Let Darkness Bury the Dead

by Maureen Jennings

  “Really, madam,” spluttered Mrs. Payne. “Watch what you say. There are children here.”

  “And if I or anybody else is going to proceed with this adoption, we will need to know much more about this supposed father. I would want his medical history, for instance. And a statement of character from his commanding officer. Likewise for your daughter. We can’t risk any inherited taint.”

  “You have no need to fear that from my Winnie, madam. As for the father, I’m sure he’s also a decent lad. Just got carried away. Isn’t that right, Winnie?”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Madge said to the girl. “Where did you have connections with this young man?”

  “We went to a hotel.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t remember exactly. It was dark. It was on Queen Street.”

  “The same day when you first met?”

  Winnie nodded.

  “How on earth did you convince them you were man and wife?” Madge asked.

  “Er, we didn’t. John had a room there, and he went in first and I followed a few minutes later.”

  “How long did you stay at this hotel?”

  “Only a couple of hours. I had to get back home.”

  Madge addressed Mrs. Payne. “Did you suspect what your daughter had been up to?”

  “No, I did not. It was only when she missed her monthly flow that she told me.”

  “And you made no attempt to find the soldier who had seduced her?”

  “You heard her. He was going overseas.”

  “Winnie, did you meet this John person more than once?”

  “Three more times.”

  “Always at the hotel?”

  “Yes. Then he said he was leaving but he’d write to me, and when he came back we could walk out together.”

  “Has he written?”

  “No.” She rubbed at her eyes but Madge hadn’t seen evidence of tears. She was beginning to think she was dealing with a consummate actress. Two consummate actresses, for that matter.

  “Winnie, did this soldier give you any gifts?”

  Madge didn’t miss the glance that shot between mother and daughter.

  “What do you mean, gifts?”

  “Jewellery, for instance? A bracelet, perhaps? A necklace?”

  “No. Nothing like that. He said he’d bring me back something from France.”

  “How kind,” said Madge, not bothering to hide the sarcasm. She had a feeling Winnie’s story was much more sordid than the innocent first love she had presented.

  Madge started to gather together her bag and gloves. “I’m sure you can understand, Mrs. Payne, that if we are to continue with any arrangements about adoption I will need to gather a lot more information. I will need a certificate from a physician attesting to the baby’s health.”

  Mrs. Payne scowled. “That costs money. And money is not what I have. My husband died two years ago leaving me with these four to bring up on my own.”

  “Surely you can get relief from the city?”

  “Ha. It’s not nearly enough to keep us fed and clothed. If I didn’t work my fingers to the bone, I’d be in the poorhouse and this lot in an orphanage.”

  Madge glanced over at the three children in the bed. Their thin faces were impassive. This was clearly a refrain they’d heard before.

  “You say you don’t have children, Mrs. McIvor,” continued Mrs. Payne. “Perhaps that’s why you don’t understand how much it costs to raise them. We owe money all over the place, but it was borrow or starve.” She lowered her eyes. “I was hoping that anybody who took this lovely little baby for their own would help us out.”

  Now they were getting to the nub of the issue.

  “How much would you need to pay your debts?”

  “About seventy dollars.”

  “That’s a lot.”

  “But look what you’re getting.” Suddenly she raised her voice. “Winnie. Bring him over. Let the lady hold him.”

  Winnie put down the iron and went to the box again. She picked up the baby and brought him to Madge, who had no choice but to take him. How light his little body was in her arms. He woke up as he was taken from his box and he scrunched his eyes and flailed his fists in the air. He had soft, dark hair, his cheeks were plump, and for a moment his dark blue eyes seemed to stare into hers. Madge began to rock him back and forth almost in spite of herself, making clucking noises as Winnie had done.

  “See, he feels right at home with you,” said Mrs. Payne. “He’s settled right down.”

  “Does he have a name?” Madge asked.

  “We just call him Baby. We thought his new mother would like to name him.”

  Madge addressed Winnie, who was still standing in front of her. Milk stained the front of her cotton frock. “He’s very bonny,” she said.

  “Are you taking him now?” the girl asked.

  “No. There are a lot of details to be taken care of.”

  Madge felt as if, given half a chance, she would turn on her heel, Baby in her arms, and run from this miserable hovel. But she couldn’t raise a child on her own, an unmarried woman, no husband in sight. Could she?

  She got to her feet and held out the baby, who was now squirming in earnest.

  “I must get going.”

  Winnie took the child, who immediately shifted his head in the direction of her breast.

  “When will you come back?” Mrs. Payne asked. “You can’t wait too long. There have already been other people interested in him.”

  “I’ll return in one or two days,” Madge answered.

  “Do you have a calling card?”

  Madge pretended to look in her handbag. “My goodness. I’m sorry. I rushed out without them.”

  Not giving the woman a chance to continue, Madge swept off to the door. She couldn’t resist touching a finger to the baby’s soft cheek as she passed.

  “He really is very bonny.”

  As she closed the door behind herself, she heard the infant wail. Nobody seemed to be comforting him.

  She hurried away, nodding briefly as she passed an older woman with a cane who had just left her own small house.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  ALL THREE OF THE POLICE CHIEFS had their doors closed. Murdoch would have to fill them in on the deaths soon, but he knew they were all tied up organizing the arrival of an important dignitary who was to address people at the Masonic Hall later this week. Pump up recruitment and so on. His identity had not yet been revealed, but everybody wanted the event to throw credit on the city. Rumour had it that it was Theodore Roosevelt, the former president of the United States. Murdoch did know that the private order was to “move along” any protesters: that meant arrest them and throw them in jail, out of sight, at least until the event was over. He wondered whether Fiona Williams and her friends were planning to stage a protest at the event. He liked the girl and didn’t want her to come to harm.

  He picked up the notebook that he’d taken from Daniel’s box. A date was written neatly at the top of each page, and below that, a series of notations. The most recent page said “WEDNESDAY NOVEMBER 21.” He must have written it before he went to the City Baths.

  “In 22 throws: Cr. 5x; Anchor 7x; Heart 2x; Diamond 1x; Club 3x; Spade 4x. Won 75 c.”

  It looked as if the boy had been gambling. He was noting plays in the game of Crown and Anchor, keeping track of what came up and what didn’t.

  Murdoch turned back to the first set of notations: “OCTOBER 31.” Daniel had also written down an address, 48 Chestnut Street. Well, well. It seemed as if he had been a regular visitor to Mrs. Schumacher’s tea-and-chat establishment. And whist was not the game he’d played. Murdoch wondered if that was where he’d been given the white feather. By Arthur Aggett, perhaps? If so, had he been provoked to retaliate? How far can a lad described as shy and quiet be pushed before he commits an act of violence? And having committed such an act, had remorse caused him to take his own life? And where did Jack, almost hero of the hou
r, come into the picture? The most likely person to be carrying foreign money was a man who had been overseas. Such as Jack.

  “Will, have you got a minute?” Peter Fenwell was standing in the doorway.

  “Of course. Come in. Have a seat.”

  Murdoch cleared a chair where he’d piled the latest newspapers. He had a tendency to use any available surface as a storage area. Probably a holdover from his days at number four station, where all he’d had was the alcove.

  “Let me just do one thing,” he said to Fenwell, and he picked up the telephone that connected him with the reception desk.

  “Wallace, I want you to ring Elias Rogers. Order two sacks of coal to be delivered to 10A Hagerman Street, a Mrs. Samuels. Have them bill me.”

  He hung up.

  “You know that’s just a drop in the bucket,” said Fenwell. “Are you personally going to feed and warm all of the paupers in the city?”

  Murdoch shrugged. “This family has been dealt a particularly hard blow. Why add a cold winter to their misery?” Murdoch couldn’t get rid of the image of that single freezing room and the two people swaddled into almost unrecognizable shapes.

  The clock chimed the quarter hour.

  “Good gracious, the office meeting is in fifteen minutes. Did you want to talk to me about something before it starts?”

  “Yes, I did. I’m afraid it’s rather delicate.”

  “In that case, I’d better have a smoke.” Murdoch fished out his pipe from his desk and, taking a twist of tobacco, he filled the bowl. A couple of draws got him going.

  “I think one of our detectives has stepped out of bounds,” said Fenwell. “He’s buying illegal liquor.”

  “Damn. Who is it?”

  “I don’t know yet. But you know that nab we did last week on Parliament Street? Used to be the John O’Neill Tavern?”

  Murdoch nodded. “I know it well. They were supposed to be closed down. I must say, I feel sorry for the tavern owners. How are they going to make a living now? But we didn’t find anything on that raid.”

  “More than likely they were tipped off we were coming. Clean as a whistle when we got there. Just a group of sober men drinking tea and playing whist.”

  “That seems to have become the game of choice across the city,” said Murdoch.

  “We couldn’t really lay any charges that would stick. There was a man working there, said he was a janitor. He came in to the station yesterday. Turns out he’d been caught a couple of weeks ago dispensing extract of ginger. About to make 80-percent-proof ginger beer I suppose. Said if I reduced his fine, he’d give me valuable information concerning one of our officers.”

  Fenwell paused.

  “And?” said Murdoch.

  “I wasn’t about to get into that kind of bargaining. I said it was his duty to tell me if one of our men was doing something illegal. He gave me what I’d call a nasty look and clammed up. I couldn’t get anything else out of him.”

  “Do you believe it’s true, what he said?”

  “I doubt he would have brought it up if it wasn’t. I’m afraid it’s pointing at Roy Rubridge.”

  “Right.”

  “You’re not surprised?”

  “No. Poor blighter. I think he might have come back to work too soon.”

  “I mean the fact that he’s had something to drink isn’t against the law. As you know, a doctor can prescribe alcohol if he thinks it necessary for a person’s health.”

  Murdoch grimaced. “The number of people who suddenly need a bottle of whisky for their lumbago has increased dramatically.”

  Murdoch’s telephone rang. It was Wallace.

  “Everybody’s in the duty room, sir. And Dr. Vaux is on the line, sir. He says he has some preliminary post-mortem results on Arthur Aggett and Daniel Samuels. Do you want to take the call now or later?”

  “Now. Have him hold on.”

  Murdoch covered the mouthpiece of the telephone. “Peter, would you mind telling everybody I’ll be there in a few minutes? I’d like to talk to Dr. Vaux before we start. And we’ll talk more about that other matter. I want to proceed carefully.”

  Fenwell left.

  “Put me through please, Wallace.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  DR. RAYMOND VAUX WAS THE SON OF a physician Murdoch had worked with many years ago. He was very meticulous about his work and cautious about what he said to the living. Murdoch liked both qualities.

  The doctor’s deep, rumbly voice came on the line. “I’ve done preliminary post mortems on both young men. I’ll run some further tests, blood analysis, stomach contents, and so on, but I don’t expect to find anything unusual, and I thought you’d like to know sooner rather than later what I’ve determined.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “I’ll start with the suicide case first, then. There is no doubt that the cause of death was drowning. His lungs were filled with water. He was basically a healthy young fellow, a bit on the thin side but not undernourished. His teeth were good. Any idea why he chose to kill himself, Murdoch?”

  “Nothing definitive, I’m still investigating.”

  “All right, then. The homicide. Arthur Aggett. The cause of death was multiple blows to the cranium. I would say he was struck at least four or five times with great force. I would say the weapon was metal. Not sharp but with a smooth, rigid edge.”

  “Any ideas as to what it might be?”

  “I really don’t know. I haven’t seen anything like it before now. There was a scratch on his face but I don’t believe it was recent. There were no abrasions anywhere else on his body, but his fingers were badly bruised. One knuckle was broken. He must have put up his hand to defend himself. There was a considerable amount of alcohol in his stomach. Food partially digested indicates a meat dish consumed several hours before he died.”

  “Would the assailant have blood on his person?”

  “Not necessarily. There were no arteries severed. He might have some on his hands, depending on how close he was to the victim’s head. That’s about it. Not a lot to go on, I’m afraid.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  “Good luck with your investigation, Detective. Terrible waste of life. They both might have been serving their country.”

  They hung up.

  Murdoch clicked the receiver to reconnect with the clerk on the desk.

  “Wallace. Do me a favour, will you? Ring my home, see if you can get hold of my son. If he does answer, tell him I’d like to talk to him. Come and get me. I’ll be in the meeting.”

  Murdoch picked up his notes and went to join the other detectives.

  —

  There were eighteen detectives stationed at headquarters, including Murdoch. Their average age must have been about a half century; all detectives were expected to have first served at least six years on the beat and two as acting detective at one of the other stations. Murdoch had been promoted to the rank of senior detective a year ago, and as far as he was concerned, the challenge of melding such a disparate group of personalities into a cohesive and efficient team never ended. On the one hand, there was the earnest, dogged Baldy Watson. He’d acquired his nickname for obvious reasons, but the smooth pate gave him a professorial air that had proved on many an occasion to be completely misleading. At the other end of the spectrum was the newest member of the team, Herb Maurer. He was originally Swiss and had a command of four languages. Not only was he the youngest in the department, he was the most keenly ambitious. He and his partner, Stephen Hess, were in charge of the alien section. Lately they had been very busy dealing with war tribunals and cases of disenfranchisement. Mistrust and suspicion flew from neighbour to neighbour with not a lot to contain it.

  The duty room was already thick with tobacco smoke, and the detectives were enjoying a joke when Murdoch entered. Timothy Lennox was reading from the Toronto Daily Star. He was relatively new to the department and had already set himself up as the wit of the group.

  “Listen to this,
chaps. It’s choice. ‘Canon Dixon (major) roundly denied the appeal of J.F. Rutherford who said he suffered from flat feet and wasn’t fit to fight. “I’d say he suffers from cold feet not flat feet. Appeal denied.”’ Lordy, the reasons some of these slackers come up with to get an exemption are completely ridiculous.”

  Lennox was strongly pro-war and both his sons had enlisted early on. So far they were safe. He read excerpts from their many letters home at every opportunity. He also smoked like a chimney and was currently adding to the fug with an appallingly smelly pipe.

  The men fell silent as Murdoch took his place at the table near the front of the room. There was a chalkboard behind him, which he’d brought in from the nearby school. He knew that the others made fun of his schoolmaster-ish tools, but Murdoch found it useful to use the board when he needed to illustrate something.

  “All right, gentlemen. Can I have your undivided attention? You’re all probably getting hungry so we’ll make this meeting short.” He turned to Peter Fenwell. “Peter, would you be so good as to write down the agenda for today?”

  Fenwell went over to the board.

  “The major item is the murder of Arthur Aggett,” continued Murdoch. “For those of you who don’t know, the body of this young man was discovered in a laneway off Chestnut Street early this morning. The time of discovery was eight o’clock but he died some hours earlier. The body was found by the constable on the beat, Constable Mogg. The coroner has been most prompt and he has already telephoned to give me his preliminary report.”

  All of the men were paying attention, except for Jim Archibald, who seemed to have gone into some kind of fugue state.

  “Jim. Are you with me?” Murdoch called to him.

  “Sorry. I’m a bit under the weather. Hot and shivery all at the same time.”

  “You’re probably coming down with the flu,” interjected his partner. Donald Rawlings was a lanky, sallow-faced man who was perpetually worried about contagion. Their specialty was lodging houses and pool rooms, and Murdoch knew that Rawlings’s wife nagged him to move to a different section. After a house inspection, Rawlings had already carried home bedbugs.