Vices of My Blood

by Maureen Jennings

  “Is the chair usually across from the armchair?”

  “No, sir. It lines up with the other ones for when he has his meetings.”

  They took the next half an hour going over the room carefully, but Doris was adamant everything was in place except for the letter opener.

  Murdoch thanked her and commended both her courage and her awareness. He was gratified to see the shy blush of pleasure on her face.

  “Reverend Howard’s boots were removed and as they are nowhere to be found, I assume his attacker took them. Were you responsible for cleaning them, Doris?”

  “Yes, sir. I did the boots every night before I went to bed so as they’d be ready.”

  “Can you describe them for me?”

  She looked a little puzzled. “They was just ordinary boots, sir. Black of course. Not new though. He didn’t like waste and rather than buy new when another would, he’d mend and make do. Those boots were mended sole and heel at least two times.” Murdoch made a note. It was something distinguishing at least. Suddenly Doris tapped her fingers to her forehead. “I’m sorry, sir, but the shock has fair blown my idea pot in two. I was almost about to forget his laces. In the morning, he broke one of his laces. We didn’t have any spare and he said he didn’t have time to buy some more so he took one from his other pair of boots.” She looked at Murdoch expectantly. “Oh dear, what I mean is that the second pair of boots is brown. So he had one pair of black laces and one brown. Mrs. Howard would have had a conniption if she’d seen, but those sort of things weren’t important to him.”

  “Thank you, Doris. That could be very helpful indeed. I have one more question. Did Mr. Howard post his own letters?”

  “No, sir. I did.”

  “Did he write a letter on Tuesday morning?”

  “Not that I know of, sir. He could have written something when he went to his office after his luncheon, but that wasn’t usual. Friday was letter-writing day and I would take them to the post office that afternoon.” Again there was the sad little smile. “Mr. Howard liked his routine. He didn’t change it, ever. He always said that the earth was without form until God created it and it was up to us to follow in God’s will by making order throughout our lives.” Her voice was wistful and Murdoch felt a pang of pity.

  “How long have you worked for Mrs. Howard, Doris?”

  “Since I was fourteen, sir. I came up with them from Buffalo.”

  “Is your family still there?”

  “I don’t have a family anymore, sir. They all died of the smallpox. Mr. and Mrs. Howard took me in.”

  She was a young girl, surely not yet twenty, and however grateful she might be, her life as the only servant of a man who hated variety must have been dreadfully dull.

  Murdoch walked her back to the manse and took her round the rear of the house to the servant’s entrance. Here with sweet, natural good manners, she offered him her hand.

  “I’ll say good morning then, sir. I hope I have been of help.”

  “Indeed you have, Doris. Thank you.”

  She blushed again, but there were tears in her eyes.

  “The master was good like you, sir. I will miss him terrible.”

  Chapter Ten

  MURDOCH SAW THE HORSE MANURE just in time, but as he swerved to avoid it his wheel skidded on a patch of ice and he almost lost control of his bicycle. If it hadn’t been for that moment of distraction, he would probably have seen the boy sneaking up on the elderly woman who was hobbling down Yonge Street. As it was, he heard a cry, saw that a woman had collapsed to the ground, and a boy was running as fast as he could away from her. A passerby stopped briefly to see if the old lady was all right, then he took off after the boy. He was a husky fellow and his frame couldn’t keep pace with his good intentions. Murdoch hesitated. A woman was helping the old lady to her feet. There wasn’t much point in his racing after the boy until he knew exactly what had happened. This section of Yonge Street, where stores lined each side of the street, was always crowded at this time of day and several people were already surrounding the woman.

  He pulled over to the curb, dismounted, and eased through the group of spectators.

  “Excuse me, I’m a policeman, excuse me.”

  Close up, the woman who was the centre of attention wasn’t quite as old as she had first appeared. Her face was thin and toothless, but what he could see of her face was relatively unlined. She was holding a silk handkerchief to her eyes and repeating in a quivery voice, “Dearie me, dearie me. He took all my money.”

  “Ma’am. I’m a policeman. Can you tell me what happened?”

  “She was robbed, that’s what happened,” said a young woman next to her. “That street arab just came up and snatched her purse.”

  Murdoch saw that the man had given up his chase and was coming back. He came into the circle of helpers.

  “He got away from me. I’m so sorry.” He was still panting, his weatherbeaten face flushed from his exertions.

  “Did you lose much, ma’am?” Murdoch asked.

  She shook her head, the handkerchief still at the ready. “Just my streetcar tickets. I was on my way to see my daughter. Oh dear. That’s all I had with me.”

  “Don’t you fret yourself, ma’am,” said the lad. “I’m sure there’s folks here that’ll help you out.”

  “I have an extra ticket,” said the young woman. She reached into her glove. “Please accept this. I’m so sorry about your money.”

  “Here,” said the young fellow. “I’ve only got fifty cents, but I’d be obliged if you would take it.” There was a sympathetic shift among the bystanders and the beginning of a shuffle with purses and pockets.

  The old woman shook her head vigorously. “Thank you, sir. I couldn’t possibly. This gentleman here says he is a policeman and I’m sure he’ll be able to retrieve my purse for me.”

  The young man glanced over at Murdoch. “Good thing you was on the spot. Did you get a gander at the lad? All I saw was his backside, begging your pardon, ladies.”

  “No, I too saw him only from the rear. Can you describe him, ma’am?”

  “Alas no. He came up behind me, snatched my purse, knocked me to the ground, and ran off. I cannot say I noticed anything at all. He could have been a red Indian for all I saw.”

  The woman next to her burst in.

  “I saw. He was wearing a checkered cap, brown knickerbockers, and a plaid jacket.”

  Murdoch took out his notebook. He’d seen that much himself, but he wrote down what she said out of courtesy. She leaned over his shoulder to see what he was writing.

  “I’d say he was about ten years old, dark skin.”

  Murdoch smiled at her. She was a pretty woman, with lively brown eyes. She was neatly dressed in a plum-coloured walking suit with a matching wide hat on which bobbed two long plumes. On her chest was pinned the white bow of a temperance advocate.

  “You’re a good witness,” he said.

  “He seemed older than that to me,” interjected the country man. “More like fifteen or sixteen. But the lady’s right about the skin, I’d say he was a quadroon.”

  “Can anybody else add to this description?” Murdoch asked the onlookers, but all he got was a gabble of confusing statements: “Too far away, definitely dark. Yes, dark-skinned like a Negro, older, younger.”

  He turned back to the victim. “I’ll have to make a report, ma’am. Can I have your name and address?”

  “Really, officer, I am quite all right. My daughter will be worried, so I must get along. Thanks to this young lady, I can continue my journey. If the poor lad was driven to rob me, he must be one of our unfortunates. I don’t want to press charges. There was only a small amount of change in my purse.”

  “I’m afraid that I will still have to write up a report, ma’am. We will try to apprehend the boy.” He could see her alarm was growing at the thought of continuing police involvement. This was by no means an uncommon reaction among the public.

  “Don’t worry, ma’am, yo
u’ll have nothing further to do with us unless necessary.”

  “Very well. My name is Mrs. Agnes Pierce and I live at 720 Queen Street East. I am a widow.”

  Murdoch wrote it down. The onlookers were starting to drift away. “Will you describe your purse to me?”

  “It was black silk with a gold-coloured clasp and a strap. It contained two blue tickets for the streetcar and perhaps twenty cents in coins.”

  “Where does your daughter live?” asked the young temperance woman.

  “Oh, she resides on Church Street near St. Michael’s Cathedral.”

  “I’ll take you there.”

  The elderly woman shook her head even more vehemently.

  “No. Please. I do appreciate your kindness, but I am quite all right. I’ll get along now. My cane please.”

  Another bystander, a man, had collected her cane for her and he handed it over. With a murmured “Thank you, kindly,” she took it and began to shuffle off. The temperance woman looked as if she would follow her, but the boy’s pursuer said, “We’d better let her be. She’s got pride, that lady, bless her heart.”

  “I’ll take down your names,” said Murdoch. “If we catch the thief, I might have to call you as witnesses.”

  The man gave his name as Joshua Winters. He was from a small town north of Toronto and just visiting the city. The young woman was Helena Martin. She gave her address, describing exactly where it was. For a moment, Murdoch imagined she was going to invite him for tea, but then he was embarrassed at his own conceit. They had only had a few minutes of contact, for goodness’ sake.

  That done, he tipped his hat and remounted his bicycle. He had the feeling that Miss Martin continued to watch him as he cycled down Yonge Street until he turned right onto Elm Street where the House of Industry was located.

  Chapter Eleven

  THE HOUSE OF INDUSTRY was a flat-faced, two storey building and everything about it seemed pinched, from the dun-coloured brick to the low roof and narrow windows. A high fence enclosing the entire building kept the curious from observing the supplicant paupers as they lined up daily to get their bowl of free soup. Murdoch opened the gate and walked up to the door, which was tall and wide with a stained-glass fanlight and arched lintel. The elegance was unexpected, like a friendly smile on the bailiff’s face. He pulled on the bell and the door was opened promptly by a white-haired old man in a dark formal suit.

  “You’ll be wanting to see Superintendent Laughlen, I presume,” he said in a hoarse voice, as if he had spent his life shouting. Murdoch wasn’t sure why the porter made that presumption, perhaps nobody else in the House received visitors. He handed over his card, which the man glanced at briefly.

  “Ah yes,” he croaked. “Come this way.”

  He ushered him into a hall that was so ill-lit, Murdoch could not tell what colour the walls were painted. Something dark and sober, but there were no decorative pictures or furniture as far as he could see. He wasn’t surprised. This was a charity house funded by the city taxpayers, no luxury would be allowed. The old man, he almost called him a gaoler, shuffled across to a door to the left, tapped and pressed his ear against the door. In response to a command that Murdoch could not hear, he then beckoned and opened the door.

  “Detective Murdoch to see you, sir.” He backed out. What had he been? A circus barker? A music-hall master of ceremonies? Murdoch thought perhaps he should burst through the portières with a triumphant hurrah.

  “Go in,” the old man whispered and he shuffled off.

  When he entered the room, Murdoch could understand why he hadn’t heard Superintendent Laughlen answer the knock. He was seated behind a massive desk at the far end of the room that was spacious but as dreary as a Trappist refectory. There was no other furniture except for two plain wooden chairs in front of the desk. This was a business office, with one small fireplace, plain Holland blinds on the windows, and walls lined with filing cabinets and shelves of what looked like bound annual reports.

  There was one lamp on the desk, the wick turned low, throwing Superintendent Laughlen’s face into shadow except where the light reflected from his bald head. As if to balance the dearth of hair in that location, he had a full beard that jutted out from his cheekbones to the top of his waistcoat.

  He got to his feet immediately and came around the desk with his hand outstretched. He was a big man without his flesh conveying in any way that he was convivial.

  “Good day, Mr. Murdoch. I was expecting somebody from the police to come. It’s concerning the tragic death of Reverend Howard, I presume.”

  “Yes, sir, it is. And may I express my condolences.” “Thank you. We are all quite devastated.”

  Laughlen pulled over one of the straight chairs for Murdoch and eased himself into a second one so he was facing him without the barrier of desk or privilege. Murdoch liked him. His brown eyes were sincerely doleful.

  “How is poor Mrs. Howard?”

  “As well as can be expected.”

  “Have you made progress with the case?”

  “We have not yet caught the person responsible, superintendent, but we are making progress.” Murdoch took out his notebook. “One of the reasons I am here is because Mrs. Howard told me her husband did visiting duties for the House of Industry and I wondered if I could have a copy of his list.”

  “Of course.” Laughlen got up at once and headed for the filing cabinet. “But I heard that Charles had surprised a thief. Is that not the case?” He opened one of the drawers, flicked through the folders, and removed one. For a big man, he moved lightly and quickly. He returned to Murdoch.

  “We’re by no means ruling out a thief, sir, but I don’t think he was taken by surprise. The evidence suggests that Reverend Howard allowed his attacker to enter his study.”

  Laughlen looked shocked. “Do you think it was somebody he knew?”

  “That or somebody he might expect to be there. Tuesday was his regular office day.”

  “I see.” Laughlen took a sheet of paper from the folder. “Here is the most recent list. He made his monthly visit just last week. He had a heavily populated district and he had twelve applicants. You can see he gave tickets to all but four of them.”

  The superintendent sighed. “Reverend Howard had only been with us since January, but he showed signs of being an excellent Visitor. His inexperience made him a little too generous perhaps, but he was not without perspicacity. He could detect frauds as well as any of our more experienced men.” He handed the piece of paper to Murdoch. “You can keep that sheet, detective, I have a copy.” Like a lot of bald men, Laughlen had a habit of stroking his head as if unable to accept the loss it revealed. He did so now. “Am I correct in assuming that you suspect the, er” – Laughlen stumbled over the word murderer – “the, er, culprit, might be one of our applicants? Somebody the pastor rejected perhaps?”

  Howard was not the only one who showed perspicacity.

  “I am exploring that as a possibility. Did Reverend Howard ever mention any trouble to you?”

  “Not at all. As you see, this month, he refused help to only four families. One of those is well known to us and they were turned down without ceremony. The husband is a lazy good-for-nothing and he always sends his wife to beg for him.”

  Even lazy-good-for-nothings have to eat, Murdoch thought, but this wasn’t the time to discuss the limits of charity so he made no comment. There were three other names on the list with a stamp beside them, Refused.

  “Do you know anything about these ones, sir?”

  Laughlen glanced at the list. “No, they are not known to me. Last year we had well over two thousand families who applied to us for relief so alas, I can hardly know each one personally.” He sounded genuinely regretful rather than defensive. “I can look at the slips and see what Reverend Howard wrote on them if you wish.”

  “Thank you, sir, that would be helpful.”

  The superintendent returned to his desk. “They are all here, as a matter of fact, I haven’t
yet pasted them into the report book.” He riffled through a pile of papers, pulled out four, and brought them over to Murdoch. “He rejected a Mrs. Tugwell, a widow; the Gleeson family; a woman, Mary Hanrahan, not married; and Thomas Coates.”

  Murdoch looked at the slips. They recorded the name, address, and age of each applicant, the number of people in the family, and a comment in Howard’s neat handwriting. All four of these applicants had been refused as “undeserving.” Mrs. Tugwell was cited as living with her daughter, who was a known woman of intemperate and immoral habits. Gleeson was malingering and capable of working, Miss Hanrahan was a drunkard, as was Thomas Coates.

  “What is the procedure for somebody in need of relief, superintendent?”

  Laughlen sat down and leaned back in the chair, as much as he could without imperiling his own safety. “Every weekday afternoon from two o’clock until five, one of our trustees receives applications from those who consider themselves to be destitute.”

  He must have seen something pass across Murdoch’s face because he added quickly. “Please don’t misunderstand me, my good sir. I would say that the majority of the cases that come before us are genuinely in need of assistance. Often the husband is ill or injured and unable to work. More often than I care to say, it is a woman, close to her confinement who has been abandoned by her spouse, leaving her with children to feed. Those are our most heart-rending cases and I would say the most deserving.”

  Murdoch remembered what Amy had said to him. He couldn’t rule out the possibility that the murderer was a woman. Laughlen continued.

  “But we also have to sort out those who would not work for a living if the Lord Jesus himself asked them to. All applicants are assigned to one of our Visitors, who then goes to their residence to see if that person is deserving of the relief. If he considers them to be so, he will give them tickets so they can receive bread and coal, and they can also come to the House for a daily bowl of soup.”