his voice low, he started on the ballad.
The wind sae could blew south and north,
And blew into the floor;
Quoth our goodman to our goodwife,
‘Gae out and bar the door.’
He went over to the bed where he’d laid out his clothes. First, the drawers and a fleece shirt, both a mixture of silk and wool because he had sensitive skin and pure wool was irritating. Over the shirt, he pulled on a flannel chest protector lined with soft chamois. The scarlet of the flannel clashed with the burgundy stripes of his shirt, but that couldn’t be helped. It was unlikely anybody would be getting a gander at his underwear today. He had his eye on a plump little tart who sang at the Derby, but she would have to wait until his job was finished. Pugh believed in discipline. While he was on a job, he never consorted with women.
Next he reached for his long socks. They were getting worn and the heels needed darning, but he had no time to do it now. He fastened the leather straps tightly, then pulled on his tweed trousers, which he’d purchased from Mr. Eaton’s store only last month. Finally he put on his heavy wool jersey and checked the mirror again. Yes, he looked quite nobby. The brown sweater suited his dark complexion.
He picked up the imitation lamb cap, which was sitting on his dresser, and pulled it on. A snug fit. He had taken it from one of his former clients. He did not consider this stealing. The man had been less than generous with his fee, and Pugh had therefore supplemented it with the cap and a pair of decent raccoon gauntlets.
Pugh went to the wardrobe and took out the blue mackinaw. The jacket was waterproof, lined with tweed for warmth, and had a hood that gave him double protection from the weather and prying eyes. Pugh considered it was an ugly piece of apparel, but it served its purpose.
There was a silver flask in the inside pocket. He shook it. Good! Still some whiskey left. In the other pocket there was his deck of cards and his notebook and pencil. He hesitated for a moment then reached in the back of the wardrobe, pulled out a canvas bag, and undid the straps. Inside was his revolver. He took it out and stowed it in the mackinaw. He was ready. His cowhide boots were outside the door, cleaned and polished by the old man who also served as clerk to the hotel.
Pugh blew out his candle. He paid for each one he used, and he believed in being careful. He slipped out of his room and, carrying his boots, walked softly down the hall. There was only one light in the sconce, the wick turned down so low it was almost useless. He went down the stairs, paused long enough at the door to put on his boots, and stepped out into the cold night.
Then said the one unto the other,
‘Here man, tak ye my knife;
Do ye tak off the auld man’s beard,
And I’ll kiss the goodwife.’
Pugh fastened the flap on the hood so that the lower half of his face was covered. Perhaps today he would be lucky.
Chapter Ten
M RS. K ITCHEN CAME OUT OF THE PARLOUR just as Murdoch was hanging up his coat and cap. She held out her hand to him. “Please accept my condolences, Mr. Murdoch.”
“Thank you, Mrs. K. You got my telegram then?”
“Constable Crabtree brought it over this afternoon. And he also wanted me to convey his regrets. The inspector has given you a leave of absence until Friday.”
Murdoch shrugged. A leave of absence meant no wages, and he would have been glad of the distraction of work. However, the inspector always insisted that any of the police officers who suffered bereavement take some time off. Murdoch had decided some time ago that this had nothing to do with genuine compassion and everything to do with saving money.
He unlaced his boots and, unbidden, Mrs. Kitchen took his slippers out of the brass slipper box by the coat stand and gave them to him.
“I have some supper waiting for you.”
“Thank you indeed. I forgot to book a seat in the dining car, and the sittings were full. The last acquaintance my
The wind sae could blew south and north,
And blew into the floor;
Quoth our goodman to our goodwife,
‘Gae out and bar the door.’
He went over to the bed where he’d laid out his clothes. First, the drawers and a fleece shirt, both a mixture of silk and wool because he had sensitive skin and pure wool was irritating. Over the shirt, he pulled on a flannel chest protector lined with soft chamois. The scarlet of the flannel clashed with the burgundy stripes of his shirt, but that couldn’t be helped. It was unlikely anybody would be getting a gander at his underwear today. He had his eye on a plump little tart who sang at the Derby, but she would have to wait until his job was finished. Pugh believed in discipline. While he was on a job, he never consorted with women.
Next he reached for his long socks. They were getting worn and the heels needed darning, but he had no time to do it now. He fastened the leather straps tightly, then pulled on his tweed trousers, which he’d purchased from Mr. Eaton’s store only last month. Finally he put on his heavy wool jersey and checked the mirror again. Yes, he looked quite nobby. The brown sweater suited his dark complexion.
He picked up the imitation lamb cap, which was sitting on his dresser, and pulled it on. A snug fit. He had taken it from one of his former clients. He did not consider this stealing. The man had been less than generous with his fee, and Pugh had therefore supplemented it with the cap and a pair of decent raccoon gauntlets.
Pugh went to the wardrobe and took out the blue mackinaw. The jacket was waterproof, lined with tweed for warmth, and had a hood that gave him double protection from the weather and prying eyes. Pugh considered it was an ugly piece of apparel, but it served its purpose.
There was a silver flask in the inside pocket. He shook it. Good! Still some whiskey left. In the other pocket there was his deck of cards and his notebook and pencil. He hesitated for a moment then reached in the back of the wardrobe, pulled out a canvas bag, and undid the straps. Inside was his revolver. He took it out and stowed it in the mackinaw. He was ready. His cowhide boots were outside the door, cleaned and polished by the old man who also served as clerk to the hotel.
Pugh blew out his candle. He paid for each one he used, and he believed in being careful. He slipped out of his room and, carrying his boots, walked softly down the hall. There was only one light in the sconce, the wick turned down so low it was almost useless. He went down the stairs, paused long enough at the door to put on his boots, and stepped out into the cold night.
Then said the one unto the other,
‘Here man, tak ye my knife;
Do ye tak off the auld man’s beard,
And I’ll kiss the goodwife.’
Pugh fastened the flap on the hood so that the lower half of his face was covered. Perhaps today he would be lucky.
Chapter Ten
M RS. K ITCHEN CAME OUT OF THE PARLOUR just as Murdoch was hanging up his coat and cap. She held out her hand to him. “Please accept my condolences, Mr. Murdoch.”
“Thank you, Mrs. K. You got my telegram then?”
“Constable Crabtree brought it over this afternoon. And he also wanted me to convey his regrets. The inspector has given you a leave of absence until Friday.”
Murdoch shrugged. A leave of absence meant no wages, and he would have been glad of the distraction of work. However, the inspector always insisted that any of the police officers who suffered bereavement take some time off. Murdoch had decided some time ago that this had nothing to do with genuine compassion and everything to do with saving money.
He unlaced his boots and, unbidden, Mrs. Kitchen took his slippers out of the brass slipper box by the coat stand and gave them to him.
“I have some supper waiting for you.”
“Thank you indeed. I forgot to book a seat in the dining car, and the sittings were full. The last acquaintance my
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