk.
Johnson thought of the pile of urgent cases awaiting his attention, with resentment. They never had time to waste on the likes of Murray. It wasn't even clear the man had definitely come back. He was moved to protest. "But, sir! He's just a returned convict."
"Nevertheless, the authorities seem certain Murray has returned to Britain, and he is clearly a desperate and dangerous character," Ferguson told him, his eyebrows waggling again as he frowned. "Mr Moxey is of the opinion that after the recent riot at the Music Hall, we must do everything we can to help allay public fears about lawlessness in the city. Recapturing Murray would assist in that."
Oh that was it, thought Johnson. Politics!
Ferguson glanced down at the paper on his desk again "You can start by speaking to Murray's family - I believe the uncle is now dead, but there were two cousins. "It's possible he has gone to one of them for help or money."
Johnson was dubious. "I would have thought if it was money he wanted, he'd have stayed in Australia and found work - it's what most absconded convicts do, isn't it? Either that or, what do they call it, bush ranging?"
"Help then," said Ferguson, exasperated. "Or if it's neither, and Murray hasn't been near them, they should at least be able to give you more information about him."
Johnson had agreed with this so, later that day, he had set off, down to Great King Street where the first of the Murray cousins, Michael Murray lived.
Another blast of cold air from the east caught him as he crossed York Place, the crisp, yellow sandstone greying from the smoke of a thousand chimneys. Johnson shivered and pulled his greatcoat tighter around himself, grumbling about the chilly weather. Despite the cold wind, the trees in the gardens were splattered with the first dusting of green, and the grass underneath them was dotted with a yellow haze of daffodils, past their best and beginning to fade already. They brought a reminder that warmer weather was surely coming.
Murray's house was suitably imposing for a respectable and successful merchant, situated halfway along a terraced street of similar sandstone houses. Johnson walked up the steps and rapped on the gleaming brass knocker. After a moment, the door was opened by a footman, who stared down his nose at him and demanded his business. "Detective Officer Johnson, to see Mr Murray," he told the man.
The servant gave him a look; evidently, Johnson should have gone down the area steps to the tradesman's entrance. Johnson responded with a small, sour smile.
"I will see if he's available. If you would wait here," the footman said, and showed him into the hall, indicating a chair beside the umbrella stand. Johnson thought for a moment that the man was going to tell him not to touch anything.
However, he did not bother to sit down. Instead, after taking off his hat and gloves and setting them on the chair, he looked round the hall. It was the sort of vestibule that he would have expected to find behind such an imposing façade, high ceilinged with an ornate cornice. The most striking thing about the hall, he thought, was a full-length canvas on the stair wall. It depicted three boys in their late teens or early twenties, standing in the fanciful attitudes of fashionable portraiture.
They stood in the usual classical landscape, but while the setting may have been imagined, the boys themselves seemed real enough. It occurred to Johnson that it must be a portrait of the three Murray cousins. As he looked at the picture, Johnson wondered which one was which, but couldn't for the life of him decide. No doubt Murray would tell him if he asked.
The footman soon reappeared, giving Johnson a disapproving glare for moving out of his chair. Johnson gave another sour smile; he had to put up with patronising lawyers and such, but he was damned if he was going to put up with patronising servants. The man flung open a door. "If you would step in here, Mr Murray will be with you directly," he said.
Johnson took off his coat and handed it to him before he walked into the room and closed the door. It was a library, the walls lined with gold-embossed volumes. He walked over to one of the bookcases and looked at the titles, taking a deep breath of the expensive smells of fresh paper and leather. Although not a gambling man, Johnson would have been willing to bet Murray had never read most of them - he would be surprised if the pages had even been cut.
Echoing this thought, an amused voice said behind him, "If you are wondering whether I have read them all, Mr Johnson, the answer is no."
Johnson turned round. The man standing in the doorway was tall, perhaps an inch or two short of six feet. Beside him, although not normally conscious of being short in stature, Johnson felt that here, in this setting, he struck a mean figure of a man. Murray's dark hair was starting to thin but he made up for it with a fashionable pair of side-whiskers; a patronising smile flickered across his face as he waited for Johnson to respond.
"Actually, I can see most of these books have barely been opened, never mind read, Mr Murray, but thank you for anticipating any curiosity I may have had on that score."
Murray's smile faded; he was clearly unused to being addressed in such tones by the likes of Johnson. "So, how may I assist the Edinburgh Police?" he asked in a less patronising tone, closing the door behind him.
Cursing himself for letting his feelings get the better of him, Johnson responded formally, "I am seeking information that may assist with an investigation, Mr Murray."
Murray raised an eyebrow. "Really? I am not sure how I can help, Mr Johnson, but if you think I can, then, of course, I will do my best to assist you." He sat down in a button-backed armchair on one side of the fireplace, but rather pointedly did not ask Johnson to sit down himself. He fixed an interested expression on his face and said, "Please continue."
Johnson paused for a moment, thinking about how to approach this. "I couldn't help noticing the portrait of the three boys in the hall," he began, deciding on an oblique approach. "I must confess, I am curious about that."
If Murray wondered why, he was too polite to say so, but said instead, "It was commissioned by my late father when I was twenty." Murray seemed to feel this was worthy of explanation and went on to describe how his father had felt such a picture was appropriate, reflecting as it did the close relationship and bonds of friendship that linked the cousins.
Johnson suppressed a smile, familiar with such stalling techniques. "You're the boy in the middle, of course?" he asked, although there was no doubting it; after all, the likeness was excellent.
Murray inclined his head. "My cousin Richard, that is, Dr Bradwell, is the boy on my left." He hesitated for a moment, before continuing in an unemotional tone, "The other boy is my cousin Alexander Murray."
"It's a very good likeness of yourself, Mr Murray. Are the other two equally good?"
Murray's eyes narrowed, suspicious perhaps as to where this was going. "Oh yes, very good indeed. My father was delighted with the result."
Johnson paused for a moment, filing away that piece of information. Then he said, "Tell me more about your cousins, if you would, Mr Murray."
"I presume this is relevant?" Murray raised his eyebrows.
Johnson assured him it was, but Murray frowned, pausing, as if waiting for a further explanation. Johnson said nothing, curious as to what Murray would say next. As he expected, the merchant made the easy choice and told him more about Bradwell. "As I said, my cousin Richard Bradwell is a doctor. I believe he is the medical officer of a small charitable dispensary somewhere in the Old Town, I am not sure precisely where."
"A doctor? I'm surprised, I would have thought your cousin would have joined the family firm," Johnson remarked.
Murray gave an irritating smile. "There was never any question of that," he said.
Johnson wondered why, but didn't press the matter. He would find out later, if it was important. "You said you believe he is the medical officer of this dispensary. You are not certain?"
Shaking his head, Murray said with a curl of his lip, "No. I can hardly be expected to move in the same circles as someone who earns their livelihood by lancing the boils of the poor."
Johnson was surprised. "You mean the dispensary isn't a mere interest? He doesn't run a fashionable private practice?"
Murray snorted. It was the first sign of amusement Johnson had seen in him, and for a moment, made him seem less pompous. "He put it most succinctly to me one time, when I asked him a similar question. He said he would be damned if he was going to spend his time, playing up to the hypochondria of rich old ladies for the sake of a few sovereigns."
A man with a sense of humour too, Johnson thought. "I take it then that your cousin is not a wealthy man, Mr Murray."
Murray bristled at this. "I really cannot conceive of the relevance of my family's private financial affairs to your investigation. I presume you are eventually going to get to the point of all this?"
Satisfied that he had touched a nerve, Johnson said, "If you would bear with me for a moment, you told me earlier that you grew up with your cousins and were very close. If you'll pardon me, you don't sound close any more."
"No, we are not. People grow up, Mr Johnson; grow apart. Things change." Outside in the hall, the front door opened and then slammed shut. Johnson could hear children's voices chattering and then a woman's voice, shushing them. Murray glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. "It is getting late, Mr Johnson, was there anything else?"
"You have another cousin, Mr Murray."
Murray stared at him. "I don't think you need me to tell you that my cousin Alexander was transported for life more than ten years ago. Is that what this is all about, because I quite fail to see how that whole unpleasant business could still be important."
Johnson looked closely at Murray; he seemed genuinely upset, so he told him what he knew of Murray's escape and subsequent return to Britain.
"You're sure he has returned?" Murray went pale.
Johnson nodded."Of course."
Standing up, Murray took a few steps around the room and muttered, "The fool!"
Johnson watched him for a moment before saying, "You seem unduly concerned about the fate of a convicted criminal, Mr Murray."
Murray seemed to become aware that he had been pacing and sat down again. He sat in silence for a moment before saying, "Of course I am concerned. Alexander is... was one of my closest friends. I think I hoped that if he did escape, then he would have the sense to stay in Australia. I am perfectly well aware of the penalty for returning."
"So why do you think he has risked his life to return to Edinburgh then?"
"I cannot conceive why he should have done so." Murray looked down for a moment. When he looked up again, his eyes had darkened with some emotion. "Mr Johnson, it is nearly eleven years since I knew him. I really do not want to think about the experiences he must have been through, how they must have changed him. I doubt very much that the motivations that drove him when I knew him still do so. He must be a very different man."
Which was a fair point, Johnson conceded. But there was something bringing him back, and not just the desire of a fox to reclaim its territory. "If I accept that he will have changed, what was his character like when you knew him?" Johnson asked.
Murray paused, as if considering his words, before saying, "He was a trifle... wild. To be fair, many boys are, I think. Alexander though, never grew out of it."
"Why was that, do you think?"
"I'm not sure, but I think it started when he left school. Although he had shown little interest in joining the firm, my father, as his guardian, insisted and refused to let him attend the University. I think it would have been different if, like Richard, he had wanted to enter one of the professions, but he had wanted to study geology or some such and my father felt it was a case of pure self-indulgence." Michael Murray's tone told Johnson he shared this view.
Johnson was curious. "What happened?"
Frowning, Murray replied, "Alexander felt that if his own father had still been alive - my uncle died when Alexander was thirteen - he would have been allowed to indulge his interest. It caused a lot of bad feeling, and I am not sure that Alexander ever got over it." He stood up again and walked over to the window.
Outside, drops of rain began to splatter past onto the windowpanes. Johnson cursed inwardly that he hadn't brought an umbrella. He turned his attention back to Murray. "And he became, as you say, a trifle wild," he said. "What do you mean by that? Youthful high spirits?"
The merchant stood looking out of the window for a moment, as if considering how to respond. Then he turned round and said, "In the beginning, certainly. But as he grew older it became less pleasant. He had a violent temper at times, and I recall some dreadful arguments he had with my father over the years. Then, of course he started drinking."
"Women?"
Murray shrugged. "No more so than most young men at that age. No less, that's for sure." He paused to brush an invisible speck of dust from the sleeve of his coat. Johnson waited. "His particular vice was obviously gaming," Murray said carefully and then sighed, still apparently unable to believe that this had been unknown to his friends, but Johnson was unsurprised. In his experience, gamblers were often deceitful about the extent of their obligations. Murray still seemed shocked by how little he had known his cousin.
Johnson wondered whether Murray's apparent estrangement from Bradwell was linked to their cousin's conviction, but Murray denied it. "I wouldn't call it an estrangement, Mr Johnson; we developed different interests and concerns. Dr Bradwell felt we should have known Alexander was in trouble, and should have helped him. Although quite how we could have done that, I don't know, when even afterwards he refused to admit his guilt."
"They all do that, Mr Murray," Johnson said with heavy irony. "The jails are full of innocent men!"
Murray gave a perfunctory smile. "That is not quite what I meant - Alexander refused to acknowledge that he even had gaming debts. I know he sounds a dissolute character, but there was no more steadfast friend."
Johnson reflected briefly on the blind loyalty of friends, then asked, "Has he been to see you, Mr Murray?"
Murray raised his eyebrows again, but all he said was, "No he has not been to see me."
Johnson smiled at Murray's careful answer. "And has he communicated with you in any way whatsoever?"
"Trying to catch me out, Detective Officer?" Murray said with a scornful curl of his lip. "No, the last time I saw him or communicated with him was the day he was convicted."
Johnson ignored the other man's rudeness, continuing doggedly, "And if he does contact you, will you inform me? Any message to the main police office will find me."
Murray sighed heavily. "Yes, of course I will inform you."
It was hard to tell if the man were lying or not. He did not exhibit the usual signs of it, and Johnson accepted what he said at face value - for the time being, of course. He took his leave then, and thanked Murray for his assistance. The man looked glad to see the back of him, a sentiment Johnson knew he often induced in people.
On his way out, he paused in front of the portrait in the hall. Alexander Murray stood, leaning casually on a plinth, his face in three-quarter profile, with a faint sarcastic sneer, exaggerated by the tilt of his head and his long nose. He tried to imagine what Murray must look like now; his bone structure wouldn't change, of course, and neither would his nose, and he would still have those long-lashed hazel eyes, but penal servitude, Johnson knew, was apt to leave an indelible mark on the features, sometimes changing them out of all recognition. The footman gave a cough behind him, and turning, Johnson saw his greatcoat was being held out to him. He took the hint.
As the haughty footman closed the door behind him with a click, Johnson stood on the step for a moment wondering, since it was still raining, if he would be able to pick up a hack in Dundas Street. Turning up the collar of his coat, he decided the chances of it were not good, and set off, back the way he had come. The lightening sky to the east suggested the rain might not last much longer.
Keeping his head down and his hands rammed deeply into his pockets, Johnson thought about his encounter with Michael Murray. The man had definitely been alarmed at the prospect of the other Murray's return to Edinburgh, although there were a number of reasons why that might be. He thought about what he had found out; Alexander Murray would not be the first to turn vicious because his adolescent fancies were thwarted, and not the last either. Most such young men did eventually settle down, and this one had not lacked friends who had his interests at heart. Of course, most such young men didn't turn to embezzlement as a way of financing their debts or to culpable homicide as a way of concealing them. Michael Murray had been concerned at the effect ten years in Van Diemen's Land would have had on his cousin. It was hard to see, Johnson felt, how his character could have worsened.
There was a solitary hack at the stand by Register House, but it was barely worth the effort of clambering in now, and the rain was easing off. Johnson carried on walking, thinking about what he had discovered about Bradwell. It was interesting, he thought, that Bradwell had been allowed to become a doctor and yet Murray had been required to join the family firm. Perhaps Bradwell had understanding parents. What he had found surprising was Michael Murray's description of Bradwell's attitude to fashionable private practice. It was hard to see quite how Bradwell made an adequate living if he eschewed private practice to supplement whatever pittance he made from the dispensary.
Walking across the North Bridge over the chasm the railways sat in, towards the Old Town, where the soot blackened and weathered tenements scraped the sky like broken teeth, was like crossing a frontier, or stepping back in time. As he finally turned the corner into the High Street and hurried up to the police office, Johnson's eyes automatically flickered over the teeming street, searching for faces he knew, those that might have been involved in this robbery or that assault, faces sharpened, yet dulled, by the relentlessness of their lives. But he knew while escape from such a life was sometimes possible through hard work and perseverance, it was much easier to sink, and it was something he feared. All it would take would be a single mistake and his might be the face detective officers searched for. He shivered, surprised at his mood, as he approached the doorway.
The police office sat in the shadow of the looming bulk of St Giles, the ancient gothic cathedral a sharp contrast to the modern building that housed the police. Once inside, Johnson soon shook off the mood along with the drops of rain that clung to his damp greatcoat as he hung it up to dry by the fire, filling the room with the smell of damp tweed. He was kept busy for the next couple of hours dealing with the usual petty offenders. However, shortly before he went home that evening, he ran into Ferguson.
"Get anything useful out of Michael Murray this afternoon?" the lieutenant asked.
Johnson shrugged. "I'm not sure. He gave me some information we should follow up. But I do know one thing."
"What's that, Johnson?"
"Alexander Murray was a dissolute scoundrel before he was sent to Van Diemen's Land. I would be surprised if his character has improved."
Ferguson looked at him, considering. "You seem disappointed by that," he commented.
"I suppose I am - it's just so, ordinary."
Ferguson stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. "Oh, Daniel, I never realised; you're a Romantic! What did you expect to find, that he has been innocent all along?" The lieutenant clapped him on the shoulder. "Go on, away home and get some supper. This man's gallows-fodder and you know it!"
"Aye, sir," said Johnson, rolling his eyes. And he put on his greatcoat and went home.