Poor Tom Is Cold

by Maureen Jennings

  She shivered. There was no longer any heat in the room as she had used up the last piece of coal the night before. The tips of her fingers were cold. Suddenly she caught a glimpse of herself in the chiffonier mirror and she stared, hardly recognising herself. There was a crust of dried blood at the corner of her mouth where his ring had cut her lip. She touched it gingerly with her tongue and shuddered. The salty taste of her own blood frightened her. He was an old man but still strong and made more so by his rage.

  She looked again at her reflection. Her eyelids were reddened from lack of sleep, her hair unpinned and lank. The sight repelled her – a doxy’s face if ever there was one. She could have been looking at her own mother. She snatched the crocheted antimacassar from the Morris chair and draped it over the mirror.

  You and the boy will be well looked after, my sweet. I promise. That’s what he’d said when he first came courting, and foolishly, desperate, she had given in. She moaned. That promise would not be kept now. His feeling for her had withered away, corroded by his own humiliation.

  She’s a whore, Father. You’ve married a whore.

  Jarius was calm, his voice as dispassionate as if he were reciting the order of hymns for the day. And they had stared at her from the table, all of them there, even the child.

  Did you do this? Did you go to Jarius’s room and offer yourself like some Jezebel?

  And all she could answer was, He is trying to murder me. He put poison in my food. He killed Charley.

  But he repeated, Did you go to his room?

  When she said yes, Nathaniel hit her hard across the face.

  One of the candles in the wall sconces sputtered and Peg’s heart thudded.

  I must save them for nighttime. They’re burning down too fast. She reached for the candlesnuffer but stopped herself.

  It’s all right. He’ll be back long before then … he believed you.

  She returned to the couch, suddenly so tired she thought she would fall down. She would rest for a moment, just a moment, then she had to think. She had to make plans. She lay back and closed her eyes.

  Off the dining room of the Village Home was a tiny pantry that the matron referred to as “the calming room.” Naughty children were put in there, in the dark, until they thought better of their behaviour and were willing to act like grateful Christian children and not heathens. Not too long after she had been admitted, Peg was locked in there for using bad language and for scratching and biting another child.

  She stole my cup. The bint took it. It’s mine. The matron, Mrs. Southgate, was firm.

  Nobody owns the furnishings here. The cups and plates, the knives and forks, belong to everybody. You have behaved most wickedly and you must pray for forgiveness.

  Although Peg had kicked and fought, the matron and two of the bigger girls easily subdued her. She was closed inside the pantry to think about her wrongdoing. Perhaps Mrs. Southgate did indeed forget; she was a busy woman with many cares. Perhaps the time in the darkness was not as long as Peg experienced it. However, when she was finally let out, she had messed in her drawers and was hoarse with crying. Overnight, she became a model child and was frequently paraded before visitors as an example of the miracle of love and Christian teaching. When she was sent to Canada as one of the quotient of child emigrants, Mrs. Southgate handed her a splendid testimonial and kissed her.

  Peg sat up. The memory burned like acid in her gut.

  She got off the couch, went over to the window, and raised the blind. The sky was lighter and relief ran through her body. The night was over. She gave a quick, hard tug on the window sash but she knew it was futile. Frank had nailed it shut earlier in the week. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against the glass. Even if she smashed it, there was nobody to call to, nobody who would help her. She hadn’t been friendly with the neighbours, sensing their disapproval. If word of Jarius’s accusation ever got out, they would turn away completely. And she knew he would make sure it did get out.

  He was young, fair-haired. His eyes were kind and she could tell he was listening so she tried to speak calmly. She told him everything. About Charley, about the poison she’d tasted the two nights she’d become ill. How they all hated her. She also told him about Jarius and lastly about Frank. “Show me,” he’d said to the others and they took him off. “I’ll come back,” he had said. And he would, she trusted he would.

  She felt short of breath, as if the air was being sucked away, and she returned to the couch and lay down again. She’d brought this piece of furniture with her when she’d married Nathaniel and its familiarity was a comfort. She stroked the plush surface as if it were a creature and pulled the velour cover over her face. Under the tent of it, she could smell her own stale flesh.

  All she had to do was wait.

  Suddenly, there was a sharp rapping on the door and she jumped.

  “Stepmother? Stepmother?” the voice outside called to her and the doorknob rattled. “Please let me in, Stepmother. I’ve made you some porridge for your breakfast … You must eat something.”

  Augusta was speaking softly, falsely, as if she were trying to trick a child to take foul medicine. But Peg knew it wasn’t medicine that she wanted her to swallow.

  She didn’t answer and the doorknob shook again. Augusta’s voice was less patient this time.

  “Stepmother, open the door.” Another rap.

  A rush of white-hot rage surged through Peg’s body and she jumped off the couch and ran over to the door.

  “Sod off,” she screamed. “You can all sod off. All the frigging lot of you.”

  She banged with her fists on the unyielding wood.

  Chapter Three

  MURDOCH BROUGHT THE LANTERN CLOSE to the ravaged face. The source of the injury seemed to be a small circular wound near the right temple, and the blood which was covering the right eye was from that wound. The left eye was open.

  What in God’s name happened?

  Slowly, he swung the beam along the length of the body. The metal of the gun barrel gleamed in the light and abruptly Murdoch tugged the gun loose from between the thighs. Placing the lantern beside him on the floor, he crouched down and snapped open the cylinder. All police pistols had six chambers but, for safety reasons, officers were allowed only five cartridges. The hammer was always to rest on the empty chamber. Wicken’s gun held four undischarged cartridges; the fifth had been fired. Near his right shoulder was the empty shell case. Murdoch left it where it was. Hurriedly, he tugged off his own glove and held the back of his hand beneath Wicken’s nose to check for any indication of breath, although he knew there could be none. He touched the chin; the skin was grey and cold, and when he tried to move the jaw from side to side, it was stiff. The rigor of death had already started. The constable must have died four or five hours earlier. More carefully, his hands steadying, Murdoch began to scrutinise the body.

  Wicken was lying with his left arm underneath him and the right arm was flung across his chest, the gloved hand touching the floor. Just beyond the reach of his fingers was his notebook and underneath that was tucked a piece of paper.

  Gingerly, Murdoch extricated it. Printed neatly in pencil were the following words:

  LIFE IS UNBEARABLE WITHOUT YOUR LOVE.

  FORGIVE ME.

  He felt a rush of anger. You stupid boy. May God forgive your sin. I won’t.

  He stared at the note again as if there was some answer in the terse words.

  LIFE IS UNBEARABLE WITHOUT YOUR LOVE.

  Whose love? Why had it been withdrawn?

  Murdoch didn’t know much about Wicken’s personal life. As an acting detective, his rank was above the constable’s, and off-duty they were not expected to have much to do with each other. On the occasions when they had met, however, he’d liked the young man. And in fact, he’d talked to him only last evening when Wicken had come on duty. What was it they’d chatted about? He couldn’t remember because his toothache had obliterated everything else. No, of course, that’s what i
t was. Wicken expressed sympathy. Said he’d had a tooth pulled when he was young. Murdoch was too proud to ask if it had hurt but Wicken had told him cheerily, “Hurt like the deuce at first but the pain doesn’t last that long.” The constable had seemed in perfectly good spirits. Quite normal.

  And now look at him.

  He took out his own notebook and placed the piece of paper inside. He was tempted to inspect the body further but Wicken’s rubber cape was wrapped tightly around him, which meant he’d have to be lifted. Murdoch decided to wait until the coroner arrived.

  He picked up the lantern and started to walk around the kitchen. The room was totally bare of furnishings although the original rush matting remained. He examined the door and the window next to it. Dust was thick on the sill and there was no sign of forcing around the frame. How had Wicken got into the house? And why choose this particular place to take his own life? Murdoch looked out of the window at the neglected garden, forlorn and grey in the predawn light. The fence was high all around and the house abutted a laneway on the east side. Parliament Street was on the west. There was no other house overlooking this one. Wicken had made sure his sin was a private one.

  He turned back to the body. Who was the note addressed to? It didn’t sound as if the beloved person had died – more likely rejected him. You get over it, my lad. Nothing is worth committing such a mortal sin. You might want to die to escape your pain but God says that is according to His will, not yours. But Murdoch knew he himself had thought such things not so long ago when his fiancée had died. And he wasn’t completely sure he was over it.

  A few feet away was Wicken’s helmet, standing upright as if he’d put it tidily on a shelf. Murdoch picked it up and held it in the light of the lantern. It seemed clean, free of blood. He replaced it in the same spot, then he paced around a second time, saw nothing more, and returned to the body.

  He was about to say a brief prayer but he stopped. He could as yet find no forgiveness for Wicken. His pity was with those left behind. He’d heard that the boy’s mother was a widow and that there was a younger sister. And he wondered also how the unnamed woman would feel when she learned she had precipitated this self-murder.

  He left the house, closing the door tightly behind him. The sky had turned from black to dull grey but the drizzle was unalleviated. He started to jogtrot back to the front gate and along the street to the neighbouring house. There was a plaque on the wrought-iron gate proclaiming this was a livery stable and he could see into a long yard. At the far end was a low building, which he supposed housed the horses. He tried the gate but it was bolted on the inside and he shook it impatiently, prepared to knock the shicey thing off its hinges if need be. However, at that moment a man emerged from the stable, leading a saddled horse.

  “Hey you, come over here,” Murdoch shouted.

  The man hesitated, then approached slowly, the horse swaying behind him, its hooves clacking on the cobblestones.

  “Who the sod are you? What’d you want?”

  He was quite young, perhaps in his mid-twenties, short and wiry, dressed in corduroy trousers and jacket. His cap was low on his forehead.

  “I’m sodding William Murdoch, acting detective, that’s who. Now open up.”

  The fellow’s expression changed.

  “Sorry, Officer. What’s up? Here –”

  He threw back the bolt on the gate and started to swing it open.

  “What’s your name?” Murdoch asked.

  “Eakin, Frank Eakin.”

  “Well, Mr. Eakin, I’m commandeering you. I need somebody to run over to the police station. At once. Ask for Sergeant Hales. Got that? Hales.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell him I’ve found Wicken. Tell him we need the ambulance and the coroner.”

  “Somebody dead then?” He shifted nervously.

  “That’s what it usually means when you get the coroner. Now hurry.” He pointed. “I’m in the empty house on the corner. Tell them to come to the back door.”

  Eakin indicated the horse standing listlessly behind him.

  “I was just going to exercise Sailor. Shall I take him?”

  “Of course take him, unless you can run faster. Get going. Scorch!”

  The man swung himself into the saddle, kicked his heels hard into the horse’s sides, and lunged into a gallop out of the gate.

  Murdoch turned around and half-ran, half-skittered back to the scene of death.

  Chapter Four

  JARIUS GIBB PULLED THE CANDLESTICK CLOSER, selected a fresh pen, and dipped it into the inkwell. He did these actions deliberately, watching his own hand to determine if it would betray him with a sign of human weakness. It didn’t and, as he entered the date in the ledger, his writing was steady, even and precise as always.

  TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 12, 1895

  I write this entry in good health. My tongue is furred but my pulse is quite steady. I have pissed copiously in the chamber and my water is of good colour. I have slept for at least four hours but fitfully. I had expected to experience a natural fatigue but so far that is not the case. In fact, I would say I am quite invigorated.

  He paused. Even in his own diary, he had difficulty writing down the absolute truth. He blotted what he had written so far, and continued.

  I doubt Father will be with us much longer. He looks more aged every day, although, I regret to say, his temper is unabated. This failing is made worse of course by the present situation. I must admit, even I quailed when we spoke on Saturday night. But he has brought it all on himself so I have no pity. So utterly, utterly unsuitable.

  His hand had betrayed him and the writing was suddenly untidy. She was a young woman, it was true, but plain as a mouse, skin like lard, no diddies or arse to rouse a man, no wit or liveliness to explain Nathaniel’s infatuation with her.

  Frank said in his delicate way that Father was “cunt-struck.” To me it was less of the human. Father lusted after her like a dog after a bitch in heat. I thought he would take her on the dining room table that first night he brought her here. “This is your new mother,” he said. None of us had an inkling. He was barely out of mourning. She is younger than Frank. A widow, she said, and she brought her own by-blow with her. A vile boy who immediately made it apparent he carried criminal blood. Within a week, I was missing several coins from my trousers. Frank said he stole from him also. All this denied of course; Father was determined to side with the boy at all costs.

  He had written an account of these events several times before but he found himself returning over and over again to that day and the weeks that followed.

  I thought at first my “stepmother” must practice whore tricks to keep him panting the way he did but I stood shamelessly outside their bedroom and I heard her refusing him, crying “no” while he grunted and rutted like the goat he had become. I might have felt pity except I thought her coyness must be a way to keep him hot. Augusta says she has not yet conceived but I thought she would when it suited her.

  The thought was still so unbearable, Jarius had to lay down his pen and stand up. He went to the table beside the bed where he’d left his pipe and, not bothering to fill it, stuck the stem in his mouth and clenched down hard. He returned to his desk.

  I am glad to say the possibility is now remote. I am almost able to rest.

  Once again he noticed a tremor in his hand and he forced himself into steadiness.

  I cannot pretend I was sorry when the boy died but I must admit it was quite convenient. She plays so easily, I almost feel compunction for her state. Of course nobody believes her. She has given up any pretext of affection for dear Papa and this has been bringing about a rapid cure of his obsession. I have seen his distaste although he attempts to hide it whenever I am present, cooing and caressing with her as he did before.

  The memory filled him with contempt. She was as unresponsive as stone. An unpaid whore would have more life.

  Like a preening peacock he seems intent on proving his feathers are the brigh
test. How sweet then that she revealed what she really is. How beautifully she has played into my hands. I could hardly wait to tell him. I had expected he would throw her out immediately but he didn’t go that far. And what a pity that has proved to be!

  Another pause, another struggle to contain the surge of excitement through his body.

  There was quite a scene, I must say. Worthy of the stage. She screaming that I was a liar, which ironically is true but not in this case. Poor Augusta had to hurry Lewis from the room with her hands over his ears. I was not surprised. Only a whore knows language like that and it is my conviction that is what she is.

  He had checked the marriage registry and discovered she had been, in fact, legally married and her son was legitimate.

  That does not eliminate the fact that she was and still is a tart.

  Unfortunately, it didn’t mean Nathaniel wouldn’t continue even now to dip his sugar stick in her honey pot. And she could catch. She had shown she was fertile.

  “Fertile – capable of producing issue.”

  Jarius had insisted on having connections with his wife, Caroline, almost daily, but even his most vigorous pushing and shoving could not create the heir he yearned for. Her monthly courses had arrived with the regularity of the moon. Then she became ill and there was no possibility.

  I will now write down the events of last night.

  He was distracted by the sound of somebody talking outside in the hall. Augusta’s voice, although he couldn’t quite make out what she was saying. Then there was an enraged scream that he knew came from his stepmother, followed by the sound of bangs and thumps. He closed the ledger quickly and waited, listening. Almost at once, there was a sharp rap at the door.

  “Jarius! Are you awake?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “Yes.”

  Augusta entered, a tray in her hands. Her eyes were bright with anger.