Night's Child

by Maureen Jennings

  “Well, you’ll find him there, I’ll wager. The man was a catamite.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Here, touch his chest.”

  Murdoch lightly touched the icy skin. The chest wasn’t as smooth as it appeared.

  “He’s shaved off the hair,” continued Bryce in his lecturing tones. “On the chest and it looks like also at the pubis. Of course, I’ll swear to it when I do a rectal probe, but there’s not much doubt.”

  Murdoch wasn’t surprised. The painted face and lascivious pose of the photograph had suggested as much.

  “How did he die?”

  “I can’t tell you that, detective! You’ll have to wait for my report. I have to do a proper postmortem examination. He could have had a heart attack, he could have consumption, syphilis, who knows?”

  Murdoch pointed at the corpse. “He’s been badly beaten and I’d say there are marks around his neck.”

  Bryce nodded approvingly as if he were an observant pupil. “I’d say the poor wretch has been strangled. But there are other traumas. See there. His left shin is quite shattered and there are at least two ribs on the same side that are depressed. You can see the bruises. More than likely he was kicked. He may have a skull fracture, but I won’t know that until I remove the scalp.”

  “Is there any possibility the injuries were caused when he was stuffed into the trunk?”

  “No, no. Look at his leg. There has been a flow of blood down to the ankle that could only occur if he was alive when he was hurt. My guess is that he was beaten, then strangled, and then his body bent so it would fit into the trunk, which may have caused further damage. I can verify that later.”

  “Do you have any idea when he died, doctor?”

  “None at all. All deterioration has been halted because of the cold. I see no staining on the body, so that tells me he was put into the trunk almost immediately after death. He could have been killed as long ago as two weeks when we experienced that severe cold weather or as recently as a few days past.”

  Bryce attempted to move one of the boy’s arms but it was still intractable.

  “How old do you think he is?”

  “His genitalia appears to be fully developed. I’d place him at about twenty years of age.” Bryce lifted the corpse’s upper lip as far as he could. “His teeth seem decayed. He’s thin, probably not well-nourished. I suppose one should feel sorry for him.” He looked up at Murdoch, who made no comment. “Well, that’s it then.” Bryce removed his apron, crumpled it up, and dropped it on the floor. “I can’t do anything more for now and I have to attend one of my patients who is at the point of delivering a baby. The bookends of life, eh, Murdoch? Mr. Boys is acting as coroner and he’s called an inquest for Monday morning. I should have my report for both of you no later than Saturday.”

  “Thank you, doctor.”

  As soon as Bryce had left, Murdoch took his measuring tape from his pocket and did the best he could to at least get the approximate height of the dead man. He was about five feet tall. His hair was dark and cut short, but there were signs around his nails, neck, and the back of his ears that he hadn’t had much opportunity to keep himself clean. Or didn’t care to.

  The air was stinging with the chloride of lime the doctor used to keep down the smell. The room was bare, lined with shelves that were empty although some large jars were stacked in one corner. A weigh scale, the kind found in most kitchens, was on a backless chair by the table. This morgue could not be called well-equipped, and Murdoch knew most of the doctors who were called upon to do postmortem examinations preferred to use one of the funeral parlours such as Humphrey’s on Yonge Street. He stayed another three-quarters of an hour, taking what measurements he could for the Bertillon files and examining the trunk as closely as he could. It was well used by the look of it, but there were no identifying traces of custom stamps or steamer stickers. No address to help him.

  Finally, he straightened up, crossed himself, and muttered a quick prayer for God to have mercy on the boy’s soul. Bryce had estimated his age as close to twenty but death had erased care from his face and he looked very young. What the hell was Agnes Fisher doing with his picture and why had she drawn a black border around the card? There was only one answer to that: She knew he was dead.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The Sackville Street School was closer to the morgue than Sydenham Street was so Murdoch decided to go there first just in case Agnes was now in attendance. The weather hovered between snow and sleet with an overcast sky and damp, chill air. Even at this midpoint of the morning, most of the houses showed lit lamps and candles. He couldn’t shake off his own inner dreariness either. He’d investigated cases of murder in the past, and one or two of them had brought him to the edge of despair over the darkness human beings were capable of. This case felt equally ugly. He almost doubted that Agnes Fisher was still alive. She could well be implicated in the youth’s death, which would have put her in grave danger. Unconsciously, he braced his shoulders. He’d been accused more than once of being as stubborn as a mule, and he felt mulish now. He intended to find whoever was exploiting Agnes Fisher, but he also knew by removing them he was cutting off only one of the many heads of the Hydra. This was not a happy thought.

  There were no children in the playground, and he crossed it quickly and entered the school through the boys entrance. The corridor was likewise deserted, and this time as he approached Miss Slade’s classroom, he heard no animal imitations, just the children chanting their multiplication tables.

  “Five times eight is forty; six times eight is forty-eight; seven times…”

  He stood outside the door and peered through the window. Miss Slade was at the front of the classroom, waving a stick as if she were conducting an orchestra. Today she had abandoned the pantaloons and was wearing a conventional navy blue skirt and pale mauve waist. Her fair hair was as neatly pinned as usual. The radical New Woman had temporarily disappeared.

  “Faster now, eight times eight is sixty-four; nine times eight is…” She caught sight of him but didn’t miss a beat. “Girls only.”

  Shrill voices rang out. “Ten times eight is eighty.” “Now the boys.” “Eleven times eight is eighty-eight.”

  These voices were much less confident.

  “Twelve times eight is ninety-six.”

  “Reverse,” Miss Slade called out and she pivoted to demonstrate. “Eight times twelve is…? Everybody together.”

  “Ninety-six.”

  That was easy but then she took them rapidly down through the numbers until only a few of the children, all of them the girls, could keep up with her. Murdoch thought they were still enjoying themselves and the excitement of competition.

  Finally, she lowered her stick. “Excellent, children. That was a great improvement. Well done. I want you to give yourselves a big round of applause.”

  She clapped her hands and the class joined in with enthusiasm.

  “All right, all right. That’s sufficient. Save some for the next practise when we will be impeccable. Jane, what does ‘impeccable’ mean?”

  “Clean, Miss Slade.”

  “Hm. Yes, you are quite right. The literal meaning of the word is ‘without sin,’ but as with many words in the English language its meaning has adapted to refer to anything perfect, as in with no error, or as Jane rightfully says, ‘Clean.’” She clapped her hands again, a habit, he noticed. “Now, take out your slates if you please. I have written some sums on the blackboard. Let’s see how quickly you can do them. The first two children who get everything right get a sweetie.”

  With a flourish worthy of a magician, she pulled back a shawl that she had draped over the blackboard, revealing neat chalk numbers ready to be worked. The class took a few moments to settle down and as soon as they were quiet, Miss Slade came out into the hall.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Murdoch. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  She offered her hand and they shook, firmly.

  “Has Agnes come to
school today?”

  “No, she has not.” She frowned. “I am worried about her. Do you have any news?”

  “Yes, and I’m afraid it is serious. The young man in the photograph has been found dead. There is little doubt he was murdered.”

  Her hand flew to her mouth. “I see.”

  “The doctor conducting the postmortem examination places the death between two weeks and two days ago.”

  She eyed him gravely. “How was he killed?”

  “He was strangled. And I’m afraid badly beaten.”

  Almost on reflex, she glanced through the classroom window to see what her pupils were up to. They were quiet, working for the prize.

  “We must find Agnes,” she said.

  “Is her brother in school?”

  “Yes, he is. He has a dreadful bruise over his eye. I believe his father hit him, but he says he banged into the dresser in the dark.”

  She pulled out a watch from a pocket in the bodice of her silk waist. The watch was unadorned steel and attached to a chain, masculine style. An ebony charm dangled from the fob end of the chain and he wondered what it signified.

  “We will be having playtime in only ten minutes. If you will wait until then, I will dismiss the class. I would prefer to keep things as normal as possible for now. I’ll ask Ben to stay behind. You can speak to him in the classroom.”

  “Do you wish to be present?”

  She smiled at him ruefully. “Mr. Murdoch, if I am present, there is some chance he will confide in you. If I am not, you might as well put him on the rack, he will not utter a word.”

  “Very well. Why don’t I go back outside so the children don’t see me. As soon as I know they are set free, I’ll return.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Murdoch, that is most thoughtful of you.”

  She went back into the classroom, which was still quiet. Miss Slade might involve her pupils in games but she commanded their respect. He thought they were lucky children. His memories of school were definitely not as agreeable as he supposed those her students would have. The priests and nuns who had taught him firmly believed that the mind was stimulated by corporal punishment. From buttocks to brain. As for learning being fun, that hadn’t occurred to them either.

  He went outside and walked up and down until the ten minutes was up and both doors burst open and the children surged out. At least, the boys surged, the girls were much more demure. With arms linked, in twos or threes, they proceeded to walk around the perimeters of the schoolyard while the boys immediately began to play tag around the trees. As unobtrusively as he could, Murdoch made his way back to the classroom.

  Ben was sitting in one of the desks near the front and Miss Slade was beside him talking. The boy’s head was lowered and he was staring at the top of his desk as if there was some excruciating puzzle scratched there. Murdoch gave a tap on the door, then went in. Ben gave one quick, frightened glance at him then resumed his downward, fixed stare. Miss Slade touched the boy lightly on the arm.

  “Ben, we are very concerned about Agnes. She has not been in school for the past two days. You say she is with your sister, but we must find her. Will you help Mr. Murdoch?”

  There was no response from the child except a slight shrinking down into his seat. He had a nasty bruise and lump above his eye. Miss Slade indicated to Murdoch to take the closest desk and he squeezed himself into the seat.

  “Ben, do you know why Aggie isn’t in school?”

  The boy shook his head, not looking up.

  “And she hasn’t been at home?”

  Another shake.

  “She’s with your sister, but you still don’t know where that is?”

  “No, I don’t,” Ben whispered.

  Murdoch hesitated. “You know, son, when I was a lad, my pa used to haul off and give me a stoter when he’d been drinking, just like the one you’ve got over your eye. When I grew up, I decided to become a police officer because I thought I’d like to do what I could to protect people who couldn’t defend themselves against such men, like women and children and the crippled–”

  The boy looked at him in alarm. “You’re not going to arrest Pa are you?”

  Murdoch couldn’t promise that and he glanced over at Amy Slade, not wanting to dump everything into her lap but thinking she might know what to say. She did.

  “Ben, do you remember that story we all read about the fox and the chickens? Well, remember how we all discussed that we can’t be angry at the fox because that is his nature to catch and eat chickens?”

  The boy looked rather bewildered but he nodded.

  Amy searched around for words, for once at a loss. “Do you remember that we said that as human beings we are considered to be superior to the animals. We have brains and souls…Unfortunately, Ben, there are some men who have never risen above their animal nature. They become like the foxes and young girls are like the chickens.”

  “They eat them, you mean?” Ben asked, his eyes wide with horror.

  “Oh my Lord. No, not that but…”

  “They do them harm,” finished Murdoch. Something flickered across the boy’s face and he thought that Ben knew what he was talking about. “The point is we need to find your sister as soon as possible, but we absolutely cannot do it without your help.”

  “You’re like the boy who saves the flock,” interjected Miss Slade.

  Ben’s face lit up. The idea of being a hero obviously appealed to him. He met Murdoch’s eyes. “Did you put your pa in jail when you got to be a frog?”

  “No…but I sure felt like doing that.”

  Ben ducked his head again. “You know that picture you showed me? Of the dead baby? Well, I’ve seen it before. Aggie had it.”

  “Did she say where she got it from?” Murdoch asked, keeping his voice as neutral as he could.

  “No, but she had a bunch of photographs. I think Martha gave them to her.”

  “Were they all like that one? Were they mourning photographs?”

  “Some were. They were scary…She teased me with them, waving them in my face.”

  “Did she show you any of the others?”

  “No. She said they were private and I was too much of a baby to see them.”

  This had obviously been an ongoing conflict between Aggie and Ben, older sister and young brother.

  A bell began to clang from the playground. “The children will be coming back shortly,” said Miss Slade.

  Murdoch groaned inwardly. “Ben, you said you didn’t know where Martha was working, but is there anything at all you can tell us. Did she come home on the streetcar, for instance, or is she close enough to walk?”

  “She always walked ’cos she saved money.”

  “How long has she been in service? When did she find the newspaper?”

  Ben thought for a moment. “It was in the summer when it was hot. Just after we got out of school.”

  Amy interjected. “That would be the end of June.”

  There was a clatter outside in the hall as the children came down the hall. At the sound, any openness in the boy disappeared and it was as if he had fled to his mental burrow. Murdoch cursed. He looked at the schoolteacher and she gave a little shrug. She knew it was hopeless to continue at this point.

  Murdoch stood up. He touched the boy’s shorn head. He wanted to say, If your father hits you again, let me know, but he knew the boy wouldn’t dare. “Ben, don’t forget what I said. Let us know if Aggie comes home.”

  Ben nodded slightly and Murdoch thought he would at least do that much. Miss Slade told him he could go now and he slunk back to his own desk. She accompanied Murdoch into the hall.

  “Please let me know as soon as you have any news, Mr. Murdoch.”

  “Of course.”

  She returned to the classroom and Murdoch saw her go to the boy’s desk and crouch beside him. He turned to leave.

  The children were walking down the hall in an orderly line, all the chatter left outside. Their silence was enforced by the figure of a tal
l, severe-looking man with a red face and bristling whiskers. Murdoch assumed he was the headmaster, Mr. Kippen. He touched his hat politely as he walked past, knowing that it was on the tip of the man’s tongue to ask him what he was doing there. He was only prevented from doing so by the behaviour of one of the boys who seemed to be chewing something. That got him a clout on the side of the head. The lad yelped in protest and the headmaster raised his hand to strike him again. Murdoch stepped forward.

  “Mr. Kippen, sir. I am a police officer and I’d say I am a good judge of the criminal character. That boy you have there is as fine a looking boy as I’ve seen. I doubt you need to worry about him. And I don’t hold with beating of boys or horses, myself.”

  Kippen turned even more red but he released the lad, who scurried away to join his intimidated pals. Murdoch moved even closer to the headmaster and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

  “In case you’re wondering why I’m here, I must tell you, I’m investigating a very serious case of brutality. I suggest you be careful, if you take my meaning. The chief constable is renowned for his soft heart.”

  That was a complete misrepresentation but Murdoch didn’t care. It was either that lie or a punch to the head of the headmaster and he didn’t think the latter was wise. With another flick of his hat he walked out. After a couple of blocks, he’d calmed down a little but was still tempted to go back into the school and give Mr. Kippen the thrashing he deserved.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Murdoch hurried back to the station. It was time to inform Brackenreid what was going on and he wasn’t looking forward to it. The inspector had the finesse of the old barber surgeons. Oh, got an ingrown toenail, have you? We’d better amputate that foot then. Murdoch had a growing and deep conviction that this case required all the delicacy it could get. One slight misstep and Agnes Fisher might be a goner, if she wasn’t already. To his great relief, however, Gardiner told him that Inspector Brackenreid was at home with a stomach upset. Murdoch beckoned to Constable Crabtree and headed for his cubicle.

  He told him the whole story, beginning with Miss Slade’s discovery of the photographs and the disturbing tie to the body found on the lake. Crabtree’s broad face flushed slightly when Murdoch showed him the photographs, but then he looked angry. He had children of his own.