Let Darkness Bury the Dead

by Maureen Jennings

  “My sentiments exactly. I’d bet my boots young Aggett was here. She definitely runs a blind pig. She probably brews the liquor in the back. She was clever and prepared but you don’t get rid of that smell quickly. Even with carbolic.”

  “Even if we assume that Aggett was here, with the two ex-mayors, I don’t consider that qualifies as a group, do you? Four people?”

  “No, I don’t think so either.”

  “So there were more. And one of our ardent whist players was carrying foreign currency around with him that ended up in Arthur Aggett’s pocket.”

  “The ones most likely to have shillings with them would be returning soldiers.”

  Fenwell had said the words and Murdoch was grateful. He couldn’t go on avoiding the possibilities that presented themselves. It wasn’t going to help anybody if he buried his head in the sand.

  —

  The first address, 101 Hayter, turned out to be boarded up. The roof had collapsed into the second floor and the front door was hanging on its hinges, and when Murdoch looked into the empty room he saw only bits of paper and dead leaves that had blown in. It was an eyesore, but the other cottages on the block were not much better. Corrugated iron was holding up two of them. Murdoch experienced his usual wave of irritation and indignation at the sight of these slums.

  He complained on a regular basis to the Chief Constable, asking him to use his influence to force landlords to maintain the houses. He supposed Colonel Grasett’s heart was in the right place but his response was tepid and nothing was done. Murdoch was hoping the latest scathing report by the city medical officer, Dr. Hastings, would bring results where there had been none before.

  Louisa Street was not far from Hayter, and the houses there improved slightly in appearance. The paint on the door of number 16 wasn’t peeling and the lace curtains in the front windows looked fresh enough.

  Murdoch knocked. After some time, an elderly woman, dressed in black velvet, opened the door. She was bent almost double, her eyes were milky, and she was holding up an old-fashioned ear trumpet.

  “Yes?”

  Murdoch tipped his hat. With the hearing aid in mind, he raised his voice.

  “Good day, madam. I’m Detective William Murdoch, and this is my colleague, Detective Fenwell. We’re inquiring as to the whereabouts of a man calling himself Joseph Oliver. I understand he lives here.”

  She appeared to have heard him. “There’s nobody here by that name. My husband is Isaac Freedman. I’m Miriam. We live alone.”

  “Is the name familiar to you at all, Mrs. Freedman?”

  “No. Our only son was named Moishe, but he is long gone.”

  “My condolences, madam.”

  “What?”

  “I am sorry to hear of your loss,” said Murdoch, more loudly.

  She leaned in closer to him, almost as if she could pick up a scent. Then she gave a little smile.

  “You misunderstand me, Detective. I meant he emigrated many years ago, to Australia. He couldn’t stand the cold weather we get here. We do hear from him on a regular basis but it’s lonely without him, I must admit. We don’t get out very much, and you are the first visitors we’ve had since I don’t know when.”

  Murdoch was at a loss as to what to say. “Are you able to manage?”

  “Oh yes. My husband worked for the Toronto Street Railway Company and he gets a pension. Not a lot, but enough for us to live on. It is kind of you to ask, Detective.”

  Murdoch wondered if the pension would stop when her husband died. Probably. Then what?

  She placed a tentative hand on his sleeve. “I don’t suppose you have time to come inside and say hello to my husband. It would give him such pleasure.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t, Mrs. Freedman. We’re on duty at the moment.”

  “Yes, of course.” She stepped back.

  “I will call again, soon,” he said. “Make sure you are managing.”

  “Thank you. By the way, you didn’t say why you were looking for this man and why you thought he might live here.”

  “He may have been involved in an altercation. He gave this address to one of our constables when questioned.”

  “Is he a criminal?”

  “He may be. We don’t know for sure. Certainly we will charge him with issuing false information to a police officer, if we find him.”

  She flashed the little mischievous smile. “In that case, you must come back, Detective. Or somebody else from the police force. Perhaps the other detective?”

  Fenwell tipped his hat but didn’t say anything.

  “If the man gave this address he may show up here,” she continued. “We’re not in danger, I hope.”

  “I don’t believe so, madam. But of course, you must contact the police immediately if he does show up.”

  Murdoch took his leave. Fenwell did likewise. Mrs. Freedman didn’t close the door right away but stood on the threshold, watching them walk away.

  After a couple of minutes, Fenwell said, “Lord save me from old age and loneliness, Will.”

  Peter almost never made such personal statements, and Murdoch didn’t quite know how to respond.

  Murdoch had liked Mrs. Freedman. There was something about her that reminded him of his first landlady, Mrs. Kitchen.

  “Perhaps she’s more resilient than we think.”

  Fenwell grunted. “Let’s hope so.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  JACK WAS ON THE POINT OF heading up the city hall steps when he almost collided with a man who was hurrying down them.

  “Sorry,” the man muttered. Then he stopped abruptly.

  “Good heavens. You’re Murdoch’s lad, I’ll wager!”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re the spitting image. I’d heard you had returned. Jack, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m Roy Rubridge, one of the detectives here.” And he thrust out his hand.

  He was a husky man, with a wind-roughened face and a bushy moustache. Jack noticed he was wearing a black arm band. He took the offered hand and they shook as heartily as possible considering Jack had to use his left.

  “Caught one, did you?” Rubridge asked. “Sorry to see that.”

  “Thank you, I’m on the mend.”

  “Good lad.”

  “I see you have suffered a loss, sir. My condolences.”

  “Thank you.” Rubridge touched the arm band as lightly as if it were covering a painful wound. “My son.”

  Jack expected Rubridge to elaborate but he didn’t. Instead he shifted his attention back to Jack.

  “Were you coming to see your father?”

  “As a matter of fact, I was.”

  “He was called out to deal with a homicide in the Ward. He’s probably still over there.”

  “That must have been what I saw on Chestnut Street,” said Jack. “The ambulance was taking a body out of a laneway.”

  “That’d be the one.”

  “Any idea what happened?”

  “Not yet. Just got reported.”

  “I think I’ll get over there, see if I can catch him,” said Jack.

  Rubridge thrust out his hand again. “All right. I hope to see you before long.”

  They parted company at Albert Street and Jack proceeded up Chestnut. The laneway was on the west side, just above Armoury Street. Some people remained but they were silent now. The elderly constable Jack had seen before was still standing guard in front of the rope. His cohort had left. The police motor car was parked on the street and Murdoch was standing next to it. Jack walked up to him.

  “Hello, Pa.”

  Murdoch turned and his face lit up.

  “Hello, son. How’d you track me down?”

  “I ran into Detective Rubridge at headquarters and he told me you’d be over here.”

  Peter Fenwell jumped out of the car, beaming too.

  “Jack! Good to see you. How are you doing?”

  “Mr. Fenwell. I’m coming along, t
hanks. And you?”

  “All right I suppose.”

  “How’s Eric?”

  “I’m afraid we’ve had word that he’s a prisoner of war. He’s being kept at a camp in Germany.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  Fenwell glanced around. “This isn’t the place to talk but I sure would like to have a chat when you have the chance. We’ve got so little information.”

  “Of course.”

  “Tell you what. Your father’s coming for dinner on Friday. Why don’t you come as well? I know Mrs. Fenwell would love to see you.”

  “Great idea,” Murdoch chipped in.

  “Do you mind if I give you an answer later?” said Jack. “I’m not good company right now. Soon as I’m livelier, I would definitely love to see you both. So sorry about Eric, but I’m sure he’ll be all right. Reports about the camps haven’t been that bad.”

  “That’s a relief to know,” said Fenwell. “Of course, come when you can.”

  Jack addressed Murdoch. “I came past here not too long ago and saw the ambulance removing a body. What happened?”

  “We’re still getting to the bottom of that.”

  “He looked as if he’d been given a walloping.”

  “It appears that way.”

  Fenwell interjected, “Look, Will, why don’t you drive Jack home? I’ll take care of things here for now.”

  Jack shook his head. “Don’t worry, Pa. I was just going over to have a visit with Percy. I’ll see you when you’re finished. Oh, by the way, don’t bother with supper for me tonight. Percy says his landlord makes wonderful meals. I’ll eat with him.”

  “All right. I’m going to be tied up with this case for a while, but let’s plan to spend some time together soon.”

  “Sure will.”

  “Don’t forget about the invitation to dinner on Friday,” chipped in Fenwell. “I don’t know if we can compete with the esteemed landlord but Mrs. Fenwell is a pretty good cook, as you know.”

  “She is indeed,” said Jack. “I’d better be off.”

  He gave them a salute, and before Murdoch could say any more, he strode off down the road.

  Both men watched him go for a moment, then Fenwell said, “I’m sorry, Will. I didn’t know he was in such bad shape.”

  “It’s hard to know what to say to him. I feel as if he’s fending me off all the time.”

  “He is,” said Fenwell. “Be patient is all I can say.”

  “I don’t have much choice, do I?”

  At Fenwell’s insistence, Murdoch left him in charge and he made his way back to headquarters. He headed for his office, his personal sanctuary. He hoped the post-mortem report on Arthur wouldn’t take long. There wasn’t much he could do until they had gathered more evidence. Before he sat down, he took a peek at the chess board. He was ready to send off his move to Allen. He didn’t think the sergeant stood a chance to escape checkmate but you never knew.

  Murdoch had been in this office for two years now and he’d resisted adding any personal touches beyond a single photograph. He wasn’t sure why, really. He liked the detectives, and the chief and his deputy would never dream of entering his domain; all meetings were conducted in one of their spacious offices or in the duty room. But with the exception of Peter Fenwell, Murdoch had been reluctant to share much of his private life with his colleagues here. Now he sat down and picked up the framed photograph of Amy that was on his desk. She was holding Jack on her lap. He was three years old. They’d had a hard time getting him to smile at the photographer and his chubby face was solemn.

  Only a couple of hours before the appointment, he had fallen and scraped his knees on the pavement. He’d howled in pain at first, but Murdoch picked him up and held him close.

  “Hush, Jack. Hush. Don’t be a crybaby. Boys have to be brave.”

  Jack, with some difficulty, had swallowed his tears, and when they got home Amy cleaned his knees. There were bits of gravel embedded in the wound. He’d taken quite a tumble. But he didn’t cry, although the salt water must have stung.

  Murdoch had never seen his son cry after that, even when he hurt himself.

  With a sigh, he returned the photograph to the desk.

  OFFICERS’ MANUAL.

  PART III—GENERAL REMARKS

  A platoon commander will have gone a long way toward having a well-trained platoon if he has gained the confidence of his N.C.O.s and the men and has established a high soldierly spirit in all ranks.

  The confidence of the men can be gained by:—

  …d) Enforcing strict discipline at all times. This must be a willing discipline not a sulky one. Be just but do not be soft—men despise softness.

  …h) Being blood-thirsty and for ever thinking how to kill the enemy and helping his men to do so…

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  PERCY WAS ALONE, lying on his couch. The ever present opium pipe was across his chest. He raised his head.

  “So, pal, what did you find out? Will I be hanged or not?”

  “I’ll hang you myself if you don’t pull yourself together and stop those damn pipes.”

  Percy smiled. “I wish I could, Jack, but when the effect wears off I feel as if I just walked into Hell and all the demons are after me.”

  “All right. But try to cut back, at least. How’s your hand?”

  Percy waved his arm in the air. “Doesn’t hurt at all. These Chinks have the best medicine going. Well, what’s the news?”

  “None at the moment, and that’s good. The dead man was at the blind pig. I recognized him.”

  “Which one was he?”

  “Big fellow. Blond hair.”

  “How was he killed?”

  “Clubbed to death.”

  “What with?”

  “They haven’t found the weapon yet.”

  “Who did for him?”

  “I don’t know. A thief, maybe. Have you recalled anything more in the meantime?”

  “Not a jot. Blank.”

  “Let’s assume, then, that even though you were pie-eyed last night and upset with the fellow, I don’t think you are, in fact, in your inner most self, capable of killing an unarmed man who is no threat to you.”

  Percy turned his head away. “Perhaps that was true a long time ago, Jack, but I wouldn’t swear to it now.”

  “That was different. We were in a war.”

  “The flesh wasn’t different. The blood wasn’t different.” He reached out and grasped Jack’s hand. “What shall we do now, Jack?”

  “I guess we’ll have to wait.”

  “Should I turn myself in?”

  “I’d say that wasn’t necessary at this juncture. In the meantime, we’ll carry on as usual.”

  “Whatever that is.”

  “Any day now, we’ll remember.”

  “You know what I’d really like, Jack? Right now?”

  “What?”

  “I’d like to go to the City Baths. Ghong Lee told me that for five cents you can have a shower. Imagine that, Jack. All that lovely hot, clean water. As much as you want. It’ll be ecstasy.” Percy swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Can we?”

  Jack paused. “I don’t see why not.”

  Somewhat shakily, Percy straightened up. “By the way, I’ve got myself a chair.”

  “A chair? What are you talking about?”

  “An invalid chair. Good Father Lee brought one for me. Who knows where he got it—he’s got connections everywhere. It’s downstairs.”

  “Ha. Well, don’t think I’m going to push you anywhere, you lazybones. You can walk and you should walk. It’ll do you good.”

  Percy grinned. “Why did I guess you’d take that attitude? But I get tired, Jack, I really do. And when I’m tired I cough. Most unpleasant. Takes me back to life in the trenches. Which is not what I want to think about. So the chair is perfect. I can wheel myself if necessary…although to tell the truth I was thinking I might find one of those sweet little Red Cross nurses and get her to help o
ut. You’d be surprised how easy it is to win fair maidens when you’re in a wheelchair.”

  “Percy, you are incorrigible. But the baths it is. Let’s go.”

  “I’d like to make one stop on the way.”

  “Where?”

  “My very own mademoiselle from Ontario. Parlee-voo.”

  “How did you manage that? We’ve only been here a day.”

  “Let’s just say she was a previous acquaintance. Come on, it’s not far from here. I won’t linger, I promise.”

  Jack sighed. “McKinnon, you are incorrigible. But do me a favour, will you? Don’t wear that ridiculous aviator cap.”

  “Why not? It’s nice and warm.”

  “You look like a dope, that’s why not.”

  “Besides, if I pull it down, it hides my scar.”

  “Oh, all right. By the way, I should tell you that my father is the detective in charge of the investigation.”

  Percy raised his eyebrows. “I presume that means it is in good hands.”

  “Yep. I’d say so. Very good hands.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  MURDOCH WAS WRITING UP an occurrence report about the death of Arthur Aggett. It was still woefully thin.

  Madge Curnoe came in. “Any progress?” she asked.

  “Not yet. How’s Mrs. Aggett?”

  “I was able to bring in her neighbour to stay with her. By luck, she brought up the question of the daughter-in-law. Mrs. Aggett would have none of it, but in private the neighbour told me Lottie’s sister’s name and where she lives. I rang the police station in Mimico and they’re going to get hold of her. They said they could bring her back into the city by motor car. She should be here later today.”

  “The train would be faster.”

  “I know, but I think the duty sergeant fancied taking their motor car out for a spin. They told me they only got it a month ago.”

  The telephone on Murdoch’s desk gave a shrill ring.

  “Excuse me, Madge,” he said, and picked up the receiver.

  “Reception desk here, sir. We’ve just had a call from the alarm box on Centre Avenue. A Constable Handley. He was on his beat when he was called to the City Baths. Seems a young man has drowned.”

  “Isn’t that in the jurisdiction of number two division?”