“You should have told me that before.”
“Forgive me. It was cowardice on my part. I was afraid how it might seem to the world, to my brother, for instance. Elias is already disgruntled with me for my behaviour at the inquest. And it is one thing to chance across such an unsavoury event, to use his words, it is another to be actively implicated. I shudder to think what he would say if he knew to what lengths I went in my desire to resuscitate Charles.”
“Is there anything else you have not said, Miss Dignam?”
She looked away from him. “Nothing. I have told you everything.”
They heard the sound of voices from the hall.
Miss Flowers, laughing merrily, and a deeper voice, who Murdoch assumed was Miss Dignam’s brother.
“Ah, she has finished.”
Miss Dignam got to her feet.
“I would rather they didn’t know you are here, Mr. Murdoch. They think talking to you will further upset me. I will draw them both away to the kitchen. Please wait here.”
She put her finger to her lips and hurried out, closing the door behind her. He could hear her talking and Miss Flowers answering but could not make out what they were saying. Then she came back into the room. “I’ve sent her off to make some tea. My brother has returned to his room. We have a few minutes only. I will give you the cake tin.”
Murdoch was beginning to suspect that the poor woman really had become unhinged through shock but she went on, keeping her voice low. “I thought it might be helpful for your investigation to see the twin of the one that is missing. My dear mother purchased several at once some years ago. Every Boxing Day, she liked to dispense Christmas cakes, mostly to my father’s employees but also to the families she knew who were impoverished.”
She listened for a moment to see if her friend was returning but all was quiet. She quickly went over to the tea trolley, pulled up the white damask cloth, and took a colourful cake tin from the rack.
“Here, you can take it with you for comparison. There is cake in it. I had made a second one and there is no sense in it going to waste. Elias doesn’t like caraway seed. I hope you do.”
“Er, yes, thank you.”
“Please eat it then.”
She thrust the tin, indeed pink and gold with a peacocks-and-roses motif, into his hands. Then she went to the hall stand for his hat and coat.
“I’ll keep May in the kitchen and you can slip away and let yourself out. We are on the telephone and you can ring me as soon as you have any more information. Goodbye, Mr. Murdoch.”
She went to the door, opened it a crack, and peeked out. She turned to him and nodded. “It’s all clear.”
Holding his hat and coat, the tin under his arm, Murdoch slipped away.
Chapter Twenty-One
A LIGHT SNOW WAS FALLING as Murdoch left the Dignam house, which made bicycling unpleasant. He turned left from Jarvis on to Carlton Street and rode up to Drummond’s grocery store. At first he thought the grocer had not yet returned from the inquest, but there was a dim light burning and, drawing close, he could see the grocer standing behind the counter, reading a newspaper. There were no customers. Murdoch propped his bicycle against the curb and went into the store.
Drummond looked up, his expression was sour. “Is this official business, detective, or are you in search of fresh vegetables? I’ll tell you right now, the potatoes aren’t very good and the carrots are woody. The cabbage is all right though, as long as you’re not sick of cabbage by now.”
Murdoch thought that if this was the way Drummond welcomed all his customers, it was no wonder his store was empty. Honesty might be a sign of virtue, but it could put a damper on business.
“I’m here officially, but I will take a pound of oatmeal while I’m at it. We’re running low.”
Drummond came from behind the counter to serve him from one of the bins. He didn’t seem to have much stock and the potatoes and carrots did indeed look wizened and the few Brussels sprouts were yellowing. Murdoch glanced over his shoulder. There was a big tree a few paces to the west of the store, but it was bare of foliage. He could see the side door of Chalmers Church quite clearly.
“Here you are. Two cents.” The grocer thrust a crumpled brown paper bag at him.
Murdoch handed him the money and Drummond held it in the palm of his hand and squinted through his glasses.
“That won’t bury me, will it? Are you sure there’s nothing else I can get you?”
“No thank you.” Murdoch accepted the brown paper bag, then he pulled the cake tin from the front of his coat where he’d wedged it.
“Have you seen this before?”
Drummond looked surprised. “Of course I have. It belongs to Miss Dignam. She uses it all the time at church bake sales. Why have you got it?”
“Actually she tells me this is one of several that she possesses. She says that she took some cake to the church on Tuesday and in her shock she left the tin there. It has not been found. She has lent me this so if I do come across a cake tin I can compare the two of them.”
“That’s proof then, isn’t it?”
“Of what, Mr. Drummond?”
“Come on, detective. You know what I mean, don’t play the dummy with me. That verdict of person unknown we brought in was a pile of horse manure. A waste of time, mine and the taxpayer’s. We all know who the culprit is. And this business with the tin proves it. The tramp must have picked it up. He’s the one you should be after.” He glared at Murdoch in exasperation. “You kenna have forgot already what the matron said?”
“You mean that she noticed a man crossing the Gardens who in her opinion was a tramp?”
“‘In her opinion’? My that’s a wee too lawyerish for me. That lassie is as sharp as a thumbtack. She saw a tramp all right and you don’t have to be a clever detective to work it out. He went into the church. Had some sort of quarrel with Charles Howard, for God knows what reason, killed him, then hoofed it over to that greenhouse where Mr. Swanzey ran into him. With a silver watch I might add, that just by coincidence was missing from the pastor’s waistcoat.”
He was right, but there was something smugly know-it-all about Drummond that Murdoch found intensely irritating.
“You saw him, did you, Mr. Drummond?”
“What do you mean, ‘saw him’?”
The grocer’s cheeks, what was visible of them, were already rosy in colour, so Murdoch couldn’t tell if the man had blushed. Nevertheless, the question seemed to disconcert him.
“You have a good view of the church and the park from your shop. I noticed you seem to spend a lot of time gazing out of the window. I was asking a simple question. Did you see this tramp either enter or leave the church?”
“No, I did not. I would have said so if I had.” He dragged up a semblance of a smile. “Don’t mind me, Mr. Murdoch. I can be a rough old fox, but I’m harmless. You appear to be taking offence at my tone and I didna mean anything by it. The whole affair has got us all riled up and short-tempered. Miss Sarah Dignam is a good-hearted soul and she doesna deserve to be drawn into the whole bloody godforsaken mess. I blew off a slate when you showed me that cake tin and what it implied. No hard feelings, I hope.” He stuck out his hand and Murdoch was forced to shake it. He wasn’t sure why the grocer was doing such an aboutface and trying to placate him. Drummond went over to one of the bins and picked up an apple.
“Here, peace offering. I know it’s as wrinkled as an old man’s behind but it’s still sweet.”
“Thank you.” Murdoch put the wizened apple in his pocket. “You said a few minutes ago, ‘for God knows what reason,’ when you referred to the possibility that a tramp may have murdered Reverend Howard.”
“Ay. I canna imagine Charles Howard refusing to help any tramp if they came a asking. He was as soft as butter.” His tone was neither contemptuous nor admiring. “Strictly speaking, it wasna his own money he was giving out, it was the kirk’s. I believe if you’re trusted with that responsibility you have to be dou
bly careful. You can waste your own muck, but not the public’s.”
Something struck Murdoch and he said, “Mr. Howard was a Visitor for the House of Industry, is that work you’ve done yourself?”
“Ay. I volunteer when I can. They need somebody like me.” Murdoch pitied the applicants who would be on Drummond’s list.
“By the way, Mr. Drummond, I understand there was some enmity between you and Mr. Howard.”
“Who the devil told you that?” He stepped away and folded his arms across his chest. His eyes were partially obscured by the spectacles, but Murdoch could sense that he had once again hit on a nerve.
“Never mind who told me, is it true?”
“No. Not the least. We didna see eye to eye about some matters of doctrine, but it wasn’t personal and I’d no call it enmity.”
“You’re an elder at the church, are you not? I understand Reverend Howard had to be elected to his office by the church council. Did you vote for him?”
“That’s a private matter within the church.”
Murdoch leaned forward. “I’m investigating the brutal murder of a man in the prime of his life, Mr. Drummond. At the moment, there are no such things as private matters. Please answer my question.”
“I dinna like the way the wind is blowing. I had nothing to do with Howard’s death, as you seem to be insinuating.”
Murdoch threw his hands out in mock indignation. “Good heavens, sir. All I asked was if the pastor was your choice.”
“No, he was not. And there you have it. The blunt unvarnished truth. He was too –” Drummond waved his hands. “Too florid. Chalmers is an old and dignified church. We came here and broke off from the previous congregation just so we could maintain our traditions, not melt and merge into Baptists or Methodists. Ach, Howard was well educated enough and I dare say the ladies found him charming, but I have no desire to belong to a mongrel church, thank you very much.” He touched his finger to the side of his nose. “Between you and me, I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t have a sly fondness for popish practices.”
“God forbid,” said Murdoch.
“It’s true. He wanted us to start a subscription for stained-glass windows. He was devilishly keen on music, and some of his interpretations of the scriptures were bordering on blasphemous in my opinion.”
Murdoch was curious to know what those interpretations were, but he didn’t want to get off track.
“Who was your choice, if I may ask?”
“Matthew Swanzey. He might look like a dry stick, but he’s got God’s fire in his belly. You should hear the man preach.”
“He was in the running then?”
“That’s right. And he should have got it. He’s been with Chalmers for the past six years as an associate pastor. We all expected he would be called when Pastor Cameron died. I didna understand it. The Kirk session was beguiled by a smooth tongue, if you ask me. And Howard won the vote. Why bring in a newcomer at all, I’d like to know? Besides which the man was originally a Yankee.”
“Mr. Howard knew of your views, I presume?”
Drummond patted his skinny stomach, as if he’d had a good meal. “I’m not one to hide my opinions in namby-pamby language. Ask anybody as knows me and they’ll tell you Angus Drummond is a man who calls a spade a spade even if others want to name it a golden shovel.”
Murdoch was saved from the impulse to be rude by the tinkle of the bell as a customer entered the store. Drummond turned to greet her.
“Ah Mrs. Reid, come for your dinner, have you? Well you’d better take one of the tins of salmon I got in. Unless you’ve got some butter, which you probably don’t, the potatoes aren’t worth the water.”
Murdoch headed for the door and called out, “If you do come across the cake tin, please let me know right away.”
Drummond barely deigned a nod and Murdoch left him to browbeat his intimidated customer.
Chapter Twenty-Two
THE LAST TIME Murdoch had been in the horticultural gardens pavilion was with Liza. They had gone to hear the Grenadiers band and he remembered it as being unbearably hot inside the pavilion, because even with all the windows opened wide to get a cross breeze, the sun had beaten down all day on the glass. Ladies fanned themselves desperately but sweated nonetheless. In spite of the heat, a small area had been cleared for dancing and several couples were jumping around with more vigour than grace, to the military two step. Murdoch didn’t know how to dance then and no amount of cajoling on Liza’s part could get him onto the dance floor. He wasn’t about to make such a fool of himself. Since she died, he’d taken dance lessons and had to admit he had enjoyed himself. If onlys were useless, but they slipped into his thoughts more often than he liked.
A long greenhouse abutted the pavilion porch and its entrance was from the porch. Murdoch pushed open the double doors and felt as if he had stepped into summer. The air was warm and moist and heavy with the smell of vegetation. He was in the main pergola and even though outside was grey and sunless, here the lush green plants and banks of multicoloured flowers made the day seem much brighter. The horticultural gardens and the greenhouses were the pride of the city and were as well tended as any private garden.
Just inside the entrance a young couple was sitting close together on a bench. They quickly moved apart as he came in and the woman straightened her hat. She was fair-skinned and her blush was obvious. Her sweetheart also looked discomfited. Murdoch realized he must have frowned at them, but it was not from disapproval, it was envy. He made himself smile, touched his hat, and walked around to the other side of central island where the trees and shrubs hid him from view. A squirrel had got trapped inside the pergola and it was chittering in fear and indignation, otherwise the greenhouse was quiet, any noise of drays or carriages shut out by the glass.
Murdoch looked around him. There were more benches on this side and behind them was a wide flowerbed. Each variety of shrub and flower was labelled. Many of them were unfamiliar to him, but he didn’t have time or inclination for horticultural lessons. In the middle of the island was a fanciful structure set up as part of a living room. A fireplace was made of ivy that had been trained to grow around a wooden frame. Above it were blue and yellow patches of some other climbing plant masquerading as the kind of marble you might find in a nobby house. There were real pieces of coal in the grate and red and orange flowers growing among them to simulate fire. A birdcage of twigs swung from a branch of a nearby tree. There was a fake bird in the cage made also of intertwined twigs, but the bars were wide enough to allow real birds to enter and a sparrow was hopping in and out of the cage. Murdoch was about to walk on when the bird fluttered down and lighted on the arm of the bench close to him. It took a couple of quick pecks at something between the slats, then hopped to the path and pecked some more. Murdoch dropped into a crouch, scaring the bird into flight. It was a big assumption, of course – who knows how many people had come through this pergola? – but he wanted to see what the bird was eating. There was a light scattering of crumbs on the bench and the path and he could see they were cake, not bread or biscuit. He took a blank envelope from his pocket and scooped up as many of the crumbs as he could. Later, using a magnifying glass he might be able to determine what kind of cake it was.
At that moment, he heard the ring of hobnailed boots and Constable George Crabtree appeared.
“Good afternoon, sir.”
“How’d you track me down, George?”
“Sergeant said as how you’d been called up to Miss Dignam’s and I was heading up there when I seen you going into the greenhouse. I thought I might be some help.”
“Good man. Among other things, I’m trying to see if I can find a cake tin here somewhere.”
He quickly filled in the constable on his interview with Miss Dignam and her story of the missing tin and the bad odour in the church.
“It looks like we’re after a tramp then, doesn’t it, sir? When she ran off, he went back to his prey, took the boots and watch, sa
w the cake tin and picked that up as well. He’d hightail it over here till the coast was clear, I’ll wager.”
“It’s looking that way. But what we need is some hard evidence. So let’s start where Reverend Swanzey says he met up with the wayfarer. He was in the adjoining greenhouse.”
Murdoch led the way through the connecting doors. This building was warmer and even more lush than the pergola.
“The wife and kiddies love coming here in the winter,” said Crabtree. “She says it shortens the season. She even talked me into coming to a concert in the pavilion last summer. Very good it was. Some cove was a whistler, you know, he sort of cupped his hands and blew through them. Sounded exactly like a flute.”
“Ah yes. I’ve heard that. I know somebody who does it.”
“Did you ever go yourself?”
“Not to that one … anyway, George, I know the constables searched this entire place, but we’ve got to go over it with a toothcomb.”
“Do you really think a tramp would throw away a cake tin, sir? The ones I’ve known wouldn’t. They always prize something where they can keep their baccy or any extra food.”
“You’re probably right, George. I’m thinking we’re more likely looking for old boots,” said Murdoch. “If he stole good boots from the pastor, he’d want to wear them right away. In which case he would have to get rid of his own. Why don’t you start on the other side and we’ll meet at the far end.”
Like the pergola, the greenhouse had a central island of tall shrubs and flowering plants that the path encircled. Crabtree turned to the right and Murdoch began to walk slowly down the path to the left. He was using his eyes, but he was also trying to put himself into the skin of the unknown tramp. In spite of what Dr. Ogden had said, Murdoch thought it was likely the murderer would have some traces of blood on his trousers and shoes. In which case he would want to get rid of them. A few feet down from the entrance was a rock garden, and water cascaded from a discreetly hidden pipe near the ceiling, over a manufactured rocky incline, and into a pool below. He could see fat goldfish swimming lazily among the lily pads.
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