“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.
Come to think of it, he had failed (again) to telephone Jem and tell her he’d be late. That is, he’d failed to send a message with Kat or Mouse, the urchins who sometimes worked with Jem and Merinda. The guilt gnawed at him—guilt for more than his silence. He hadn’t been able to pay the electrical bill, and their telephone had been cut off the week before.
He straightened his face so Jasper wouldn’t be plagued with one more thing to worry about and turned his attention back to the matter at hand. Shaking his head, he observed, “So highly unlikely it was an accident.”
“Our station could have used you years ago. You have a better pulse on criminal activity in Toronto than most.”
Ray grimaced. “I can’t tell whether that’s a compliment or not.”
“It’s a compliment. From me. Not from Tipton. Reason I’m so on edge is because he forbade me to talk to you.”
“And why is that?” Ray said, knowing the answer even as he asked it.
“Tipton is under Montague’s thumb, and Montague hates you.”
“No love lost there.”
“I’m not supposed to tell you I suspect these accidents to be intentional.”
“And yet here we are.” Ray smiled.
“I found something last week at Osgoode.” Jasper reached into his pocket “And it caught my eye because it was so unusual. It could be anything, any scrap, really. But I thought it was of interest. Then, earlier, after spending too much time plying tweezers through that blasted rubble, my eye caught on something.”
He extracted two squares of plastic and held them out to Ray. Ray unwrapped the package and found a small wire that he held up with inky fingers. He squinted. “You have a very good eye to see these with all of that going on.” He inclined his head in the direction of the explosion. The wire was slight and black, charred really, but shaped in the most interesting knot. Ray set the piece down and attempted to mime the slight fingers that might have tied such a small, thin wire so intricately.
“I don’t know what it means yet.” Jasper ran his fingers through brown hair still matted in the shape of the hat that he now dangled tiredly at his side. He didn’t stand on ceremony when it was just the two of them watching Skip’s bulb flashing, the medics loading vans to the hospital, and the passersby and witnesses dispersing to be questioned or sent home. “But something about it seemed odd.”
“How did you ever see that amidst all those wires and things?”
“Something Merinda said once, probably. From that Wheaton fellow.* ‘Stop looking for what you expect to find.’ It inspired me to widen my gaze.”