Poor Tom Is Cold

by Maureen Jennings

  “Know what?”

  Jarius had entered the stable unheard. Frank jumped as if there was a loud noise.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  “We need some help,” said Jarius.

  “What with?”

  “Dr. Ferrier’s come but she won’t open the door. She’s screaming like a street slut.” He nodded at Frank. “Where’s the axe?”

  “In the back.”

  “Bring it.”

  “What does Pa say?”

  “Nothing. He’s leaving everything up to me. Hurry up, I don’t have all day. I want to get to my office before the day’s wasted completely.” He was dressed in outdoor clothes – a smart plaid cape and a black crusher.

  Frank tapped his forehead in a mock salute and went to do what he was told. As he went past the last stall, the big grey gelding poked his head over the gate and gave him a quick, hard bite on the shoulder. Frank yelled, spun around, and fetched the horse a savage punch on the side of the head.

  Chapter Eight

  AFTER THE AMBULANCE HAD TAKEN AWAY Wicken’s body, Murdoch and Crabtree started the tedious process of knocking on doors. The constable took the west side of the street and Murdoch the east. There was a string of stores from Gerrard down to Wilton Street and he was able to speak to the shopkeepers, who for the most part were huddled by their stoves with the lamps fully burning. None of them could give him any information. Two or three were familiar with the constable and one confirmed he had seen Wicken walking the beat at ten o’clock last night and said he had seemed quite normal. They had heard nothing. Mrs. Bail, the widow lady who ran a confectionery at number 327, was particularly upset.

  “Oh dear, oh my word,” she kept repeating. “He came in here once a week on Friday night without fail. He’d catch me just before I closed when he was on his way to work. Very partial to my buttercups with the nut centre. Oh dear, oh my.”

  She had seen Wicken as usual on Friday last. “He bought a box of chocolate creams. Raspberry flavoured. For his sister, he said, but I suspect it was a sweetheart. They are my best candies.”

  She was so distressed, Murdoch felt sorry that he had to press her. “In your opinion, Mrs. Bail, did the constable seem in any way despondent or out of sorts?”

  She eyed him, puzzled. “Not at all. He was cheery as always. ‘Good evening to you, Mrs. Bail,’ he’d say. ‘What have you got for me to try today?’ I experiment with new candies, you see, and I’d let him taste them. I’d made some maple toffee and he really liked it. Oh my, Mr. Murdoch, why are you asking such a thing?”

  Murdoch had said little about the way Wicken had died but she picked up the implications of his question immediately. He hesitated.

  “I’m afraid there are indications that he may have taken his own life.”

  “Oh, no. I cannot believe that. He was too happy. No, Mr. Murdoch, that cannot be.”

  “Did he ever mention to you that he had a sweetheart?”

  “No, he never did. But as I said, I wondered sometimes when he would buy a special box of chocolates. I knew he lived with his mother and a sister who is poorly.” She indicated one of the large jars on the shelf behind the counter that was filled with small, brightly coloured candies. “His sister was partial to the Tom Thumb mix and his mother liked the marshmallow drops.”

  She was close to tears and Murdoch wished he could offer her some solace but he couldn’t.

  “The coroner’s inquest is tomorrow and we hope we’ll learn what exactly happened. For now, I’m just trying to find out if anybody heard or saw anything that might have to do with him.”

  She shook her head. “I did not. I closed up the shop as usual at seven o’clock and retired for the night at a half past nine. Saves the lamp oil.”

  She gave him a wan smile that nevertheless had the ghost of the coquette in it. She was a small woman, grey-haired and neat in her green silk waist and crisp white apron. She reminded him of his landlady, Mrs. Kitchen, and he responded warmly.

  “Indeed it does, ma’am.”

  She went on to express concern for Wicken’s widowed mother. She was as adamant as Mrs. Wicken had been that Oliver was not the kind of man to take his own life.

  Finally, as Murdoch was leaving, she took some barley sugar sticks from a jar, put them in a brown paper bag, and thrust it into his hand.

  “Freshly made this morning.”

  The shop had a wonderful sweet smell of boiled candy.

  Because of his painful jaw, Murdoch didn’t want to risk eating anything now but he thanked her and stowed the bag in his pocket.

  The next half hour was unforthcoming. From across the road, Crabtree indicated he’d had no success either. They continued making their way south and Murdoch was glad the constable had the dentist Brodie on his side of the street. He wondered if revisiting the scene of his pain would distress him but Crabtree emerged looking much the same.

  About half a block below Wilton Street, there was a Chinese laundry and when Murdoch stepped through the front door he was immediately enfolded by the hot moist air. A Chinaman was working on an abacus behind the counter. He was wearing a traditional blue smock and round black hat and his hair was braided into a long queue.

  “Can help you?”

  Murdoch tapped his own chest. “Me police officer. Need to ask questions.”

  The man looked at him uncomprehendingly. Murdoch paused, trying to think how to communicate. “Me police officer,” he repeated in a louder voice. “Ask questions.”

  “Washing very cheap. Very clean.”

  Behind him in the long narrow shop were two large steaming washtubs. Another man was forking out piles of boiled linen with a long stick and dumping them into a basket, ready for mangling. To his right was a large iron range where a variety of irons were heating.

  Murdoch pointed. “He speak English?” He made motions at his mouth but realised he looked as if he was wanting to eat. He called out instead. “Hey, you back there. Do you speak English?”

  The Chinaman stopped what he was doing and approached Murdoch. He was young and seemed as wary as a dog with a stranger.

  When he was close enough, Murdoch asked, “Speak English?”

  “Ay. What ken I do for ye?”

  For a moment, Murdoch was confused by his accent, expecting Chinese. Then he realised the man had spoken with a strong Scottish burr.

  “Early this morning, a police constable was found dead up at the corner of Gerrard Street. He was on duty last night and I was wondering if you saw him at all or had anything to do with him. He would probably have been walking past here on his beat at various times during the night. Any information you can give me would be much appreciated.”

  The older man apparently asked a question and there was a spirited exchange between the two of them. Murdoch couldn’t tell if they were excited or if it was the rhythm of the language. The younger man turned back to Murdoch.

  “I perhaps should present my father, Mr. Sam Lee. I myself am called Foon Lee.”

  He bowed in such a formal way that Murdoch almost reciprocated. He nodded an acknowledgement.

  “I’m Acting Detective William Murdoch from number four station.”

  “My father would like to know a description of the officer in the case.”

  “He was young, about the same height as me, but he had a blond moustache, not dark.”

  “And this unfortunate officer has been the victim of an accident?”

  “Something to that effect.”

  Sam Lee spoke to his son and Murdoch wondered if he understood English better than he was letting on. Foon bowed.

  “I must tell you that I myself had got myself off to my bed but my father did encounter the constable last night. The officer opened the door. Apparently it was not locked and he was concerned that all was well. When he was sure that all was as it was intended to be, he left.”

  He stopped and they both watched Murdoch, waiting for the next move.

  “What time was that?”

>   Foon translated the question to his father.

  “It would have been at approximately twenty minutes past eleven o’clock. Mr. Lee is quite assured of the correctness of this time.” He indicated a large clock that was hung on the wall, its glass face obscured by steam.

  “Will you ask him if there was anything strange about the constable. Was he calm? Distracted in any way? Do you understand what I mean?”

  “Ay, I do.”

  Again the exchange in Chinese.

  “My father says the officer has come here on two prior occasions to check on his well-being and they have had pleasant words. Last night was not an exception. The constable seemed quite equal in his temper.”

  Mr. Lee senior interceded, saying directly to Murdoch, “Lady. Had lady.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Lady, was a lady with him.”

  Exasperated, Murdoch turned to Foon. “What is he saying?”

  “The officer was accompanied by a young woman. She was standing back but he saw her clearly, then they walked up the street together.”

  Murdoch sighed. It was strictly against regulations for anyone to accompany constables on their beat. However, in spite of what Mrs. Wicken believed, the evidence was pointing to her son having a lover. Someone he was willing to risk his job over.

  “Please inform Mr. Lee that he will have to be a witness at the inquest. A constable will come back today with a subpoena.”

  There was a flurry of talk, both of them obviously alarmed.

  “Mr. Lee wishes to ask what is the charge he is under? He has paid his licence most recently.”

  “No, no. He isn’t being charged with anything. At an inquest anybody with information has to tell it. There will be others doing the same. Then the jury can decide what has happened.”

  “My father is now wondering if he was not in truth mistaken. That it was not this night that he saw the officer.”

  Murdoch faced the older man, gave him a little bow, and spoke slowly and distinctly.

  “Mr. Lee. You need not be afraid. You are not in any trouble. All I want you to do is to tell the coroner, the judge, what you have just said to me. That’s all.”

  He turned his hands palms up in a universal gesture of openness. As far as he could tell, the Chinaman calmed down.

  “You will have to come as his translator,” Murdoch said to the son.

  “Very well.”

  Both the Lees bowed deeply and Murdoch gave a quick bob himself. It was infectious.

  He left. Outside on the grey street, the air was even more chill after the warmth of the laundry and he shivered. He wondered when the mysterious woman was going to turn up and he hoped he wouldn’t be the one to give her the news.

  Chapter Nine

  BY THE TIME HE GOT TO THE END OF THE BEAT, Murdoch was getting tired. His jaw was still pulsing and when he touched his cheek, it felt swollen. He would have to find a dentist soon and stop being such a lily liver. His moustache was dripping and his hands were freezing because he’d left his lodgings without his gloves, and to make matters worse, he was overly conscious of the fishy miasma all around him from his wet coat. He took out one of the barley sugar sticks and stuck it in his mouth. As long as he kept it away from the bad side of his jaw it seemed fine, and the sweetness filled his mouth.

  He had almost reached the corner of Gerrard and Parliament streets, when two men emerged from the house that was next to the livery stable. They were carrying a chair between them on which was sitting a young woman. She was squirming and it took a moment for Murdoch to realise she was strapped to the chair. Her actions were peculiarly lethargic as if she were a mechanical piece that was winding down. A frightened-looking girl, dressed in servant’s grey, was endeavouring to hold an umbrella over all of them while an older man, a doctor by the look of him, followed behind. He was speaking in a quick, anxious voice to the woman in the chair.

  “Calm yourself, madam. Please calm yourself.”

  One of the men carrying her was Frank Eakin, the other, the scarred juror whom Murdoch had seen earlier.

  The bizarre entourage was heading for a carriage drawn up at the gate but, even as he watched, Murdoch saw the woman’s struggles begin to subside completely. They came through the gate and he waited to let them pass. The woman’s head was lolling back against the chair, but she turned in his direction and her eyes, wide with terror, met his.

  “Help me,” she whispered. “Please, mister, help me.”

  He had no chance to respond because the doctor stepped in front of him. The coachman opened the door of the carriage and she was lifted in, chair and all. The doctor climbed in himself, immediately pulled down the window blind, and they drove off. The two men, both of them panting from their exertion, watched.

  “What’s going on?” Murdoch asked.

  Curran realised who Murdoch was and he gave him a quick salute.

  “Morning, Officer. That’s Mrs. Eakin. I’m afraid she’s lost her slates. We’re getting her to the loony bin.”

  Murdoch was about to make some polite murmur of condolence but he didn’t get the chance.

  Eakin snapped at the servant girl. “For God’s sake, Cullie. We’re getting soaked. You’re as useless as a stuck pig. Bring the frigging thing over here.”

  She jumped to obey and Eakin took the umbrella. “Anything we can do for you, sir?”

  “I was coming to speak to the members of the household concerning the death of Constable Wicken. I’m sorry if this is not an appropriate time. I can come back later.”

  “What is it you’re after?”

  “Any information. Whether anybody heard the gun shot. That sort of thing.”

  “Nobody’s said anything about it.”

  “I’d still like to talk to them. We’re asking questions of everybody in the vicinity.”

  Eakin managed to produce a friendlier expression. “Of course. Terrible tragedy, that.”

  He was studying Murdoch from the shelter of the umbrella and the detective began to get irritated. He was sorry for the man’s circumstances but he didn’t feel like spending more time in the rain than he had to.

  “It shouldn’t take too long,” he said.

  Eakin looked toward the house. The front door was open and a woman was standing on the threshold watching them. She was dressed in mourning clothes and her hands were clasped in front of her as if in prayer. Whatever Eakin saw there made up his mind.

  “You might as well come in now. Get it out of the way.”

  He extended the umbrella to cover Murdoch and they walked toward the door in awkward intimacy.

  “Augusta, this is Detective Murdoch. He wants to ask us all some questions about the fellow they found in the empty house.” He was closing up the umbrella as he spoke. “This is my sister, Mrs. Curran.” He gestured with his thumb. “Hitched to him.”

  She stepped back so they could enter, then over his shoulder, she noticed the servant girl who was trailing behind them.

  “Janet, you can get back to work. Go in the side entrance.”

  She bobbed. “Yes, ma’am.” She scurried off.

  “Come this way, Mr. Murdoch,” said Mrs. Curran. “We can talk in the drawing room.”

  She turned and led the way down the narrow hall but not without a quick glance at Murdoch’s boots to determine just how wet they were. He wiped them hurriedly on the doormat and set off after her. Peter Curran was at his heels, and at the door, he tapped Murdoch on the shoulder.

  “You don’t want me, do you, sir?” asked Curran. “Me being on the jury and all.”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact I do. It won’t affect anything. It can all be repeated for the inquest.”

  He’d found that asking questions of an entire family at the same time tended to yield a lot of information, if not about the case, certainly about them.

  The drawing room fire was laid but unlit and the air was chill. Frank went straight to the fireplace and reached for the box of matches standing by the fende
r.

  “That won’t be necessary,” said his sister. “I’m sure Mr. Murdoch won’t keep us.”

  Eakin turned to her, glaring in a little spurt of anger.

  “Aggie, it’s frigging freezing in here. I’m going to light the bloody fire.”

  His sister didn’t retaliate for his rudeness except by a visible tightening of her lips.

  “Mr. Murdoch, will you take that chair?” She indicated an armchair next to the fireplace. He sat down, took off his damp hat, and placed it beside the chair. The mantel was draped with black crepe and the mirror above was covered with a grey gauze. He wondered who had died.

  Eakin had got a blaze going right away and stretched out his hands to the flames. Then, predictably, he turned to warm his backside. Mrs. Curran took a seat on the Turkish couch opposite him, while her husband remained by the door.

  “Shall I light the lamps, Augusta?” In the gloom, Peter Curran would have been a sinister-looking fellow except that his whole bearing was so hangdog, Murdoch felt sorry for him.

  She didn’t look in his direction at all but addressed the air in front of her. “I would have thought it was obvious we need some light.”

  Murdoch took a quick glance around the room. There were other crepe trimmings on the sideboard and around the pictures on the walls. The furniture was dark hued and, although the plush green coverings were thick and patterned with gilt flowers, the effect was gloomy. The house wasn’t that grand and he had the impression the drawing room wasn’t much used. Probably a family aspiring to a lifestyle beyond their class. Fine furniture but not fine manners. On the other hand, to be fair, it had been his experience that ungraciousness could be found at any level of society.

  Curran lit a lamp from the sideboard and brought it closer to where they were sitting. Augusta pointed wordlessly at a small japanned table and he placed it there.

  Murdoch took out his notebook to indicate he was ready to start. Frank Eakin, smelling slightly of singed corduroy, came and sat beside his sister. The family resemblance was strong. Short nose and round chin, fair complexion. Augusta had light brown hair that she wore pinned tightly in a knot on top of her head. Eakin was trying without much success to sport side whiskers and a moustache.