Let Darkness Bury the Dead

by Maureen Jennings

  “It is, sir. But according to the constable, a detective needs to come and take a look.”

  “I’ll go. Everybody’s involved in the murder case. Is the Ford available?”

  “Yes, sir. Do you want a driver?”

  “No, no. I’ll drive myself.”

  He hung up. Madge was looking at him inquiringly.

  “There’s been a drowning at the City Baths. Number two division say they need a detective on the scene. I’ve got to get over there, no one else is available.”

  “Do you need me to come, in case there is family to be notified?”

  “Let me get the lie of the land first. I’d rather you start to follow up on that advertisement. I’ll come back and get you later if need be.”

  —

  The City Baths had been built in 1904. Everybody knew that a man with a clean and healthy body was likely to have a clean and healthy mind. The popularity of the baths in the midst of the steadily increasing squalor of the Ward had justified the initial expense. The City Council maintained the subsidy so that poor people could afford to go and scrub off the grime. Clean towels were rationed but at least they were available.

  Like most public buildings created to take care of the needs of the lower classes, these baths were plain. There was no need for fancy gables or decorative brick around the lintels.

  As soon as Murdoch drew up in front, an older man who’d been standing in a doorway rushed to the car. He looked frightened out of his wits.

  “Thank God you’re here, sir. Dreadful business. Dreadful.” He was literally hopping in place. “And children around too.” He flapped his hand in the general direction of a little knot of scruffy boys near the entrance. They were eying Murdoch and the Ford with great curiosity.

  Murdoch put his hand on the man’s arm. “Try to steady yourself, there’s a good fellow. I’m Detective Murdoch. What is your name?”

  “Joseph Steinberg. I work here. Seven years, and nothing like this has ever happened before.”

  “Where’s the constable in charge?” Murdoch asked.

  “He’s keeping watch over the body. Good thing I hadn’t let the next group in yet. They would have seen everything.” He paused, obviously struggling to gain control. “Come with me, sir. I’ll show you the way.”

  Steinberg went ahead through the double doors. He locked them as soon as they were both inside.

  “I don’t trust those kiddies not to try to sneak in. Free days are on Wednesdays and Saturdays only.”

  They were hit by the pervading smell of carbolic. It wasn’t particularly warm inside, and Murdoch recalled coming to the baths with Jack years ago and how chilly it always seemed. The building was divided into two sections: the east side for boys and men; the west, with a separate entrance, for the girls and women. The pool was at the far end of the corridor. Murdoch knew that only males were permitted to use the pool, or the “dunk tank” as it was usually called.

  “Seven years,” muttered Steinberg. “Seven years and not a jot of trouble. And now…”

  He pushed open a heavy door. The pool was still. A uniformed constable was standing just inside. He immediately came to attention.

  “Good afternoon, sir. Constable Handley here.” He pointed. “He’s there,” he said, rather unnecessarily.

  The naked body of a young man was stretched out on a wooden bench. Already death’s pallor had seized him. He was scrawny, more boy than man, his skin virtually hairless except for a thin, skimpy beard and dark pubic hair. He was circumcised. He might have been in his late teen years.

  “Can you tell me what happened, Mr. Steinberg?”

  “He took his own life, that’s what. He committed suicide.”

  FROM “A FAREWELL ADDRESS TO THE FIRST CONTINGENT” BY GENERAL SIR SAM HUGHES

  What reck you whether your resting place be decked with the golden lilies of France, or be admidst the vine-clad hills of the Rhine; the principles for which you fought are eternal.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  MURDOCH SENT THE CONSTABLE OUT to watch for the arrival of the ambulance and he led the attendant to a bench and had him sit down.

  “Can we cover him up, sir? It’s horrible to see him lying like that, all white and still.”

  “Of course. Stay where you are, Mr. Steinberg. I’ll do it. If you feel faint, put your head between your knees.”

  The poor man was looking as pale as the corpse.

  Murdoch went to a shelf and picked up a couple of towels and draped them over the body. He paused for a moment. A few years ago he would have murmured a prayer, but he hadn’t done that for a long time.

  He returned to the attendant, who had indeed put his head down.

  “I realize what a dreadful shock this has been, Mr. Steinberg, but I do need to take a statement. All right?”

  The attendant straightened up. “Go ahead. I’m better.”

  Murdoch took out his notebook and pencil. “First of all, why do you say he was a suicide?”

  “Because nobody holds on to the drain in the pool unless they want to drown themselves.”

  “Are you sure that’s what happened, Mr. Steinberg?”

  “Absolutely sure. I could see him.”

  “It would take enormous determination to kill yourself in that way. It’s contrary to every instinct for survival.”

  “There’s no doubt, sir.” The attendant looked as if he might break down again but he fought for control. “I was just about to open the entrance doors, see. The first shift was waiting outside but I won’t let them in until they line up. They’re the under-twelves, you see. You have to keep a keen eye on them or they’ll try to sneak in without a ticket in the crush.”

  He paused. Murdoch waited, knowing he had to tell it in his own way.

  “So there I am trying to get some order to prevail, when all of a sudden behind me I hear the crash of the shower room door. Somebody shouted. I don’t know who. I turn to see what’s the fuss and this young man comes rushing out. Before I could do anything about it, he runs down to the pool door. He’s mother naked, and that’s not allowed here, you have to wear a swimming costume. And it’s an extra five cents to swim. I shout, but he could have been deaf for all the notice he took.” Steinberg licked his dry lips. “I’m a touch aggravated, as you can imagine. I’m responsible for the proper running of this place and rules are rules. So, quick as a flash, I close the outside door to keep those children out. I lock it as a precaution and I go after him. He’s gone through into the pool by then but I follow and go inside.”

  He stopped again, and Murdoch thought that in spite of his upset Mr. Steinberg was rather enjoying the drama of the situation and the attention it was bringing him.

  “At first, I can’t understand where on earth he’s got to. There are no changing rooms in the pool area where he could be. Then I see he’s at the bottom of the deep end.” An expression of genuine horror came into the attendant’s eyes. “He wasn’t swimming at all. He was holding on to the drain.” He shuddered. “There’s a powerful suction from the drain which I’ve always been a bit nervous about. The kiddies sometimes like to dare each other and play with it. But it must have helped keep him there.”

  “Did you try to pull him out?” Murdoch asked. Steinberg’s clothes were dry.

  “I can’t swim and I’ve got a withered arm, see?” He stretched out his arms so Murdoch could see the left was considerably shorter than the right. “From birth. Useless. So I run out to the corridor and start to call for help. Thank God another young man dashes out of the shower room. I can’t even speak at this point so I just wave to the pool area. Must have been written all over my face that something bad had happened.

  “He races down the corridor, me after him fast as I can. He opens the door and sizes up the situation at once. He dives in right away. He’s only in his underwear, you see. The first fellow has let go of the grate by now and he’s just drifting down there. The second chap has to go down a couple of times before he’s able to bring up the bo
dy, but finally he does. Took both of us to drag him out of the water, what with me and my arm. We lay him out on his back and the chap tries doing artificial ventilation but it’s not doing much good. He says to me to go and fetch a constable from the beat and bring him back immediately, so that’s what I do. At first there’s no officer in sight. Where are they when you need them, eh, Detective? Then just when I was about to give up one waltzes by. I tell him what’s happened and bring him straight to the pool. The young fellow is still pumping but he looks like he’s going to keel over. He don’t look in the best of health himself. He’s got one of them racking coughs. Could have been consumptive. Right away the constable has him move back and he checks out the body. ‘He’s a goner. Nothing more you can do,’ says he.”

  “How long was the man trying the pumping?”

  “From the time we pulled him out of the water and to the time I got back, it would be twenty or thirty minutes at least. The officer says he’ll have to go and ring headquarters and get an ambulance to come. Says for us to stay with the body. So off he goes. The young fellow was dripping wet and he was shivering like all get out. ‘I’m going to dry off and get dressed,’ he says to me. So without another word, he leaves me with this corpse who’s looking more and more like a dead fish. Fortunately, the constable doesn’t take too long. He says he’s rung headquarters and somebody will come right away. He’ll take over now. He tells me to go outside and keep a watch for the police motor. Says to send everybody away who’s wanting to come in. So I did just what he said and I put up the Closed sign.”

  “Good. Right thing to do.”

  “Thank you, sir. It’s easy to lose your wits in a situation like this.”

  “Most definitely. Do you know what’s happened to the would-be rescuer?”

  “No, I don’t. Maybe he went home, seeing as there was no more he could do.”

  “Did he give you his name?”

  “No, he didn’t, which is a shame because in my view he’s a hero, even if he couldn’t save the poor lad. It was extra hard for him because he’d got a bad arm.”

  “A bad arm?”

  “Yes, sir. Not like me, but he was favouring it quite a bit. I heard him actually yelp when we lifted up the body. In fact, he and his friend both looked like they’d been in the wars.”

  “He was with another man?”

  “They came in together and were chatting with each other so I assumed they was friends. The other fellow had the shakes. When he handed me his ticket he almost dropped it, and he had the most dreadful scar on his forehead. As if he’d been branded by the devil himself.”

  Murdoch stared at him for a moment. “But this friend didn’t help with the attempted rescue?”

  “No. I didn’t see hide nor hair of him. Just the dark-haired one.”

  “You said you heard somebody shout just before the first fellow ran out of the shower room. Could you make out who it was and what he shouted?”

  “No. It might have been the dead lad himself. But I couldn’t make out what he said.”

  Before they could continue, there was a knock on the door and Constable Handley poked his head inside.

  “Excuse me, sir. The ambulance is here. Shall I have them come down?”

  “Right away.” Murdoch gazed down at the body. Poor lad. He wondered what was so badly wrong in his life that he saw this as the way out.

  He turned back to the attendant. “Where are his clothes?”

  “They’ll be in the change room I suspect.”

  “Let’s take a look.” Murdoch addressed Constable Handley now. “Have the body taken to the morgue. I’ll come there as soon as I can.”

  Steinberg led the way down the corridor, the bunch of keys clipped to his belt jangling.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE AIR IN THE CHANGING ROOM was dank, tinged with the ubiquitous carbolic, but the smell from too many unwashed bodies and clothes overwhelmed the efforts to keep the place clean. The communal showers were at the far end behind a tiled partition that reached partway to the ceiling, not for reasons of privacy but to serve as a backsplash for the water from the half a dozen faucets attached to the wall. A battered sign on the partition declared “ENTRANCE ONLY.” An arrow pointed in the correct direction. Next to that was another sign: “NO SPITTING ALLOWED. IF CAUGHT YOU WILL BE BARRED.” And beside that: “USE THE URINALS IN THE TOILET ROOM. DO NOT USE THE SHOWER.” There were shelves with rows of wire baskets along all four walls, and wooden benches in front of them.

  “The men put their clothes in the baskets while they are taking a shower,” said Steinberg. “If they are going to the dunk tank they have to wear a regulation bathing costume. Those are loaned out free of charge.”

  “Do you have a problem with theft?” asked Murdoch. He could see no way to secure the contents of the baskets.

  “I’m happy to say we do not. Too many observant eyes. Most of our patrons live by the ‘Don’t do unto others what you don’t want them to do unto you’ motto. You don’t steal my things and neither will I steal yours. Besides, in most cases you would be exchanging rags for rags.”

  “Those must belong to our fellow,” said Murdoch, pointing to the only basket that wasn’t empty. He removed it from the shelf and placed it on the bench.

  Contrary to Mr. Steinberg’s comment about rags, the clothes were decent enough, if on the shabby side. A brown overcoat, relatively new, was on the top; under it was a grey woollen jacket, patched at the elbows, and a pair of black trousers, also patched. A thin white shirt; the collar had been turned not too long ago. Darned socks. A pair of worn black boots were tucked underneath the clothes. Underneath them was a brown envelope.

  The name on the front gave him a jolt: “To Miss Fiona Williams.”

  He turned the envelope over in his hands. There was a name and address written on the back in the same immaculate handwriting: “D. Samuels, 10A Hagerman Street.”

  The flap of the envelope hadn’t stuck properly, and, carefully, Murdoch tugged it open.

  There was a slim red book inside. Canada In Flanders, by Sir Max Aitken. Murdoch knew it well. It had been published the previous year and had sold like hotcakes. He had bought himself a copy, eager to study the maps of the battles that had occurred since the war began. By then Jack had already been sent to the Front, and he wanted to understand as much as he could about what his son might be facing.

  “D. Samuels” had signed and dated the front page, “May 15, 1916.” Murdoch turned to the back. There was the same neat signature and address. But this time, in the lower corner of the page, was another date, “Sept. 1915,” and underneath it a series of what looked like ink scratches. The ink and handwriting were identical to that of the signature and address above. Murdoch knew enough to recognize this was in fact Pitman shorthand. Clerks and secretaries used it to transcribe verbatim what an employer was dictating. But what the shorthand message said, Murdoch had no idea.

  He was about to replace the book in the envelope when he noticed there was something pressed between the pages. It was a small white feather.

  “Oh dear me. I wonder who gave him that?” said Steinberg, who had been watching keenly.

  Murdoch knew that some young women earlier in the war had got into the deplorable habit of handing young men who weren’t in uniform a white feather, a symbol of cowardice. He hadn’t seen it lately, thank goodness, as it had become increasingly obvious that the war ministry couldn’t snatch up every possible young man—someone had to keep things going at home. He wondered who had given it to Samuels and how it had affected him, if it had anything to do with his suicide.

  He returned the feather to the book and tucked it inside his own jacket. The envelope he returned to the basket. The attendant was watching him anxiously.

  “Bad business, what’s happening in the world these days.”

  “Indeed it is,” said Murdoch. He could feel his eyes starting to burn with the amount of carbolic in the air. “Is there somewhere more comfortable we can go
to talk?”

  “There’s a room at the end of the corridor. The attendant on duty is permitted to use it for his tea.”

  “Let’s go there, then. Can we lock this door?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Steinberg selected a key from the bunch at his waist and locked the door.

  The door to the pool room was open. The body had been removed. The pool was still, no ripples disturbed the surface.

  The tea room was more like a cubbyhole than a room and it reminded Murdoch of his first so-called office at number four station. At least this room had a door. He’d had to rely on a bead curtain in his old office.

  There was space for two wooden chairs, a standing cupboard, and a tiny oil stove with two rings. No sink, but a water jug and bowl on a washstand.

  “Don’t suppose you’d want a cup of tea, would you, sir?” asked Steinberg.

  “Not right now, but make one for yourself if you like.”

  The attendant busied himself with filling the kettle and preparing the teapot. He was quite adept, despite being effectively one-armed.

  He poured some weak-looking tea that was barely steaming, carried his cup over to the other chair, and sat down. He took a gulp of the brew.

  “Thank goodness I remembered to put up the CLOSED sign.” He glanced over the rim of his cup at Murdoch for approbation. Murdoch nodded.

  “Let’s go over what happened again. If anything else comes to you, just add it.”

  Murdoch forced himself to concentrate. The description of the young man who had tried to save Samuels fit Jack to a T. And the scarred pal was certainly Percy McKinnon.

  What had the shout been all about? What had so distressed Samuels that he had rushed to take his own life?

  FROM CANADA IN FLANDERS

  When Dominion Day came they remembered with pride that they were the Army of a Nation, and those who were in the trenches displayed the Dominion flag, decorated with flowers of France, to the annoyance of the barbarians, who riddled it with bullets….

  But the shouting baseball teams and minstrel shows, with their outrageous personal allusions, the skirl of the pipes and the choruses of well-known ragtimes, moved men to the depths of their souls. For this was the first Dominion Day that Canada had spent with the red sword in her hand.