Poor Tom Is Cold

by Maureen Jennings

  “That’s all right, Miss Trowbridge. We understand. Now, does any member of the jury have a question? Oh no, Mr. Stevenson, not again?”

  “Yes, sir. I just wanted to know how long this encounter lasted.”

  The girl answered. “Not long. Ten or twelve minutes at the most. As I said, I was afraid and I left as soon as I could.”

  “And what time of night was this?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t say exactly. I don’t carry a watch. It was after midnight, I believe.”

  “One more question, Miss. Isn’t that very late for a young woman to be out unescorted?”

  She turned to Johnson. “Would it be too much to ask for a glass of water?”

  “Of course not.” There was a glass and a carafe of water on the table, and Johnson poured some out and handed the glass to the young woman. She sipped some of the water.

  “I’m sorry, sir, what was your question?”

  Stevenson repeated it.

  “You are quite right, sir, and believe me I would not have done such a thing if I were not desperate. As I mentioned, my aunt is in ill-health and I am the sole watcher. I could not leave her any earlier. But where I live isn’t too far away and I hurried as fast as I could.”

  Miss Trowbridge was looking more and more frightened. Murdoch wished for her sake that the ordeal was over.

  Chamberlin waved his hand. “One question, sir … Ma’am, how did you find out what had happened to the constable?”

  “I read about it in the newspaper this morning. I came directly to the coroner, as I thought it was my duty to say what had occurred, even though there were those who might blame me.”

  “Nobody of a reasonable mind would blame you, Miss Trowbridge,” said Johnson.

  Murdoch thought he was acting like a besotted old fool and it added to the list of grievances he held against the man.

  Gibb indicated he had a question. “Miss Trowbridge, had Wicken shown any previous signs of mental instability?”

  “I regret to say that he did. If I even had a cross word for him, which was not often, he would become distraught. He said he could not rest until I had forgiven him. He was horribly jealous and made mountains out of molehills over everything … That is why I broke off our engagement. I know he didn’t show that part of his nature to the world, but please believe me, I saw it all too often.”

  “I think we’ve heard what we need,” said Johnson. “You may return to your seat, Miss Trowbridge.”

  She did so, this time ignoring Oliver’s mother.

  Johnson pulled out a large gold watch from his waistcoat pocket and consulted it.

  “We will hear from Mrs. Wicken.”

  She stood up, swayed for a moment on her feet. Murdoch was afraid she was going to fall. But she held tightly onto the back of the pew in front of her until she was composed and then she approached the table. When Crabtree swore her in her voice was audible, in spite of the encumbering veil.

  Johnson nodded at her and ostentatiously dipped his pen at the ready for her statement.

  “I know of no such engagement entered into by my son and I am entirely unacquainted with Miss Trowbridge. However, even if Oliver were betrothed to her, I cannot believe for a moment he would kill himself because she rejected him. From an early age, Oliver was a sensible boy.”

  In spite of the sympathy that was her due as bereaved mother, Mrs. Wicken was not endearing herself to the spectators. Her composure, which had momentarily deserted her, was now firmly in place and Murdoch knew that most of those listening would see her as unnatural and unfeeling. They far preferred a story of love and passion and the evidence of heartbreak that Miss Trowbridge had given them. However, he knew how Mrs. Wicken had reacted when she’d heard of her son’s death and his heart went out to her.

  The indomitable Stevenson raised his hand again and Johnson nodded permission for him to speak. “Excuse me, ma’am, for asking, but was your son’s life insured?”

  “Yes, it was. After my husband died, Oliver became the sole support of me and his sister. We took out modest policies for both of us.”

  “Thank you, that is all.”

  He didn’t have to press the point. Everybody knew that, if it was determined that Wicken had killed himself, there would be no payout from the insurance company.

  “I myself wish to ask one thing, Mrs. Wicken,” said Johnson. “I commiserate with you most sincerely but this is a court of law and you are sworn under oath to tell the truth … you do understand that, don’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did your son show any signs of a melancholy disposition at any time prior to his death?”

  “No, he did not. Never.”

  “Thank you, madam. That is all.”

  Tall and erect she returned to her seat.

  Stevenson’s hand was in the air immediately.

  “I’d like to ask the previous witness, Mr. Lee, a question, Your Honour.”

  Johnson sighed. “Is this the last?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well. Mr. Foon, please tell your father to stand up. Remind him he is under oath.”

  Foon spoke to his father and he obeyed the instruction.

  “I do want to make it clear, Your Honour, that I mean no disrespect to Miss Trowbridge in any way at all,” said Stevenson. “This is strictly for confirmation, you understand …”

  “Spit it out, man. We don’t have all day.”

  “Mr. Lee, is the young woman who has here testified the same person that you saw when Oliver Wicken came to your laundry? Miss, would you be so good as to stand and raise your veil again. Thank you.”

  Mr. Lee regarded her for a few moments, then spoke quickly to his son. Foon nodded.

  “My father says that is of certainty the young woman he saw on the street with the constable.”

  A sigh of gratification went through the room. Mrs. Wicken only sat straighter.

  Johnson banged the mallet on the table. “We will adjourn for fifteen minutes.”

  Crabtree stepped forward. “Court, please rise.”

  With much shuffling and scuffling of boots, the spectators stood up while Johnson left.

  Chapter Fifteen

  THE JURORS WERE SEATED AROUND a table in the viewing room of the funeral parlour. On two shelves at the back were displayed empty coffins, the quality ranging from expensive polished oak lined with white satin to plain pine with no brass and thin cotton lining. At first these eternity boxes had served as silent memento mori, but now they had assumed the same invisibility as a sideboard.

  The men had taken out their pipes and the air was thick.

  “Has everybody now read over the witness statements?” asked Gibb. There were murmurs of agreement.

  Gain, a porter, called out, “Wonder if they could bring us a bite, Mr. Gibb? It’s past my dinner time and my belly is starting to eat itself.” There were some grins at this. Thomas Gain was a stout man with heavy jowls and an abundant stomach. “And as for Peter Curran here,” he continued, “his is growling so loud I can’t hear the half of what’s being said.”

  The man beside him answered before Gibb could respond.

  “If you want to eat, you’d better hurry up and settle the verdict. They’re not going to give us anything until you come to a decision. It’s the rule.” His name was James Slade and he owned a grocery store on Jarvis Street. He wasn’t at all happy at being subpoenaed to serve on the jury, but at the least he thought he should have been foreman, given the social standing of his clientele. He spoke in a condescending tone that had already set the rest of them on edge.

  “That used to be the practice, Mr. Slade,” said Gibb, “but I don’t believe it’s the case nowadays. If you men want some refreshment, I’ll order it right away.”

  “They won’t, you’ll see.”

  Stevenson, who was next to him, groaned, glanced around for somewhere to spit, caught Gibb’s eye, and refrained.

  “Can we at least have a jug or two of Dominion?”
asked John Shaw, who was a coal merchant. His jacket and flannel shirt were clean enough, but around his neck and wrists the skin was dark with coal dust. He considered it weakened you to bathe more than once a month. A tarry odour of coal emanated from him but it wasn’t totally unpleasant. Better than the smell of hides coming from Emery Nixon, the tanner.

  “Why don’t we just get on with it? Cast our vote now,” said Chamberlin, who was an avid temperance man.

  “You’re the one who’s been insisting on going over everything like you’re combing your head for lice,” interjected Jabez Clarke. “In my view the constable was a silly arse lad who thought it mattered what woman you get a bit of dock with. As for me, I’m as confused as a priest in a brothel. In other words, gentlemen, soon as the lassie with the lovely tiddies stood up, I knew at once where to put my vote – and my member.” Clarke was a corset salesman for Mr. Simpson’s store. Perhaps in reaction to the need to be constantly deferential and discreet, when in male company he was unremittingly vulgar. Some of the men considered him a wag, some did not.

  “Show some respect, Mr. Clarke,” said Gibb.

  “No offence meant.” He flicked his heavy moustache, which was an unnaturally black tint, as was his thick, glossy hair.

  Gibb laid down his pipe and picked up the ledger where he’d been taking notes.

  “Is everybody ready then?”

  A chorus of “ays” but one man shook his head.

  “I hate to see the lad’s mother destitute. And she will be if she don’t get that insurance money,” said Mr. Bright, an elflike man with large ears. He was a druggist who had his shop on Parliament Street.

  “I feel the same way,” said Gibb, “but our job is to find the truth and we must present that unflinchingly. I’m afraid we cannot worry about the consequences.”

  “Why not?” interjected James Slade. “We are decent Christian men after all.”

  Gibb took a long pull on his pipe but, before he could answer, Chamberlin spoke up.

  “Jarius is right. Unpleasant as that may prove to be, our duty is to present the truth as we see it. What happens after that is out of our hands. I say we should vote.”

  “Hear, hear,” agreed Stevenson. “I might even be able to get to work and not be totally out of pocket.”

  Gain, who was at the far end of the table, waved his pipe to get Gibb’s attention.

  “There’s something niggling at me, Mr. Foreman. It’s about the food.”

  “I promise I’ll send for dinner as soon as we’re done …”

  “No, I don’t mean that. I mean the food the doctor said was in Mr. Wicken’s stomach. When did he eat it?”

  “I don’t quite follow …”

  “According to what I’m looking at here, the constable ate his meat and cheese shortly before he died. If he shot himself at one o’clock, after his sweetheart had given him the push, when did he eat?”

  The rest of the jurors were regarding him with some exasperation.

  “You would be the one to focus on that,” said Slade.

  “I’m quite serious. Think about it for a minute. Here’s your lady-love breaking it off; you’re not going to be munching on your sandwich while she’s telling you that. So she leaves; would you eat then? Doesn’t seem likely to me. You’d be more likely to go off your feed than not.”

  “Well, it’s obvious you’ve never been lovelorn, Mr. Gain,” said Stevenson, and the others chuckled.

  “Thomas has got a point,” said Chamberlin. “People have been known to fade away to nothing when they’re pining. But usually they’re women.”

  “I’ve known the exact opposite,” said Slade. “One of my customers had a cousin who lost his fiancée in a boating accident. He couldn’t stop eating. Built up over fifty pounds in less than a month. It can go either way.”

  The jurors looked as if they were about to plunge into a lively argument, but Gibb called them to order.

  “I thank Mr. Gain for bringing up this matter but we’re missing the point. The time of death is approximate. It’s impossible to pinpoint exactly. It could be earlier. And Miss Trowbridge was not clear as to when she left Wicken. He probably had plenty of time to polish off his sandwich before he met her.” He smiled at them. “And speaking of polishing off, let’s do it.”

  “One thing I can’t get off my mind is his mother saying she wasn’t aware of a fiancée,” said Bright.

  “Of course she’s going to say that,” said Slade. “She don’t want a suicide verdict. She needs the money bad.” He fished in his waistcoat pocket, pulled out an enamel snuffbox, took a pinch of snuff, and sneezed satisfactorily. “Don’t forget, there’s an invalid sister to take care of.”

  “Are you for a verdict of death by his own hand then?” asked Gibb.

  “Absolutely. It’s crystal clear that’s what the fool did.”

  “The patrol sergeant and the detective seemed to think differently,” said Bright.

  “They’re going to stick with their own, aren’t they? Nobody wants to admit a police officer shot himself.” Slade shook out another pinch of snuff onto the back of his hand and inhaled it. He didn’t offer any around.

  “Gentlemen? Other comments?” Gibb asked.

  “You haven’t said much yourself, Jarius,” said Curran. “We’d like to know your views.”

  Gibb leaned back in his chair, tapping the stem of his pipe on the table. “If it wasn’t by his own hand, whose was it by? There’s no sign of a fight, or a disturbance. He didn’t seem to have any more enemies than normally go to a police officer. He’s in that vacant house for no other reason. Think of it, if you were going to do yourself in, where would you go? Not home where your mother is going to find you. You’d want to spare her that. Not at the station where there’s people about all the time. You’d want a bit of privacy. Time to compose yourself to meet your Maker. I have to say that it all adds up the same way, no matter what direction I put the sums. He was plunged into a state of extreme melancholy by the rejection of his fiancée. She told us he was of a jealous and highly strung disposition. When she left, he must have stood there mulling things over, getting more and more het up. His mind goes completely, he takes out his revolver and shoots himself. My verdict is for suicide. I’m truly sorry for his mother and wish I could say otherwise but I can’t. None of us here present is so old we don’t know what it feels like to have a woman turn you down. Am I right in this?”

  “Right,” said George Griffin, the butcher. He spoke with such vigour, the others stared at him and he squirmed. “I had more backbone than that constable but love sure does put you in a miserable state.”

  “Shall we take the vote then so Mr. Shaw can have his beer before he faints away? Here’s some paper; pens are in that box. Write down ‘ay’ and the word ‘suicide,’ or ‘nay’ and ‘cause of death unknown.’ Add your name.”

  He handed around the slips of paper. Inkwells had been placed in front of each place and for a few moments there was only the sound of pens scratching.

  Jarius wrote down his own vote and began to collect the slips as the men finished. All were done but one.

  “Mr. Griffin, your paper, if you please.”

  “Coming.”

  The butcher was not much used to writing and he formed his letters as slowly and carefully as if he were in the classroom. Finally he passed the folded paper to Gibb, who looked at it.

  “That’s it then.” Gibb recorded the votes on his sheet and placed them all in an envelope. He got to his feet and addressed the men in front of him, reading from a card. “By a unanimous vote, we the jury here present do upon our oath all say that at the city of Toronto on the eleventh day of November, 1895, from injuries received by a pistol fired by his own hand, the deceased, Oliver Wicken, came to his death.”

  “So be it,” added Chamberlin and there was a corresponding murmur of “amens” from the remaining jurors.

  Chapter Sixteen

  MISS ANDERSON WAS AT THE PIANO, singing and accompanying he
rself to “Onward Christian Soldiers.” She seemed to have a small repertoire, three hymns at the most, which she had been rotating for the last hour. Immediately after luncheon, all the inmates of the ward had been shepherded into the sitting room. Peg hated it at once. It smelled like an institution – carbolic cleaner and not enough fresh air. The chairs and couches were old and shabby, the plush worn threadbare at the arms. The lamps were lit but to her it seemed as if the entire place, including the inhabitants, existed in a grey wash that leached out colours from clothes and faces.

  “… with the cross of Jesus going on before.” Miss Anderson’s voice was cracked but still strong enough to reach the unconverted.

  If she plays that tune once more I will surely go stark staring mad.

  Realising what she’d just said to herself, Peg had to smile. She got up and walked over to the fireplace where she stood and gazed at the bright, dancing flames, hoping they would burn away the grey film from her eyes. Suddenly she was aware that Shelby, one of the attendants, was watching her. There was something implacable in her attention that made Peg uneasy. So far the attendants had been quite kind but she had the feeling that in this woman’s eyes, once committed as a lunatic, always a lunatic. She was alert for any evidence of what she would see as madness. In spite of the fire, Peg shivered. The knowledge of her own helplessness was cold in her stomach.

  There was a tap on her shoulder and she turned around. Mrs. Foster was smiling at her.

  “Would you like to take a walk around the room, Mrs. Eakin?”

  The older woman seemed to have forgotten totally about their altercation of the previous night and was beaming at her happily. Glad to escape her thoughts, Peg nodded and Mrs. Foster linked arms. They strolled over to the window for all the world as if they were two well-to-do ladies promenading along King Street.

  “I’m so glad I have you for a friend,” said Mrs. Foster, giving Peg’s arm a hard squeeze.

  In spite of herself, Peg felt a thrill of pleasure. She had always had trouble making friends. She was too stiff and awkward and gave the impression of being standoffish. For as long as she could remember, she had been trying to understand the subtle signals that seemed to go back and forth between people, making some acceptable and others not.