Murdoch looked over at the constable. He knew it was important to present a good example to the new young officer, but his own heart was beating faster. The murderer had left behind his own violence, it hung in the air and it was impossible not to be affected by it.
“Are you all right, Fyfer?”
“Quite all right, thank you, sir.”
“Is this your first murder case?”
“Yes, sir. A few assaults and drunk and disorderlies is all I’ve dealt with to date.”
“The vile smell is because his bowels have evacuated. That usually happens with sudden death.”
“Yes, I know, sir. My father was a butcher. I’m used to death.”
Murdoch thought surely there was a difference between slaughtered cattle and a human being who had been brutally murdered, but he wasn’t about to argue the point now. Better an officer who had his wits about him than one who didn’t.
He glanced around the room. The curtains had been drawn and, on a desk to the right, a lamp was burning.
“What would help is to have more light in here. There’s another lamp over there on the mantelpiece. Bring it over, will you?”
Fyfer went to do his bidding and Murdoch moved in closer to the body. The dead man was middle-aged, with thick dark hair liberally streaked with grey. Except for full side whiskers, he was clean-shaven. A handsome face, Murdoch thought. He was wearing the typical clothes of his profession: a black suit and a black waistcoat. His once-white shirt and cravat were crimson with blood.
The constable brought the second lamp over.
“Put it on that table and turn both wicks up as high as they will go. Don’t tread in the blood.”
Murdoch squatted on his heels, trying to get a sense of what had happened. He could see now that the weapon was a letter opener, and it had been plunged with such force into the pastor’s neck that only three inches of blade were visible. He touched the man’s forehead. The skin was cool but not yet icy cold. Fyfer was right, he had died quite recently. Gently he lifted both hands. They were covered with blood and he took out his handkerchief to wipe it away. There was ink on the forefinger and thumb of the right hand.
“I don’t see any defensive wounds, so the blood is probably because he was clutching at his neck to pull out the knife,” he said to Fyfer.
“What about the other injuries, sir? It looks like somebody gave him the boots.”
“The post-mortem examination should tell us more exactly, but I’m sure you’re right. Speaking of boots, his have gone. And hurriedly, by the look of it.” The socks were half off the man’s feet. He leaned in. “Look at this, Fyfer, the buttonhole’s torn on his waistcoat. Unless he’s habitually an untidy man, I’d say his watch and chain were also snatched.”
“Seems to indicate a burglar, doesn’t it, sir?”
“Possibly. It was certainly a violent attack.” Murdoch got to his feet. “But where was he when he was hit? From the spray of blood across the top of the desk and the wall, I’d say he was sitting down when he was attacked. He was hit from behind and slightly to the side. He stood up, clutched the letter opener, turned to face his attacker, then fell backwards to the floor.”
Fyfer nodded. “The odd thing is he couldn’t have been taken by surprise, could he?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Look where the desk is in relation to the door. The attacker had to come right into the room in order to be behind him.”
He was right. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. Maybe he was asleep. He could have been having an afternoon nap.”
Fyfer’s eager look vanished. “Yes, sir, of course. I was getting carried away.”
“No, no, lad, what you say is quite plausible. Anyway, we’ll do a more thorough examination later. Right now we’d better see if we have a predator to flush out or not. My hunch is we don’t, that our murderer fled immediately, but we’ve got to have a look.”
Fyfer removed his revolver from the holster. “Do you want my gun, sir?”
“No thanks. It’s been a while since I was on the beat, I might be more of a liability than an asset. Give me your truncheon. And when I said flush out that’s what I meant. If the murderer is hiding somewhere in this church, you can bet he’s desperate. Let’s not have any unnecessary heroics.”
Fyfer’s flicked at his wide moustache. “I’d say between us we’d be his match. I’ve been in training all winter for the police games, same as you.”
“Bicyclist are you?”
“Yes, sir. And I know this isn’t the time to go into it, but I would dearly like to talk about your training schedule one of these days. You got nipped at the wire last summer by Varley, but I’d wager you can beat him this year.”
Murdoch stared at the constable for a moment. He was a good-looking fellow with clear blue eyes and the fresh complexion of an athlete. His uniform sat well on him.
“All right then, let’s check the rooms in this area.”
“The halls have all got a hemp floor covering, and I don’t think they would hold any trace of footprints. I took a quick look before.”
He was right again, but Murdoch said, “We’ll do a thorough examination in daylight with more officers.”
They walked across the hall to the room opposite. Murdoch leaned his ear against the door, then signalled to Fyfer to stand on one side of the threshold. He took the other. He couldn’t hear any sound from the room so he turned the knob and flung the door open. Another pause, then he peered around the door frame. Nothing stirred and he motioned to the constable to follow him. The room was large and looked as if it served as the parish hall. Several rows of chairs faced a long table covered with a white cloth upon which were stacks of cups and saucers. A bank of windows at the far end gave sufficient light even at this time of day that he could see the place was empty and there was no other exit and no hiding places.
“I came here for a Boxing Day festivity,” said Fyfer. “Chalmers Church has a long tradition of Christian charity. They invite all of the poor parishioners to come in for a meal at Christmastime.”
Murdoch was startled. “Is this your church?”
“Oh no. I attend Sherbourne Methodist, but our churches have a cordial relationship and I had no family commitments that day so I thought I would help out.”
“You knew Reverend Howard, then?”
“No. He only received his call to this ministry in January. The position was vacant for six months after the death of Reverend Cameron.”
“You are an unexpected font of information, constable.”
He indicated to Fyfer that they should go back across the hall and try the room that adjoined the pastor’s. According to a brass plate on the door, this office belonged to Reverend Swanzey. Murdoch went through the same procedure as before and thrust open the door. His heart gave a painful thump as his eye caught a dark shape standing in the corner. He actually raised the truncheon before he realized he was looking at a coat tree with a fedora hanging on it.
Fyfer grinned at him. “I almost put a bullet through it myself, sir.”
Murdoch looked around. This office was smaller than Reverend Howard’s, with minimum furnishings: a rolltop desk and two plain chairs; a single bookcase against the wall. There was no wardrobe or cupboard. The fire was set in the grate but not lit and the curtains weren’t drawn. Through the window, he could see the gardens, patched with snow and bedraggled and dreary in the encroaching night. There was a single lamp on the desk and Murdoch walked over to it and touched the globe. It was cold.
“Let’s check the other hall,” he said to Fyfer.
This ran perpendicular to the one that led to Reverend Howard’s office. To the left were two doors, one marked Water Closet, the other Storage. Murdoch proceeded with the same care and opened the first door to the water closet, which was surprisingly spacious with a small sink and one of the newer types of flushing toilets. There was a delicate flower motif in the bowl and a matching decoration in the sink.
Fyfer wh
istled softly. “I think the station would benefit from a toilet like this, don’t you, sir?”
Murdoch agreed. The earth closet in the lower room of the station was noisome most of the time.
They moved on to the storage room. This proved to be crammed with the usual debris from a building used by the public. A couple of broken chairs, a pile of hassocks in need of repair, a bin of assorted umbrellas, an open drawer filled with gloves, a coat stand loaded down with forgotten scarves, but empty of anyone hiding.
At the end of the hall was a door, the twin of the one by which he had originally entered. He pushed it open and a wave of damp, cold air blew in. A flight of steps led to the path that seemed to circumnavigate the building, but this side was lined by a high hedge, at the moment all bare branches except for a few withered leaves and bits of paper that had blown there over the winter. Beyond the hedge was the Horticultural Gardens, and he saw the lamplighter was starting to light the lamps along the pathways criss-crossing the park. Snow was drifting through the pools of light, but it wasn’t yet sticking on the ground.
Murdoch turned back to Fyfer.
“Where is the church proper?”
“Through those doors, sir.”
At either end of the hall were two closed doors.
“You take the first one, I’ll take the second. Wait for me to give the signal.”
A moment of attention, then they each flung a door open and entered the nave.
It was much bigger than he’d expected and in spite of the circumstances, Murdoch felt a twist of curiosity. Ever since he could remember, the priests had drilled into him the peril to his immortal soul of associating with any Church other than the true Faith and to his mind that carried over to the buildings themselves. Murdoch remembered his mother, on their way to mass, hurrying him, Bertie, and Susanna past the Protestant church in the village as if it would reach out a tentacle like a giant octopus and suck them in.
The tall windows here were plain glass, no glorious depictions of Christ and the saints, and in the dim light, he could just make out the high ceiling where the large gasolier hung. There was a balcony and in the nave, rows of plain, straightbacked pews were arranged not as he was used to, perpendicular to a central aisle, but in semi-circles fanning out from the pulpit and divided by two aisles. There was not a wink of gold, no painted statues nor richly embroidered cloths to be seen. Instead of the sanctuary and the altar of his church, here was only a platform on which stood a pulpit reached by two curving sets of stairs on either side. So this was what a Protestant church looked like. Here the congregation presumably believed just as fervently in Jesus Christ and no doubt were as certain as any papist that they knew the truth, that they had the ear of God Almighty Himself.
He noticed that Fyfer was watching him from the other side of the church, waiting for further instructions, and he shifted his thoughts back to the investigation. The high backs of the pews would make this a great hiding place.
He called out. “I am a police officer. If there is anybody in here, show yourself in the name of the law or accept the consequences.”
His voice echoed faintly in the empty church.
“Light your lantern, Fyfer. You can walk up on that side, I’ll keep watch at the other end of the pews.”
The constable obeyed and began to flash the light along the rows. As they walked, Murdoch realized that what was absent was the familiar smell he associated with God, the sharp, acrid whiff of incense. There was just the odour of wax polish, gaslights, and a faint dank smell, but he assumed that was from the winter clothes of the congregation.
Nobody flew out at them and by now, Murdoch was sure they weren’t going to find anyone. Nevertheless, they went up to the balcony, searched up there, then returned to the main floor.
“The problem is there are several possible points of entry, wouldn’t you say, sir? Two side doors, one quite hidden from view, a rear door that comes in from the park, and the two Jarvis Street main entrances into the church.”
“Thank you, Fyfer, I had worked that out myself.”
“Yes, sir.”
Murdoch immediately felt a pang of guilt at his own curtness. Who was he to suppress eagerness and initiative in a young officer?
“I see they have a gasolier in here. We’ll have to get somebody to light it and we’ll give everything a thorough going-over.”
“I know how to light it, sir. The ladder is kept behind the pulpit.”
Murdoch shook his head. “Leave it for now. We can’t do anything further until the doctor has made a formal pronouncement of death. We’ll have to swear in a jury and Crabtree will need you. I’ll go and talk to the woman who found the body. What was her name again?”
“Miss Sarah Dignam. She was dreadful upset. She’s a spinster lady.”
Murdoch thought any woman would have been shocked by her discovery, but he assumed Fyfer was informing him Miss Dignam was no longer young or marriageable. Whatever she was, he wasn’t looking forward to the prospect of interviewing her.
Chapter Three
AT THAT MOMENT, THEY HEARD the north side door open and a woman entered. Murdoch frowned, about to usher her out again, expecting to have to deal with the hysterics of an unwary parishioner when she smiled politely.
“Good afternoon, I’m Dr. Julia Ogden. I am here to act as coroner.”
Murdoch recovered quickly. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Where is the body I’m to examine?”
“In here, ma’am … Fyfer, go and report to Constable Crabtree.”
The doctor looked at the young man in surprise. “Hello, Frank. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Good afternoon, Dr. Ogden. The church is on my beat. Er, this is Detective Murdoch.”
She offered her hand. “Why is your name familiar?”
“We met last summer, I believe. That is, not met exactly, we spoke on the telephone because you performed a post-mortem examination for us.”
“Ah, yes, I remember.”
Murdoch wasn’t sure she really did. He recalled speculating at the time about what the good doctor looked like, as her voice was youthful, English in intonation. She was older than he’d expected, almost of middle age, tall and thin with greying hair. She was wearing a black mackintosh cloak and she reminded him of a nun who’d taught him when he was in standard two. Sister Regina had the same air of unshakeable composure and competence. He’d found her most intimidating.
“I’ll report to Constable Crabtree,” said Fyfer and he left.
“I know his family,” Dr. Ogden said to Murdoch. “He’s a very fine young man. The police force is lucky to have him.”
“So I am learning, ma’am. This way, please.”
He indicated the pastor’s office and opened the door. She stood in the doorway and regarded the dead man. Her expression changed and her hand flew to her mouth. Her composure was not so unshakeable after all.
“Oh dear me, it’s Charles Howard. I wasn’t told anything except that somebody had died. I never dreamed it would be him. I thought … Oh my goodness … excuse me, detective, I …”
She stopped, struggling for control.
“You knew him, ma’am?”
“His wife is one of my patients. This is quite, quite dreadful. What happened? Who did this?”
“I’m afraid we don’t know as yet. One of the parishioners found his body hardly more than half an hour ago and I’ve just been called in.”
Murdoch waited a moment to see what she was going to do. She breathed deeply and braced herself. Control was back.
“Do you want to examine the body now, ma’am?”
“Yes, of course.”
She had her medical bag with her and she placed it on the floor. She unfastened her cloak, removed it, and put it carefully on top of the bag. Then she pulled off her gloves and, with a steady hand, reached forward to touch the minister’s forehead. Murdoch knew that sort of discipline. Sister Regina would have stared down the devil himself if she thought it
was her duty.
“He is barely cold. Death has occurred within the last two hours.” Without looking at Murdoch, she said, “I have to remove the dagger.”
She leaned over the body, put her left hand on Howard’s shoulder, and with her right grasped the handle. With strength worthy of a teamster, she gave a jerk, and with a soft, gulping sound the weapon came out, the blood seeping over her fingers.
“That was in quite deep.” She held out the thing to Murdoch. It was about nine inches long, of brass or gold, the handle carved in the shape of a serpent, with leaves and tendrils curling about the blade. “It looks like a letter opener.”
He took it from her and wrapped it in his own handkerchief. He would examine it later to see if it had any more to tell them. She looked at the pastor’s hands. “There are no cuts on his fingers.”
“I believe the blood on his hands is from him trying to pull out the letter opener, ma’am.”
“Ah yes, good thinking. He would try to do that, of course.”
“Would he have died instantly?”
“Quickly, but not necessarily instantly. But those wounds to his head look very severe. They probably finished the job.”
“I think he was kicked while he was on the floor.”
She nodded. “It appears that way. Two or three times, I’d say, but I can confirm that when I do the post-mortem examination.” She sat back on her heels. “Who would do such a thing? Charles Howard was such a kind, friendly man. I cannot believe he would have an enemy in the world.”
“It’s likely it was a thief. His boots have been pulled off and his watch and chain appear to be missing, but we’ll have to confirm that with his wife.”
Again there was a crack in the doctor’s composure. “Poor, poor Louisa. Does she know?”
Vices of My Blood Page 2
