“Who the hell are you? Where’s the other whore?”
Olivia continued to back down the path, but the man followed. Suddenly, he grabbed her by the arms and started to shake her violently. To Murdoch’s horror, Olivia went completely limp and collapsed in the man’s grip. He struggled to pull her to her feet, but he couldn’t. Murdoch had to move and he shoved open the door, yelling, “Let go of her, I’m the police.”
The man turned, saw Murdoch, and dropped Olivia to the ground. The only way out was down the path and he went to make a run for it. Olivia, however, was blocking his way and as he jumped over her apparently lifeless body, she reached up and grabbed him by the ankle. With perfect timing, she sat upright and shoved him away from her as if she were tossing a caber. He lost his balance and fell sideways against the low wall of the pond, toppling over into the water. Arms flailing, he tried desperately to stand up but the pond bed was too slippery and he couldn’t find his footing. Olivia had scrambled to her feet and Murdoch hobbled by her, stepped over the wall himself, and tried to reach her assailant. However, he too slipped off a rock and fell to his knees. The other man tried to get to his feet, but he slipped again and fell backwards. This time he landed directly in the path of the waterwheel, which was continuing its relentless turning. The edge of one of the paddles caught him on the top of the head, stunning him. Then the next paddle struck him.
And then the next.
Desperately, Murdoch reached for him and managed to grab his trouser leg, but he couldn’t move him. He called out to Olivia and she leaned over the wall and seized the man’s other leg. Together they managed to drag him away from the wheel. He was inert and the water was scarlet. He had lost his hat, the scarf was still tightly wrapped around his face, but above the scarf was only a ghastly mess of blood and bone.
Murdoch managed to get the body partly out of the water onto the wall, and panting from the effort, and the pain in his back, he climbed onto the path and bent double until he could get his breath. Olivia had stepped away.
“Are you all right?” he gasped at her. She was white.
“He would have killed me if he could. I saw it in his eyes. He must have known the game was up and he panicked.”
“Are you hurt?”
“Naw. That’s an old trick I used. He grabbed me and I let my entire weight collapse. Took him by surprise.”
Murdoch straightened up. “Olivia. We’ll have to get some help. Do you think you can run to the station?”
She nodded. “Don’t know about run, me legs have turned to jelly, but I’ll do my best. He’s quite done for, ain’t he?”
“Yes. Tell the sergeant what has happened and say we need an ambulance.”
For a moment she didn’t move but stared into the red pond. “Who is he?”
Murdoch reached over and pulled the sodden scarf away from the man’s face. What was left of his jaw was thin and clean-shaven, the open mouth loose now.
“His name’s Matthew Swanzey.”
Epilogue
“HE WAS A GOOD MAN, as quiet as a mouse. Never a moment’s trouble. He never complained about his meals like some of them do. I just can’t believe what you’re telling me.”
Swanzey’s landlady had been repeating variations on these words for the past ten minutes. Murdoch and Crabtree had gone to the dead man’s lodgings and had yet to get past Mrs. Kew’s disbelief and distress at what she’d heard from them.
“He was always so considerate. Why just last week I came down with a touch of phlebitis and he brought in my tea to me instead of me waiting on him. Then he sat and read aloud from the Psalms.”
The memory brought on more tears, and Murdoch edged toward the door.
“Mrs. Kew, I’m going to need to see Reverend Swanzey’s room. Constable Crabtree will stay here with you. I wonder if I couldn’t trouble you for a cup of tea? We could all do with one, I’m sure.”
Having something to do calmed the poor woman and Murdoch was able to go upstairs to the front room that had been Swanzey’s. He stood in the threshold for a moment. He had rather expected the room to be neat and austere and it was. Mrs. Kew’s taste ran to lace and red plush with a plethora of ceramic ornaments, but Swanzey’s was as plain as a monk’s. The room was quite spacious and the furnishings barely filled it. There was a narrow bed with a white coverlet beneath the window; a wardrobe; a bookcase, half empty; a washstand; and, in the centre of the room, a small round table with two wooden chairs. There were no pictures on the walls, the floor was uncarpeted. Murdoch could see an envelope propped up against the large bible on the table and when he went over to investigate it, he was startled to see that the envelope was addressed to him.
Murdoch was stripped to the waist, lying on his stomach on the kitchen table with brown paper across his lower back. Amy Slade was beside him, testing the iron for heat.
“Are you sure this will work?” Murdoch asked her.
“It’s a proven remedy for lumbago. You’ll feel much better afterwards.”
She brought the iron down to his back and started to iron as if he were a shirt or a sheet. Murdoch found it was not a disagreeable sensation, quite pleasant, in fact, although lying on his stomach was uncomfortable.
“Go on. I am quite able to iron and listen at the same time.”
“Swanzey started out by saying that if I was reading the letter it meant he was either dead or in prison. In either case he wanted to explain what he called ‘the regrettable occurrence,’ which is about the most ludicrous expression I’ve ever heard to describe a brutal murder of an innocent man. Regrettable occurrence, indeed. As I suspected finally, the pastor had discovered Swanzey was misusing his position to get sexual favours from the female paupers on his list. When he was confronted, Swanzey said, and I quote, ‘The devil threw a cloak of darkness over me.’ Apparently, he couldn’t bear the notion that he might not continue to be God’s voice and servant, something he said he had yearned to be all of his life.”
Amy pressed on the iron. “I can almost feel sorry for the fellow. He sounds like a tormented soul.”
Murdoch tried to turn his head to look at her. “This tormented soul, as you call him, killed five people.”
“I’m sorry, Will. I don’t condone in the least what he did, but it seems as if he was mentally imbalanced.”
“You’re more charitable than I am. I think he was a miserable worm of a man, obsessed with himself and what he saw as his spiritual struggles. He took no responsibility for murdering Charles Howard, blaming it all conveniently on the devil. The only reference to his preying on powerless women was what he called ‘the vices of my blood,’ which were again the result of the devil putting temptation in his way. He said the Tugwells were Lucifer’s agents and that it was God who arranged things so that Swanzey was present when Louisa Howard received the blackmail letter. That gave him a chance to cover his arse, excuse the expression, and silence them.”
“What was this letter? You haven’t told me.”
“I spoke to Mrs. Howard last evening and she acknowledged she’d received a letter from one of the Tugwells accusing her husband of improper conduct. I think that as soon as they knew the pastor was dead, one or the other of them cooked up a little blackmail scheme. As Olivia would tell me, it’s an old trick. The dead man can’t protest his innocence. She had wanted to show the letter to me, but Swanzey persuaded her to destroy it. He must have been afraid the Tugwells would betray him if pressed too hard, because of course, it was him, not Howard, who was the guilty party. So he immediately took steps to make sure they didn’t. He visited trusting, lonely old Thomas Hicks, put prussic acid in his tea, and as soon as he was unconscious, he blocked the chimney. He probably brought him the cheap coke as a gift. Fortunately for us, he made a mistake and left with the bottle of prussic acid; otherwise it would have been written off as the kind of tragic accident that is always happening to poor people. I wonder if that was God manipulating him or the devil? Carbon monoxide gas is indiscriminate, but Swanzey di
dn’t care if he killed a household of people as long as he silenced Esther and Josie. Ida Harper, another woman he coerced, said she never saw his face, but Josie must have.”
Murdoch felt his face going red at the anticipation that Amy would ask him how Ida could have had connections without seeing Swanzey’s face, but she didn’t.
“Poor Mrs. Howard, to get a letter like that.”
“She was relieved when I explained it to her. She said that she’d always found Matthew Swanzey to be rather repulsive, but I don’t know if that’s an opinion rewritten after the fact. As far as I can tell, he was a respected member of the church. Speaking of the church, according to Mr. Swanzey, the devil also seemed to have blinded the members of the congregation and the church Synod who chose Howard as their pastor and not him. Swanzey was convinced that he was truly God’s beloved servant and these things were sent to test his faith. The Almighty just wasn’t revealing his hand yet, but it was a matter of time before Matthew would be taken up and exulted as the supremely eloquent witness to the Good News gospel. Another quote from the letter, ‘The voice of the Lord is in my ear and I will heed his commands to the extent of my ability.’ What a colossal conceit. Strip away all that religious folderol and you’ve got a man seething with jealousy. Howard won the coveted appointment, he was handsome and charming. Women loved him. Swanzey could only get acquiescence from starving women. No wonder, he even took the dead man’s identity when he found himself succumbing, once again, to the vices of his blood, as he called it.”
Amy tapped him lightly on the back of the head. “Lie still. You’re tightening your muscles and you’ll make things worse.”
But Murdoch couldn’t stop. “I presume it was at God’s bidding that he murdered those four innocent people, including a crippled child. But he was completely silent on that little matter.”
He closed his eyes. “I should have been on to the man earlier. There was an overcoat hanging in Swanzey’s office. He must have come in, then been called to Howard’s office where the pastor was in the midst of writing a letter that would destroy Swanzey’s career. If I’d followed up on that bloody coat, I might have got him before he killed Hicks and the Tugwells.”
Amy paused. “You don’t know that, Will. He was cunning. He might have come up with a perfectly good explanation for the coat. What killed those people, alas, was that one of the Tugwells saw an opportunity to get some money. And the ultimate responsibility for their plight lies with society and our tolerating such poverty.” Amy came around to the head of the table and peered at him. “I know you don’t agree with me, but I’m not going to argue the matter right now. I need to get the other iron, this one is getting cold. Are you all right so far?”
“Quite, thank you. I’ve never felt like a shirt before, but now I know what that must be like.”
She laughed. “We’ll probably have to do this a few more times, so you’d better get used to it.”
She turned over the brown paper and applied the fresh iron to it. They were quiet for a few moments while she worked.
“He did say something at the end of the letter that has stayed with me. ‘If I am in the bosom of our Lord when you read this, I shall know what His judgment is and that is the only judgment that matters to me.’ Let’s hope he got a nasty shock. On the other hand, God has infinite mercy so who knows? But that’s a topic for another day.”
Amy returned the iron to its stand on the stove. “I think that’s it for now.”
“Can I sit up?”
“Yes, slowly though.”
He eased himself into a sitting position on the table. His lumbago did feel much easier.
Amy smiled at him. The warmth of the iron had brought a flush to her face and her eyes were shining. She hadn’t pinned up her hair and it was loose around her face. Murdoch was suddenly acutely aware that he was sitting in front of her in nothing but his undervest and trousers.
“Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?” Her voice was teasing.
“You could marry me.” His words popped out before he could stop them.
She started to laugh but stopped when she saw his expression.
“Will … I …”
“I mean it. Miss Slade, I, William Murdoch, would like you to be my wife. If I could kneel down I would, but I’m afraid I might not get up again.” He caught her hand and held it between his. “Please, dear Amy, do say yes.”
She pulled her hand away. “Oh, dear, I, er, no, I couldn’t.”
“I’m sorry, I –”
“No, please don’t look like that. It’s not you at all. But marriage … Will, surely you know how I feel about marriage?”
“No.”
“I suppose you could say, I’m against it.”
“I see.”
“No, you obviously don’t. Marriage isn’t entered into on an equal basis. Women give up their identity, men don’t. How would you feel if by marrying a woman you had to surrender your name, give up your job that you love, and be expected to wait on her hand and foot? And in addition you had to swear to obey her? What outdated nonsense that is.”
Amy was looking even more flushed at this point.
Murdoch reached for his shirt, “Thank you for the lecture. I’m sorry if I touched on a sore point, that was not my intention.”
“Will, I’ve hurt your feelings and I didn’t mean to. I’m so honoured that you asked me.”
“Even if it is an invitation to humiliation and servitude?”
“No, you don’t understand. Marriage as an institution I can’t abide, but marriage meaning a physical and spiritual connection between a man and a woman, I don’t disapprove of.” She ducked her head, suddenly shy. “Dear, honourable Will, so many times I’ve walked away from you rather than risk making a complete fool of myself because I so wanted to –” She stopped.
Murdoch stared at her, not initially comprehending, but Amy touched his arm.
“If you would consider me as your wife in that sense, I joyfully accept.”
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
“Let’s put it this way. I won’t iron your shirts, but I will iron your back willingly and with love as long as you want me to.”
Her use of the word love almost made him want to weep. He tried to stand, but he couldn’t straighten up and he was forced to look at her with his head bent.
“Can you crouch down a little and seal that with a kiss?”
She obliged.
Author’s Note and Acknowledgements
For the convenience of my plot, I have moved Chalmers Church from its real location, which is long gone. There was a Presbyterian church at the corner of Carlton and Jarvis, which is now a Lutheran church.
The House of Industry, also known as the city poor house, was at the location I have given it on Elm Street. Only the facade remains today, but it is easy to stand before it and feel the impact it might have had on the destitute and desperate people of the time who had to line up for their daily soup.
And speaking of soup, the unidentified soup that Murdoch swallows at the food depot was typical of the period. I came across a recipe while visiting the Judge’s Lodging Museum in Presteigne, Wales. I made it, and it is exactly as described.
The poor house procedures I have used in the story were as depicted.
The current Dundas Street East was then named Wilton Street.
I have tried to be as accurate as I can be with all the historical details and regret any errors, however small.
As always, I am grateful to many people for their help in the making of this book.
Elaine, the librarian at the Pelham Library, was not only a gracious host but took time to inform me about the structures of the Presbyterian Church.
Jim, woodsman extraordinaire and regular member of the dog-field gang, set me straight about the subtleties of wood-chopping and axe-throwing.
Linda Wicks, the archivist at the Sisters of St. Joseph library, brought me fascinating registers and patiently wa
ited for me to finish reading through them.
I especially owe thanks to the folks at McClelland & Stewart, especially Bruce, Cass, and Dinah, who have supported me so enthusiastically and produced covers I love.
My agent, Jane Chelius, is the best.
MAUREEN JENNINGS’S first novel in the Detective Murdoch series, Except the Dying, was published to rave reviews and shortlisted for both the Arthur Ellis and the Anthony first novel awards. The influential Drood Review picked Poor Tom Is Cold as one of its favourite mysteries of 2001. Let Loose the Dogs was shortlisted for the 2004 Anthony Award for best historical mystery. Night’s Child was shortlisted for the Arthur Ellis Award, the Bruce Alexander Historical Mystery Award, the Barry Award, and the Macavity Historical Mystery Award. And A Journeyman to Grief was nominated for the Arthur Ellis Award. Three of the Detective Murdoch novels have been adapted for television, and a Granada International television series, The Murdoch Mysteries, based on the characters from the novels, is entering its third season on CityTV and UKTV.
COPYRIGHT © 2006 BY MAUREEN JENNINGS
First McClelland & Stewart paperback edition 2006
This trade paperback edition 2010
All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the publisher—or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency—is an infringement of the copyright law.
LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
Jennings, Maureen
Vices of my blood / Maureen Jennings.
(A Detective Murdoch mystery)
eISBN: 978-0-7710-4323-9
I. Title. II. Series: Jennings, Maureen. Detective Murdoch mystery.
PS8569.E562V52 2010 C813′.54 C2009-906983-0
Vices of My Blood Page 31
