Vices of My Blood

by Maureen Jennings

  Amy was gazing at him, her hand to her cheek in horror.

  “After that he cried, clutching the dog to his chest, rocking back and forth … I didn’t know what to do or say. Finally he stopped and I persuaded him to bury the little mongrel, which we did.”

  “Oh Will, that is such a sad story.”

  “There was an expression in Miss Dignam’s eyes and the way she cried for those few moments that reminded me of Monk when we first found the dog and he knew he’d lost him. It was as if a door had opened up into the sorrow of all their lives.” He averted his eyes. “My God, that sounds fanciful.”

  Amy reached out and touched his hand. “No, it doesn’t at all. I had a pupil once whose mother died suddenly, influenza I think it was, the girl was about twelve years old. When she came back to school, we happened to be studying Romeo and Juliet. The girl wasn’t a particularly good student or had never before shown much response to Shakespeare, but this afternoon when we got to the passage where Juliet dies, she burst out crying. I couldn’t soothe her. She was only a child, but she had known much loss in her young life.”

  Murdoch smiled at her gratefully. “Monk left the camp at the end of the season and I never saw him again. We never talked about poor Paddy … I was also troubled by the way he killed the dog.”

  “I suppose it could be considered as an act of mercy. The dog must have been suffering.”

  “He was, but Brodie went into a kind of panic as if the sight was more than he could bear. Whether that was for the dog’s sake is debatable. I hope I’m never faced with a situation like that.” Murdoch shuddered. “I still have nightmares about it.”

  At that moment, the kettle began to whistle.

  “Good timing. A cup of tea will hit the spot,” said Murdoch and he got up and went over to the stove. While the tea was poured and sipped, he resumed his narrative of the day’s events.

  “I spent the evening going through Howard’s personal portfolio. He was very organized and everything was filed under subject matter, including sermons, church business. There was quite a bit of correspondence and minutes of meetings about the installation of a new water closet. Apparently, the proposal was controversial. There were those who thought it was a ridiculous expense and the earth closet was quite adequate and those who thought it would enhance the public standing of the parish to have such a fine piece, not to mention being more suitable for the older members of the church.”

  Amy smiled. “Surely the poor man would not have been killed over the matter of a water closet?”

  “Let’s hope not. I saw the new facility and it is indeed very handsome and probably cost a lot of money. As far as I can tell Reverend Howard was generally keen to improve the church furnishings. But except for minor quibbles from a few of the elders, I couldn’t find any evidence that somebody was sufficiently enraged to murder him over it.” Murdoch poured them each more tea. “The letter opener told me nothing new other than that the thrust was a single one, made hard and deep. There was no sign of footprints inside or out. So that’s it for the silent witnesses. As for human witnesses, that was equally as unproductive. Crabtree and Fyfer questioned as many people in the area as they could, but so far nothing at all has emerged. It was such a dismal day, there was hardly anybody out to see anything. The murderer came and went without a trace. He might as well have been a spirit.”

  Amy blew on her tea to cool it. “You’ve been saying he all the time when referring to the culprit. Do the injuries preclude a female attacker?”

  He reflected for a moment. “The letter opener had been thrust into his neck very deeply and then I’d say he was kicked hard when he was on the ground, but he would have been defenceless by then. So, no, alas, we cannot at this point eliminate the possibility it was a woman who killed him. The coroner, who is a woman by the way, said she will do a post-mortem examination in the morning. I’ll attend that. Sometimes there are surprises.”

  “Such as?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, maybe the pastor was an opium eater or a drinker or had syphilis.”

  Amy looked at him in amazement. “Is that likely?”

  “Believe me, anything is likely.”

  She gave him a slightly teasing smile. “Are you becoming cynical, Will?”

  “Perhaps. I’d like to believe Mr. Howard was as good a man as everybody says he was, but if that’s true how can we explain such a tragedy?”

  “Ah, we’re back to the inscrutable nature of God’s intention, are we?”

  “That sounds awfully much as if I’m becoming boringly predictable.”

  “Not at all. Not predictable, just forever questioning.” Her eyes held his for a moment. “You’ve been in the presence of too much human misery, Will. You can’t take the sorrows of the world on your shoulders.”

  Murdoch grabbed at his own neck. “Heck, I thought all that stiffness was from too much riding on my wheel.”

  Amy pushed back her chair and stood up. “I should go to bed. I am tireder than I realized.”

  And that was that. Without more ado, she picked up her candleholder.

  “I wish you good night.”

  To delay her, he said, “How were your pupils today?”

  “Let me say, I felt as if I were trying to hold down twenty balloons all at the same time. It’s a wonder we didn’t float away.”

  She left and Murdoch groaned to himself. Why had he made light of her remark when she was trying to be kind? What a boor she must think him. He reached for his pipe and tobacco pouch, although he didn’t usually smoke in the kitchen. He tamped down the tobacco in the bowl of his Powhatan and struck a match.

  He supposed it was true what she’d said about him. He still went to mass but less and less frequently, and he was often restless when the priest delivered his homily, which was usually about some doctrinal issue that Murdoch couldn’t completely accept. Amy made no secret of her atheism, although she was obliged to attend church if she wanted to keep her job. She had opted to go to the Presbyterian church on King Street. “If I have to spend two hours of my precious Sunday going to an institution I don’t believe in, I might as well get a good sermon out of it and the Presbyterians are the best as far as I’m concerned.”

  Murdoch had considered inviting her to come to mass with him, just so she could see what it was like, but he knew all too well what she’d think of Father Fair and all the crossing and genuflecting that went on.

  He sat for a long time thinking about things – or, more specifically, love and the human heart.

  Chapter Nine

  INSPECTOR BRACKENREID was in the irascible frame of mind that was so typical of him these days, it would have been something to remark on if he had been otherwise. Murdoch was standing in front of his desk waiting for permission to sit down. Sometimes, the inspector was petty enough to make his officers stand for an unnecessarily long period.

  “I’ll give you Dewhurst and Birney. You’ve got Crabtree and Fyfer already. As long as nobody’s shirking their duty, that’ll be enough, don’t you think, Murdoch?”

  “Nobody will shirk, sir. They’re good officers. But I’d be glad of any constables we can spare from other duties. As you no doubt noticed in this morning’s papers, the city is quite caught up with the crime. I’m sure the chief constable would like us to make the case our top priority.”

  Brackenreid looked as if he wanted to argue the point, but he didn’t have the energy. He rubbed his temples.

  “Ach. I feel as if there’s some malevolent little devil in my head, playing a tune on an anvil.”

  Murdoch knew exactly what that devil was. He could smell it from where he stood.

  “Perhaps a strong cup of tea will help, sir.”

  “You’re right, Murdoch. I’ll have one sent up.” He flapped his hand. “Sit down, for goodness’ sake. I can’t keep looking up at you, it makes things worse.”

  Murdoch took the chair in front of the inspector’s desk. He almost felt sorry for the man, he looked so bilious. The whites
of his eyes had a yellowish tinge.

  “I want every single person interviewed who lives in the vicinity of the church. Somebody must have seen somebody. I don’t care if it was the mayor himself taking a stroll with his paramour, I want to know about it.”

  “Does Mr. Kennedy have a paramour, sir? I hadn’t heard.”

  Brackenreid groaned in irritation. “No, of course not. It was a figure of speech. You know perfectly well what I mean.”

  “You mean that as the Reverend Howard was a man of prominence in the community, we must leave no stone unturned to find his murderer, even if that proves to be another person of prominence.”

  “What? No, for heaven’s sake, Murdoch I didn’t mean that. We all know he was killed by some passing tramp. Find him and soon. I want a daily report from you. Don’t forget, Murdoch, I promoted you and I can unpromote you just as fast.”

  “Yes, sir. It’s not something I would forget.”

  Brackenreid’s flash of anger seemed to have aggravated his headache and he sat for a moment with his head in his hands.

  “Is that all, sir? Shall I have Gardiner send up that tea?”

  “Yes, good idea. What is your plan now?”

  “I’m going back to see Mrs. Howard. I hope she is able to talk to me.”

  “Mrs. Brackenreid and I met her just after the pastor’s appointment to Chalmers. Some charity concert, I think it was.” He struggled to remember. “Or was it at Mrs. Maclean’s soiree? Oh blast, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter, does it?”

  “Probably not, sir. Unless you think that somebody at the concert is a likely suspect.”

  “What? Dammit, Murdoch, you go too far.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir.”

  “As I was saying. I met the Howards not so long ago. She is a handsome woman and I preferred her to him. Decent-enough fellow, don’t get me wrong, but a bit airy-fairy for my taste. I like to see a fellow with some fire to him. Nothing like a tip-top sermon to set a man up for the day.”

  Sermonizing hadn’t had much impact on Brackenreid’s need for the little devil drink, thought Murdoch. He shifted slightly in his seat. Whenever the conversation approached even obliquely to the topic of religion, he knew that he could expect some kind of riposte. Ah here it came.

  “I don’t know how you manage in your religion, Murdoch. With all that Latin, you can’t get any direction at all, surely?”

  “The prayer book does have an English translation on one side of the page, sir. And the sermon, or homily as we call it, is in English.”

  Brackenreid started to shake his head in ostentatious disbelief but thought better of it.

  “All right. Get on with it then. I suppose I don’t need to remind you to handle the poor woman with kid gloves, do I?”

  “No, sir, you don’t.”

  “Quite. That’s something I’ve noticed about you Catholics, you are good at dealing with women.”

  This remark was so stunningly peculiar that Murdoch had no reply. He stood up.

  “Don’t forget the tea,” said Brackenreid as Murdoch left.

  The maid’s face was puffy and blotchy from crying. “Mrs. Howard is in the drawing room with Mr. Swanzey, sir.”

  “I do need to talk to her, Doris.”

  “Yes, sir.” With the merest tap on the door, she showed him in.

  Louisa Howard was sitting on the couch by the window, Swanzey beside her. He stood up to greet Murdoch, but Louisa didn’t even turn to acknowledge him. She was staring out of the window and he presumed her expression was grief-stricken, but he could see nothing because of the obscuring widow’s veil she was wearing. She was already dressed in deepest mourning and Murdoch wondered not for the first time if every married woman of affluence had black clothes in her wardrobe on the ready for such an eventuality as widowhood.

  Reverend Swanzey hovered uncertainly between them. He had a long neck and his prominent Adam’s apple bobbed visibly.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Howard,” said Murdoch, “but as I’m sure you can understand, I am anxious to find your husband’s murderer as soon as possible.”

  There was no other word he could use other than killer but even at the word murderer he saw her flinch. She turned to face him. Her voice lacked energy and her breath rippled her crepe veil as she spoke.

  “I do understand, Mr. Murdoch. And since last night, all I have been able to think about is your question whether Charles had any enemies.”

  Swanzey interjected. “Mrs. Howard and I have been discussing this very matter this morning, detective. At first we both as with one voice said no. Charles was a good man, beloved by all he came in contact with.” He paused and glanced anxiously at Louisa. She remained steady for the moment. “However, in the course of his work, he had occasion to do things, to make decisions that for the people involved might have seemed harsh. They were not likely to step back and say, ‘This good man is merely doing his duty. I have no right to hate him for it.’” Again he paused and looked at Murdoch expectantly.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what you are referring to, sir.”

  Mrs. Howard explained. “My husband was a Visitor for the House of Industry. It was his job to visit the homes of the people who had applied for charitable relief and decide whether they were deserving.”

  “It is something I do myself,” said Swanzey, “and believe me, Mr. Murdoch, not all the cases that come before us deserve help. But these tend to be the kind of people who will rail against the Visitor himself rather than look to their own shortcomings that have brought them to their predicament. And there is only so much the city can do. I myself have agonized over whether I can grant a coal allowance or food to a poor woman who has neither heat nor sustenance but whose husband I know has succumbed to bad habits.”

  He meant he was a drinker.

  “That must be difficult, Reverend. Especially as it is not the woman herself who is to blame.”

  Swanzey swayed on his tiptoes. “Ah yes, but we encounter many tricksters. The women come to the House to apply because they think we will be more indulgent of them, but they know perfectly well that the husband at home is a drunkard and should be working. And sometimes, I regret to say, they join him in his habit.”

  “Quite so. But to return to Mr. Howard for a moment, are you saying, ma’am, sir, that through this work, it is possible he made an enemy, angry enough to kill him?”

  “Yes,” whispered Mrs. Howard.

  “Did he ever mention such an encounter to you, ma’am?”

  “No. He did not. But he never brought the burdens of his work to me. I wanted it that way. I strove to make our home a haven for him, where all those cares could be put aside.”

  Murdoch thought of the comfort he himself found from talking over his cases with first the Kitchens, now with Seymour and Amy Slade. He wondered if there had been some place else where Reverend Howard had unburdened himself.

  “Where can I get a list of the homes he inspected?”

  “The House of Industry would have that,” said Swanzey. “And I should add that his territory was in this area. We are all assigned places that are easily accessible –”

  Mrs. Howard interrupted him. “The work is voluntary, detective. It is in addition to all the other duties that a minister in a large parish has to execute.”

  And she didn’t approve of her husband doing that unpaid work, thought Murdoch.

  “As you say, Mrs. Howard, being a Visitor is voluntary, but I myself consider it my civic duty,” interjected Swanzey. “But more to the point, detective, if Reverend Howard had antagonized somebody, that person most likely lives not too far from here. And it is highly likely that they would know that he had office hours on Tuesdays.”

  Murdoch got to his feet. “Thank you, reverend. And you, ma’am. There’s just one more thing. I wonder if I could ask your maid to accompany me to the church. I assume she would be the one who would dust the office and I’d like to know if anything else has been taken.”

 
“Is it absolutely necessary? There is so much to do here at the moment.”

  “I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t, ma’am. I shan’t keep her for long.” He knew Mrs. Howard was bereft, but he was finding her rather irritating. There was something sour and self-pitying in her manner.

  “Very well, but I warn you, Doris is a rather empty-headed girl, Mr. Murdoch. She might not notice if somebody had walked off with his chair.”

  Murdoch took his leave and Mrs. Howard returned to gazing out of the window. Reverend Swanzey perched himself beside her on the couch. He was clearly not comfortable in his role as chief comforter. He should have been a Catholic. According to Inspector Brackenreid, we have a certain facility with women, thought Murdoch.

  The poor maid was initially afraid to go with him to the office after Murdoch warned her she would have to see the blood stains. But when he explained the importance of knowing if anything was missing, she braced herself and agreed to accompany him. They entered the office, which still had the curtains drawn although the fire had long died out and the room was cold. Doris shuddered once when she saw the blood on the carpet and on the desk, but on Murdoch’s instruction she walked slowly around the room, taking note of everything. Far from being empty-headed, she seemed to be a servant who took pride in her work and knew exactly what belonged where.

  “He had a very fine letter opener that always sat on his desk. I don’t see it.”

  “You are right, Doris. It is in the possession of the police.”

  She blinked as she comprehended what that meant, but she didn’t say anything.

  She picked up a silver snuff box that was on the lamp table next to the armchair. “Usually this is on the mantelpiece. He loved his snuff, but the mistress didn’t like him to use it so he only did when he was in here. But he was trying to break himself of the habit and so sometimes he’d put the box where it was less convenient to reach.” She replaced the box. “I can’t see what harm it did.”