“What about the other two toe-rags?”
“If Burley comes back and the Sisters have confirmed their alibi, we’ll have to let them go, but don’t feed them. And make sure they tell you where they’re going next.”
He was pedalling slowly along Wilton when he noticed somebody huddled in the doorway of the grocery shop at the corner. Murdoch stopped.
“Alf, what are you doing here?”
The boy looked completely miserable, his nose reddened from the cold.
“Hello, Mr. Williams. I’ve done my three days at the workhouse and my brother throwed me out so I don’t have nowhere to go.”
Murdoch cursed under his breath. Gardiner must have turfed Alf out of the jail when Murdoch released him.
“And you have no money for a doss house, I presume?”
“No, sir. Mr. Traveller was going to look after me but I don’t know where he is.”
Murdoch took out his notebook and began to scribble a note. “Alf, I want you to take this note to the House of Providence. Do you know where that is?”
“No, sir.”
“All right, I’ll tell you in a minute. When you get there you must ask for Sister Mary Mathilda. Say it to me.”
Alf repeated slowly, “Sister Mathilda.”
“Give her this note. She’ll give you something to eat and she’ll find you a bed for the night.”
Before Murdoch could stop him, the simpleton jumped up and grabbed his hand and planted a hearty kiss on it.
Murdoch pushed him away gently. “That’s enough, Alf. Now put the note in your pocket … that’s it. Off you go. Straight down Parliament Street to Queen Street. Then you turn left. Show me your left, Alf. Good. Just before St. Paul’s Church is the street that leads to the House of Providence. You can see it. I’m going to come to the House in the next few days and I will expect a good report.”
Alf giggled in real joy. “Can Mr. Traveller come too?”
“Not at the moment. And Alf, Sister Mary Mathilda is a lady, a nun, and you mustn’t grab her hand or kiss her without asking. That’s not polite.”
“No, sir. I won’t.”
“Get going then. Fast as you can.”
Obediently, Alf trotted off and Murdoch watched him to make sure he’d got it right. At the corner, he turned and gave a big exuberant wave as if he was far away and bidding farewell to a longlost friend. Murdoch felt a pang of sorrow. His brother, Bertie, used to stand on the pier and send off the fishing boats with just that exuberance. Most of the fishermen tolerated him, but their father was always irritated. He looks like a fool. Don’t let him act like that. The chastisement came down heavily on everybody in the family, especially their mother.
Murdoch waved back.
He continued on his way along Wilton to Sherbourne.
Fyfer greeted him at the door to Hicks’s room. “We found this in his cupboard, sir. It’s his will, written three years ago. There’s fifty dollars as well.” He handed an envelope to Murdoch. “We’ve turned his room inside out, sir, and there isn’t a trace of a bottle of prussic acid nor a suicide note.”
Higgins was shaking out the last of the books in the bookcase.
“Be gentle with those books, constable,” said Murdoch. Higgins looked bewildered but began to move a little slower. Murdoch opened the envelope. Inside was a single piece of paper headed.
The last will and testament of Thomas Elijah Hicks. Dated this 20th day of June 1893.
Being of sound mind, I Thomas Hicks do hereby write my last will and testament. I bequeath all of my worldly goods, to wit my books and bookcases to the Toronto Public Library to dispose of as they see fit. My personal effects I donate to St. Stephen’s Anglican Church to dispense among those who have need.
My body I bequeath to the Toronto Medical School so that our new young doctors may learn.
I request my burial be simple and that I be buried next to my beloved wife, Emily, who resides in the Mount Pleasant Cemetery. I have left enclosed sufficient money to cover those expenses. My solicitor has a copy of this will. His office is 31 King Street West. Mr. Eric Deacon.
The will was signed and witnessed by two people who gave their occupation as clerk.
The money was a mix of crumpled notes from various banks and of various denominations. In spite of his poverty, Hicks had saved enough money for the burial he wanted.
“Higgins, I want you to take this paper and go to Mr. Deacon. See if this was the last will that Mr. Hicks had drawn up. Find out if he had taken out any insurance policies.”
The constable left.
“Let me just show you something, sir,” said Fyfer, and he led the way over to the window. The curtains had been opened when Dr. Ogden did her examination, but Murdoch hadn’t paid a lot of attention.
“This is an old house and the frame is cracked. Somebody has gone to a lot of trouble to seal the window.”
He indicated the newspaper that was stuffed into the gaps around the frame.
Murdoch looked puzzled. “He’s keeping out the drafts. I’ve done that myself.”
Fyfer smiled, happy at his own astuteness. “Look at the date on the newspaper. It’s yesterday’s Globe. This was just done. I take that as too much of a coincidence. Man blocks any air, then that same night dies from carbon monoxide poison. It would be easy to dislodge a brick in the chimney and create a block. We all know the danger of burning cheap coke without proper venting. I’d say it’s a clear indication of self-murder.”
Murdoch sighed. “But why do both? Why take prussic acid and also set up carbon monoxide poisoning?”
“There’ll be an insurance policy, mark my words, sir. They’ll pay for an accident, not for suicide.”
“But why haven’t we found the bottle of prussic acid?”
“It must be here somewhere, sir. It wouldn’t just walk away.”
“But it could be carried. What if somebody else gave him the poison?”
“Offed him for his insurance money, you mean?”
“Fyfer, you’ve got insurance on the brain.”
“Sorry, sir. I just took out an indemnity policy myself, maybe that’s why. My parents will do well if I’m run over by a streetcar.”
“Leaving aside the possibility of an unknown person being the beneficiary of the as-yet-unfound insurance policy, somebody could have poisoned him with the prussic acid, maybe even at his own request, then set it up to seem like a tragic accident with the blocked chimney.”
“But why go to all that trouble, unless they stand to gain something? … Yes, sir, I know what you’re going to say but what if the murderer was a friend? What if Mr. Hicks says to that friend, Hey, I’m tired of living without my old lady, will you poison me, because I’m ascared to do it myself, but then make it look like an accident so none of my friends will be upset and think the less of me? Was he a papist, do you know, sir?”
“No, I believe he was a Presbyterian. At least he was reading the Psalms, but I suppose he could have been any denomination.”
Fyfer was looking a little smug and Murdoch held up his hand. “All right. That theory doesn’t hold water. If Hicks wanted to kill himself, he could have easily set up the carbon monoxide poisoning and made it look like an accident. It’s the prussic acid that’s thrown a wrench in the works. That doesn’t make sense. According to Dr. Ogden, the poison acts quickly. Hicks was an old man and she believes he would have gone unconscious almost immediately.”
Murdoch was sitting at the table, which was easier on his back. There was a teapot on the table but no cups. Over by the sink, Hicks’s few mugs were on their hooks. Murdoch reached over and removed the lid from the teapot. There was some tea left in the bottom. He took a good sniff.
“Damn, I should have checked this before. Have a smell, Fyfer, there’s prussic acid in there all right.” The constable confirmed his suspicion. “We’ll get this to Dr. Ogden right away. So you have to be right about there being a second person. The mug is washed and hung up. Hicks couldn’t have do
ne that.”
“Whoever it was, friend or foe, wasn’t thinking too clearly, were they, sir? They should have emptied out the teapot. Either that or made it blatant and left the bottle in the cupboard or something. They must have taken it with them.”
“As you say, Hicks’s guest wasn’t thinking clearly. He, or she, must have been distressed at what they were doing.”
“They probably thought nobody’d suspect. Criminals don’t realize what doctors can find these days when they cut you open. So what do you think, sir? Was it a friend or a foe?”
“It’s hard to believe the man was deliberately murdered. If ever a man seemed harmless, Thomas Hicks did.”
“So’s an anthill until you kick it,” said the constable somewhat ambiguously. “Shall I get started on questioning the neighbours, sir? See if anybody noticed anybody coming in.”
“Dr. Ogden thought he died about midnight so I assume the second person came about ten o’clock. The German woman who lived upstairs said she heard voices. That’s probably who it was. Get some help, Frank. I want every resident on the street interviewed. The usual. Did Hicks quarrel with anybody? What sort of man was he and so on.” Murdoch stood up and pressed his hand into the small of his back. “Lock the door, will you, and leave the key at the station. I’m sure his landlord will be wanting to rent out the rooms immediately and I’m not going to let him. I’m going home for a short spell, but if anything of a dramatic nature comes up, come and get me.”
“Yes, sir. By the way, I know a good treatment for lumbago.”
“Don’t tell me, take a purge?”
“That’s right, sir. Works wonders. Remember that attack I had last winter when I was shovelling out snow in front of the station? I was bent double, but I took a few Ayers pills and they got me right as rain in no time at all.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.”
Chapter Forty-One
BICYCLING SEEMED TO EASE the spasm in his back and Murdoch was able to dismount and bring his wheel into the house without too much difficulty. He stowed the bicycle in its usual place under the stairs and was about to go up to his room when he noticed a black astrakhan coat and a silk hat hanging on the hall stand. At the same time, he heard the now familiar sound of a foghorn emanating from Amy’s room. This was followed by a convincing rendition of a loon calling. Then a burst of man’s laughter. She was home early from school. And she had a visitor. The loon sound became a lovely liquid finch song. More laughter and applause. Murdoch stood listening a few moments longer when suddenly the door opened and Amy came out into the hall. Right behind her was a man he had never seen before, a tall, well-dressed fellow whose face was a glow with pleasure. Murdoch felt himself turn scarlet with embarrassment and would have liked to get up the stairs in a hurry but he couldn’t. Amy saw him, and to his eyes, she likewise seemed disconcerted.
“Good afternoon, Will. I didn’t expect you home so early.”
“Nor I you.”
“It’s a half holiday today.”
“Oh yes, I forgot. You did mention that.”
The man was still standing behind Amy, eyeing Murdoch with frank curiosity. He leaned toward her and said cozily in her ear, “This must be the famous Mr. Murdoch, the police detective you told me about?”
She stepped away from him. “Yes, that’s right. Allow me to introduce you. Will, this is Mr. Roger Bryant-William Murdoch, my fellow lodger.” She smiled. “And my saviour.”
“What an enviable position to be in your life, dear Amy,” murmured Bryant.
“What I meant was that Will took me into these lodgings when I had nowhere to live.” She sounded slightly irritated and Murdoch could feel some tension easing inside his chest. Mr. Roger Bryant might be acting like a masher, but Amy was having none of it. Who the hell was he to be on such familiar terms with her? Murdoch stepped forward to shake hands, but no will power in the world could force his back muscles to release sufficiently for him to stand completely straight.
“Will, what have you done to your back?”
“Touch of lumbago, nothing serious.”
“Ah, how unfortunate for you,” said Bryant as he shook hands. He was a couple of inches taller than Murdoch, perhaps a little older. He had attractive blue eyes, thick wavy brown hair, and a luxuriant moustache, waxed to fine points on either end. His breath smelled faintly of wine.
Amy turned and removed the hat and coat from the stand and handed them to him.
“My dear, one would almost think you are trying to get me out of here in a hurry,” said Bryant.
“You said you had an appointment.”
“So I did but it does not have nearly the same appeal as your wonderful lodging house does. Thanks, as you say, to your landlord here.”
Murdoch and Amy spoke at virtually the same time.
“Oh, I’m not the –”
“He’s not the landlord.”
That made them laugh and Mr. Bryant frown. He took Amy’s hand and bowed over it. Murdoch was certain he would have kissed her fingers, but she pulled away before he could do so.
“Please think about what I said, Amy. I will await your reply.”
He took a gold-topped ebony cane from the stand and with a brusque nod at Murdoch he left.
Amy closed the door emphatically behind him. “Roger’s an old acquaintance of mine,” she said to Murdoch, who was leaning against the stair wall. Amy bent down and picked something up from the floor. “Oh dear, this is your letter, Will. It slipped off the table. It’s from Great Britain. You’ve been waiting for it, haven’t you?”
Murdoch took the letter from her. It seemed distressingly thin.
Amy turned away. “I have to practise some more of my songs for tomorrow. Take care of your lumbago. I’ll see you at suppertime.”
She headed back to her room.
Murdoch felt as if there was acid in his stomach. She had every right to have visitors, to know men who acted like suitors. She had every right, of course she did. And why wouldn’t she be attracted to a man who was handsome and obviously rich. His coat alone would have cost Murdoch two weeks’ wages and the gold-topped cane another month’s.
Traveller would probably have said, We’re just the same as the creatures of the wild. The one with the biggest cock always wins the female.
Appalled he was thinking this way, clutching Enid’s letter, Murdoch made his way up the stairs.
On the other hand, Amy hadn’t seemed exactly won over by Mr. Bryant in spite of the jollity he’d heard coming from her room.
The dream was one that recurred over and over, only small details changed but the import was always the same, he was trying desperately to rescue his mother or Susanna or Bertie and couldn’t. This night’s dream was particularly vivid.
He seemed to be in the school dormitory in his hard, narrow bed. It was very dark and although his eyes were open, he couldn’t see and he strained desperately to make out the vague shapes around him. He was also finding it impossible to sit up, as if he had no power in his body. He sensed rather than saw that over in the corner of the big room, his mother and sister were both sitting on a bed that resembled one of the flat-topped rocks that jutted out from the beach on the south arm of the cove. They were surrounded by some kind of dangerous sea animals, half seal, half rat, which they were trying to fend off. He had to get to them if only he could move. Bertie was crying, but he didn’t know where he was.
Murdoch woke up. He could hear babies wailing and it took him a few moments to come out of his dream and realize it was the twins downstairs. He’d been struggling so hard, he’d almost moved himself off his bed but he was lying on his back and when he tried to sit up, he couldn’t move without a shooting pain up his spine. Slowly, there that’s it, roll to one side, now push. Argh. He was sitting straight up at least, his feet dangling over the side of the bed.
From downstairs, the wails lessened. One of the twins at least had stopped crying. Katie was probably feeding him. In a moment the other quieted down. Murdo
ch could make out a murmur of voices, then the sound of the door opening and closing. Amy was leaving for school. With an effort and another moan, he stood up and shuffled to the washstand. She hadn’t come into the kitchen for supper last night, and Katie told him she’d said she had a headache and was going to eat in her room. Seymour had gone out for one of his regular meetings and even Katie, who loved to sit with him and chat, had pleaded exhaustion and gone to bed so he had eaten alone. He was pretty tired himself, but when he managed to get upstairs and into bed, sleep had eluded him as it so often did. He’d read Enid’s brief letter through again. She’d begun by saying, “I might not have occasion to write for a long time …” and the words were seared in his mind. Her father was about the same as he had been, the weather was damp, she’d had a cold. Then in her last paragraph, she said that “an old family friend” had come to visit, the man, now a widower who “got along just wonderfully with Alwyn.” That was a particularly sharp stab, considering how long it had taken Murdoch to win the boy’s affections. All these “old acquaintances” were getting under his skin. Enid’s letter was friendly enough, but the tone was as cool as a cucumber, as if he, Murdoch, were the old acquaintance, not a man who had been her lover. Only at the end of the letter had she said anything truly personal. “Think of me sometimes, Will.” He glanced over at the lovely ormolu clock on the mantelpiece that she had given him just before she left. “At least I can be sure you will be reminded of me from time to time.”
Damn. He felt both guilty and irritated at her timidity. He had cared for her deeply and even now the memory of the lovemaking they’d experienced stirred him. She was the first woman he’d ever had intimate connection with. He’d loved Liza passionately but both of them had believed in the sanctity of marriage and the love was not consummated.
Vices of My Blood Page 26
