Murdoch groaned. “You don’t know what you’re asking. I haven’t stopped scratching.”
They both grinned at him. “You’ll get hardened to it,” said Ed.
“Where are your duds, then?” Olivia asked.
“I asked the sergeant to burn them.”
“That’s a waste. There was still some use in those clothes.”
“Tell you what,” said Ed. “I can’t stand in no queue with this ankle. We’re about the same size, why don’t we do a swap? You take my hat and coat at least.”
Murdoch didn’t want to be impolite, but Ed was a good six inches shorter than he was and the coat and hat in question were decidedly on the seedy side. But he had no choice.
“Thanks, Ed.”
“You’ll look good as a detective, Eddie,” said Olivia.
Murdoch checked the clock above the fireplace. “It’s almost eleven o’clock. How far away is your boarding house?”
“We’re out on Queen Street in the country.”
“Too far to go there and back.” Murdoch reached for his notebook. “There’s a butcher shop just down from here on Parliament.” He scribbled a note, tore out the page, and handed it to Olivia. “The owner’s name is Mr. Davies. Give him this and he’ll make sure you have one of his best sausage rolls.” The look he caught in her eyes confirmed his first suspicion. They hadn’t had the money to buy breakfast. “Come back by half past eleven and we’ll go to the depot.”
“Can I have another splash of char before we go?” Olivia shoved her mug across the table and Murdoch poured her some tea that was by now soot black.
When they’d finished, he walked with them to the front doors and they left both livened by the prospect of further adventures and sausage rolls. Murdoch was about to return to his own cubicle when the telephone rang. Callahan answered and waved at Murdoch to indicate the call was for him. He picked up the receiver.
It was Dr. Ogden. “Detective Murdoch, I have just finished my post-mortem examination of the Tugwell women. I thought you’d like to know the results right away. The older woman was in poor condition with signs of early consumption. Her daughter had gonorrhea.”
“I see. And that would mean that any of her most recent er, customers, would have contracted it?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“And Mr. Howard showed no signs of the disease?”
“Of course not. Did you expect him to?”
“Not necessarily. I’m just making sure I have all the facts.”
Her voice on the other end of the telephone sounded cold. “Charles Howard was a respectable man of God. You forget I knew him. I cannot for the life of me imagine he would consort with a prostitute.”
Once again, her tone of voice grated on his nerves. “It’s surprising how many men conceal dark secrets, doctor.”
“You don’t need to remind me of that, Mr. Murdoch. I have seen too many of their innocent victims, their wives, in my consulting rooms.”
“Quite so.” Murdoch signalled to Callahan to pull over the stool for him. “Dr. Ogden, I wonder if I could get your opinion on another matter concerning Charles Howard.”
“I can only spare you five minutes. I must get to my surgery.”
Murdoch eased himself onto the stool and turned away so that the constable couldn’t hear him. As succinctly as possible he related Miss Dignam’s story.
The doctor actually guffawed. “Good Lord, the woman is delusional. She’ll get herself committed to the lunatic asylum if she goes on like that.”
“So you don’t think it’s likely that Reverend Howard was in love with her?”
“Utterly out of the question. Charles was always amiable to the women of the congregation. Who knows, perhaps he was a little excessive, but the fact is, he adored his wife. You haven’t seen Louisa Howard at her best, Mr. Murdoch, but to say that he would choose Sarah Dignam over her is absurd. What man would willingly reach for a withered winter apple when he could have a ripe plum?”
Her tone was scornful and Murdoch felt a brief pang of guilt on behalf of the male half of the population. “Is there anything else, detective? I really must hurry.”
“No, thank you, ma’am. I won’t keep you any longer.”
They hung up and Murdoch handed the telephone back to Callahan.
He walked over to the desk.
“Charlie, tell me something honestly. If given the choice between a shrivelled-up apple and a lush plum, which would you take?”
Seymour looked at him in bewilderment. “Is this a trick question?”
“No, well sort of. Which would you choose?”
“Neither. Plums give me the stomachache and an old apple isn’t worth it. I’d go for a pear. I like pears.”
“Thanks, Charlie. I’m going back to my office for a while. There’s been a new development in the Howard case. Come down as soon as the patrol sergeant relieves you and I’ll fill you in.”
Murdoch returned to his cubicle and sat down at his desk. He knew what his answer would be to the doctor’s question and he pitied the woman who had given her heart so completely to a man who, it would seem, was doing no more than his job called for.
Chapter Forty-Three
MURDOCH TOOK OUT his magnifying glass and began to examine the letter Miss Dignam had brought him. The writing was scrawled as if in haste and there were two or three blots on the copy. Unless Reverend Howard was habitually in a hurry, the letter seemed to indicate urgency. Murdoch knew that many people made fair copies of their letters once they’d composed them. He’d done that himself with important letters. Was there another copy of this letter that was complete? According to Doris, she hadn’t mailed anything that morning and Sarah Dignam had said this was on Howard’s desk. The only copy then and obviously interrupted. Murdoch studied the letters again. There was a dot after the last word, not a full stop, this was higher up. Murdoch took out a piece of paper from his desk drawer and started to write.
My name is William Murdoch.
Then he paused as if to think about his next word and his pen remained in the air. He wrote the words again but this time pretended to hear something outside. Sure enough, he found he had rested his pen on the paper, leaving a small dot. Thin evidence maybe but likely indicating Howard had been interrupted rather than stopped on his own volition. What was the information, just now received, that caused him such distress and that he dearly wished he didn’t know. A heavy heart. Suggested sorrow, disappointment. I dearly wish I was not privy to the information implied a confidence bestowed. I must impart to you was quite formal and suggested he was addressing some kind of authority. Did it concern the applications for charity? Had he been told somebody was cheating? That was not unlikely, but the language was too severe surely for what was such a common human failing. What people had said about Howard didn’t seem to reflect a dour man of no compassion, quite the opposite. Given what Olivia had just told him, Murdoch had a strong suspicion he knew what Howard had learned.
Murdoch tried to put himself in the pastor’s skin. His wife said that their luncheon together had been completely normal. He had not seemed distressed or preoccupied and as far as she knew he had no appointments. Assuming that was the case and Howard was not a master of deception, something had occurred to upset him after he arrived at his office. There was no post delivery so it couldn’t have been a letter. His book open on the chair suggested he had been interrupted but, at that point, peacefully. What if somebody came to see him who confided in him some news that distressed him in the extreme? Howard had then begun his letter, which he never finished. He had been killed as he sat at his desk writing it. There were two possibilities. First, he had a visitor who gave him distressing news but who then left. Howard started to write his letter and was interrupted a second time by somebody he either knew or certainly didn’t fear. That person stabbed him, reasons unknown. Perhaps connected to the letter, perhaps not. The second possibility was that the first visitor and his killer were one and the same. They either left
and came back or were still in the room when Howard started to write his letter. What if the pastor had threatened to betray the secret revealed to him and his assailant silenced him forever. On the other hand, the disturbing information of course was not necessarily the reason for the murder. The two events could be coincidental and Howard could have been killed by a tramp, probably Traveller, as everybody wanted to believe.
Murdoch was about to get up and put the letter in the filing cabinet when he heard rapid footsteps coming down the hall toward his cubicle. He didn’t need the bellow of Brackenreid’s “Murdoch!” to guess who was coming to see him. He braced himself. The inspector never visited Murdoch’s tiny office unless he was so irate he couldn’t wait to send for Murdoch to come upstairs.
Brackenreid thrust aside the reed strips that served as a door to the cubicle. Murdoch took one look at his flushed face and knew the inspector was suffering from the painful aftermath of overindulgence, a situation that was becoming more and more frequent of late. A rant was about to be delivered.
“Murdoch, you were supposed to report to me first thing this morning regarding the Howard case. Why haven’t I heard from you?”
“The case isn’t closed yet, sir.”
“I understand you’ve arrested a tramp who had Howard’s watch in his possession. What more do you want?”
“I haven’t arrested him as yet. I’m keeping him here for further questioning. He swears he found the watch and at the moment I don’t believe we have sufficient evidence to charge him. There are some puzzling aspects of the case that I would like to be sure of before I do so.”
“Puzzling aspects? Puzzling aspects? It’s you who are the puzzle, Murdoch. A tramp was seen going into the church on Tuesday afternoon –”
“Beg pardon, sir. He was seen crossing the Gardens, not entering the church.”
“Nonsense. It’s obvious that’s where he was heading. He went in, found Howard in his office, and demanded money. The pastor refused him and in a fit of fury he stabbed him and kicked him to death. He then stole the poor man’s watch and boots. He has been found with the watch in his possession. What the hell is puzzling about that, Murdoch?”
Murdoch bit his lip. It was certainly plausible, countered only by his own misgivings and a feeling he had about Jack Trevelyan. Really, he should show Brackenreid the letter.
“Sir, give me another day and I promise I will hand you a full report.”
“Give me an arrest, Murdoch, that’s what I want and we can both rest easy.”
Suddenly, Brackenreid’s attention was caught by the poster on the wall announcing last summer’s police games. Murdoch had put it up there because he placed second in the fiercely competitive bicycle race. Whether it was the memory of his detective’s success over their rival stations or whether the inspector’s ire had been sufficiently vented, Murdoch didn’t know, but Brackenreid actually softened.
“You have until tomorrow morning, Murdoch.”
Then he looked up as if he was about to salute the portrait of Her Majesty Queen Victoria and left, the reed strips swaying and clacking in his wake.
Murdoch took a deep breath. He had a lot to do. Walking was out of the question and in spite of a sleety rain that stung his face, he retrieved his bicycle and pedalled over to Carlton Street.
Drummond was standing at his doorway looking out onto the deserted street.
“Don’t tell me you ate all that oatmeal already?” he greeted Murdoch.
“No, I’m here for a different reason.” Murdoch leaned his wheel against the curb and came over to the shopkeeper.
“I’d like to have a serious word, Mr. Drummond. Can we go inside?”
Drummond looked as if he might refuse but changed his mind and reluctantly stepped back and led the way into the shop, which was even more barren than before.
“What do you want?” he asked, his voice belligerent.
Murdoch felt like answering that he’d like to give him a good shaking, but he kept his voice as polite as he could manage.
“When I was here last time, I realized you have a very good view of the church from your store.”
“What of it? It’s free, ain’t it?”
“I get the feeling you spend a lot of time observing the comings and goings along the street.”
“What if I do? Is that against the law?”
Murdoch bit his lip. A quick slap across the man’s head wasn’t going to help matters and Drummond was much older than he was, after all. “I believe that Reverend Howard had a visitor shortly before he was murdered, and I wonder if you, yourself, saw anybody enter the side door that afternoon about one-thirty or so?”
“What if I did?”
“It’s not against the law, Mr. Drummond, but shall we say the law would be served if you do have information you haven’t yet given me.”
“She wouldna have been the murderer, you can be sure of that.”
“Who is the ‘she’ you are referring to?”
Drummond knew he’d slipped and he actually appeared nervous. He rocked back and forth on his heels for a moment, then swirled around, started to fiddle with the few potatoes, moving them around in the bin. He didn’t say anything for several moments and Murdoch began to wonder if he should charge the old pizzle with obstructing the course of justice and take him to the station. Drummond must have read his mind because he said, “I did happen to glance out on the street just as a woman was going by. I saw her enter the church.”
Murdoch took out his notebook. “What time was this and what did she look like?”
“It was quarter past one. The church bell had just chimed. As for what she looked like, I didn’t pay much heed. She weren’t that posh. Maybe a black or dark brown coat.”
“Did you notice this woman come out?”
“I did. She was in there about half an hour. She walked back the same way she’d come and turned down on Sherbourne Street.”
“And you didn’t see anybody after that?”
“Not a soul. The tramp would have entered the church from the front. I didn’t know anything had happened until I heard all the commotion. The constable set off the alarm bell and you can hear that blasted thing for miles.”
“Why didn’t you come forward as a witness at the inquest, Mr. Drummond?”
“It slipped my mind. It wasn’t important.”
“That was for me to decide.”
Drummond grimaced. “Women were always calling on him. Oh the ladies loved our pastor, they did. As if a handsome set of whiskers has anything to do with the Lord. This one was all dressed up in her Sunday best. Her hat was a joke with purple feathers five feet high at least.”
Murdoch frowned. “Was she a young woman?”
“Not her. Mutton dressed as lamb, she was, with her fancy fur collar and that ridiculous hat.”
“She was wearing a fur collar?”
“That’s right. It looked like a dead squirrel had fallen on her shoulders.”
“And you’re sure she’d turned down onto Sherbourne Street?”
“That’s what I said, didn’t I?” He raised his grizzled eyebrows in a ferocious leer. “Mebbe our good pastor had given her one of his uplifting chats because she was walking much faster on the way back.” He shoved one of the potatoes against the bin wall as if it were a bowling ball.
“You didn’t like Reverend Howard, did you?”
Drummond’s glance slid away and he shrugged. “I could deny it, but there’s dozens who’d tell you otherwise. Besides, I don’t hold with slyness and namby-pamby characters masquerading as good Christian souls.”
“Is that how you saw Howard? A phony?”
“I told you already we didn’t agree on the direction our church should take. To my mind, he came in under false pretences, then as soon as he was here, he started to show his true colours.” Drummond touched his forefinger to the side of his nose and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “He had certain leanings, if you know what I mean. You mark my words h
e would have had us all worshipping graven images like the papists do.”
Murdoch closed his notebook with a snap. “Thank you, Mr. Drummond. I will be calling on you again, seeing that you deliberately withheld important information.”
“You kenna prove it was deliberate. People forget, you know.”
Murdoch headed out of the door to his bicycle, Drummond trotting after him.
“Who was she? I didn’t know it was important. What are you going to do? Detective, answer me!”
Chapter Forty-Four
MURDOCH WAS STILL FUMING when he arrived at the lodging house on Sherbourne Street. Constable second class Whiteside scrambled to his feet, literally caught napping as Murdoch entered.
“Good morning, sir.”
“I want to check something in the upstairs room, constable. You can stay where you are.”
The poor lad looked disappointed and Murdoch sympathized. It must be excruciatingly boring to spend your shift sitting outside a door in an empty house.
The Tugwells’ room was unlocked and he went inside. The window sash was still up and the room was cold and damp. He went straight to the wardrobe in the corner of the room. There wasn’t much inside. A pair of boy’s trousers, a shabby brown coat, and two dark-coloured dresses, a jacket of tatty navy wool that he had seen Josie wearing. On the upper rack were two hats, one was the gaudy red plush that Josie was wearing when he first met her, the other a black felt with long purple feathers, which she had worn to the inquest. Murdoch guessed this hat might be considered the family’s Sunday best. Josie wears it to an inquest, Esther to call on the pastor. On the second rack of the wardrobe, curled like a little moribund animal, was a fur neckpiece.
Murdoch looked around the cramped room where the entire Tugwell family had lived. Wooden crates served as cupboards for their few possessions and the bedcovers were bleached sacking. Already the place was gathering dust, but he had the feeling that normally Esther kept it as clean as she could. There was a washstand by the window and two chipped mugs had been set to drain dry on one of the crates. He went to the fireplace. The coal shuttle was almost empty. On the mantelpiece in pride of place was a photograph, a family portrait taken when the family had known better days. Mr. Tugwell sat on a chair, a child on his knee whose face was slightly blurred as if he hadn’t been able to sit still long enough for the photographer to snap the picture. Behind was a pretty, young Josie and Esther, fuller of face, smiling at a hopeful future. Murdoch determined he’d try to find some relatives at least who would honour these few possessions and dispose of them rather than letting the rag-and-bone man come and pick them over.
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