style="font-size:15px;"> “Ah, Fred, I’ve no place to keep a car.”
It was a good question, though, and I continued trying to answer it once I’d moved back to give the conductor my fare and fold myself into an empty space on one of the longitudinal, wood-slat benches. Not only was the department not making an automobile available, but they steadfastly refused to reimburse detectives for cab fare. So after I’d finished bouncing up Bay Street, I could look forward to a transfer onto the Bloor car eastbound as far as Sherbourne Street and a long walk north. Possibly a wet one, as afternoon had brought back the clouds. This was no style in which to investigate the murder of a bigwig.
Then inspiration struck. I ignored the stop at Bloor and continued up Bay to Davenport, where I dropped in at the city’s mounted police unit. I wasn’t about to trade my kingdom for a horse, but I’d heard that some well-ridden motorcycles headed for the junk yard were temporarily stored in the back of the stables. With the help of a bored groom, I picked out the most roadworthy, stirred it into sputtering life and set it hurtling down Rosedale Valley Road with me on its back.
It’s not hard to get lost in Rosedale, but there is one straight street—the one where the Watts lived. This mazelike luxury suburb with its ravine lots was dreamed up in the nineteenth century, but not developed till the twentieth when cars made it get-at-able and, just as important, when the elite no longer had the unlimited Victorian appetite for parading their wealth. They could no longer be as sure as their forefathers that folks would respect riches as a sign of divine favour—rather than resent them as evidence of social injustice. So while you might want it known you lived somewhere in Rosedale, that didn’t necessarily mean you wanted your house easily found.
In this regard as in others, Digby Watt had seemed to straddle the centuries—not enough of an exhibitionist to live downtown on Queen’s Park Crescent, but far from a shrinking violet.
His palatial house on Glen Road had a curving drive and a porte-cochère. I parked the decrepit Harley-Davidson smack in front of the front door to show I wasn’t intimidated by the place, but I did comb my hair and pop a peppermint in my mouth to camouflage the smell of the beer I’d had for lunch—all of which was just as well, because the freckled housemaid who answered my knock was kitted out in a fresh grey uniform whose pressed creases would have put a guards regiment to shame.
Despite her business-as-usual smartness, there was no hiding that her eyes were red from crying. I got her to say that her name was Nita and that she had been in service with the Watts for four years, since she was sixteen.
The ladies of the household were drinking tea in the conservatory overlooking the back garden. I’d spoken by telephone to Mrs. Morris Watt, who was expecting me, but it seemed Morris’s sister Edith had just come home and didn’t know me from Adam. I overheard the words “man who’ll solve the mystery” pass in earnest undertones between the two even as Nita was showing me a path through the palms and aspidistras. In more ways than one, the heat was on.
Mrs. Watt wore a modestly cut, expensive dress of a navy blue that went well with her permanently waved blonde hair. She rose to greet me promptly and yet with a sort of indolence I took as typically modern and by no means a personal slight. In fact, her social manner was faultless, considerate without seeming too hostessy, appropriate to so serious an occasion as the death of a father-in-law. I tried to picture her with Morris. Her husband would see in her someone brought up with standards of behaviour similar to his own, and with that extra polish women were expected to have. He would appreciate also her womanly figure, and value perhaps a confidence lacking in himself. If Morris were sexually shy, I had the feeling she wouldn’t be. Where did such an impression come from? My experience of women didn’t extend to this level of society, but I thought I recognized what Mrs. Watt possessed. Of the couple, Morris had more in the way of movie star looks. His consort’s complexion was rough, rougher than her face powder could completely smooth over; there were too many teeth in her mouth; her grey-green eyes didn’t point quite in the same direction; and her hips were already starting to spread. Nonetheless, a man who felt desired by her might well think her beautiful. Morris might.
“I got the death notice in all the papers, Lavinia,” her sister-in-law rattled on breathlessly, “but there’s trouble brewing at City Hall. They want some kind of state funeral, which I can’t bear the thought of.”
“Edith,” said Mrs. Watt, “this is Detective Sergeant Paul Shenstone, the policeman who’s investigating the case.”
“One of them,” I grinned. I liked “investigate” better than “solve”. Nice of her to lower expectations when speaking aloud.
“Oh, yes. Hello. Nita, take my coat, would you?”
Housemaid and coat melted silently away.
Edith Watt wore a black, pleated skirt and white blouse that accentuated her schoolgirl freshness. She was past school age, but young enough. Too young to have been prepared for anything like what had happened in the past few hours. Still, she was pitching in with family duties, not leaving them to those with more the hang of death and funerals. Flustered, yes, but not necessarily weak. Maybe she just didn’t think she had to put on a show of composure in front of family and servants. Public servants included.
She had all her brother’s good looks and more. Very dark, glossy hair with a part just off centre, down-sloping eyes of the most vivid blue, an upper lip that dipped in the middle and swelled softly to either side to form naturally that Cupid’s bow so prized at present and so badly approximated with cosmetics. A grin-and-bear-it style of grief wouldn’t have suited her at all.
“I’m sorry to have to disturb you today,” I said.
“I’m not sure anything could make this day any worse,” Edith sighed.
“And the sooner you get to work, the better the chance of finding our father’s killer, I’m sure,” said Lavinia. “Sit, Mr. Shenstone, and tell me how you take your tea.”
“I’ll bet he takes it clear.”
“Correct, Miss Watt.” I took the cup, a chair, and careful note of the tear-dewed blue eyes fixed upon me. “Can you each tell me when you first heard of your father’s death?”
Lavinia began. I dragged my attention her way.
“My husband woke me when he came in. It was three or a little after. ‘You’ve never been this late,’ I said. And he said, ‘Father’s been murdered.’ ”
“Go on.”
“This is difficult.” Lavinia smiled bravely. “We were all so fond of Father. Well, when Morris came in, I was pretty groggy and I asked him if this was a nightmare he was telling me about. He said no, that Father had been shot down in the street outside his office. The idea was horrifying, but I still don’t think I was quite taking it in. ‘Who by?’ I think I asked, and he said, that would be for the police to find out. And here you are.” Lavinia paused. “And then he asked if I would wake Edith, and I said to let her sleep, that she’d need to be well-rested for all she’d have to go through today—yes, Edie, I know that was very wrong of me . . .”
“Very,” said Edith sternly.
“But then Morris went and told you, so that was all right anyway.”
“Miss Watt?” I said.
“I was awakened by knocking on my door. I sprang up with a premonition of something dreadful and reached for my robe. I turned on the light on the bedside table. I said, ‘Come
