“I don’t know if you can hear me or understand what I am saying but I don’t care. Listen to this, Nathaniel. It is time you died. You should have gone years ago. You won’t recover from this, don’t even hope that you will. So it is time to make right some wrongs. You are going to make a new will.”
The old man made grunting sounds in his throat and his eyelids flickered.
“Does that little fart mean you understand me? I dearly hope so. I want you to make your last journey knowing the truth. You can take it to hell with you because that is surely where you are going.” Jarius picked up the cloth that was on the pillow and wiped away the dribble. Then he bent down until he was so close, it was almost a kiss.
“I hate you! You think I loved you but you fooled yourself. I have never for one moment felt any feelings toward you other than disgust. You destroyed my mother, my dear mother, as surely as if you had put a revolver to her temple. She wanted to die because her life here was unbearable.”
He caught Nathaniel by the chin and jerked his head higher.
“You do understand. I can see that you do. You look shocked. I don’t know why you should be. We reap what we sow. You are fond of proverbs, aren’t you? Spare the rod and spoil the child. Waste not, want not. Lots of them, all impressed on my bare backside.”
Nathaniel made a feeble attempt to move his head away but it was impossible. Gibb squeezed his chin even tighter. “Frank hates you too, but you probably know that. The surprise must be me.”
He let go and stepped back, pulling aside the quilt. “You stupid, revolting old man. At your age, to think you could still stop your beak in some poor woman.” With a tug, he lifted the nightshirt. “Look at you. A chicken gizzard has more life in it than that.” He leaned over him again. “Listen to me good, Nathaniel. Your little jade was as light heeled as they come. She wanted to hump with me from the moment she came in the house. And she did. She slipped between my sheets many a night when you were snoring. Oh, she is as willing a tit as I’ve ever had. She was spent over and over. Quite wore me out. I only told you the half of it.”
It was all lies, of course. Peg had done no such thing. Except for the single desperate visit to his room, she had kept her distance. Jarius had enjoyed contemplating which course of action he would take. Tell the truth and make the old man face his mistake, or send him to eternity with a lie to make him squirm. The latter had seemed more likely to inflict pain.
The gurglings from Nathaniel’s throat were louder. Jarius smiled. “Don’t like to hear that, do you? She’d almost convinced you she was innocent, hadn’t she? Well, take it to your grave, dear Stepfather. May it torment you for all eternity.”
He reached inside his waistcoat and took out a folded sheet of paper. “This is your new will. I have written it out according to your instructions. I’ll read it to you.”
He opened the paper, shook it in mock seriousness. “This is the last will and testament of Nathaniel Joseph Eakin Esquire of 295 Gerrard Street in the city of Toronto and the county of York. Being of sound mind … Debatable, but never mind, I’m going to predate it. I hereby bequeath my goods and chattels in the following manner. To my beloved children – I call that a poetical conceit – To my beloved children, Francis John Eakin and Augusta Louisa Curran, I leave the sum of one thousand dollars each. Not what they are hoping for, of course. To my wife, Margaret Eakin, I leave likewise the sum of one thousand dollars, to be used for her care and maintenance as long as it is necessary. Don’t worry, she won’t need that much longer. I leave to my faithful servant, Janet Cullie, the sum of two hundred dollars. See how kind you are in your dotage, Nathaniel. Now here’s the nub. To my dearest stepson, Jarius Gibb, whom I have ever loved and been loved by as a son of my own flesh and blood. That’s good, isn’t it? Another poetical conceit. To Jarius, I hereby leave my estate and all money that does accrue from the same, my insurance policies, and savings bonds. A goodly sum, Stepfather, thank you. Nobody would have suspected you had such a fine dowry. I welcome it, and as we both know, it is only fair and just that it go to me. Augusta has her own husband to take care of her, Frank would piss it away on whores and horses within a month, and dear Stepmother won’t have any need. So there we are.”
He had brought in his scribe’s lap desk and he opened the lid, took out a pen, and dipped it in the inkwell. Then he lifted Nathaniel’s flaccid hand and wrapped the fingers around the pen.
“Sign here.”
Slowly, he drew the old man’s signature on the paper. “Good, that will do nicely.”
He blew on the ink to dry it, then replaced the paper in his pocket. “I know what you’re thinking, Stepfather, but I have taken care of that. The date on the will is two days ago. Before you became incapacitated. How fortunate for us that you had the foresight to take care of your affairs. And I know Frank won’t balk at getting one thousand dollars. That is better than a rope necklace.”
He bent over and kissed Nathaniel on the cheek. “Good night, Stepfather. Sleep well.”
He left, closing the door as softly as if he were leaving a nursery. Good. He was fairly certain the document was watertight, but just in case, there was one more thing to take care of. It was time some member of the family went to visit the unfortunate Mrs. Eakin.
Chapter Thirty-Four
THE BRANDY MURDOCH HAD DRUNK at the bawdy house was racing through his body, and there was a jauntiness in his step as he headed toward Queen Street to catch the streetcar.
When he took his seat, however, the false energy left him abruptly. The car clattered along, and before he knew it, his head drooped forward on his chest and he began to doze off.
“Sir! Sir!” The conductor was shaking his arm. “Here’s your stop. The provincial asylum.”
He was speaking in a hushed voice as if it were impolite to say the name out loud.
Murdoch scrambled to his feet, and conscious of the curious gaze of the other passengers, he made his way to the front. The car slowed down and halted in front of the gates. He was the only one to get off.
He hadn’t been here before and didn’t know what to expect. However, at first sight the asylum appeared imposing and dignified rather than frightening, although he could see the windows were barred and there were sharp-looking railings on top of the surrounding wall. The building was long with two wings, each four stories high, and a higher central block. There was a cupola over the centre pediment that gave the building an ecclesiastical appearance, but which he’d heard actually housed a water tank. Although there was currently a lot of gossip about the bad air and need for repairs, originally the asylum had been designed with pride and care and it still showed through.
The tall iron gates were open and he walked in and along a winding path to the front doors. In the garden were two fine marble fountains, now turned off for the winter. Probably in summer the aspect was as pleasant as a public park.
He had telephoned the asylum earlier to see if it was all right for him to come, and the matron herself said she would meet him in the receiving area. He was relieved at that. As he entered the building, a uniformed doorman with impressive grey side-whiskers greeted him.
“Good day to you, sir. What is your business?”
“I am Acting Detective Murdoch. Miss Bastedo is expecting me.”
“Ah, yes. Come this way, if you please.”
He led Murdoch across the marble-tiled hall and up a flight of stairs. The place seemed deserted and Murdoch remarked on it.
“On a day like this we don’t get many visitors,” answered the doorman. “Pity really. Makes a change for the inmates to have some family company. They like variety same as everybody else.”
At the top of the stairs was a wide corridor with windowed rooms opening onto it. A sign said FEMALE PATIENTS ON LEFT. MALE PATIENTS ON RIGHT. He glanced into one of the rooms on the right. A man, head bent to his chest, was seated between a woman of middle age, quite well dressed, and a younger woman. They must have been mother and daughter by the similar
ity of their posture, and they were staring straight ahead, not speaking or touching the man, each lost in her own misery.
In the centre of the corridor was the matron’s office. It rather reminded him of the bridge on a ship. Windows on all sides gave her a view of the comings and goings in the reception rooms. She was writing at her desk but she looked up at their approach and came out at once to greet them.
“Mr. Murdoch, I’m Miss Bastedo. We can talk in my office. Thank you, Landry.”
The doorman bowed slightly and left them. Must have been a butler in his earlier employment, thought Murdoch. The matron, however, had none of the polite airs of a lady of leisure. She held out her hand as straightforwardly as a man might and her grip was firm indeed.
“I have arranged to have Mrs. Eakin brought down. She will be here shortly.”
She indicated he should sit down and she went behind her work table, a severely plain piece of mahogany that took up most of the space in the small office. She opened a cloth-bound daybook.
“I thought we should talk about her condition beforehand. This note was completed by the attendant this morning. I’ll read it to you. ‘Mrs. Eakin continues to show signs of improvement. She is keeping herself clean and is generally pleasant to the staff and other inmates. She has agreed to do some light sewing and has already completed two tray covers. She is eating well and taking her tonic without complaint.’ Good.”
She paused. “One of the reasons Mrs. Eakin was committed to the asylum was because she was convinced somebody was trying to poison her and she had not eaten in days.”
“Who is it that Mrs. Eakin thinks is trying to kill her?”
Miss Bastedo frowned. “That is the terrible thing about illusional insanity, Mr. Murdoch. The poor lunatic fears and suspects everybody. She said at first her entire family was involved, then she suspected the doctor and even perhaps the staff here, although that suspicion seems to have disappeared.”
“I suppose it is not entirely impossible – that somebody is trying to poison her, I mean.”
Miss Bastedo smiled at him. “That is a detective talking, Mr. Murdoch, not a physician. Many of our inmates sound quite convincing because they are sincere in their own beliefs. However, Mrs. Eakin’s family has shown great concern for her well-being. It is a rather unusual situation, as perhaps you know. She is a good deal younger than Mr. Eakin, and his own children are her age or even older. I would think there might be some tension brought about by this inequality. Her only son by her first marriage died suddenly and it was after this that she began to show the first signs of instability.”
So far, what the matron was saying concurred with what he’d heard from Mrs. Curran. “I understand the boy died from peritonitis.”
“That is the case. Dr. Ferrier was in attendance. The poor boy’s appendix burst and nothing could be done.”
“I was told by her husband that she could also be suffering from what he called erotomania.”
She glanced at him sharply. “Did he now?”
“What is that exactly?”
“The patient will approach men in a lascivious and seductive manner, or express an inordinate sexual appetite often manifesting in self-abuse.”
She spoke as if she were quoting from a medical textbook. It was quite different from Eakin’s, “She will lift her tail to any man.”
“We understand there was some inappropriate behaviour toward a family member, but she has not shown any evidence of that here. There is a possibility of surgery,” she continued. “Her doctor is recommending a hysterectomy but Dr. Clark likes to proceed conservatively. We will keep her under observation for at least a week or so longer.”
“Not speaking as a detective, Miss Bastedo, but simply as a man, is such an operation effective?”
She wasn’t happy about the question but she was an honest woman. “Some doctors believe so, others do not.”
“And you?”
“On a conservative estimate from witnessing several female patients who have been so treated, I would say it is too early to tell. Dr. Clark himself is a great believer in fresh air, regular exercise, and a calm setting.”
Murdoch was about to ask her about the efficacy of that particular treatment, but she consulted the large gold watch that hung from her belt. “I have to do my rounds shortly. You can interview her in this office. There is always an attendant within call. Please try not to overly excite the patient, Mr. Murdoch. She is just settling here.” She sighed. “I should tell you that we received a telegram this morning from the senior member of the family. Apparently, Mrs. Eakin’s husband has suffered a severe stroke. The doctor does not think he will recover. We have not told her yet. The daughter is planning to come in later today and we will tell her then. So, please, Mr. Murdoch, don’t upset her. I suggest you make no comment if she does bring up any of her delusions.”
Murdoch wondered what he should do or say if she displayed signs of erotomania, but he didn’t quite know how to ask the matron about this.
She stood up and looked through the window. “Ha, here they are.”
He turned and could see one of the attendants leading in a patient. Small and thin, her hair in a long braid, Mrs. Eakin could have been taken for a child.
“Excuse me a moment, Mr. Murdoch,” said the matron and she went out to meet them. She had a short conversation with the attendant that he couldn’t hear. He realised the glass windows of the office were a double glaze, giving some measure of privacy. Mrs. Eakin was looking toward him the entire time. There was something about her expression he couldn’t quite identify. An eagerness perhaps, again reminding him of a child. The matron brought her into the office. He got to his feet.
“Mrs. Eakin, this is Detective Murdoch. He is conducting a police investigation and he would like to ask you some questions. You don’t need to be alarmed in any way. It is simply a matter of routine. Miss Shelby is outside if you need her. Sit here.” She pulled forward a second cane chair. “I will return in one half an hour.”
She smiled at Peg, patted her arm, and bustled off. Both Murdoch and the young woman remained standing until, hesitantly, she sat down in the chair the matron had indicated. Murdoch resumed his seat facing her.
She was watching his face anxiously and he had the impression that she was straining every sense to read his countenance. “I beg your pardon, sir. Miss Bastedo did say your name, but I did not quite register it.”
Her speech was quite rapid but the words were enunciated precisely, as if she were holding them tight in case they slipped away. Her accent was English.
“Murdoch. Acting Detective William Murdoch. I am pursuing a police inquiry and I hoped you might be able to help.” He hesitated, searching for the right words. How could he ask her bluntly if she were awake and crying out the night Wicken died? She was sitting very still, watching him. She did not seem insane to him or in the least irrational but she was expecting something. Keeping his voice low and even, he continued.
“The matter concerns one of our constables.”
Unexpectedly, her eyes lit up and she interrupted him. “Thank the Lord. He has spoken to you, then?”
“About what, ma’am?”
Murdoch had no idea why what he said was so distressing to her but the brightness on her face disappeared, replaced by something else, a look of such despair he wanted to reach over to her and make it go away. Her voice dropped so low he could hardly hear her.
“Why have you come to see me, Mr. Murdoch?”
There was no way around it. “Last week one of our officers, a Constable Wicken, was found dead in the vacant house on the corner of Gerrard and Parliament, close to your house. The circumstances of his death are not completely clear. I thought you might help me with my inquiry.”
He thought she had been sitting still before but now she seemed to freeze.
“What do you mean, he was found dead?”
“He was shot. Apparently by his own hand.”
“When?”
“Monday night last.”
“Was this constable fair-haired?”
“Yes, with a full moustache. Constable, second-class, Oliver Wicken. He was on duty.”
She moaned and began to rock slightly back and forth in the chair. Suddenly, he had an image of a young cougar that a sailor had brought into the village when he was a boy. For five cents you could go into the hot, musty tent and view the animal. For a further penny, the sailor handed you a stick and you could poke her through the bars of the cage and “make her roar.” The expression in the eyes of Mrs. Eakin and the tormented animal were the same.
He glanced out of the window, wondering if he should send for the attendant.
“Can you tell me what is the matter, ma’am? Did you know the constable? Did you see him?”
She didn’t answer and he tried to find a way to reach through her fear. “What did you mean just now when you asked if he had spoken to me?”
“They must have killed him after he left. So he wouldn’t talk.” She was whispering as if she had no energy left to propel her voice.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand. Talk about what?”
Suddenly, she jumped up and rushed at him. She was so fierce he involuntarily put up his arm to shield himself, expecting a blow, but she stopped short and caught at the lapels of his coat.
“They murdered him …” Her voice was high pitched and tight in her throat but her grip was strong.
Murdoch forced himself not to back off. Her pupils were dilated; there was some froth at the corner of her mouth. “Who did? Who are you referring to?”
Before she could answer, the door to the office opened and the attendant swept in.
“Now, now, Mrs. Eakin, calm yourself, please. Leave the gentleman alone.”
She grabbed Peg by her wrists and snatched her away from Murdoch. Peg pulled back, trying to twist herself free.
Poor Tom Is Cold Page 24
