Then, suddenly, through the mist and smoke that was hanging in the air, another soldier half slid, half tumbled over the rim of the shell crater and flopped beside him. He’d lost his helmet, and a deep cut across the tip of his nose had bled into his moustache, turning the once blond hair a bright red. It was almost comical. Worse was his other injury. He’d been hit in his abdomen, and a glistening piece of intestine was protruding through the shredded trousers. He was trying to push back his innards with one hand and hold on to his rifle with the other. When he realized the shell crater was already occupied he tried to lift the rifle but he had no strength left.
“Kamerad…”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
MADGE CURNOE LIVED WITH HER grandmother in a tiny house on Elm Street. It was old and in need of repair but Madge loved it. She’d scrimped and saved to get the down payment and, six months ago, she’d taken possession.
“Going cheap, just needs some fixing up,” the agent had told her. That proved to be an understatement, but Madge was as handy as any man with a hammer and nails, and the house was soon snug and cozy. Just in time for winter.
Although it was almost midnight she was waiting up for her grandmother, who had been called away to tend to a neighbour.
Madge’s wages were decent but by no means extravagant, and when she could, her grandmother, Harriet Cooke, supplemented their income by laying out the dead, an occupation she had followed all the years they had lived in the city. These days, Toronto’s bereaved were more likely to have their deceased picked up by a funeral home, such as Humphrey’s, who took care of arrangements for them. But when there was insufficient money, Mrs. Cooke’s skill was in demand. There were still those who preferred to take care of their beloved dead in the traditional way.
Madge had made up the fire and a kettle was at the simmer on the hob, ready for the strong tea her grandmother loved. She leaned back in the rocking chair, her feet propped on the fender. She was starting to drift into sleep when the clock on the mantelpiece dinged out twelve strokes. Midnight already. Madge felt a twinge of fear. She hoped nothing was amiss. Her Gran was a sturdy woman with grit to spare, but she was over seventy. Madge had tentatively brought up the suggestion of retirement, but Gran would have none of it. “What would I do all day long? I’d kick off from sheer boredom. No thank you, I’ll keep going until I can’t do it any more.”
Madge couldn’t imagine what life would be like without her Gran. She was really all the family she’d ever known. Her mother was a shadowy figure who’d died when Madge was eight years old. Her Gran hadn’t been forthcoming about the cause of death, which she’d called “chest trouble.” As for her father, he had walked out one snowy winter’s day and never returned, when Madge was a mere babe in arms. Gran wouldn’t talk much about him either, except to say he was handsome and a devil both. That left Madge and her Gran, who had been a widow long before Madge was born. They’d coped pretty well in the ensuing years.
Just sometimes, Madge pined for a family of her own. A husband to love and to cherish.
She heard the sound of the front door opening and her Gran’s step in the hall. She went out to greet her.
“Madge, you shouldn’t have waited up,” said Harriet.
“Nonsense. How would I know whether you’d got home safely?”
“I was only a few houses down,” answered her grandmother, but Madge could see she too was spent.
“Sit down,” said Madge. “Your boots are soaked. Let’s get them off you.”
“Will you stop fussing and fretting? I’m not an invalid. And I’m not decrepit yet.”
“You will be if you don’t get out of those wet boots. Come on, the front room’s nice and warm. Do you want some tea?”
“Of course I do. When I don’t want tea you can start worrying.”
Not until she heard the familiar sigh of pleasure as Gran sipped her tea was Madge able to relax.
“How did you get on with Mrs. Turnbull?” she asked her.
“She had a long life and a peaceful death. Her oldest daughter, who is no spring chicken herself, helped me lift her when needed.” Harriet took another sip. She looked over at her granddaughter with a twinkle in her eye. “Poor woman. When we were turning Mrs. Turnbull onto her side, doesn’t she emit the most awful moan. Scared the living daylights out of the daughter. ‘Dear God, Mama’s still alive!’ says she. ‘No, she’s not,’ says I, ‘that’s just the lungs letting go of any air they were holding. When a person dies, everything lets go,’ I adds, just to prepare her in case of a sudden stink. But it didn’t happen. I’d stuffed cotton down Mrs. Turnbull’s throat and up her nose so no fluids could escape. We didn’t have to suffer that.”
Madge couldn’t help but laugh. “That’s one small mercy.”
“They’re waiting for one of the sons to come in from Nova Scotia so she won’t be buried for four days. I promised I’d look in daily. Make sure the corpse isn’t decomposing too rapidly. Should last in this weather if they keep the windows open.”
Harriet put her teacup on the tray beside her.
“So that’s my news. What about you, Madge? You look utterly wrung out. Shall we chat in the morning or now?”
“Do you think you can stay up a bit longer?”
“Of course I can.”
Madge related what had happened to Arthur Aggett and then to Daniel Samuels. To her dismay, she found her eyes filled with tears.
“Mrs. Turnbull died at the end of her life of natural causes, but I can’t get these two young men off my mind.”
Harriet sighed. “I can understand why. But God moves in mysterious ways. I suppose he had a purpose for taking those young lives.”
Harriet Cooke was a pious woman, a Methodist by persuasion and a devout churchgoer. She and Madge didn’t always see eye to eye on religious matters but long ago had agreed to differ.
Madge stifled a yawn and her grandmother wagged a finger at her.
“Get up that wooden hill, Madge Curnoe. I’ll be right after you as soon as I’ve finished my tea.”
“All right. I’ll warm up the bed.”
Madge wasn’t ready to go into an account of the visit to Mrs. Payne’s. Harriet could be fierce in her condemnation of women she termed “fallen.” Especially young women. But for Madge, the feelings Winnie’s baby had aroused in her seemed too tender to share just yet, even though normally she told Gran everything.
She stood up and gave her grandmother a kiss on the cheek. “Night night.” Suddenly she halted. “I almost forgot. Detective Murdoch gave me a box of chocolates. I’ve put them in the kitchen cupboard. They’re Cadbury’s. I’ve had three already. Don’t worry, I left you the creams. Help yourself.”
“Chocolates? What was that in aid of?”
Madge shrugged. “I think he knew a little sweetness today wouldn’t be amiss.”
“Oh, I see. Just general thoughtfulness, was it?”
“Yes, Gran. That’s all it was.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
IT WAS HALF PAST SIX WHEN the telephone rang. Murdoch got to it as fast as he could, a flood of alarm serving to wake him instantly. One of the detectives on reserve was on the other end.
“Lennox here, sir. There’s been another attack. A young lad again.”
“Fatal?”
“No. But close to it. Apparently it’s touch and go. He has suffered a severe blow to the head. His father was the one who discovered him. He was lying in front of the family shop on Centre Avenue. The boy is in the Toronto General.”
“I’ll be right there. Stay by the telephone. I’ll ring you from the hospital.”
Murdoch hurried back upstairs but stopped at Jack’s door. He was muttering in his sleep. “Come on. Quick. Quick.”
Murdoch had got home later than usual and found the expected note propped up against the teapot.
Sorry. Wanted to wait up for you but got too tired. I’ll see you in the morning.
Murdoch had been tempted to go and wake Jack up and tal
k to him then and there but had decided to wait until morning. Damn. Now he wasn’t going to have the opportunity. He scribbled his own note to say he’d been called away. It was ironic that Jack and he were under the same roof now, but they were still communicating by writing letters.
He got to the hospital quickly on his bicycle and the night matron met him immediately. She had a kind face, but there was an air of fatigue that sat on her shoulders like a mantle. Not enough staff, too many cases now. She introduced herself as Miss Gillespie.
“The young man is not yet out of the operating room,” she said. “Dr. Howitt is the physician in charge. He should be available to speak to you within the hour.”
“I understand this was an attack.”
“Apparently so. He had a severe blow to the head. His father and a constable brought him in. I have been asked to relay a message to you from the constable. He says he has returned to the scene of the attack to make sure no evidence is disturbed.” She furrowed her brow. “I hope I have stated that correctly.”
“Indeed you have.”
“I’ve put the patient’s father in my office for the time being.”
“Is the lad likely to recover?” Murdoch asked.
Her eyes met his. “Frankly, it might be for the best if he did not, er, did not continue. I’ve seen such head injuries before, and the damage to the brain can be so extensive, life thereafter is drastically reduced.”
She was simply being realistic, but Murdoch felt a surge of irrational anger.
“Let’s not give up just yet, Matron. We should hear the results of the surgery first.”
She turned pink. His tone had been sharper than he’d intended.
“Of course, Detective. Young men never cease to surprise us, do they? Dr. Howitt is very skilled, and if anybody can save the boy, he can.” She gestured to the hall. “My office is down here. Please follow me.”
Murdoch regretted his outburst, but it was too late to take back his words.
She ushered him in. An older man was seated in a chair by the window. He was bearded, with long, grizzled hair and the weather-beaten face of somebody who spent a lot of his time outdoors. He jumped to his feet.
“Any word, Matron?”
In spite of her pessimistic statement to Murdoch earlier, Miss Gillespie gave the man a cheery smile.
“Not yet, Mr. Swartz. But he’s a strong, healthy young man and that goes a long way.”
“Not that strong, ma’am. He’s had weak lungs from a child. He had bronchitis. That’s why he was turned down for active service. He’d never make it in those trenches. The tribunal board knew that. He just received his exemption.”
Miss Gillespie indicated Murdoch. “This is Detective Murdoch, Mr. Swartz. He would like to ask you some questions.”
Swartz nodded. “Sir, you got to find who did this to my lad.”
The matron left, not looking at Murdoch. It would take a while for him to get back in her good graces.
Swartz resumed his seat, and Murdoch took out his notebook.
“Tell me what happened, sir.”
“I own a grocery shop over on Centre Avenue. Number 77. Morris—that’s my son—always goes over early before the shop opens so he can sweep up, trim the vegetables, and so on. Then we’re all ready for the customers.”
“What time does that take place?”
“Always the same. Morris gets there at five. Myself by six o’clock. We live down the road, not far to go.”
There was the sound of talking outside in the hall and Swartz stopped to listen. Nobody came in and the voices faded, but he remained poised, watching the door like a creature on the alert.
“Please go on, sir,” said Murdoch.
“When I get to shop I see Morris lying across the doorway. His head is bleeding. I think he is dead for a minute but then I see he is breathing. Deep rattling breaths.” The memory caused Mr. Swartz to stop. Murdoch made a sympathetic murmur.
“I start to shout for help,” continued Swartz. “Nobody come. There is barrow there. Vegetable barrow. I manage to pull Morris on to it. I am running fast as I can to the hospital. At the corner of street I meet constable. He takes one look and grabs the handles of the barrow. ‘Follow me,’ says he, ‘fast as you can.’” Again Mr. Swartz paused. “I’ve heard tales of soldiers getting strength that surpasses that of ordinary humans when they’re out there on the line. Now I understand. The constable took over but I could have run all the way to the hospital even if my heart would have burst. I don’t know if you understand that, Detective.”
“I believe I do, Mr. Swartz.”
Swartz glanced up at the clock on the wall. “That was almost an hour ago. Nobody’s come out yet to tell me what’s happening. Morris wasn’t looking good, sir. I don’t know if he’s going to make it.”
“You acted very promptly. That will make a difference.”
“We shall see.”
“Mr. Swartz, do you have any idea who might have attacked your son? Did you notice anybody in the vicinity, for instance?”
“It was still dark. I suppose such a person could have been hiding for all I’d see him. I didn’t hear no footsteps or nobody running away or anything like that.”
“Did Morris have any enemies that you know of? Would he have quarrelled with anybody?”
The familiarity of the words made them sound oddly hollow to Murdoch’s ears. How many more times was he going to have to ask the same questions? Swartz’s answer was also familiar.
“He isn’t what you call a quarrelsome sort, my Morris. Very good boy.”
“Was the shop broken into?”
“I think it was not. Morris was in the doorway. He hadn’t opened up as yet.”
“Did your son ever mention the name Arthur Aggett to you?”
“Never. Why do you ask?”
“He was attacked also. Tuesday night.”
Swartz bit his lip. “Does he live?”
“I’m afraid he was already dead when his body was discovered.”
“Who did it?”
“We don’t know yet.”
Abruptly, Swartz lowered his head. “I don’t understand, Detective. We do nobody any harm. Never. We live quiet. This will break his mother’s heart if he does not pull through. She doesn’t know yet. She thinks we’re both at the shop.”
“I can have somebody fetch her to the hospital.”
“Thank you, sir. That would be a good thing.” Swartz regarded Murdoch. His face was full of sorrow. “I’m not interested in revenge, sir. That belongs to God. It does not change the situation. On the other hand, when you find the culprit, I would like to have a chance to meet him face to face. I want to see what shape the devil can take when he chooses to.”
Suddenly he tapped himself on the forehead. “How could I forget? There was a strange thing. Somebody drew a cross on Morris’s back. It was this big.” He held his hands about six inches apart. “Yellow chalk. You can check yourself. The nurse has his clothes.”
“You say that your son had no enemies that you know of, but might this attack have been more general? Aimed at your family, for instance?”
“I know what you imply, Detective, but we live among children of Israel.” He allowed himself a wry smile. “And Italians. We get along very well.”
Before Murdoch could answer, Miss Gillespie came in.
“Your son is out of surgery, Mr. Swartz, and he is being transferred to a special care ward. You may see him. For a few minutes only.”
Swartz caught her by the hand.
“Will he live?”
She pulled away gently. “The doctor is optimistic. The next twenty-four hours are critical.”
“I’ll go right away.”
Swartz was practically out of the door as he was speaking.
“He’s not conscious yet, Mr. Swartz.”
“I don’t care about that. He will know I’m there. He will live for me.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
DR. HOWITT’S ROOM WAS simply furn
ished with a desk, a couple of comfortable armchairs, and a couch long enough to stretch out on. The desk was littered with papers, but otherwise the office was neat and tidy. There were several framed diplomas on the walls and Murdoch had a look at them while he waited. James Howitt had accomplished a lot, by all accounts.
The doctor arrived with the matron. He looked younger than Murdoch had expected, about his own age most likely. He had a shining bald dome balanced by a neatly trimmed beard, streaked with grey. Like the matron, he gave the impression of somebody in need of a holiday.
Greetings accomplished, they sat down, and Miss Gillespie bustled off to get some refreshment.
“We did all we could,” Howitt said to Murdoch. “He has sustained a blow to the head that fractured his cranium. There was copious bleeding but we transfused him.” He gave his head a stroke. “It is a rather sad truth about we humans that some of our better developments in the field of medicine have been in step, hand in hand as it were, with developments in the machinery of warfare. We can kill more men than ever before with our guns and then save more of them by such things as transfusions.”
Murdoch didn’t have a chance to comment before Miss Gillespie re-entered wheeling the tea trolley. The cups and pot were china and the cloth on the tray was pristine linen. There was a plate with buns.
“I’m afraid I have to leave you to serve the tea yourself, Doctor. I have to deal with something on the ward.”
“I think I am capable of doing that, Miss Gillespie. If not, I’m sure our detective here would be proficient.”
His tone was devoid of any sarcasm, affectionate really, and the matron beamed.
Howitt was reminding Murdoch of Peter Fenwell and his effect on women. He thought he should perhaps take pointers.
Miss Gillespie left and Murdoch accepted the offer of a cup of tea and a currant bun. His stomach was rumbling.
Let Darkness Bury the Dead Page 14
