A Lesson in Love and Murder (Herringford and Watts Mysteries, #2)(4)
“Twenty-seven, sir.”
“You’re young. I’ve been at this longer than you’ve been alive. Keep to your task. You’re a good officer and a good man. You leave the big fish to me.”
* * *
*He was bold to say this. Usually when someone mentioned breeding, Merinda would reply, “Breeding? What am I now, a cow to pasture?”
?This was not the first time—nor would it be the last—Jasper Forth was on the precipice of a moment of wooing, only to be struck dumb by her cat eyes boring into him.
?Jasper couldn’t help but wonder why the chief insisted on talking about administrative matters when there was a trolley car sputtering into flame nearby, full of injured passengers. But there were many things he didn’t understand about his supervisor, so he kept this opinion to himself.
CHAPTER TWO
Bloody Trolley Blasts Rattle Toronto
The law students at Osgoode Hall in their spit-shone shoes and starched collars were in for a smoky shock this morning when an explosion at the intersection of Queen and University blasted a streetcar to smithereens. Chaos ensued with the arrival of the medics as well as the fire brigade, who attempted to dispel any last threat from the fiery, singed streetcar. The seriously wounded were immediately attended by medics and taken to nearby St. Michael’s. The deceased, shrouded with black cloth, were immediately removed to the morgue.
The Hogtown Herald
Another one.” That was all Ray DeLuca could say to his jack-of-all-trades assistant, Skip McCoy, as they surveyed the wreckage of the trolley. Skip had already been on the scene when Ray arrived panting. The second explosion in a week. Wires stretched like jagged limbs from the car’s carcass, bursts of flame flickered, and debris soiled the landscape.
They walked among the chaos, the medics, and the officials, hearing among ripples of gasps charges against faulty wiring. Six seriously injured passengers were quickly transferred to St. Michael’s Hospital at Victoria Street. Ten bodies lay in a row, already covered in cloth. Ray could hardly tear his eyes away.
Skip and Ray wove their way through the panicked crowd, smoke stinging their eyes, medics maneuvering stretchers while the police bellowed or pressed whistles to their lips. Ray, who prided himself on being as quick as a fox when it came to sidling up to a scene and making it to the midst of the action, was surprised that Skip had beaten him to the scene of some of the events of the highest magnitude in the past few weeks.
Skip was the first to catch an anarchist group circling around the embassy in a raucous rally the day before Emma Goldman arrived. Skip was the first on the scene at Queen’s Park when the trolley workers first picketed for an upcoming strike. Skip was beating Ray at his own game. Usually Skip trailed Ray wherever he went and took excellent direction. But now?
Ray shoved his way through the line of fire brigade officers, nearly stumbling over an injured young man. On the far side of the wreckage, a tall, broad-shouldered man assessed the damage.
“Jasper!” Ray called, jogging the last few steps between them, being careful to avoid the wiring, steel rods, and bricks.
Jasper Forth ran his hand over his face. He looked tired. His usually pleasant and open countenance was shaded with fatigue and concern. He put a hand on Ray’s shoulder, slightly shoving him back. “I’d be careful. A few fires are still burning.” He looked around.
Ray’s brow furrowed. “I feel like we’re reliving this accident. Osgoode Hall was what—three days ago?”
“The two most tragic accidents in our rail history,” Jasper said blandly.
“Faulty wires?” It was more a question than a statement in Ray’s voice.
“Indeed,” Jasper said uncertainly. He led Ray from the worst of the damage and toward bustling Bathurst Street. Even though the intersection was barricaded, people still bustled around, many leaning through the police lines to take a closer peek.
It was a popular streetcar route, taken by hundreds of Torontonians daily. Ray knew as he looked at the shocked faces that the strangers around him were wondering how it had happened—and how it might happen again.
“Jasper, you look like a hare at the end of a rifle point. Stop peering around so skittishly!”
Jasper blinked tears from his eyes, and not for the first time. Just before Skip moved to the other side of the collision, he made a remark under his breath. Ray replied that it was probably just the film of smoke stinging the constable’s eyes. Despite his recent promotion to detective, Jasper never seemed to be able to keep his entire emotional range from his broad, bright face. Now, Ray saw, he was aching for the senseless loss of innocent life.
A long silence stretched between them. Ray shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “It’s news at least.” Ray thought aloud before he registered how callous the statement sounded. “Last week all I had was the Mackay-Bennet boat finding more of those Titanic corpses and moving them to Halifax for burial.” Jasper said nothing, staring ahead. Ray continued, saying lightly, “And some delegate preferring turbot to trout at a dignitaries’ dinner at the King Edward.”
Ray could almost taste the smell of smoke on his singed clothes as they moved even farther to the side of the street. He realized he hadn’t even gone home for a change of shirt the night before. No wonder the damp fabric stuck to him. The evening before, he was still up to his ears in facts and theories from the Osgoode Hall accident, putting together pieces of a puzzle. Death statements, witness accounts, historical statistics of the railcar’s history.