For those first four years, he’d spent as much time with his son as his work would allow. There were the three of them. Forever, as he’d thought.
Then Amy and the new baby had died.
Murdoch had asked his former landlady, Mrs. Kitchen, now a widow, to come and help look after him and Jack, which she’d done willingly. Overwhelmed by his own grief, Murdoch had retreated from family life. Over the following years, a distance had developed between him and his son that he didn’t know how to bridge. How deeply he regretted that now.
So here they were, and it was obvious Jack was intent on keeping him at arm’s length. People kept saying time would change that. Would it? What was the meaning of his diary entry? What had Jack gone through that he was so reluctant to share?
Eventually, Murdoch fell into a restless sleep.
He was awakened by a violent knocking on the front door. His heart leapt into his throat, alarm flooding his body. Grabbing his dressing gown, he hurried downstairs. A constable, not familiar to him, was standing in his cape, gleaming in the lightly falling snow.
“Sorry to pound like that, sir, but the sergeant didn’t trust the telephone so he sent me round in person. Sergeant Caulback is the name. I work out of number two station.”
“Yes. What is it, man?”
“I have to report that there’s been a homicide. Young man has been found dead on Agnes Street.”
“Do we know who he is?”
The constable was a big man, grey-haired, and well into middle age. He began to fish in his pocket for his notebook. To Murdoch he seemed to move with appalling slowness.
“Sergeant? Please answer me, do we know the identity of this young man?”
“Yes, sir.” He flipped open the notebook. “Here it is. His name is Antonio Carella. He worked at the Italian consulate as a night manager.”
Murdoch felt such a wave of relief that he could hardly speak for a moment. He was sorry a young man had died, but all he could think was Thank God it wasn’t Jack.
“Step inside. I’ll get dressed.”
He soon joined the constable and they set off at a brisk walk.
“Do we know what happened?” Murdoch asked.
“The constable on his beat found the body about an hour ago. He was lying directly in front of the Italian consulate. The constable knew the young man to be an employee there so he went to rouse the consul, or rather, the deputy who is in charge at the moment. He was the one rang the station. I went over right away. It was obvious it was a job for headquarters.”
“Is there any indication of a reason for the killing?”
“Nothing immediate. There was no apparent fight. The young man was clearing snow from the steps of the consulate. It would seem that the killer came from behind him, seized the shovel, and used it to overcome him.”
“I assume there was no sign of the assailant?”
“None at all.”
For reasons of war economy, the city was keeping wattage on all electric lights to a minimum. The dusting of snow brightened the surroundings somewhat but the streets were dark, the houses silhouettes. All was deadly quiet. A constable was stationed by the steps that led up to the entrance of the consulate. He came smartly to attention.
“Constable Harrar, sir. Number two station.”
“You’re the one who discovered the body?”
“I am, yes, sir.”
Caulback held up his lantern and the beam shone on the body sprawled on the sidewalk. The dead man was lying on his back. He might have been peacefully sleeping, his arms at his side, his legs only slightly bent, but in the lamplight Murdoch could see that his eyes were bulging, his tongue was protruding, and his face was suffused with blood.
He gently moved the dead man’s hand. Rigor mortis had not set in and there was a faint warmth to the body. He leaned closer.
There was a yellow cross on the victim’s coat. He touched it gingerly and a little powder came off on his fingers. Chalk.
It looked exactly the same as the cross that had marked Morris Swartz’s jacket. The German sign for mustard gas.
Murdoch looked at the steps. The snow had been cleared recently. There was a shovel lying on the sidewalk.
“I believe it’s the young man’s job to keep the steps clear,” said Harrar. “I’ve seen him so occupied on previous occasions.”
“Do you know when it started to snow?”
“It was just after midnight, sir. I came upon the body at half past one. I checked right away to see if there were any footprints. There were none. Snow undinted.”
“So we can assume the assault occurred close to twelve.”
“I’d say so, yes, sir. I was on my second tour and he certainly wasn’t here when I came past at eleven.”
“I’m guessing his assailant snuck up behind him, grabbed that shovel, and choked him by pulling the handle across his throat. Please remove it. We’ll have it brought to headquarters for examination. I’ll ring for the coroner. Until he gets here, make sure nobody interferes. If anybody does come by, take their name and address. It might be useful later. I’ll go and have a talk with the deputy consul.” Murdoch now addressed Caulback. “Come with me, Sergeant. We should get something to cover the body before the world wakes up.”
Murdoch looked back at the corpse. He made the sign of the cross for the soul of the departed.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
THE DEPUTY CONSUL HIMSELF opened the door. He was a striking-looking man, with a strong, hooked nose and sharp chin. His skin was olive and his dark, wavy hair fell from a centre parting. Murdoch thought his profile could have graced coins of the Roman Empire.
“Please come in, Officer,” he said, offering his hand. He had only a trace of an Italian accent. “I’m Giovanni Furturo.” He stepped back so that Murdoch could enter the narrow foyer.
Furturo was still in his night clothes, scarlet pyjamas topped by a wine-coloured silk brocade dressing gown. For a moment, Murdoch couldn’t help but compare them to his own plain flannel robe and cotton pyjamas. They may have started out as navy but were now pale bluish grey. He brought his attention back to the matter in hand.
“I’d like to cover up the body, sir. Do you have something we can use?”
Furturo surveyed the wall where a large Italian flag hung from a rod. “This should do it. Antonio Carella was a loyal Italian and he should be accorded a patriot’s respect in death.” Furturo removed the flag and handed it to Sergeant Caulback, who took it and headed back downstairs.
“Let us go into my study,” said the deputy consul, and he led the way down the hall.
The room was small and cozy, with plush burgundy wall coverings and several framed oil paintings that suggested Italian pastoral views. A couple of big armchairs sat in front of the hearth, while a desk in the corner sat next to a glass-fronted bookcase.
Furturo went over to the desk. “This has been a dreadful shock. You don’t mind if I smoke, do you, Detective?”
“Not at all.”
The deputy consul took an ornately carved wooden cigar box from the desk, removed one of the cigars, snipped the end, and lit it from an expensive-looking lighter. He drew in a deep lungful of smoke and exhaled slowly. The tobacco was highly aromatic. Definitely not the local kind, Murdoch thought.
Furturo held out the box. “May I offer you one?”
Murdoch would have liked to try the unfamiliar cigar, but not while he was on duty. He shook his head, contenting himself with breathing in the smoke.
“What can you tell me about the dead man, Mr. Furturo?”
Furturo scrutinized the glowing end of his cigar. “Not much, I’m afraid. He’s worked here since the summer. He has always been absolutely reliable. He speaks English well, and Italian, of course.”
“What was the nature of his work?”
“General caretaking. Keeping the premises tidy both inside and out. He has the night shift. He also answers any calls that come in after midnight. Just to take messages, naturally, but if
he feels it necessary he will wake the consul or myself.”
“Are there many such calls?”
“Not many, thank goodness. Immigration has slowed down considerably since the war. Most of our flock are well settled.”
“I’ll need the young man’s address.”
“He shared a lodging house with some other Calabrians. It’s just up the street. Number 135.”
Signor Furturo tapped the ash from his cigar into a brass dish. “It’s so dreadful what has happened. Such a young man. Why, just yesterday he received an exemption from his tribunal. I had pleaded his case, of course. The consul and I both thought it would be hard to replace him here at the consulate given that he was fluent in both languages. The tribunal board agreed and he was granted an exemption from conscription for a year.”
Another streetcar.
The deputy let out a long puff of smoke. “He might as well have gone to the front line after all.”
CHAPTER FIFTY
LEAVING FURTURO TO CONTACT headquarters so they could arrange for a coroner to come, Murdoch went directly to question the other lodgers at Antonio Carella’s boarding house. It was still the middle of the night and it took a while to rouse them. Sergeant Caulback came with him, and after a lot of thumping on the door, it was opened a crack by a young man in his nightshirt. He didn’t seem to understand English at all but he understood the uniform. He ushered them into the cold house and rushed upstairs to wake up the others. Finally, in various states of undress and sleepiness, they all gathered in the tiny kitchen. There were four of them, all young, olive-skinned, and black-haired. To Murdoch’s mind, more Romans.
There weren’t enough chairs for everybody; one of the younger men offered Murdoch a place at the table and leaned against the wall on the other side of the doorway from Caulback. The sergeant looked uncomfortable at this unexpected proximity. The room felt very crowded. Anxiety drenched the air.
“Do any of you speak English?” asked Murdoch.
The man across from Murdoch, who had wrapped himself in a crocheted shawl, answered.
“I do, sir. A little.”
“What is your name?”
Sergeant Caulback flipped open his notebook.
“Vincenzo Petrozzi.”
He immediately began to spell it, and Murdoch had the impression this was not the first time the young Italian had been questioned by authorities.
One of the others said something sharply to Petrozzi. Murdoch didn’t understand the words but the man’s agitation and anger were apparent. His compatriot nodded and addressed Murdoch.
“May I inquire, sir, why you visiting us at this hour of the night? In this house, we have all registered with the military board. Three has already attended the tribunals and has exemption. Other two will meet tribunals in the upcoming week. Do you desire to see our papers?”
“No, that’s not why I am here.”
He waited while Petrozzi translated to the others. There was no putting it off.
“I regret to tell you that Antonio Carella has been found dead. I understand from the deputy consul that he lived here.”
Petrozzi stared at Murdoch in disbelief.
“Antonio dead? How is that to be? What has happened?”
“It appears that he was attacked while he was at the consulate.”
“Who? Who has done this thing?”
“We don’t know yet. We are investigating.”
Seeing Petrozzi’s reaction, the man who had first spoken said something in Italian to him.
“Shall I speak what has happened?” Petrozzi asked Murdoch.
“Please tell them that your friend is dead. He was undoubtedly murdered. Anything they can tell me about him would be most helpful. Did he quarrel with anybody, for instance? Did he have any enemies that you know of? It is possible that the murderer was motivated by hatred.”
“Hatred of foreigners?”
“Perhaps. Nothing is certain as yet.”
“I will speak that, but I will tell you myself, officer, Antonio was of offence to no one. He was, what you say, our mascot. Like a little brother to one and all.” He rubbed hard at his eyes. “It will be most hard to share this news.”
The others were watching him anxiously. When he had finished his translation, they broke into voluble exclamations. One man put his arm around the shoulders of the man next to him, who began to cry. The exchange went on for several minutes until finally Petrozzi held up his hand for silence. As one, the young men turned to look at Murdoch.
“Did you ask about any enemies?” he asked Petrozzi, who nodded emphatically.
“It was as I said. Nobody has any idea who would this thing do. Perhaps it was somebody who did not know Antonio. A stranger. A robber?”
“We have not ruled that out. Do you know if he would have been carrying money on his person?”
The Italian shook his head. “Most unlikely. Just yesterday, he came to me to request a small loan until he had his wages. He desired to buy cigarettes. I handed him two dollars from our fund.” Petrozzi shrugged. “We are not of the wealthy class, sir. Everybody has used their savings to come to this country.”
Murdoch recalled that there was a steamship booking agency on the lower floor of the consulate building. They had probably arranged passage for the immigrants.
“Thank you for your co-operation, Mr. Petrozzi. I just have a few more general questions. According to the deputy consul, Mr. Carella had received an exemption from the tribunal. Did you know about this?”
“Sì. He was not happy with decision which it came about because the consulate pleaded his case. They said he could not be replaced. Antonio would like to have signed up for the war.” He indicated the other men. “We all feel the same way.”
“But you say three of you have been exempted. One was Mr. Carella. Are you also exempt?”
“Sì. I am hired by Reynolds Automobile livery. I fix their cars. They considered I too am not to be replaced.”
“Are you happy about that?”
Petrozzi shrugged. “How could I be happy? Yes, I am safe from the fight, but people dislike me. I am considered slacker, or worse, a coward.”
“Your employer cannot prevent you if you are determined to join up.”
“Of that I am knowing but my madre, who remains in Calabria, does depend on me for money, and Reynolds pays well.” He sighed. “We are hoping that the war will be over soon and we can be united.”
“And the other exemption?”
“Angelo.”
“Why was that granted?”
“He work for Mr. Gooderham and Mr. Worts.” He allowed himself the smallest of smiles. “Because of the law, they can no longer distill the whisky and now produce acetone and cordite ketone to blow people to pieces. Very essential. The board agree. Angelo cannot be released.” He pointed at the man standing at the wall. “The job of Franco is to help those who have, alas, been blown up by that same cordite. He makes, how you say? Artificiale legs and arms for soldiers. The tribunal board will surely agree.”
Murdoch indicated the remaining man. “And him?”
“That is Zacchario. He is intending to sign up as soon as his name is called.”
“There was a yellow chalk mark on Antonio’s clothing. Does that mean anything to you?”
The Italian frowned. “The mark of a coward, perhaps? But Antonio was not coward. He was not permitted to go to war.”
“It’s possible his killer didn’t know that. Or didn’t care. Will you ask the others if they have heard of anybody accusing Antonio of cowardice?”
He did so, and again there was a lively exchange.
“They say no. Antonio wasn’t happy with the exemption. He made that clear.”
Murdoch stood up. There didn’t seem much more to be gleaned at the moment. Again Angelo spoke to Vincenzo, who turned back to Murdoch.
“We wish to know when can we bury our friend, sir?”
“There will be a post mortem within the next two days and then his bo
dy will be released. Did he have any family in Canada?”
“Not at all. We are all the family we have.” He lowered his head.
Murdoch reached over and touched him on the shoulder. The man was shaking beneath his hand.
“I am sorry. I will, of course, keep you up to date on the investigation. In the meantime, Sergeant Caulback will need to take down everybody’s full name.”
The Italians began to talk softly, their heads leaning in to each other. A family indeed.
DREAMS GONE
I had dreams once,
Love, family, a future.
All gone.
Broken like the bodies
Strewn on this grey wasteland.
No growing old for them:
No shared memories with friends
At gatherings
Where others look at us askance.
“Those men laugh.
Have they no reverence
For the fallen?”
They see not the truth.
We cradle each other in our arms
So we can press to our hearts
Our dead comrades
Who had dreams once.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
THE AEROPLANE CIRCLED ABOVE the trenches in the soft morning light. The first bombs looked almost like bits of wood, twisting and turning as they fell to earth. Jack saw clouds of mud flung into the air as they hit the trenches several hundred feet down the line. No significant damage, he thought with relief.
Another aeroplane joined the first one; it too looked casual, in no hurry. Then it too released a clutch of bombs. By good luck or good planning, he’d never know, these bombs landed on the ammunition dump situated behind the lines. There was a ferocious bang as the dump exploded. The ground beneath him shook so violently he was almost knocked off balance. He knew that this time there would be casualties and, without thinking, he jumped up and ran along the trench in the direction of the dump.
Let Darkness Bury the Dead Page 23