Vices of My Blood

by Maureen Jennings

  “Right, but I noticed he had a new filing cabinet delivered the other day. His other one looked fine to me.”

  “Hey, mine is falling apart, perhaps I can nab it myself. Where is it?”

  “Out in the stables.”

  “Anyway, Charlie, do your best with what we’ve got. I’ll also put an advertisement in the newspapers, see if anybody comes forward. We’ll get that in tomorrow’s editions.”

  “Do you want a pipe before you go?” Seymour asked as he took out his own bag of tobacco.

  “No thanks, Charlie. I’d better kick off.”

  In fact, Murdoch had decided to give up his pipe smoking for Lent, but he felt rather uncomfortable telling Seymour. He wasn’t sure himself why he was doing it as he was more and more alienated from the practices of his church. Somehow, however, he could accept the notion of a small sacrifice to remember a greater one. Besides, not many women liked the smell of tobacco on a man’s clothes and breath.

  Murdoch shoved a piece of paper across the table. “This is a list of applicants for city relief that Howard visited on Monday. I’m going to start with the four he turned down, but there’s nothing to say somebody on the list didn’t have a miff at him. Maybe they didn’t get everything they asked for. Two soup tickets instead of three. It matters when you’re starving. Any names you recognize?”

  Seymour studied the list. “Coady, of course. He’s a guest of the city on a regular basis, but I can’t see him murdering anybody. He’s too drunk to stand most of the time … there’s nobody else that I know.” He stood up. “Heck, I wasn’t watching the time. I’d better get back to the desk. Best of luck.” He crammed the tobacco pouch in his pocket and left.

  Murdoch lingered for a few moments, enjoying the warmth of the fire on his back. The station cat was rubbing her head vigorously against his leg.

  “All right, Puss, all right. You’ll wear a hole in my trousers at that rate.” He pushed back his chair and the cat gave a loud meow of triumph and ran ahead to the cupboard beside the fireplace where the milk was kept. Murdoch followed her, took out the bottle of milk, and poured some into her saucer. “There. And when you’ve finished how about doing some work. I found some little black droppings in my cupboard this morning and you know what that means, don’t you?”

  The cat ignored him.

  The first name on the list was the Gleeson family, who lived in a small workman’s cottage on Wellesley Street. As Murdoch leaned his wheel against the curb, he could hear the sounds of an angry squabble going on inside, children, from the pitch of the voices. Then the front door was flung open and a boy ran out, a bigger boy close behind him. They both collided with Murdoch. He went to grab hold of the smaller lad, but he squirmed away and took off down the street, running hard. This was no happy game Murdoch had interrupted. The older boy hesitated, torn between his anger and a quick fear about the visitor’s presence. Murdoch relieved him of the choice by blocking his path.

  “I’m looking for Mr. Gleeson. Is he your pa?”

  The boy didn’t respond to the question but managed to slip in a shrewd appraisal of Murdoch. He didn’t like what he saw and he began to back away, hands held out in supplication.

  “I don’t know nothing, mister.”

  “Who was that boy you were so intent on killing? Is he your brother?”

  A reluctant nod. “He took my last piece of sausage.”

  Murdoch fished in his pocket and brought out a twenty-five-cent piece.

  “Here. I’d rather you go buy yourself another sausage than be guilty of homicide.”

  The boy accepted the money and stepped back immediately in case Murdoch should change his mind. “Thanks, mister.”

  “Is there anybody else in the house?”

  The boy’s expression became opaque. “My ma and pa are, but they’re both taking a short kip right now.”

  “Unfortunately, I’ll have to wake them up. I have some important business I need to discuss with them.”

  “Are you a bailiff?”

  “No. I’m a detective. I’m not going to report them to anybody, I just need to ask some questions.”

  “What about?”

  “Before I answer that, how about telling me your name.”

  Reluctantly, the boy answered. “I’m Jethro.”

  “Jethro Gleeson?”

  A brief nod as if even that much commitment was dangerous.

  “Did you ever meet Reverend Howard, Jethro? He would have come to see about your pa’s request for relief.”

  That was easy. Jethro shrugged. “I don’t know nothing.”

  Murdoch sighed. “All right then, my lad. Why don’t you go and get your meat pie or sausage or whatever you want while I talk to your ma and pa.”

  Jethro was probably about ten years old, skinny and dirty-faced. His trousers were too short and his shirt had big holes in it. He smelled of neglect. It was far too cold to be out long without a coat, but Murdoch guessed the boy didn’t own one. He dipped into his pocket again.

  “Here’s another two cents. Have some gravy as well. Go on, get off with you.”

  Jethro didn’t wait to be told a second time and he bolted down the street. Murdoch watched him go for a moment then walked up to the house.

  The boys had left the door open and Murdoch stepped into the dank, stinking interior. It was gloomy, no candles or lamps, and only a dull fire in the grate. He could just make out two lumpy forms on the bed in the corner. He walked over to them. Mr. and Mrs. Gleeson, lying curled up together in sodden intimacy. The smell was vile. Unwashed linen, stale beer. He grabbed the man’s shoulder and shook it hard.

  “Mr. Gleeson, wake up. Mr. Gleeson.”

  The man stirred, mumbled, saw Murdoch leaning over him and went from drunk to sober in a matter of seconds.

  “Who’re you?”

  “My name’s Murdoch. I’m a detective. I need to ask you some questions.”

  “I don’t know nothing about it.”

  Murdoch almost smiled. “I haven’t said what it is yet.” He moved away from the bed more for his own self-preservation. “I’d like you to wake your wife and to sit up.”

  Both commands were easier said than done. Gleeson was pinned under the heavy embrace of his wife, who was locked in a deep stupor. Finally, he got out from underneath her arm, sat up, and started to shake her.

  “Mags. There’s a frog, er, officer here who wants to talk to us. Get up, old girl. Come on.” His rather endearing tone was for Murdoch’s benefit and it didn’t last. When his wife showed no signs of responding, Gleeson, in exasperation, suddenly pinched her nose closed and the consequent spluttering and gasping for breath jolted the woman awake. She hauled herself more upright. It was a ludicrous scene. The two of them still in bed, nightcaps on, dirty quilt pulled up to their chins, Murdoch standing at the bedside like an invalid’s solicitous visitor. Or two invalids, in this case. He decided that making them get dressed would be more trouble than it was worth.

  “You recently applied for relief, I understand.”

  “Thas right.”

  Murdoch could see Gleeson struggle to assess whether this question boded well or ill.

  “I’m sorry to inform you that your Visitor, the Reverend Howard, has been killed.”

  A pause, more from puzzlement than fear or guilt.

  “Whatch ya mean, killed. Was he run over or something?”

  “No. Somebody stabbed him, then kicked him in the head.”

  Definitely fear now. Even Mrs. Gleeson seemed to comprehend what Murdoch had said.

  “We don’t know nothing about that. We didn’t do anything to him, did we, Mags?”

  Still mute, she shook her head then winced.

  “Why’re you telling us?” Gleeson asked, recovering a certain belligerence that Murdoch suspected was his habitual manner.

  “I understand your application was rejected by the minister.”

  “It was, but that don’t mean I up and killed him. I’d have ’alf the city dead if I
followed that line.”

  “Where were you Tuesday afternoon?”

  “Here in bed like always.”

  “What do you mean, like always.”

  Margaret Gleeson found her tongue at last. Her voice was roughened. “Show him, Tom.”

  Gleeson pulled back the quilt and for a moment Murdoch almost flinched. The man’s feet were swollen to twice their size and a livid purple colour. In a couple of places, the skin had ulcerated.

  “He can’t hardly get himself to the chamber pot,” said his wife.

  “What about you, ma’am? Where were you yesterday afternoon?” Murdoch said. He saw the glance of triumph that flashed between them. They’d got him.

  “I was in bed beside him,” she answered. “See,” and she too pulled back the quilt. She was in a state of advanced pregnancy. “I’ve got to rest my legs.” She raised her stained nightgown so Murdoch could see the purple swollen veins, snaking up from her ankles. She patted her mound of a belly. “I’ve lost two before this one, so I’ve got to be careful.”

  Murdoch felt like yelling at her that sobriety might help the unborn even more than lying in bed, but he held his tongue.

  “What can you tell me about Reverend Howard’s visit?”

  “Not much. It didn’t matter to him that Mags here is expecting and I can’t work. He’s a nob. They’re all nobs and they don’t give a piss for people like us. If we starve to death, we’re one less name on the books as far as they’re concerned. He didn’t stay long. Just said that he couldn’t give us any tickets. We’d have to find another source of charity.”

  Gleeson hawked and spat on the floor, just missing Murdoch’s boots. He’d seen his own father do that many a time and he’d heard that tone of voice before. Aggrieved, self-righteous, defiant. He used to be a good man, Will, his mother had whispered to him once as he lay in bed smarting from the most recent beating. Try not to think too harshly of him. He just can’t abide it when you talk to him that way. He sees his own failure.

  Murdoch had been full of helpless rage and in no mood for forgiveness. He could feel that old anger stirring at the back of his mind, stiffening his neck in a way he had no control over.

  “You seem to have found enough money to buy drink,” he said. “You could have got food instead.”

  Gleeson didn’t answer, but somewhere in his ruin of a face Murdoch saw a glimpse of desperation. They were both beyond redemption, but they also had two sons and a baby imminent. He felt disgusted with them and with himself for having a reaction he had tried so desperately for years to control.

  “Listen. I’m not going to give you money, but I’m going down to the pie shop at the corner and I’ll have them send down some bread and soup.”

  Margaret looked as if she were going to thank him, but Gleeson gave him a vile, unrepentant glare. Murdoch dropped a dollar bill on the table.

  “Kill yourself then.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  THOMAS COATES WAS ALSO DRUNK, but his wife was sober, as were his four children, all of them huddled around a tiny fire in the dark backroom of a house on Bleeker Street. He had nothing to say about his Visitor except that Reverend Howard didn’t understand how hard things had been for him with a bad back and no work. He was a whiner, but the children were obviously in dire straits, Murdoch wondered why Howard hadn’t granted them relief. He supposed he was under strict orders to refuse tickets to anybody who was undeserving, that is, a drunkard and a malingerer. Murdoch left a dollar with Mrs. Coates, who immediately hid it in her apron pocket. He felt confident that she and the children at least would have supper that night.

  Miss Mary Hanrahan’s room was filthy. She didn’t seem to understand any of his questions and she reeked of stale beer, but Murdoch wondered if her lack of coherence was caused by something else. She seemed lost and frail and in need of care. He crossed her off his list of possible assailants. Even in a rage of disappointment, she couldn’t have overcome a healthy man like Howard; she could hardly walk. He left her a dollar bill on her table.

  The fourth name on his list was Mrs. Esther Tugwell, who lived on Sherbourne Street at the boundary of Howard’s district. As he approached the dilapidated house in the deepening gloom of the early evening, Murdoch wondered how much this visit was going to cost him. He didn’t have much money left. Each window had a different covering, from what looked like a tablecloth to a proper blind so he knew there were several tenants living in a house that was small to begin with. He wasn’t surprised there was no bell and he banged hard on the door that hadn’t seen paint for many years. No answer. The butler’s day off, he said wryly to himself. He turned the doorknob and stepped into a dark hallway that was fetid with neglect and the odour of many years of unwholesome meals. He waited for a moment until his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom but realized he was going to need some light. He went back to where he’d left his bicycle, removed the lamp from the handlebars, and went back inside the house.

  The beam of light revealed a bare wooden floor and grimy walls. His light picked out a well-polished brass plate on the nearest door, shining like a piece of gold on a midden heap. The plate read, THOMAS HICKS, ESQUIRE. He could hear a low murmur coming from inside the room but only one voice as far as he could tell.

  Murdoch rapped on the door and the murmuring stopped abruptly.

  “Yes?” It was a man’s frail voice.

  “Mr. Hicks, I’m a policeman. I’m looking for Mrs. Esther Tugwell.”

  Various creaks then the sound of a bolt being shot back. The door opened a crack and the face of an elderly man peered out at him. Murdoch had expected a sullen response, but the man actually beamed at him, revealing yellow teeth as prominent in his gaunt face as those of an old horse’s.

  “Come in, come in.” He stepped back and beckoned Murdoch into his room. “Have a seat, sir.” Hicks suffered from a severe curvature of the spine, which brought his chin close to his chest and movement was obviously difficult for him. He shuffled over to the table in the middle of the room, removed a newspaper from a chair, and pulled it out. “I must apologize for the untidiness of my abode, sir, but I don’t receive many visitors, especially illustrious members of the city’s police force.” Hicks’s voice was that of an educated Englishman and at first glance, his abode, as he called it, resembled the private library of an aristocrat. Tall bookcases lined the three windowless walls. There was a comfortable armchair in front of the fire and a faint smell of singed leather suggested Mr. Hicks had been propping his slippered feet on the fender. A brass oil lamp on the table cast a warm glow. However, as his host fussed with the chair, Murdoch had an opportunity to observe a little more closely. There was a simple couch in the corner, which was presumably where Mr. Hicks slept, and next to it a washstand. Two worn druggets were on the planked floor and the window had a decent-enough blind, but it was obvious that if Thomas Hicks, Esquire had ever, in fact, been affluent, he was no longer so.

  The chair cleared of newspaper, the man offered his hand.

  “Thomas Hicks at your service, sir.”

  “Murdoch. William Murdoch. I’m a detective at number four station.”

  “Ah, yes, I know it well,” said Hicks ambiguously. He waved in the direction of the hearth where there was a kettle steaming on the hob. “I was just about to prepare some tea when you knocked. May I offer you some?”

  Murdoch was about to refuse, but he knew the man’s eagerness was a measure of his loneliness.

  “Thank you kindly. It’s damably cold out there and a hot cup of char would hit the spot. As long as it’s no bother.”

  “Not at all. Not at all. I always have my tea at this time.” Hicks flashed his powerful teeth again. “It is probably not such a good thing to be a creature of habit the way I am, but ever since my dear wife passed away, I find it a comfort to continue with our little customs.” He tapped on the table. “She would sit here and I in my armchair and we would read to each other, often for hours.”

  Murdoch glanced at the boo
kshelf behind him, which was lined with leatherbound books stamped with gilt letters. “I see you read German.”

  Hicks was busy pouring boiling water from the kettle on the hob into his teapot. “Alas no, sir. To be frank I got all of the books on that shelf as part of a job lot from a gentleman’s estate. I find to be surrounded by books, no matter what language, is like being in the middle of a company of loving friends.” He brought the teapot to the table, which was covered with a too big but clean red damask cloth. “The two shelves just above your head are also from an estate. They were going to be thrown away. They’re written in a language I don’t recognize. Portuguese perhaps and I do believe they are medical textbooks.” He chuckled. “I think they must have belonged to a specialist in diseases of the skin, the illustrations are quite gruesome.”

  There was a book turned face down on the table, which was the one Murdoch presumed Mr. Hicks had been reading aloud.

  “Ah yes. That is a book of sermons, which was kindly lent to me.” His lined face looked wistful in the shadowy light. “I do sometimes pine for the robust humour of Mr. Dickens or the rollicking yarns of Mr. Scott, but as they say beggars can’t be choosers.” He spoke about the books the way another person might describe missing a tasty roast beef or apple tart. “The public library is farther than I can manage in the wintertime. But soon it will be spring and things will improve considerably.”

  He took two cups without saucers from the cupboard in the washstand and poured them each some weak tea.

  “I’m afraid I cannot offer you milk or sugar, Mr. Murdoch, but I’d be more than happy to share my biscuit with you.”

  “No, really, sir. I prefer my tea this way.”

  Mr. Hicks took a sip with the slow appreciation of a man who is forced to apportion out meagre amounts to himself. Murdoch didn’t know what had brought the old man to this state of poverty and he wasn’t about to ask for his life history, but he found himself running through his own mind some way he could help financially without offending Mr. Hicks’s pride. Oh Lord, he hadn’t even got past the first tenant. He put down his cup.