“I can handle it myself, Katie, don’t worry.”
“I’ll keep you company,” said Seymour. “Are you coming too, Amy?”
She shook her head. “I have to prepare my lessons for tomorrow.”
Murdoch felt a pang of disappointment, which he quickly suppressed. “What are you going to do with the little arabs?”
“I was going to teach some Canadian literature for a change, but the inspector will be dropping in this week so I had better impress him.” Amy had strong views about the school system and had got into hot water a couple of times for criticizing the curriculum. “I’ll have to find yet another poem about the lovely birds and woods of England.” She clasped her hands together, blew through her laced fingers, and made a few birdlike trills.
Murdoch and Seymour applauded her, then reluctantly Murdoch followed his friend to the kitchen, which was fragrant with the smell of fried onions.
He took the plate from the oven. His dinner was strips of pork from the previous night’s roast, cooked with fried onions and served with generous helpings of boiled cabbage and potatoes. He sat down at the place prepared for him. Seymour took the chair across from him.
“Any progress?”
“None at all, I regret to say. As far as I can tell he didn’t have an enemy in the world. He was a saint walking the earth.”
“A surprise attack, then? A burglar?”
“Most likely.”
Katie came into the room. “They’ve quieted down. Oh you got your dinner already.”
“I did and it smells wonderful, thank you.”
“We have a currant pudding for the sweet, so leave a bit of room for that.”
“Katie says it’s called half-pay pudding because it’s cheap to make but it’s delicious,” said Seymour. He smiled so fondly that Murdoch blinked. Good Lord, was the bachelor sergeant falling in love with the young widow? Enid Jones had warned him months ago about affection engendered by proximity not being the same as true love, but he could see why it might happen. Welcome a man home after a long shift of duty, feed him hot tasty food, do his laundry for him, which he knew Katie did, be glad to see him, and before you knew it, romance blossomed.
“I’d better get back,” said Katie. Murdoch noticed how Seymour followed her with his eyes as she left.
The two men talked more about the case while Murdoch ate, then they lingered for an hour to smoke a pipe. Murdoch had been intending to resist the temptation, but the sight and smell of the tobacco was too much and he joined Seymour. Katie did not return and Amy Slade remained in her room. Finally Seymour stood up.
“I’m on duty tomorrow, so I’d better climb the wooden hill. You should too, by the look of you.”
“I will. I’m just digesting my dinner a bit longer.”
“Good night then.”
They shook hands and Seymour left. He didn’t call out a goodnight to Amy, so Murdoch assumed she had extinguished her lamps and gone to bed. He hoped the inspector’s visit would go well. He knew she was an excellent teacher, he’d observed her once or twice before, but she was so radical in her methods that more than once she had upset the school trustees. One of them had heard her whistling to the children and told her dourly, “‘A whistling woman and a crowing hen, is no good to God or men.’”
Amy had laughed at that, but Murdoch knew she’d had to be more careful with what she did in the classroom. And her clothes. Rational Dress, she called it and she was right it was very sensible and rational for an active woman, but she’d told him that more than once she’d been shouted at by men as she walked home. Murdoch’s thoughts jumped to Liza. His fiancée had been radical in many ways too but conservative in others. He suddenly wished he had her photograph in front of him. Her face was becoming less vivid in his mind. It had been more than two years since she had died suddenly from typhoid fever and the feeling of loss came and went in its intensity. Tonight it was acute and he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was seeing what was happening to Seymour. Did Katie return his affections? She was considerably younger, but Murdoch thought she did have that soft glow about her these days that women get when they are falling in love and are loved in return.
He banged his pipe on the side of the stove to knock out the ashes and went his own way up the wooden hill.
Katie had been right when she warned him about the twins being in the throws of teething. Their intermittent crying had kept him awake most of the night. Finally, at four o’clock he put on his shirt and trousers and went downstairs. As he approached the parlour that was now Katie’s room, both boys were in pained and lusty voice. He had to tap on the door twice before it opened a crack and Katie’s haggard face peered out.
“Mr. Murdoch, I’m so sorry you’ve been wakened as well. I can’t quiet them no how.”
“I thought another pair of hands might help matters.”
Katie was holding one of the twins and Murdoch took a quick glance at the baby’s clenched fist as he waved it ferociously in the air. James had a small birthmark on his wrist. This was Jacob.
“Why don’t I give him a walk around the premises. A change of scene might help.”
“Well, I … oh thank you.” She was too tired to argue. Murdoch put his candlestick on the hall table and accepted the transfer of the tightly wrapped baby.
“I’ll tend to James,” she said and retreated into her room where the other twin was wailing.
Whether from surprise at this new person, or whether he was just too exhausted to carry on, Jacob stopped crying. Gently, Murdoch straightened the baby’s bonnet that had slipped down his forehead and wiped away some of the tears and drool with his cuff. Jacob grabbed his hand and immediately tried to stuff the knuckles into his mouth. Murdoch could feel the bumpy edge of the gums as the baby chomped down. Murdoch started to walk down the hall, jiggling the boy as he did so.
“Teeth are good things on the whole, little fellow. You can get to bite into all sorts of things like apples and pears. The best kind are the ones you can pick right off the tree, even better if the farmer is an old coot who doesn’t want you to. Those taste real good.” He paused and looked into Jacob’s wide eyes. “No, forget I said that. I don’t want you starting into a life of crime. Let’s see, what else? You can eat crusts of bread that are still warm from the oven with fresh butter and a piece of cheese on the top. And sometimes the best thing in the world is a thick pork chop slathered with onions. Hmm, you need teeth to do all that. So this bit of suffering now is going to be worth it.”
He didn’t think this was the time to warn Jacob that later in life teeth could be a big problem if they decayed, as he knew only too well. The baby sniffled a little and looked as if he was going to howl again. Murdoch balanced him in one arm and loosened up the tight blanket.
“How’s that? You seem hot to me.”
Jacob looked into his face with the into-the-soul stare that infants have, but he didn’t cry. By the time they’d made the third trip down the hall, he even seemed to be on the verge of nodding off. With a groan at his aching muscles, Murdoch shifted him to the other arm, just as the door to Amy’s room opened and she emerged, in the red quilted house gown he’d seen her in yesterday.
“William, I didn’t expect to see you up at this hour.”
“Jacob and I are having a little constitutional. I’ve been telling him about the value of teeth.”
She smiled. “It sounds as if you need to give the same talk to his brother.” James was still yelling.
She tapped at Katie’s door and went in. Murdoch heard murmured voices, then the baby stopped crying and a few minutes later, Katie emerged.
“Miss Slade has ordered me to go to bed. I’m going to get a little nap in her room. Please wake me in half an hour, Mr. Murdoch. And thank you so much.”
She didn’t even check her child, the lure of a short sleep propelling her away. She went into Amy’s room and closed the door. The house was suddenly quiet. Jacob was asleep, making little snuffling noises and Murdoch withdrew
his knuckle, wiping it on his shirt. His arms and back were aching and he suddenly felt desperately tired. He didn’t dare go back to Katie’s room, where it sounded as if Amy had calmed the other twin, in case they both woke up again. He walked to the hall stand and sat down on the chair next to it. He leaned his head against the wall, wedged the baby in the crook of his arm, and closed his eyes.
He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep, but he woke with a start. The light in the hall was the grey of dawn and he saw that his candle had burned down. He was no longer holding Jacob. Somebody had removed the boy from his arms. He sat up straight and almost yelped at the stab of pain from the crick in his neck. The hall was chilly, but there was a cover around his legs and bare feet. He yawned and heard the clock in the kitchen chime the hour. It was six o’clock. Katie’s door opened and Amy came out. She was dressed and had even pinned up her hair. He couldn’t believe how fresh she looked considering she too had had a broken night.
“Good morning, William,” she said, speaking in a low voice. “Everybody’s asleep, but I thought I might as well light the stove ready for breakfast.”
He rubbed his neck. “You took Jacob, I assume.”
“Yes, you were both dead to the world. The twins are still sleeping, bless them, and Katie hasn’t moved in the last two hours.”
“What about you? Did you get back to sleep?”
“Not really. When I’m up, I’m up. Why don’t you come down to the kitchen and I’ll make us some tea.”
Stiffly, Murdoch got to his feet. He couldn’t turn his head.
“You look as if you’ve got a crick in your neck,” she said. “Let me get the fire going then I’ll give it a rub. I used to do that for my brothers and I warn you I have fingers of steel.”
“I’ll accept any pain if you can restore my neck to flesh.”
He followed her into the kitchen. In spite of his fatigue and soreness, he was suddenly very happy.
Chapter Seventeen
ALL OF THE DAILY NEWSPAPERS had made headlines of Reverend Howard’s murder, so Murdoch wasn’t surprised to find the chapel of the funeral parlour packed, the crowd spilling to the outer rooms. He recognized several reporters, notebooks on their laps, who had to a man wedged themselves into the end seats of the rows in order to exit quickly when the verdict was announced. Their young runners were squatting on the floor beside them, ready as hunting dogs. Mr. Royce, the coroner, was seated at a table facing the thirteen members of the jury who were in the first two rows. He was busily filling out his forms. Even an inquest into such a violent murder had its tedious formalities. Murdoch hurried to a bench near the front, which was reserved for witnesses. Constables Dewhurst and Fyfer were already seated beside Dr. Julia Ogden and her father. When Murdoch slid into the remaining empty space, she turned and frowned. He smiled apologetically. Late again. He resisted the impulse to launch into an explanation about being delayed at the station while he had quickly sifted through the reports of the constables who had been on the night shifts. Nobody had reported anything untoward. The east end of the city had been wrapped in virtuous sleep.
The spectators were as quiet as if they were in church and the room was silent except for the odd choked-back cough. Royce was not intimidated by the pressure from the waiting crowd, even though one woman suddenly burst out weeping and at least two others followed suit. Finally, he affixed his seal to the document he’d been filling out, picked up his gavel, and rapped on the table.
“We will begin this inquest conducted by me, Walter Fuller Royce, on behalf of Her Majesty, the Queen. I will ask all of you witnesses to speak clearly and slowly. Remember, I have to write down what you say, as does our clerk.”
Constable Crabtree was standing beside the table, ready to take instruction, and Royce nodded at him. “Call the roll of jurors and make sure they are all present. Then get them to sign their names next to their seal.”
Crabtree did so. “Doctor William Caven, Angus Drummond, Joseph Lyons …” And so on until all thirteen had called out their varying presents. The jurymen on the whole were a well-dressed lot, almost all of them in formal frock coats, even Joseph Lyons, who’d given his occupation as reporter. We could be in a gentleman’s club, thought Murdoch.
Royce raised his hand. “This is a public inquest and we know already that the evidence we will hear from some of the witnesses will be most horrific. I suggest that any of the ladies leave now if they wish. And I will also have the court cleared of the newsboys, who are far too young to be here in the first place.”
There was a sudden rumble of indignation from the reporters. Royce was a retired solicitor and was notoriously hostile to the reporting of criminal cases in the newspapers. He claimed, and rightly, that the reports were invariably both lurid and inaccurate. In retaliation, the reporters were unkind to him in their reports, mocking his bulbous nose and florid features. Murdoch’s sympathies were with the coroner, although he doubted that the newsboys had a sensitive bone in their bodies considering the life they led. There were five of them, each paid a pittance by the reporters to run their stories to the respective newspaper offices in time for the evening edition.
“Come on,” said Royce. “Get those lads out of here. Constable Crabtree, please escort any ladies who wish to leave.”
With a great show of reluctance and much grumbling, the scruffy-looking street arabs reluctantly filed out of the courtroom. Two women in the back row stood up and left.
The coroner consulted his list. “Call the first witness, Miss Sarah Dignam, if you please.”
Miss Dignam was at the end of the row, Miss Flowers next to her. At the sound of her name, an elderly man with full side whiskers and shaggy beard, who was seated directly behind her, patted her shoulder solicitously. She got up slowly and walked to the chair beside the table. She was dressed all in black and her felt mourning hat was trimmed with ebony flowers, one of which drooped over the brim to touch her pale face.
“State your name in full, your place of abode, and your occupation,” said Royce.
“My name is Sarah Emily Maria Dignam and I live at –”
“Speak up, if you please, ma’am. I can hardly hear you, which means the jury most certainly cannot.”
Royce was not a man inclined to sympathy. Miss Dignam shrank down into the chair at the reprimand and repeated her name in a slightly louder voice.
“I live at 420 Jarvis Street, which is one of the row of houses just north of the church.”
Royce flashed her an impatient look. “Your occupation, ma’am?”
“I take care of the household for my brother and myself.”
“Spinster,” he said, making a point of writing that down. “Swear her in, constable.”
Crabtree handed Miss Dignam a bible, which she grasped in both gloved hands.
“Raise your right hand, if you please, ma’am. When I’ve finished, you must answer, I do.”
The constable smiled kindly at her and Murdoch saw her blink away quick tears.
“Do you, Sarah Emily Maria Dignam, hereby swear that the evidence you shall give to this inquest on behalf of our Sovereign Lady, the Queen, touching the death of Charles Edmund Howard, shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
“I do,” whispered Miss Dignam.
The coroner looked as if he was going to order her to speak up again.
“Miss Dignam, I realize, as I’m sure do all the members of the jury, that you have suffered a dreadful shock and that this inquest can only be an ordeal for you. However … it is our duty to determine the cause of death of the Reverend Howard and we must all rise to the challenge no matter what. In the interest of justice we can spare no one. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now, I would like you to relate in your own words, but slowly if you please, and loudly, especially, loudly, what happened when you went to Chalmers Church on Tuesday afternoon. March third.”
The room was complete
ly hushed as Miss Dignam related her story. She was unable to raise her voice, but everybody heard what she said and there were gasps when she described her first sight of the pastor.
“I went into the office. The door was open and the pastor was lying on his back in the middle of the floor. I saw immediately that there was a knife protruding from his neck. He was soaked in blood, which seemed to be everywhere as if the entire room had been doused,” she paused here and dabbed at her mouth. Murdoch realized he was holding his breath like most of the spectators and he was glad Mrs. Howard was not present. Miss Dignam swallowed and continued. “I could see his right eye socket was destroyed … I first ascertained there was nothing that could help him and then I ran out of the church –”
“Wait a moment, ma’am.” Royce held up his hand. “In what manner did you determine he was beyond help?”
“I put my ear to his chest and I drew off my glove and put my fingers underneath his nose to see if he was still breathing.”
“Did you indeed? That was most collected, if I may say so.”
His comment brought a rush of colour to her pale face but her voice was more spirited. “I did not feel in the least collected, I assure you, sir. But as I told the detective who came to question me”–she nodded over at Murdoch – “if there had been any way to resuscitate Mr. Howard, I would have done it.”
She hadn’t mentioned exactly what she’d done, thought Murdoch, but then he had interviewed her very soon afterwards. Royce held up his hand again to signal she should wait while he wrote down what she had said.
“Continue.”
“As I ran toward Jarvis Street, I was fortunate to encounter a police officer immediately. I told him what I had found. He seemed at a loss as to what to do, but at that moment Mr. Drummond arrived.” She nodded in the direction of a man in the first jurors’ row. “He stayed with me while the constable went into the church. I’m afraid what happened next is hazy in my mind, but eventually the police constable emerged. He sent Mr. Drummond to sound the alarm. Miss Flowers, who had also come for the prayer meeting, arrived and he asked her to escort me to my home, which she did. It is, as I have said, just north of the church.”
Vices of My Blood Page 11
