Let Darkness Bury the Dead

by Maureen Jennings

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  MADGE FINISHED TYPING HER REPORT, rolled out the sheet of paper, and read over what she’d written. She took pride in her reports, which were concise and well presented. This particular incident had given her a lot of satisfaction. Another con artist, a man claiming to be raising money for wounded soldiers. He was leaning on crutches holding a basket and he was soliciting on Yonge Street. He fell into Madge’s trap when she pretended to be a grief-stricken mother.

  “Will the money go to the Lakeview Convalescence Home for soldiers?” she asked.

  “Every cent, ma’am,” was the reply.

  “You’re sure? I mean the place on King Street in the west end.”

  “I’m certain. I shall deliver any donations myself.”

  But there was no such place as Lakeview. She then identified herself as a police officer and was about to charge him. Foolish man might have got away with a protest of simple mistake, but instead, he abandoned his crutches and made a run for it. Madge caught him easily. He surrendered without further struggle. And all of that without any male help.

  She stowed the paper in the file folder, ready to be handed to Murdoch.

  She enjoyed her work with the police force but she particularly liked the “tougher” tasks that came her way. She was being assigned more and more of these as the war continued. A troubling number of discharged soldiers seemed unable to settle into the responsibilities of family life. They drifted aimlessly, didn’t make their child support payments, vanished from the city without a trace. She had to track them down. Those men she could have some sympathy for. The ones she despised were the cheats who preyed on the vulnerable. Lately, many so-called fundraisers had appeared, like toadstools after a rain. Some were like the man she had nabbed on Monday. Others typically went from door to door in the better neighbourhoods claiming to be soliciting for the Red Cross. The gullible or the guilty handed over money. Over the past month, Madge had been given the responsibility for catching such cheats. Knowing that Jarvis Street had been targeted, Madge had spent a couple of hours strolling up and down the streets in the area. The houses were large, grand, staffed with servants, easy pickings for the smooth-tongued con artists.

  Her first confrontation had been with a young man who had obtained money from an elderly householder on Sherbourne Street. Madge had witnessed the entire transaction, and as the young man was walking away, actually counting his money, she identified herself. Unlike the other fellow, he didn’t succumb. He pushed her violently to the ground, cursing and swearing, and ran off. He wasn’t caught, and Maud’s back and shoulder were bruised. After that, mortified that he hadn’t been more careful of her welfare, Murdoch had insisted she always be accompanied by a detective, and he’d assigned Roy Rubridge to be her partner.

  From the beginning, Madge wished she could be paired with somebody else. Rubridge made too many personal comments. Her hair was “luscious,” her dress “becoming”; “a nice armful” he’d called her once. His overly attentive manner made her uncomfortable. She also strongly suspected he was an inebriate. The new temperance laws didn’t seem to impede him, however, and when he arrived on morning duty he had the pained, slow movements of a man who had imbibed too much the previous night. Madge had been reluctant to speak to Murdoch about this but she would probably have to, sooner or later. She was glad today was Rubridge’s day off and she could deal with the child for adoption advertisement on her own.

  She was on the point of seeking out Murdoch to learn what had transpired at the City Baths when he came in.

  “I need you to come with me. It seems certain it was a suicide. We have some identification and I have to notify the family.”

  “Right. I’ll get my things.”

  They headed down the hall, and Murdoch checked in with Wallace.

  “If anybody comes in with information on the Aggett case, tell them I don’t expect to be too long.”

  To Madge, he said, “We’re only going over to Hagerman but we’ll drive. It’s miserable out.”

  They went downstairs to the rear courtyard where the motor car was parked.

  “You said you had some identification on the suicide?”

  “I believe so, but it’s not absolutely positive so I’ll have to tread carefully. I don’t want to give an unnecessary shock to a family that has no connection with the dead lad.”

  Murdoch opened the passenger door. He handed her the little red book.

  “This was with the dead man’s belongings. I’m assuming he is, or rather was, the ‘D. Samuels’ who signed it.”

  He got in the driver’s side and started the engine. He shifted into gear with a jolt and they drove noisily out to the street.

  “Before too long, I hope they will design a motor car that runs a bit quieter,” said Murdoch. He made a cautious right turn onto Terauley Street. You could hardly describe the Ford as responsive. It was like aiming a battleship.

  “Anyway, Madge, take a look at the back page. See, there’s a notation in the corner. You don’t happen to have a knowledge of shorthand in your considerable arsenal of skills, do you?”

  “This is Pitman’s. I learned Gregg’s. Quite different, I’m afraid.”

  “There’s a white feather shoved in between the pages.”

  Madge pursed her lips. “So there is. Poor fellow. Do you think it had anything to do with his killing himself?”

  “Might. The book was being sent to a certain Fiona Williams. By coincidence, I encountered said Miss Williams at the train station yesterday. She was one of a group of young women with strident placards protesting against the war.”

  “Strident placards?”

  “You know what I mean. Caused a ruckus. The last thing most of those present needed at that moment. The sight of the casualties was bad enough.”

  “I suppose we don’t know the connection between Mr. Samuels and Miss Williams?”

  “No.”

  “I can’t believe she would be the one to give him a white feather if, as you say, she’s so anti-war.”

  “My thoughts exactly. The little message and the feather might not be connected. Not everybody knows shorthand. It’s as good as writing in code.”

  He slowed down in order to pass a plodding dray. The bony horse looked as if it could care less about a noisy motor going by, but the driver leaned over to peer balefully at Murdoch. He crawled past before accelerating.

  Madge peered out the window. “This is near where I was going, to look into that advertisement about the baby boy. I telephoned the Star and was able to obtain the address of the person who placed the advertisement. Her name is Mrs. Henrietta Payne and she lives at 82 Louisa Street. Interested parties are instructed to apply in person.”

  “Shall I drop you off after?”

  “No. I’ll need to go back to the station. I’ve got to get into my costume.”

  “Wealthy matron?”

  “That’s right. I’m getting quite attached to the role.”

  Murdoch drew up in front of a row of houses. The house at number 10 had such a desolate appearance that it could have been abandoned. He turned off the engine.

  “Before we go in, Madge, I just want to get your opinion on something.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “It’s not to do with work, it’s personal.”

  “Really, Detective! I didn’t know you had a personal life.”

  Murdoch smiled ruefully. “That sounds like a reproach.”

  “I didn’t mean it to be, Will. It’s just that…well, I think there have been times when I’ve nattered on to you about my life. About Gran, for instance. Emigrating.”

  “I’m glad you did. I found it most interesting.”

  “And I’m sure I’d find your life interesting as well. But back to the matter at hand. You wanted my opinion?”

  He recounted what Steinberg had told him about a young man coming out of the shower room and his attempt to rescue the drowning boy.

  “From his description, I’m posit
ive that person was Jack. I believe he was there with his pal, Percy.”

  She frowned. “Why is that troubling, Will? It sounds more as if what he tried to do was heroic.”

  “Why didn’t he stick around and give his name? Why did he even go to the City Baths? We have a perfectly decent bathroom in the house. I had it installed right after Amy and I got married. Jack actually asked me yesterday if he could take a bath.”

  “Will, I think you’re making a mountain out of a molehill. Nothing nefarious seems to have taken place. Surely Jack and his pal couldn’t have forced Samuels to take his own life? What reason could they have had? Besides, Jack tried to save him.”

  “I don’t know. The only connection among them that I can see is Fiona Williams.”

  “How so?”

  “She and Jack went to the same school. Her brother and he were chums.”

  “That doesn’t seem significant to me.”

  “Probably not. It’s just that…” He paused.

  “Just that what?”

  “Jack doesn’t seem himself at all. He won’t talk about what’s bothering him and he’s avoiding me. It is so odd that he wouldn’t mention he’s been awarded a medal. Won’t even explain how he was wounded.”

  Madge’s words echoed Fenwell’s. “Give him time. He’s only just got home.”

  Murdoch drew in a deep breath. “All right, let’s go inside. Oh, and thanks for listening, Madge.”

  “Any time.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  NUMBER 10A HAGERMAN STREET turned out to be at the rear of the row of houses. They entered a small, desolate courtyard by way of a narrow laneway. The stench from the decrepit privy in the corner was pungent. Five houses backed onto the courtyard and Murdoch assumed that, as was typical of these slums, all the families had to share it.

  “I’m wondering if we’ve got the right person,” said Murdoch. “That handwriting was exquisitely neat. I’d say Samuels had been trained as a clerk. Why would he be living here?”

  Stepping carefully around something foul on the ground they approached number 10A. Murdoch knocked.

  The door was opened almost immediately by a woman wrapped in an overcoat and a shawl that rendered her almost shapeless. A checkered head scarf was tied tightly underneath her chin. At first Murdoch thought he was looking at a woman close in age to the elderly Mrs. Freedman, but then he noticed that the hair that showed around her scarf was dark brown with no grey. It wasn’t years alone that had etched the lines on her face.

  She had started to smile, but her expression changed when she saw Murdoch and Madge.

  “Sorry. I thought you customer. What can I do, sir, madam?”

  She had a thick Yiddish accent. Her eyes were wary.

  “Am I speaking to Mrs. Samuels?” Murdoch asked with a tip of his hat.

  “Yes. That is me.”

  “I am Detective Murdoch and this is Constable Curnoe. May we come in, Mrs. Samuels? I have come about your son.”

  “Daniel? Why?”

  “I’d rather speak inside if you don’t mind, madam. Is Mr. Samuels at home? It is better if I talk to you both.”

  “My husband, he working.”

  A door across the courtyard banged open and a woman, also wrapped in a shawl, hurried to the privy. Mrs. Samuels shrank back in the doorway and the two women did not exchange greetings.

  “Come in, quick,” she said to Murdoch, and he and Madge stepped into the house.

  When he thought about it later, he decided angrily that it didn’t deserve the title of house. It was one room with a low ceiling and bare plank floorboards. A bed took up a lot of the space. There was a cot at the foot, which Murdoch assumed was Daniel’s. Two worn chairs were drawn up in front of a minuscule fireplace. The room was spartan indeed, but he could see how neat it was and how there had been attempts to make it homey—a multicoloured quilt on the bed, crocheted cushions on the chairs. There was a menorah and a single framed photograph on the mantelpiece.

  The moribund fire was giving off the merest suggestion of heat. A man, also well wrapped, was sitting as close to it as he could get, surrounded by a collection of pots and pans in various states of disrepair. He was tapping out dints in a large pot. He didn’t look up.

  “My husband,” said Mrs. Samuels. She spoke to him in their own language. He got to his feet with some difficulty; there was a strangely vacant look to his eyes.

  “He not understand English well,” said his wife. “He shot by a Cossack when we run from the pogrom. Not same again.” She spoke in a cool, matter-of-fact way but Murdoch was jolted. He could only guess at the experiences they had already endured, and now he had to heap the greatest of sorrows on their backs. He had no doubt the boy who had drowned himself was their son. The photograph on the mantel was a younger version but clearly Daniel. And he resembled his father.

  There was a trickle of mucous running from Mr. Samuels’s nose, but he seemed oblivious to it. His wife stepped forward and wiped it away with a corner of her shawl as tenderly as if he were a child.

  Somehow it was that gesture in particular that made Murdoch’s heart sink. He straightened his shoulders. There was nothing for it but to tell them what had happened.

  —

  They didn’t stay long at the Samuels’. There wasn’t very much to say. Other than declaring Daniel to have been a high-strung boy, his mother could offer no insight into his suicide. She didn’t know anybody by the name of Fiona Williams and didn’t know why her son would be sending her a book. Murdoch showed her the strange little inscription at the back. That she was able to shed some light on. Daniel had saved his money and taken a special course at a secretarial college on Yonge Street. He had become very good at shorthand and typing, she said with pride. He showed her his work all the time. At Murdoch’s request, she gave him the school’s address.

  Rather reluctantly, Murdoch showed her the white feather. She looked very upset seeing it. He wanted to go to war, she said, but he was exempt because of their circumstances. She was not aware somebody had given him a white feather. It was likely this could have bothered him. It seemed clear to Murdoch that no matter how much Mrs. Samuels had cherished her son, she had not been privy to his inner thoughts and feelings.

  Murdoch asked permission to inspect Daniel’s effects and she directed him to a wooden box by the cot. Not much in there except his exercise books from the college and a notebook, which Murdoch received permission to borrow. He agreed to contact Mrs. Samuels after the post mortem, which he promised to hurry through so that she would be able to bury her son as soon as possible.

  When they returned to the motor car, Madge pulled out a handkerchief and wiped at her eyes. “Sorry, Will.”

  “Don’t apologize. We’ve had to deal with two major losses in a short space of time.”

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “I think I’ll drop in on the secretarial school Mrs. Samuels mentioned. I’d still like to know what that inscription means. It’s possible it might give us an insight into why Daniel succumbed to despair.”

  “Why don’t you go ahead. I’ll walk back. Give me time to think.”

  “About anything in particular?”

  “Just the usual minor concerns. You know, death, life, love, loss. That sort of thing.”

  “If you reach any conclusions, let me know.”

  “I certainly will.”

  “All right. I’ll see you later. Maybe the meeting with Mrs. Payne will be less tragic.”

  “Why do I have an uneasy feeling that isn’t going to be the case?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  HE PROCEEDED ON HIS OWN to the college, which was in the Yonge Street Arcade just north of Queen Street. When it was first built, more than twenty years earlier, the Arcade had been considered an architectural gem to make Torontonians proud. The years had nibbled away at the facade but it was still impressive. The two-storey, ornate, arched entrance would have done justice to a church. The interior gallery, where the s
hops and offices were located, was covered by a glass roof, which let in light and gave protection against inclement weather. Today there were many shoppers strolling about, happy to avoid the intermittent cold rain. The electric lights that hung from the ceiling brought warmth and cheer. A balustrade ran around the circumference of the second floor and there were more shops up there, but fewer people going in and out. These shops had much smaller frontage and were less desirable.

  The secretarial college was on the third floor, its entrance sandwiched between two second-storey shops. On one side was Lynette’s Confectionery, on the other Wilson’s Cigarette and Sheet Music.

  Union Jacks were hung around the window of the confectioner’s and a couple of open wicker baskets stood just inside the doorway with a sign: “Our boys will appreciate these for Christmas. We will donate five cents to the Red Cross for every dollar spent.” The baskets were brimming with oranges and packets of biscuits. A box of chocolates sported a large red-white-and-blue ribbon. Murdoch paused. He decided that, on his way out, he’d buy some sweets for Jack. He liked toffees.

  Not to be outdone on the patriotic front, Wilson’s advertised discounts for all those in uniform or who had somebody serving overseas. Hmm. Maybe he should get more cigarettes?

  He turned his attention back to the matter at hand. On the door that led upstairs was a neatly printed sign: “MISS WILDIN’S SECRETARIAL COLLEGE FOR YOUNG LADIES AND GENTLEMEN.” Below that, in smaller letters: “REASONABLE RATES.” An arrow pointed upward. “COME STRAIGHT UP.”

  Murdoch pushed open the door, heard a bell tinkle from on the upper level, and climbed a rather steep flight of uncarpeted stairs to the third floor. There were several doors leading off the landing but the only one with a sign identifying it was for the college. This time he was instructed to “PLEASE KNOCK,” so he did.