Let Darkness Bury the Dead

by Maureen Jennings

  The sentry consulted a piece of paper and came back out.

  “Yes, sir. Captain Runcie is expecting you. Go through the door. Down the hall. Turn left. The captain’s office is the third one down.” He saluted smartly. Not quite sure what sort of return was called for, Murdoch simply nodded and headed for the door.

  The hallway was rather dark but he could see it was lined with framed photographs. Important military men, by the looks of them.

  He followed instructions, and as he turned into the next hall a door opened and a man that had to be Captain Runcie stepped out. He wore a beautifully tailored uniform and sported a thick moustache waxed into points at the ends. He was younger than Murdoch had expected and, despite the military moustache, not particularly soldierly in bearing, being rather stoop-shouldered. He immediately stretched out his hand.

  “Detective Murdoch, thank you for coming. Please enter.”

  The office was small with spartan furnishings. A large map pinned to one wall dominated the room. Murdoch recognized it immediately: the Western Front, heavily marked with the lines of battle of the Canadian troops. He’d spent many hours himself poring over such a map.

  “I know your time is valuable, Detective, so I’ll get right to the point.” He went behind his desk.

  “How can I be of service, Captain?”

  Runcie plopped down in his chair and started to fidget with a paper knife.

  “I think we have had a robbery.”

  “You think, sir? You mean you’re not sure?”

  “Precisely.” Briefly, his eyes met Murdoch’s. “What has happened is this. We have a store of ammunition in the basement. Rifles, bullets, and so forth. When the troops were training here we would use it for certain drills. Lately, of course, all that is taking place over the pond, so we have less call on our supplies. They are used mostly for special occasions when we call up our reserve militia. We fire off some rifles or cannons in a salute. We intend to do that at the medal presentation ceremony on Saturday, for instance.”

  He halted and his gaze drifted over to the wall map. He seemed so lost in thought that Murdoch wondered if he were ever coming back to the point.

  “You were saying, sir?”

  “Ah yes. Beg your pardon, Detective Murdoch. Got a bit distracted there. My brother has earned himself a medal at Vimy. Lucky fellow, to be able to do his bit. Me, I’m waiting for my call-up but so far no luck. Tricky knee. Looks like I might be stuck here until the end of the war.”

  “Let’s hope that isn’t too far off.”

  “Quite so. Just hope I don’t miss it. Anyway, as I was saying…this morning I had a telephone call from the munitions depot in Ottawa. There appears to be a discrepancy in our accounts. It has specifically to do with the amount of gun cotton explosive we ordered. According to Ottawa, they sent nineteen boxes. Our quartermaster, Sergeant Campbell, says we received only eighteen, and that’s what he paid for.” Runcie gave Murdoch a wry smile. “I know what you’re thinking. These are likely small errors in bookkeeping.” He tapped the knife on the desk. “To tell you the truth, this puts me in an awkward position. Sergeant Campbell is a good man, very good. He went through the Boer War and all that. But…” Runcie tapped his head with his forefinger. “Unfortunately, mental complexity isn’t what he’s good at. Generally speaking he does a capable job with keeping account of the supplies and so forth, but sometimes there have been errors. Easily corrected, mind you, but he always takes umbrage at any suggestion he’s not up to the job.”

  “Wouldn’t you be better off consulting a bookkeeper, Captain?”

  Runcie flashed a smile. “I see your point, Detective, but I thought it best to begin by speaking with a member of our police force. Hence my telephone call.”

  “But if I understand correctly, Captain, you don’t know if there’s even been a crime committed.”

  “Quite so. Better safe than sorry, that’s my motto.”

  “There are no other discrepancies? All other supplies are accounted for?”

  “Quite so.”

  “Just one box of gun cotton that might be missing.”

  “I know it all sounds frightfully trivial, tempest in a teapot sort of thing, but Sergeant Campbell would be much eased if he knew we were doing a thorough investigation. Matter of pride for him.”

  Murdoch could see what was happening. An old-timer, lots of bristle and indignation if impugned. A young captain, already feeling insecure about his own capabilities. Bring in a detective. He might as well have been mediating between Lottie and Arthur Aggett.

  Something must have been showing on Murdoch’s face, because the captain became flustered and he got to his feet abruptly. “Tell you what, better if you hear from the man himself. I’ll take you to Sergeant Campbell and he’ll apprise you of the details. He said he’d be in the guard room. I have a meeting to go to, can’t avoid it, otherwise I’d sit in.”

  Captain Runcie escorted Murdoch to the guard room and introduced him to the quartermaster before scuttling away. Campbell, a big-boned, kilted Scotsman, turned to Murdoch.

  “I certainly hope we can get to the bottom of this, Detective. I don’t like it being implied that I’m not properly taking care of things.”

  Murdoch almost said “Quite so,” but he stopped himself just in time. He took out his notebook.

  “Will you give me more details about the missing item, Sergeant?”

  “The delivery arrived yesterday. I ordered an extra supply because of the coming medal ceremony. We are going to give a demonstration.” Campbell rolled his r s to the point of unintelligibility.

  Murdoch raised his eyebrows. “With live ammunition?”

  “It’s verrry safe, don’t worry. We just discharge a few cannons. People enjoy it.” He chuckled. “That is, as long as they’re standing on a dry platform, not in several inches of cold mud in a trench.”

  “Who checked the delivery?”

  Campbell swelled his chest a little. “Why, it was myself, of course. I always do it myself. And I assure you, what was delivered matched what was on the tally sheet.”

  “And that was checked again when the boxes were stored?”

  “Corrrect. Everything is transferred from the delivery wagon to the storage area in the basement. The tally is checked again.”

  “And they matched?”

  “Aye. I have done a recount since the captain told me about this telephone call. The tally is exactly the same as at delivery. Nothing is missing.”

  Murdoch sighed. “Let me get this straight, Quartermaster. One box of gun cotton seems to be unaccounted for. If the delivery was correct and checked in as you say it was, that must mean it went missing somewhere in the transport from the depot in Ottawa to here. Unless it was taken from the Armouries since yesterday.”

  Murdoch had barely got his words out when the sergeant interjected. Definitely bristling.

  “That is quite impossible, sir. As I have just said, the tallies were totally in order from arrival to storage. And nobody could steal from the basement. There is a guard there at all times.”

  “Do you have an explanation, Sergeant?”

  “In my opinion, sir, those Ottawa folks couldn’t count their own toes and get it right. I’m catching mistakes all the time. They just want to shift the blame onto somebody else.”

  “Can I take a look at the tally sheet, Sergeant?”

  “I have it right here, sir.”

  Campbell removed a sheet of paper from his jacket and handed it to Murdoch.

  “We had several items delivered.” He pointed. “They are listed on the left with the number of said item. This first column is ticked by the Ottawa depot. This second column I mark myself. This third column is ticked by the guard in the storage area after he does his count.”

  Murdoch surveyed a rather untidy-looking sheet. The writer had been having trouble with his inkwell and there were a few scattered blots.

  “You’re corrrect, sir,” said Campbell, even though Murdoch hadn’t s
poken. “I’ve complained several times about the scrawl they send me. Them Frenchies don’t speak proper English is the problem. But that’s where they’ve written gun cotton boxes and the number. See, it says eighteen.”

  He was right about the scrawl but the number did seem to match.

  “Could you describe for me what the box of gun cotton looks like, Sergeant?”

  “The boxes themselves are not large, about the size of a child’s pencil box.”

  “My knowledge of explosives is a little limited, Sergeant, but as I understand it, gun cotton must be ignited to be effective. It will not be activated simply by impact, for instance.”

  “That is corrrect.”

  “Would there be sufficient gun cotton in each box to create an explosion?”

  “Aye.”

  “How big an explosion would you say?” Murdoch asked.

  “It would be sufficient to kill or seriously injure anybody within three or four feet.”

  There was a note of pride in his voice. “Very useful to our lads, this. Earlier in the war, it saved a lot of lives, destroyed a lot of Huns. You see, if supplies of explosives ran out, the men would improvise their own bombs.”

  Murdoch murmured encouragement. “That so?”

  “Aye. They called them jam-tin bombs.” Campbell chuckled. “Sounds funny, I know, but the reason is they made use of discarded jam or beef tins, you see. And there are lots of those in the trenches.” He began to explain, using his hands to mime each step of the process. “First off, they stuff a tin with gun cotton. Then they put that tin inside a second one. This tin contains nails, the sharper and rustier the better. Next they light a fuse—ordinary string will do—and then they chuck the whole thing into the enemy line.” He pretended to make the throw. “Poof. Lots of dead Huns.”

  This time Murdoch did say “Quite so.” He closed his notebook. “You’ve been most helpful, Sergeant. I wonder if you wouldn’t mind showing me the delivery and storage areas before we wrap this up.”

  As Campbell had claimed, the basement looked impregnable. A guard was stationed outside. Inside, there were only two narrow windows, both heavily barred. The door was solid steel. Murdoch didn’t think anything could have been stolen from there once it was stored. Rows of boxes containing various munitions were labelled and neatly stacked on shelves. The gun cotton was indeed packed in a container small enough to be a pencil box. Campbell immediately insisted on recounting. Eighteen it was.

  The sergeant escorted him by way of a narrow corridor around to the rear of the building, where there was a small courtyard. He pointed to a steel trap door close to the building.

  “That opens onto the stairs to the basement. As soon as we’ve unloaded, the trap door is barred on both sides. Nobody can get in, nobody can get out.”

  “Was yesterday’s a smooth delivery?” Murdoch asked.

  For the first time, the sergeant hesitated.

  “Truth is, sir, lately, they’re never smooth. I’ve been asking Captain Runcie to give us a barrier across the road in, but so far he hasna done so. There’s a group of agitators and anarchists who have a bee in their bonnets that this war mustn’t continue. They do everything they can to disrupt normal operations. On the last two deliveries they blocked the steps to the basement so we couldn’t unload. I don’t know what good they think that will do.”

  “Really? I hadn’t heard about this. Did you call the police?”

  “Nay need. We deal with it ourselves. There’s only a handful of them. Mostly lassies. I ask them to move aside, politely, and if they refuse I just call up my guards and get them out of the way.”

  “By force.”

  “Aye. Sometimes my men get overly excited and some of the lassies have fallen to the ground. It’s nothing we like to have happen, but it has.”

  “And this is what happened yesterday?”

  “It did. Shameful. There was a banquet going on in the hall. Sir Harry Lauder was present. These lassies were an embarrassment to our city.”

  “How long did all this take?”

  “Longer than usual. In this case, they did appear to be particularly determined. It took us a good three quarters of an hour to get them to disperse.”

  “Where was the delivery wagon?”

  Campbell walked away to the other side of the courtyard. “He had to pull up over here. Usually he can be right near the stairs.”

  “You then began to check the tally?”

  “Aye.”

  “Where was the sheet?”

  “It’s kept on a hook in the back of the wagon.”

  “And if I know the protesters, they were probably shouting, waving placards, and so on?”

  “Aye, that they were.”

  “Could this have distracted you? Forced you to make an error in the count?” Murdoch knew he was likely putting his hand in the lion’s mouth with this question.

  The sergeant flushed. “Let me put it this way. I’ve done my service in the Boer War. Believe me, a group of lassies has nothing on a group of commandos if distraction is what they’re after. I could concentrate standing in the flames of Hell if I had to.”

  “When your guards came to deal with these women, did you go over to help them?”

  “Yes, I did. I dinna know what the world’s coming to, sir. A young lassie had got one of my men by the nose. I swear she would not have hesitated to break it if she could have. And she was a wee slip of a thing.”

  “And that’s when you went to intervene?”

  “Aye. Me and the driver both did. He took her arm and I gave her a slap. That made her let go in a hurry.”

  “Did you take the tally sheet with you?”

  Campbell paused. “No, I believe I left it in the wagon.”

  “Did you close the rear doors of the wagon?”

  Another pause, then Campbell said, with less confidence, “I canna remember exactly. I may have.”

  “I quite understand, Sergeant. What was happening in the melee must have been compelling your attention.”

  “Aye, it was.”

  “Did you notice anybody standing near the wagon?”

  “No.”

  As they were on the exact spot where all this had taken place, Murdoch could see that if somebody had got to the wagon he would have been shielded from view, especially if the rear doors were open.

  The sergeant shook his head. “I dinna understand it, sir. All at once they all started to shove toward the wagon. I don’t know what they were thinking of doing, but I couldn’t have them destroying government property. One of them was pushing a perambulator and she actually used it like it was a battering ram. We had an awful struggle to get them out of the courtyard.”

  “Were they all women who were demonstrating?”

  “Mostly. I did see a couple of men. Two, mebbe three. God forbid. One of them took a hold of the lassie with the perambulator and steered her away. I am just hoping he gave her what for and a smack or two.”

  “Could you describe him?”

  “I must say I wasn’t giving him much mind given what was happening all round. But I suppose he was about as tall as me. He was wearing a cap, dark coat. That’s all I can tell you, really. If he’s connected with a harridan like that lassie, I do sincerely have pity for the man.” He frowned. “If you can do anything to control these rabble-rousers, sir, me and my men would most appreciate it. They don’t like having to lay hands on lassies in anger any more than I do.”

  There seemed no more to be gleaned, and Murdoch left him to go back to his duties.

  Captain Runcie was not to be found. He’d have to telephone him later with his conclusions. The whole situation was very troubling. It was hard to be sure if, in fact, a theft had taken place, but it was not impossible. A small box was easily removed, and the demonstrators had provided a nice diversion. Intended or coincidental? But if intended, to what purpose? Sergeant Campbell’s description of the jam-tin bombs was disturbing. Easy to make and capable of causing serious damage. Murdoch hope
d he wasn’t dealing with an anarchist.

  But that wasn’t the only thing that bothered him. There was that detail Campbell had mentioned about the man pulling the demonstrator away from the scene. And yet there were probably dozens of young men walking about the city who were tall and who wore caps and dark overcoats. And to Murdoch’s knowledge, Jack had no relationship with any young lady who would be pushing a perambulator.

  But one more check was in order. He mounted his bicycle and headed for Oak Street. When he had last visited the home of the Williams family, Fiona had been a child. She was all grown up now. And did not hesitate to make her anti-war sentiments known.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  JACK NEEDED TO WALK. He was cold but he didn’t care. This time, he welcomed the feeling.

  Shortly before he was shipped out to Halifax, he’d gone to Mass at his old church and found some comfort in the familiar rituals. But once at the Front, he hadn’t had much to do with the army chaplains. They had come in search of him, though—one of the flock, as one priest had said. Initially, he’d made his confession, taken the wafer and the penance, never a stringent one. No priest wanted to add to the hardships so many of the men were already suffering.

  Today he was approaching St. Paul’s once again. Against the grey clouds and gathering gloom, the elegant shape of the cupola was comfortingly familiar. As he drew closer, he found himself singing softly.

  O little town of Bethlehem

  How still we see thee lie!

  Above thy deep and dreamless sleep

  The silent stars go by.

  It was his favourite carol.

  Were the people truly dreamless? What did that mean? He could barely recall a time when he’d had no dreams, although they seemed more like memories than dreams.

  He sang, “O little town of Ontario, how still we see thee lie.”

  A few people were scurrying into the church, and as the doors opened, a pungent waft of incense drifted out. Slight as it was, it made him cough. He’d always liked the smell of the incense when he was serving as an altar boy. He’d admired the priest, Father McKenna, too. They’d exchanged letters while Jack was in France, and the priest was aware he’d been wounded and was returning to Canada. He would be expecting to see him. He’d be expecting to celebrate Mass with him. But Jack couldn’t participate in the Mass without going first to confession.