“Take care, Jim,” continued Murdoch. “Book off if you need to. All right, back to the post-mortem report.”
He relayed what Dr. Vaux had told him.
“The amount of alcohol in his system possibly explains why he doesn’t appear to have defended himself except by putting his hand to his head. The laneway is dark. He was relieving himself against the wall, so his assailant would have been able to come up from behind and take him by surprise. If he was already stupefied, he was probably not too alert.”
“I wonder what the killer hit him with,” said Watson. “I gather no weapon has yet been found.”
Murdoch shook his head. “We’ve conducted a search in the vicinity but we’ve found nothing to date. Dr. Vaux didn’t have an opinion other than that the point of contact was metal with a smooth edge. Assuming the murderer carried the weapon away with him, I realize we’re probably looking for a needle in a haystack. It could be anywhere, including in the lake, but we’d better have another search around the vicinity with that in mind.”
Murdoch looked over at the men. No detective wore a uniform but they were expected to present a respectable image to the public. All of them were wearing sober suits, quiet ties. Not for the first time, he thought the uniformity of their apparel actually made them distinctive. You could always tell when it was a detective at your door.
He continued. “It’s already getting dark. We won’t be able to resume the search until daylight. Peter, anything you can tell us from the canvassing?”
“I’m afraid not. Nobody saw the young man. Nobody heard anything untoward. The only disturbance reported was the one at Mrs. Schumacher’s, which we have already investigated.”
“Do you think that’s where he was?” asked Archibald. “She’s been on my list for a while now. Probably running a blind pig.”
“It’s likely. Her house isn’t too far from where he was found. And it’s minutes from where he lived. He wasn’t wearing an overcoat or a hat although it was a cold night. As far as his mother knew he had only stepped out to use the privy in the courtyard.”
A couple of the men exchanged grins. They knew the situation. Probably grown up with similar facilities.
“Probably he didn’t put on his hat and coat because he didn’t want to let on where he was going to his mother,” said Murdoch. “There were other men at Mrs. Schumacher’s but at the moment we don’t know who they were. Some, at least, were there until the early hours of the morning, so let’s operate on the premise that they had jobs that didn’t require them to be up early and alert. They might have come off a late shift. These days a lot of necessary work is running around the clock. They had some money, or thought they did. But don’t get blinkers on. Could be anybody.” He turned to Archibald. “It’s your area. If you hear the slightest whisper about Mrs. Schumacher, let me know.”
Archibald nodded.
“All right then,” Murdoch continued. “Let’s move on. Call out your items to Peter. We’ll deal with them, then you can all go and get some supper.”
Fenwell began to write on the blackboard as instructed.
“Two youths, one white, one coloured, have escaped from Mimico Industrial School. They appear to have stolen two bikes.”
“A resident on King Street arrested for being drunk and disorderly has been sent to hospital from the effects of tincture of ginger. Dangerously ill. We need to follow up on the source of the ginger.”
“A motor car collided with a horse and wagon at the corner of Parliament Street and Wilton. An investigation is underway.”
And so on.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“FIONA, SUPPER’S ON THE TABLE in ten minutes,” Molly Williams called up to her daughter.
“Thanks, mam. I’ll be right there.”
Fiona turned to the dummy sitting on her lap. “Are you ready for your debut, Miss Happ?”
She pulled the lever that was fixed to a shaft inside the dummy’s back and moved the head in her direction. Another lever on the same shaft moved the jaw up and down.
“Quite ready, Miss Williams.”
Fiona had been practising her dummy voice but she wasn’t satisfied. There was nothing distinctive about it. What would make people laugh? French Canadian? “May wee. I am quite reddee.” No, that wouldn’t work. French Canadians weren’t popular in the rest of the country. She wanted her audience to chuckle at Miss Happ’s wit, not dislike her. She’d learned that from her teacher, Mr. Kelehan.
“Your dummy has to have a distinct personality. You’re just the foil. You can be on the cheeky side but not crude. Never be vulgar. Audiences don’t like to see women being crude. And don’t be too satiric, Miss Williams. Make fun of the objects that most people like to see ridiculed. Soft humour is always best.”
Fiona looked at herself in the dresser mirror. Keeping her lips slightly parted as if she were smiling she projected her voice.
“Quite ready, Miss Williams.”
Darn, that wasn’t any good. She’d moved her lips too much, it was obvious. She tried again. Smile. That was better with the movements. Turn your head slightly downward to disguise what you are doing.
She twisted the dummy’s head and moved the jaw open and closed.
“How do I look? This hat is one of Mr. Eaton’s specials. I bought it two years ago and every year I add to it myself.”
Fiona dropped the head to one side. She wanted to find a way to knock the ridiculous hat sideways but she hadn’t figured out how to do it yet.
Her mother’s voice sounded again from the kitchen.
“Lassie, get ye down now.”
Fiona’s parents had emigrated from Edinburgh at the turn of the century. When her father had died in a streetcar accident two years later, her mother, Molly, had been able to squeeze a good settlement from the Toronto Street Railway and she remained in Toronto to raise her two young children. However, her ties to the Auld Sod remained as strong as her brogue.
Fiona stared at her own image again. Harry Lauder had made an entire career out of being Scottish, and he was one of the most famous vaudevillians in the world. Maybe Miss Happ should have a Scottish accent, like her mother did.
“And what do you do for a living, Miss Happ?” she said, looking down at the dummy.
“I write a column for the newspaper.”
“How splendid. What is it called?”
Keep your eyes on the dummy. The audience will look where you are looking.
She turned Miss Happ’s head so she seemed to be gazing upward.
“I call it ‘Don’t Worry.’”
“That’s an intriguing title. Do you get many people asking for advice?”
“Many, many letters. Ye’d think the whole world was worried.”
Hmm. That was better. Quite funny if she exaggerated the rolling of the r : wurrried.
Fiona stood up and laid the dummy on the bed. It was about the size of a four-year-old, and she had made it herself. The head was papier mâché, which she’d painted. The large eyes were glass and she’d bought them from a man on Yonge Street who was making artificial eyes for blinded soldiers. They had cost a small fortune but they were worth it. She had also purchased a grey wig, which had almost wiped out her savings. But she was proud of the look of the doll. After much thought, she had decided to dress Miss Happ as a rather frumpy matron with delusions of youth and beauty. Rouged cheeks and lips, false eyelashes. The body was made from old sacking stuffed with horsehair, and she’d sewn the clothes herself—an ugly brown walking suit, and a felt hat with a wide brim that was loaded down with false fruit and feathers.
“Fiona. Last call. If ye don’t come now I’m going to give your supper to the cat.”
Fiona wished she had more time to practise her act.
“I thought you were against the war,” her mother had said when she’d heard about the engagement.
“I most definitely am, but that doesn’t mean I don’t pity the soldier’s lot. Look at the letters Duncan has been sending. He said
the comfort boxes make the unbearable bearable.”
“Well, it’s your funeral, Fee. Let’s hope they don’t pelt ye with rotten eggs.”
“They’ll be too well bred for that, mam. The worst they can do is boo me. And you never know, they might even laugh.”
At the door she called, “Five minutes, mam. I’ve just got to do one more thing.”
She returned to the bed and picked up the dummy.
“Miss Happ. I need your advice.”
“Of course, lassie. That’s what I’m here for. It’s my specialty, advising people.”
“What I would like to know is…how long can somebody hold a torch for somebody else?”
Fiona moved Miss Happ’s mouth and rolled her eyes.
“Ah. That is not an easy question to answer, lassie. Look at Orpheus. He loved his wife for his entire life. Risked everything. And then there’s Othello, I suppose. And Leontes. And don’t forget Ophelia.”
Fiona held her hand around the puppet’s mouth. “Stop. Don’t show off.”
Miss Happ shook her head. “No need to get rough. You are speaking of yourself, I presume?”
“Of course I am.”
“And we both know what you are referring to.”
Fiona giggled. “Well, if I know, you must know also.” She gave the puppet a shake. “Come on. Answer my question. What if a girl hasn’t seen this man since they were children? What if her original feelings were those of a little child?”
She forgot to move the dummy’s mouth, and Miss Happ sat slumped forward.
“And then,” continued Fiona, “and then she sees this same person again and she feels just the same as she ever did. She thinks he is the handsomest, most charming fellow she has ever met. But it’s clear he has suffered. And he still suffers.”
She jerked the dummy up. “What is your answer, Miss Happ?”
“Give me the question again?”
“I want to know how long I will feel this way.”
“For the rest of your life, I would say, lassie. A man who is both handsome and nobly suffering is irresistible to a woman.”
Fiona rolled Miss Happ’s eyes. “I can’t believe I said that.”
She threw the dummy to the floor.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
BOTH JACK AND PERCY WERE SPRAWLED on the couches, each smoking an opium pipe. They had returned to the laundry from the City Baths, and Ghong Lee had poured them each a glass of hot baijiu.
“You have look to your faces,” he said. “Drink down, then I make you up a pipe. You feel much better.”
“Maybe there are some things that we shouldn’t feel better about, Mr. Lee,” said Jack. But he tossed back the drink and sank down on one of the couches.
Percy was by then already well into his pipe. Several minutes elapsed while the Chinaman and his grandson set up Jack.
When they left the room to go downstairs, Percy said, “No use being angry with me, Jack. It wasn’t my fault.”
“Wasn’t it? You were the one who got into a row.”
“He was a slacker. I could tell.”
“You knew nothing about him.”
“He didn’t deny it either, if you noticed. It’s not my fault if he was a yellow-belly.”
The silence sat heavy between them. Jack laid the pipe on the table beside him.
“What should we do now?” Percy asked.
“We should go about life as usual.”
Percy screwed up his face. “What the hell is that, Jack? Life as usual. It is beyond my comprehension. Usual is wading in icy mud up to your knees. Usual is being cold and hungry every hour of the day. Usual is seeing the bloke in front of you getting his eyes gouged out by a piece of shrapnel. Usual is wiping his brains off your face. You were there too. You know what I’m talking about.”
Jack glared at him. “I do, but unlike you I’m not wallowing in it.”
“I’m not wallowing. I just can’t shake it off. The stench is the worst. It’s in my nostrils no matter what’s around.”
His face was so full of misery, Jack relented. He got up, went over to the cabinet, and poured out two more glasses of baijiu. He handed one to Percy.
“Here. It’ll make you feel better.” He held out his own glass in salute. “Ganbei. Bottoms up.”
They both gulped down the potent drink.
“You don’t have to understand, Perce. Just act. We’ll take it one day at a time.”
“Okay. As long as you won’t stop me from playing fan-tan.”
“The Chinamen will skin you alive, but if that’s what you want to do, go ahead. Just don’t overdo it.”
Percy raised his empty glass. “Another, please.”
Jack obliged but didn’t fill his own.
“I think I’ll head home now, Perce. I’ve not spent much time with my old man since we got back.”
“Has he said anything about the murdered chap found in the laneway?”
“He’s not going to tell me much while he’s still investigating.”
Percy took a gulp of the baijiu. “It probably wasn’t me that killed him.”
Jack shrugged. “Let’s hope not.”
“Like you said, I was getting all mixed up.”
“You were.”
“But if I didn’t, then who did?”
“I don’t know, Percy,” Jack snapped. “Who the hell knows who’s prowling the streets these days.”
“Maybe it was one of those chaps at the blind pig. Might have been one of them.”
“Possibly.”
“Are you going to tell your father we were there?”
“Only if it comes up.”
“What about us being at the baths when the Jew boy did a diver?”
“Only if it comes up.”
Percy put down the glass. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”
“Sure. I don’t have anything planned, except I might go to Mass. At my old church.”
“What on earth for? Don’t tell me you still believe in that load of horse plop. The God on our side rot. Good boys go to Heaven.”
“I don’t know what I believe any more, so I thought a visit to St. Paul’s might be worth making. Clarify some things.”
“Ha. Good luck with that.”
Percy suddenly reached under the cot and pulled out a piece of newspaper.
“This makes more sense than any Bible.” He shook it in Jack’s direction. “The Wipers Times. Listen to this one.”
“Read it to me later. I’ve got to go.”
“No, wait. It’s a good one. It’s called ‘A Poet’s Dedication.’” He held out the newspaper and recited.
O Motive Force, that makes a soldier move
Great mountains of oppression from his soul;
Let others sing about the varied goal
Of Great Ambition, Women, War and Love…
Jack shifted.
“Hold on,” called Percy. “Listen to the next line.”
Such plaudits always leave me cold and dumb,
Only your charms, I praise, o Tot o’ Rum.
“Very funny.” He stood up. “Don’t forget, we’re going to Shea’s Theatre Friday night.”
Percy wagged his finger. “Come on, ‘fess up. Are you sweet on her?”
“Who?”
“You know who. Fiona Williams. Are you falling for her?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve known her since she was seven years old. She’s a child.”
“May I remind you, children have a way of growing up.”
Jack shrugged. “I’ve seen her once. She seemed like a good sort.”
“Do we have to go?”
“It’ll be fun. I told her I’d come. She’s leaving tickets for us.”
“You said it was a fundraiser. There’ll be lots of rich women who want to know how we are, whether life in the trenches is as bad as it’s made out. They’ll practically salivate to know all the gory details.” Percy adopted a falsetto voice. “Young man, how many arms did you lose, would y
ou say?—Just the two I was born with, ma’am.”
“Oh come on, Perce. They won’t be like that. Most of them are decent, concerned people.”
“You’re being soft, Jack. If they don’t want gore they want examples of bravery and self-sacrifice and honour. Set their hearts aflutter.”
“Give them that, then. They happen as well.”
“I’ll tell them about you, shall I?”
“No.”
“I will. I’ll tell them how you dragged me back to the trench across No Man’s Land although bullets were dancing all around us.” He made zinging noises. “Buzz! Whish! Bullets to the right of us. Bullets to the left of us.” He made his voice deep and solemn. “My best friend saved my life. He should have got a medal. Oops. Wait a minute. He did get a medal.”
“I’m thinking of throwing it into the lake.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You deserve the Victoria Cross as far as I’m concerned.”
“I didn’t do anything different from what a hundred other chaps did.”
“Yes you did, Jack.”
“Besides, I don’t think I was in my right mind.”
Percy nodded. “Who was? It was us or them.”
“Was it? I wish I could be sure of that.”
“Well, you have to admit that the other incident was above and beyond. No doubt about that.”
Jack got to his feet. “Let’s not talk about it, Percy. The poor chump would likely have survived if it weren’t for me. I can’t accept any glory for that.”
“Whatever you say.” Percy raised himself on his elbow. “One question before you go, Jack.”
“Yes?”
“You don’t despise me, do you?”
“Don’t be a dope. Of course I don’t.”
“Just to let you know…I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”
Jack left him, and as the cold outside air hit his face, he realized that, for all his protestations, he hadn’t been really truthful. Especially concerning the now grown-up Fiona Williams.
He must have been lying there for almost an hour, waiting for a lull in the barrage so he could take his chance and get back to the trench. The cold was biting; the vile stench of the mud and water in which he was half submerged made his gorge rise. But the worst was the incessant banging of the artillery shells. They shook his skull, threatened to shatter his eardrums. If the devil himself had appeared and offered to stop the noise in return for his immortal soul, he would have made the bargain.
Let Darkness Bury the Dead Page 13
