Let Darkness Bury the Dead

by Maureen Jennings

  “Will, do you notice you’re swearing a lot?”

  —

  Murdoch had been finishing his reports and was getting ready to take a break and have a bite to eat when he heard shouting outside in the hall. A woman’s voice.

  “You have no right. No frigging right.”

  He went to see what the fuss was about. A woman was being forcibly held back by one of the constables. She seemed intent on getting at Roy Rubridge, who was standing in front of her.

  “Hey. What’s going on?” Murdoch said loudly. “Madam, you’re creating a disturbance.”

  She whirled around. “And I have every right.”

  Even from a few feet away, Murdoch could smell the liquor on her breath.

  She pointed at Rubridge. “He’s had my children taken from me. All my babies.”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” said Rubridge angrily.

  “Yes, you do. The social workers came and said they had had a warrant to remove my kiddies. That I wasn’t a fit mother and they weren’t being taken care of properly.”

  Murdoch interceded. “You must be Mrs. Payne.”

  “That’s right. And who are you?”

  “I’m Detective Murdoch. I was the one who ordered the Children’s Aid to come to your house. There was an infant who was in distress and who had been left in the care of two children who were far too young to have that responsibility.”

  “Bloody rubbish. It wasn’t for long.”

  “Perhaps so, but you yourself are clearly not in any condition to be responsible for these children. They will stay with the Children’s Aid for the time being.”

  Mrs. Payne was too drunk to be cautious, and Murdoch’s remarks incensed her further. She managed to grab Rubridge by the arm.

  “Can’t you do something? I need my children. I love my children.”

  Bubbles of mucous were coming from her nose. Rubridge tried to disentangle himself.

  “They are in good hands.”

  She was purple in the face now. “You! After all we’ve done for you. You owe me, mister.”

  “Let go of me, woman.”

  He shrugged her off so roughly she staggered backwards and flopped to the ground like a rag doll. Madge had emerged from her office and went to help.

  “Put her in one of the cells,” said Murdoch. “When she’s sober, we might have a rational talk. Until then it’s a waste of breath.”

  “Come on, Mrs. Payne,” said Madge. “Stand up.”

  The drunken woman looked up at her. “I know you. You came to adopt Baby. Well, he’s gone now. You won’t have him now.”

  In her besotted state it didn’t seem to bother her that the woman she knew as Mrs. McIvor was currently in a police station trying to get her to stand up.

  Then suddenly she vomited copiously on the floor.

  “Beg pardon. Touch of indigestion.”

  “Miss Curnoe, get her out of here,” said Murdoch.

  “Baby’s gone,” wailed Mrs. Payne. “Winnie’s gone. Gone forever. And all my children, gone forever.” She was weeping alcohol-fuelled tears.

  Murdoch couldn’t stand it any more. He called to the desk clerk.

  “Wallace, fetch a mop, if you please. Clean up that mess. Detective Rubridge, I’d like a word with you.”

  He wheeled around and went back to his office.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  RUBRIDGE SAT DOWN ACROSS FROM Murdoch and immediately fished a cigarette out of his case.

  “That was disgusting. Why we have to deal with such guttersnipes I don’t know.” He lit the cigarette and exhaled a long puff of smoke. “Did you want to talk to me about something? I’ve got a lot to do.”

  Murdoch felt like grabbing Rubridge by the collar and shaking him.

  “Detective. What is your relationship with Mrs. Payne and her family?”

  “Relationship? None.”

  “She seemed to know you.”

  “I don’t think so. She was so drunk she would have claimed acquaintance with the Pope himself.”

  Murdoch clenched his teeth. “I don’t feel like dancing around this, Rubridge. A neighbour claims to have seen a man fitting your description visiting the Payne house over the past months. She says he was a police officer.”

  Rubridge continued to draw on his cigarette.

  “Wasn’t me.”

  Murdoch leaned forward. “They live on Louisa Street, in case it has slipped your memory.”

  Rubridge looked up at the ceiling, still smoking. “Louisa? That does ring a bell. I might have been checking on a complaint that she was violating the liquor laws. It was last year.”

  “I suppose she had second sight, then.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Temperance Act hadn’t become law yet when Mrs. Flynn says she saw a man looking ever so much like you knocking on the door.”

  Rubridge was becoming decidedly uncomfortable. In between deep drags of his cigarette, he began twiddling with his moustache.

  “They’re all alike, those people. They get so drunk they can’t tell a Monday from their rear ends. If I did go to Louisa Street, which I’m still not sure I did, it was recently.”

  “If you went to follow up on a complaint from a member of the public you would have made a report. And I presume I would be able to read it.”

  Rubridge’s answer was a shrug. More fiddling.

  Murdoch tapped his fingers on the desk. He’d known this detective ever since he’d taken over as senior of the department. He’d seemed a decent man, no more reliant on liquor than any of the others.

  “Roy. You have a good record with the department. I’m going to ask you for the truth. Which can be verified without much difficulty.”

  “All right. What do you want to know?”

  “Did you have carnal knowledge of Winnie Payne?”

  Rubridge took a long time to stub out his cigarette.

  “No, I did not, and that’s the truth.”

  “Is that what she’ll say if she’s under oath?”

  “Yes, that’s what she’ll say. I went to that vixen’s den because there’d been rumours that a girl was available. At a price. Frankly, I was, shall we say, hungry? In case you’re wondering, my wife has gone to live with her parents in Manitoba. It will probably be an indefinite stay. I wish I could say we were happily married before that but, unfortunately, that is not the case. Probably Dick was the only thing keeping us together. His death dissolved that tie.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Murdoch.

  Rubridge shrugged. “Say la vee. So yes, I went to Louisa Street to see what I could get.” He stared at the floor. “Winnie was available all right. She invited me in, discussed terms like she was a shopkeeper…then she removed her clothes.” He put his hand to his eyes. “God, Murdoch, she’s a child. Naked she looked about twelve years old. I couldn’t stomach it. I told her to get dressed, paid the agreed amount, and left.” Murdoch looked at the man sitting in front of him.

  “You could be dismissed, you know that, don’t you?”

  “Of course I know it. And right now, I don’t give a fart.”

  Murdoch leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. The silence was heavy between them. Then he straightened up.

  “Roy, I’m going to order you to take a short leave of absence. You need to get yourself together. We’ll say it’s a medical leave. You can make up the reason. I want you to take a month off.”

  Rubridge took another cigarette from his case and lit it. “I hope you don’t want thanks. I have no desire to be the subject of office tittle-tattle.”

  “Nonsense. Everybody knows you’ve been under strain since Dick was killed.”

  There was an odd expression on Rubridge’s face.

  “You don’t need to feel sorry for me, Murdoch. It’s not sorrow that’s rotting out my guts, it’s shame.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The War Office is circumspect in the telegram. ‘We regre
t to say that your son has died.’ Not killed in action, notice; not died a hero’s death. No phrases like that. I insisted on more information. Perhaps I should have left it and retained my illusions.” Rubridge’s voice became choked. “You see, Murdoch, my son died at the hands of a firing squad.”

  “Good God!”

  “He was court martialled for deserting his post and thereby contributing to the deaths of several of his fellow soldiers.”

  “I’m so sorry, Roy.”

  The detective smiled a chill, bitter smile. “You have no idea what it’s like. Your son is a hero. Honoured for his bravery. My son was yellow-bellied. And I have to live with that for the rest of my life.”

  FROM THE HISTORY OF THE PRINCESS PATRICIA’S CANADIAN LIGHT INFANTRY

  The roads were impassable and the two battalions went forward in single file along a duckboard track traversing a sea of liquid mud. As they passed Wieltje both units ran into heavy German artillery fire, and the 49th began to lose men. To leave the wounded to shift for themselves in the slime would have condemned them to death. Yet every minute of delay meant more casualties, as the Patricias, who had started 1000 yards in the rear, were soon on top of the 49th and in the danger zone. With the finest spirit of inter-regimental chivalry the Commanding Officer of the 49th Battalion gave orders that every wounded man of his unit was at once to be lifted off the duckboards and supported in the mud by two of his comrades until the Patricias were safely past.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  TWO FURTHER TELEPHONE CALLS had gone unanswered, and Murdoch was not surprised that Jack wasn’t home when he returned later that night. As before, there was a note propped up on the kitchen table.

  Pa,

  I seem to be having trouble knitting the ravelled sleeve of care with some solid shut-eye. It seems better when I’m with Percy. Fellow brother in arms, I suppose. Don’t worry. This will settle down soon. We’re going to Shea’s for a show tomorrow evening so I won’t see you until Saturday.

  Jack

  Leaving his door ajar in order to hear anything, Murdoch finally went to bed.

  —

  Murdoch awoke at dawn, unrefreshed, and got up right away. Jack’s bed had not been slept in.

  He made himself a pot of tea and sliced off a couple of pieces of bread. At half past seven, he rang headquarters. Detective Baldy Watson answered.

  “Watson, Murdoch here. Is Young on duty with you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “As soon as Wallace comes in, which should be in half an hour, I want you and Young to fetch Bessie Schumacher. I don’t care if you have to carry her. Take the Ford. She can come in style.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Has Constable Curnoe come in yet, by any chance?”

  “Yes, sir. She just arrived.”

  “Excellent. Put me through.”

  Madge answered right away.

  “Listen, Madge, I want you to go and see Mrs. Aggett and Mrs. Samuels. I need photographs of their sons. Assure them they will be returned. Be as fast as you can. We’re bringing in Bessie Schumacher and I want her to have a look at those pictures.”

  “What shall I do if the daughter-in-law is back?”

  “Let’s hope she’s not an early riser. If she is up, dampen the fire as much as you can.”

  “Right away. Oh, are you planning to bicycle here?”

  “Yes, of course. Why?”

  “Nothing. It’s cold out. Bundle up.”

  “Madge!”

  “I know, I know. You’re quite capable of looking after yourself but…”

  “That is true. Don’t fret.”

  But secretly Murdoch was pleased that it mattered to her.

  He went out to the back shed and wheeled out the bicycle. It seemed all right. No nicks or dents that hadn’t been there before. Wrapping his scarf tight around his face, he set off.

  Light was just creeping over the edge of the city; early workers, muffled against the cold, were making their way to their jobs. Murdoch felt a sharp pang of loneliness. He had frequently experienced this many years ago, in the empty hours of the early morning. At times, the pain was as sharp as a physical pain. Amy had entered into that lonely place and, for the most part, she had healed it with her love. The hurt only came back to visit him on occasion, the way a bad bout of rheumatic fever might come back on chilly days and remind the sufferer of its presence.

  He increased his speed. He had just rounded the corner onto Albert Street when suddenly he lost his momentum and was forced to stop. His chain had snapped and was dragging on the ground.

  Damn. Damn. Damn.

  Do you notice you’re swearing a lot lately?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  FOR THE FIRST TIME SINCE HE could remember, Murdoch was actually late for work. He’d been forced to walk his bicycle the rest of the way. He left it in the courtyard. He’d have to fix it when he had time.

  Watson and Young had acted promptly and Bessie Schumacher was already sitting in the room they used for questioning when Murdoch arrived upstairs. Beyond a perfunctory greeting, he didn’t pay her any attention, which he knew she was keenly aware of. She remained motionless, however, hands clasped in her lap, back straight against the chair.

  Murdoch went into his own office. He’d brought a framed photograph of Jack and he placed it face up on the desk. He sat still for a few minutes trying to gather his thoughts. He was heartily glad when Madge knocked on the door and came in.

  “I’ve got photographs from both families.” She took them out of her briefcase. “Only the older Mrs. Aggett was present.”

  “Good. Put them on the desk,” said Murdoch.

  She did so, and gave him a startled look when she saw he’d added the picture of Jack.

  “I can’t stick my head in the sand, Madge. Let’s see what Mrs. Schumacher has to say.”

  “Shall I bring her in now?”

  “If you please. And I’d like you to stay. Take notes.”

  She left, and Murdoch arranged the three photographs: Arthur Aggett on the left, Jack in the middle, Daniel Samuels on the right. In his photo, Aggett appeared smartly dressed, but at first Murdoch didn’t realize the photo must have been taken on his wedding day because the bride at his side had been cut out of the picture. But Arthur was smiling and he looked happy. Damn. He should not have come to such an end. Neither should Daniel. Mrs. Samuels had given them a formal picture obviously taken in a studio. Daniel was holding a scroll in his hand. He, too, looked happy and proud. There was an inscription on a board beside him: “MISS WILDIN’S SECRETARIAL COLLEGE FOR YOUNG LADIES AND GENTLEMEN.” This was his graduation picture.

  Jack’s portrait had been taken a year ago, shortly before he enlisted, and Murdoch himself had snapped it. It was a sunny day, the lake placid in the background, the trees lush. Jack was perched on his bicycle. Studying the picture more closely, Murdoch was appalled to see how much healthier Jack had looked then. More muscle. Trim, not gaunt. Happy, not haunted.

  Damn.

  Madge returned with Mrs. Schumacher. Murdoch stood and gestured to the chair opposite.

  “Please have a seat, madam.”

  She did so, and in her unsmiling way she regarded him. She seemed wary but not intimidated.

  “May I ask why you have brought me here at such an early hour?”

  “Our investigation is not yet finished, Mrs. Schumacher. I was hoping you would be able to help us further.”

  “I’ve already given you a complete account.”

  “Why do I doubt that, madam?”

  “I beg your pardon, I don’t know what you mean.”

  “As well as the two men who lied to the constable, I believe there were others at your house on the night Arthur Aggett was killed. You tell me you have a poor memory. I thought if I showed you these photographs, it might help you to recollect who else was there.” Murdoch pushed the photographs close to the edge of the desk. “I wonder if you can identify any of the men.”

  Mrs. S
chumacher fished in a beaded reticule and took out a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles, which she perched on her prominent nose.

  “Please take your time, madam. We can take all day if we have to.”

  His implication was obvious and she flashed him an angry look.

  She picked up the photograph of Daniel Samuels first and brought it close to her eyes.

  “Yes, I recognize this man. But don’t expect me to name him. As I told you, I don’t ask names.”

  “Was he at your establishment on Tuesday night?”

  “Yes. He was.”

  “Did he gamble?”

  “As I said, we play whist. No gambling allowed.”

  Murdoch frowned. She was going to be hard to budge from that position. Too much was at stake for her.

  “Was he involved in the argument?”

  For the first time she hesitated. “It is possible. I don’t recall. He left before the other men.”

  She studied the photograph again, and for the first time a softer expression crossed her face. “He never appears to be this happy. He is always despondent. He was eager to enlist but I believe he wasn’t allowed to because of a dependent mother.”

  “Did he tell you that?”

  “No, it came out when he was, er, discussing the issue of conscription with the others.”

  “Mrs. Schumacher, I regret to tell you that Daniel Samuels has taken his own life.”

  She looked shocked, and Murdoch liked her better for it.

  “He drowned himself in the City Baths on Wednesday afternoon.”

  “Why would he do such a thing?”

  “We don’t know precisely. He didn’t leave a note. But he had recently lost his job. Apparently, he was afraid to tell his mother. And, as you say, he seemed to be distressed that he was not able to enlist.”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “We found a white feather among his possessions. As you are no doubt aware, these feathers have been handed to young men who have not enlisted. It is an accusation of cowardice. Did one of the others give it to him?”

  “Not that I saw. Besides, Detective, I would not have allowed it. I prefer to keep the war out of my house.”