Let Darkness Bury the Dead

by Maureen Jennings

  The other woman didn’t turn. “No tea, but a glass of water would be appreciated. My mouth has gone dry.”

  Madge left at once.

  “We should notify your son’s wife, Mrs. Aggett,” said Murdoch. “Can you tell me how to get in touch with her?”

  “I have no desire to have her return, sir. She will only make matters worse, if that’s possible. She is due to come back tomorrow. That will be soon enough for her to get the news.”

  Madge returned with a glass of water. She handed it to Mrs. Aggett and spoke very gently. “I understand how you feel, Mrs. Aggett, but is it fair to not impart this news at once?”

  This suggestion seemed to bring some colour back into Mrs. Aggett’s cheeks. “Fair? She has never been fair to me. Why should I be fair to her? She will no doubt become completely hysterical and it will all be hot air. She will relish the attention.”

  Rather bravely, Murdoch thought, Madge persisted.

  “She was married to your son. She must have cared for him.”

  The other woman’s mouth pursed. “Must she? You don’t have children, Miss Curnoe, otherwise you would understand. There is no love as powerful as that of a mother’s…and no loss as deep.” She looked at Murdoch. “When will I be able to bury my son, Detective?”

  “In a few days. There will have to be an inquest, but usually the coroner acts quickly.”

  Mrs. Aggett stood up. “I’d like to go home now. There are arrangements to be made.”

  She swayed slightly and Madge took her elbow.

  “Is there anybody we can fetch to be with you?” Madge asked.

  “My neighbour is a good friend. If she is available I would rather like her company. She lost her only son last year at the Somme, so she will understand.”

  Mrs. Aggett’s face was so grief-stricken Murdoch could hardly bear it.

  “We will arrange for a motor car to take you home.”

  “Thank you.”

  She allowed Madge to guide her to the door. As she passed Murdoch, she bowed her head in acknowledgement.

  “Thank you, Detective. You have been most kind.”

  After they left, Murdoch went and stood over his chess board. Victory was within his grasp.

  Madge returned.

  “She’s gone. What on earth are we going to do about the daughter-in-law?”

  “We’ll have to get in touch with the police in Mimico. They’ll need to track her down.”

  “I only hope it’s not true that she’ll make matters worse.”

  An image of the young woman he’d met only yesterday flashed into Murdoch’s mind.

  “From what I’ve seen so far, I’m afraid that may prove to be the case.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  JACK LEFT PERCY TO THE SOLACE OF his opium, and on impulse he turned and walked toward Agnes Street. A visit to the blind pig might be in order. He was pretty sure it was near the corner.

  As he drew closer he saw a group of people gathered on the pavement. They were all gazing toward a laneway, the entrance to which seemed to be guarded by two constables.

  Jack approached a rough-looking fellow on the fringe of the crowd.

  “What’s happened?” he asked.

  “Don’t know exactly,” said the man. “Somebody copped it, apparently. Some time earlier this morning. Body’s still in there. They’re waiting for the ambulance to cart it away. One of the constables said it was what they was calling a suspicious death.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep, that’s what he said. Means the bloke was probably offed. They took down all the names of us that live near here. Did we hear anything? See anybody suspicious?”

  “And did you?”

  “Not me. I was on the night shift at the foundry. Got off this morning. On my way home I seen the crowd here and came to have a look-see.” The man gave Jack a rather sharp glance. “I don’t recognize your face. Do you live round here?”

  “No. I was just visiting a pal. Like you, I saw people hanging around and got curious.”

  “Bin a soldier, have you?”

  “That’s right. How’d you know?”

  The man shrugged. “All you returning soldiers have a look about you.”

  “What sort of look would that be, my friend?”

  “I dunno. Just a look. No offence. Me, I’d have signed up in a flash if I was ten years younger. Besides which I work at a foundry. We make horseshoes. Considered essential war work. I’d be exempted anyways.”

  Jack was prevented from commenting by the sound of the ambulance, bell clanging, roaring up Chestnut Street. The official police ambulances were all motorized now, horses long gone.

  The older of the two constables moved forward and raised his arm.

  “Step back now, folks. Let the men do their job.”

  The crowd reluctantly parted, allowing the ambulance to drive past them into the laneway. Jack felt a tug on his sleeve. He turned around and looked into the eyes of a young woman who was smiling at him.

  “Hello, Jack.”

  She saw his hesitation.

  “It’s Fiona. Fiona Williams. Duncan’s sister.”

  “Good heavens, so it is,” said Jack, breaking into a grin. “You’ve grown up a lot since I last saw you.”

  “That was almost seven years ago.”

  “Was it really? Surely not that long.”

  Their attention was caught by the sound of the ambulance doors clanking open.

  “What has happened?” Fiona asked.

  “It seems there has been a homicide.”

  “Oh, Jack. You’d think there was enough killing going on without bringing it home.”

  “Quite so.”

  Jack strained to look over the heads of the people so he could catch a view of the body. The attendants had covered him with a blanket but Jack had seen enough. He recognized the blond hair, the big frame. It was one of the men who had been at the blind pig the night before.

  “Is he somebody you know?” Fiona asked, her voice full of concern.

  “No, not at all. Why do you ask?”

  “Because you looked so shocked.”

  “It’s always upsetting to see somebody whose life has been cut short too early, that’s all.”

  She put her hand gently on his arm. “I’m sure you’ve experienced enough of that already.”

  Jack didn’t trust himself to reply.

  “Where are you heading?” Fiona asked.

  “I was going to drop in on my father at police headquarters.”

  “I’m on my way to work. Eaton’s telephone department,” said Fiona. “It’s on your way. Would you like to accompany me?”

  “Love to,” said Jack.

  They heard the sound of the ambulance start up.

  “Move aside now, folks,” said the constable. “Let them come through.”

  The crowd shuffled away, murmuring among themselves. Jack could see the foundry worker was still keeping him in view. The ambulance drove slowly out of the laneway, turned, and, with a lurch, sped away. The bell started clanging again.

  Jack grimaced. “I suppose there’s really no longer any need for them to hurry, is there?”

  He offered Fiona his arm. Jack felt in a turmoil but, in spite of everything, he was enjoying the feeling of a woman’s body warm and close to him.

  They walked for a while without speaking. As they approached the store entrance, Fiona disengaged her arm from Jack’s. There was quite a press of customers entering the store.

  “Looks busy,” said Jack.

  “It always is. Eaton’s is one of the most popular stores in town. Guaranteed quality, fair prices, home delivery. What more could a woman ask for?”

  Jack gazed down at her. “Do I detect a note of irony in your voice?”

  “A little,” she said with a shrug. “Mr. Eaton is very anxious to project an image of moral rectitude. It extends to his employees. Unless you are of demonstrably good character, he won’t hire you. Any transgression and you’re out on y
our ear.”

  “What is considered to be a transgression?”

  “One girl was discovered having a cigarette in the washroom. Dismissed on the spot. Another had actually rouged her lips. Silly girl. She claimed it was her natural colour but they didn’t believe it. Out she went.” Fiona hesitated. “And no unpopular views are allowed.”

  “Unpopular?”

  “You know. Unpatriotic. Anti-war, that sort of thing.”

  “And what sort of views do you hold, Miss Williams?”

  She gave him an impish grin. “Well, I suppose you could ask your father.”

  “Really? How would he know?”

  “He’ll explain. But better still, why don’t you find out for yourself? I’m part of a Red Cross fundraising event this Friday. It’s at Shea’s Theatre.”

  “I know where that is. I used to go there.”

  “Well, it still features lovely young ladies who will sing and dance. In skimpy clothing, of course.”

  “Is that what you’re doing?”

  “A little singing, no dancing, and I’m fully clothed. Actually, I do ventriloquism.”

  “No! You mean with a dummy, throwing your voice and all that?”

  “That’s right.”

  “One doesn’t often find a woman in that line of entertainment.”

  “There isn’t another woman in Ontario as far as I know. That’s probably why they hired me. I’m a novelty! Good gracious, look at the time. I’m late. Employees enter by the rear door.”

  She walked away, then abruptly turned.

  “It’s wonderful to see you again, Jack. Do come to the show. Seven o’clock. I’m in the second half, so you can watch the lovely ladies dance and sing before I come on.”

  He beamed at her. “I will come, for sure.”

  “Bring a friend. I’ll leave two free tickets at the door.”

  She strode off.

  Jack watched her for a moment. His memories of Fiona as a girl were rather foggy; she had been lively and presentable, but just a child in his eyes. She certainly had grown into a most attractive young woman. Her presence had been a brief but welcome distraction from the sight of the murdered man.

  Suddenly he felt exhausted. These depleted states came upon him regularly, and there wasn’t much he could do about them. “It will take time” was the catchphrase of the army doctors.

  But Jack had found that time was elastic. It seemed as if a long, long time had elapsed since he’d joined up. But the recovery from his wound felt agonizingly slow. “Be patient,” said the last physician who’d examined him. “Your mind has to heal as well as your body.”

  Jack quickened his pace. You could rest your body; strengthen your body; exercise your body. But he had no idea how to do that with his mind.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  MURDOCH MUSTERED THE CONSTABLES on duty, organized them into teams, and sent them off to make door-to-door inquiries along the streets in the vicinity of the laneway.

  “Don’t intimidate the residents or they won’t talk to you. They’re wary enough as it is. Just see if anybody knew the young man in question. Or if they heard anything, or saw anything. He must have left his mother’s house with the intention of going somewhere. It will help us if we knew where that was.”

  He beckoned to Fenwell. “Why don’t we start by paying Mrs. Schumacher a visit. Her house isn’t too far from where Arthur ended up. There was supposedly some kind of row happening last night outside her residence. Might be relevant.”

  “I had a thought about that foreign currency in Aggett’s pocket,” said Fenwell.

  “He was gambling, don’t you think?”

  Fenwell smiled. “I expected you’d come to the same conclusion.”

  “It makes the most sense. It’s not likely a shopkeeper would slip those coins to him. But on a gambling table, anything goes.”

  —

  Mrs. Schumacher’s house was nondescript, about as innocuous as it was possible for a house to be. Pale yellow brick, brown trim on the door and windows, lace curtains. The door was opened by the owner herself. She showed no reaction when Murdoch introduced himself and Detective Fenwell. She simply stepped back and ushered them in.

  The small front room was dominated by a long table. Several chairs were lined up along the walls, and a bead curtain hung in a doorway at the rear. Paintings hung from the picture rail; all appeared to be of exotic birds. There was a strong odour of carbolic in the air and Murdoch spotted a bucket in a corner, a faint puff of steam drifting upward.

  Mrs. Schumacher immediately sat down at the head of the table, in the centre of which sat an extravagant arrangement of dried flowers, and gestured to the two detectives that they should take a seat. She placed her hands flat on the table, which was covered with a sober brown cloth. A model of domestic respectability, if one ignored the unusual number of chairs.

  Their hostess struck Murdoch as a formidable woman. It wasn’t that she was large in the usual sense. She wasn’t. She was of average height and weight, firmly held in by tight corsets. Her dark hair was pulled back in a smooth bun fastened with two tortoiseshell combs, and her grey silk dress was sober, adorned by only a single gold chain with a watch and fob. At first Murdoch couldn’t understand why she seemed so intimidating. Then he realized several things: first, she never smiled, not in the slightest; second, she had piercing dark eyes; and third, she had a large nose. Her voice, when she spoke, was strong.

  “I’ve already explained to one of your constables that some people were gathered here for a friendly game of whist last night. I do not serve alcohol, of course, as it is now against the law. We drank tea.”

  Fenwell answered. “A neighbour reported a disturbance in the early hours of the morning.”

  “Like any man born to woman, these men can get het up about delivering their own opinions. I wouldn’t have called it a disturbance.”

  “What sort of opinions?”

  “The usual these days. Should we force French Canadians into active service or not? I myself have no opinion either way. If they don’t want to fight a war they consider is nothing to do with them, so be it. Throughout history, there have always been those who were only too willing to have another die for them if they can stay safe in their warm beds. Frankly, I despise slackers, no matter what language they speak.”

  This little speech was delivered in an unemotional voice, as if Mrs. Schumacher had been stating the price of potatoes.

  “The constable took down the names of two men who were here when he arrived,” said Murdoch. “They said they were Joseph Oliver and George Geary. Do those names sound familiar to you?”

  “Good gracious. I never ask names. Different men come and go depending on their shifts.”

  “So you don’t know a Joseph Oliver who says he lives at 16 Louisa Street, or a George Geary who lives at 101 Hayter?”

  “I am not acquainted with those names.”

  “I’m surprised they don’t ring a bell. Joseph Oliver was the thirty-fourth mayor of this city and George Geary the thirty-fifth. So unless the retired officials of Toronto have a predilection for tea and a late-night game of whist I can assume these are not the men’s real names.”

  “That must be the case.”

  There was the tiniest pucker at the corner of her mouth, which Murdoch took for a touch of amusement.

  “I wonder why they would give a false identity.”

  “Usually the urge for deception can be traced to a domestic issue.”

  “Was there another man here last night? Young, about twenty or so. Big fellow with fair hair. He was wearing a grey mackinaw. No overcoat or hat. If he did happen to give you his name, it was Arthur Aggett.”

  She furrowed her brow. “I don’t know anybody by that name. Nor do I recall a guest of that description. I am curious as to why you are asking these questions, Detective.”

  “Because his body has been found not far from here. It is likely he was murdered.”

  If Murdoch had expected Mrs.
Schumacher to evince some kind of shock, he was disappointed. She remained unemotional.

  “Murdered in what way?”

  “Until the investigation is completed, I’m not at liberty to say, madam. It would help if you could be more precise about your gathering last night. What time did the men leave the premises, for instance?”

  He could see she was considering how much to reveal.

  “I’d say it was about one o’clock but I can’t say precisely.”

  “You don’t have a clock?”

  “I do but I don’t consult it every minute.”

  “So did the gathering break up right after this lively difference of opinion?”

  “Yes, I suppose it was shortly afterward.”

  The neighbour who’d reported the argument had put the time at a quarter past one, so in that at least she was telling the truth.

  Murdoch nodded at Fenwell, who took over the questioning.

  “Our witness reports seeing several men engaged in a loud argument on the street outside your premises. When the constable checked here, there were only two men present. Were there others who had perhaps left somewhat earlier?”

  “Come to think of it, that may have been the case.”

  “If you don’t mind, madam, we’ll need descriptions of all of them.”

  “I have a dreadful memory for faces, Detective. I don’t think I can be of much help. Besides, I was in the kitchen most of the time.”

  “Making tea, I assume?” interrupted Murdoch.

  “Precisely.”

  He was getting irritated by this stalling but he doubted he was going to shake Mrs. Schumacher. Her livelihood probably depended on her complete discretion—and a bad memory.

  “If you do happen to remember any details about your guests, however small, please let us know immediately.” He and Fenwell stood up. “And I should warn you, Mrs. Schumacher, you and your establishment are considered to be under investigation until the case is solved.”

  She didn’t respond, only stared at him with those piercing dark eyes.

  “What do you think, Peter?” asked Murdoch once they were on the sidewalk again.

  “There’s no doubt she’s lying. She probably has a lot to hide. But I don’t think it’s going to be easy to dislodge her.”