She smiled, knowingly. “I would say you’re approaching it fast.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
MURDOCH PUT HIS REPORT BACK in the file folder and returned it to the cabinet. Two local ministers from Jarvis Street Baptist Church had issued a complaint. An English travelling troupe of dancers had distributed bills on the street. The photographs of the young women in the troupe were completely indecent, according to the ministers. They requested the police charge them. Murdoch thought the women, although showing a length of lower leg, were suitably clothed for dancers, assuming they had to pirouette and leap about. The ministers were indignant at his defence, and it became apparent that their complaint was not only concerning the clothing, but the very existence of the troupe. He had taken their deputation, accepted the petition with a long list of signatures, and promised to investigate further.
He found it hard to muster much enthusiasm for the case. He’d been sitting for at least a half an hour with Elizabeth’s photograph in front of him. He knew it was irrational of him but he was feeling guilty at the intensity of his feelings for Mrs. Jones. It was all very well for Father Fair to say she was dead and in God’s love and that she would be happy for him. In life, Liza had been prone to possessiveness, something he’d rather liked. It had made him feel wanted. He picked up the framed picture. Liza, my dearest, you know that you had my heart and, if you had lived, no one else would ever have warranted a glance from me. But you left me and I cannot help myself. This is a woman you would have liked, perhaps befriended. I know she is not of our faith but oh, Liza, I do have to admit, I would dearly like to have her. The blurry image of his dead fiancée showed no expression except, he was sure, some reproach.
He and Liza were of the same faith, of course, but he couldn’t remember that they had discussed it much. Religion was part of the fabric of their lives, unquestioned for the most part, the rituals so familiar. They went to mass regularly and therefore to confession. They’d laughed about that together, well aware that they were committing venial sins all the time with their mutual impure thoughts. Liza insisted her penances were more severe than his but he didn’t know if that was because she owned up to worse things or because she was a woman.
He touched the photograph. It was not a very good picture. Her large-brimmed hat was shading her face too much and she’d moved just as he clicked the shutter. He returned the photograph to the drawer, feeling even more guilty that he was putting her away in that fashion.
Impatiently, he brushed off a couple of lethargic flies that were crawling over the surface of his blotter. Because of the adjoining stables, the fly population never completely disappeared. The flies just got slower, storing up energy for the spring onslaught.
He leaned back in his chair. Usually he took his surroundings for granted but today he scrutinised them with critical eyes, and his spirits sank even lower as he took in the pervading shabbiness. His desk was old, wobbly, and in need of revarnishing. He hadn’t added to its appearance by constantly scratching the surface with his pen-nib when he was trying to get his thoughts straightened out. There was room for only one other chair, a decidedly shabby armchair from heaven-knows-what previous life. Part of the seat was torn and some of the horse hair was coming out. He had requested a replacement, but so far nothing had happened. According to Inspector Brackenreid, there was no money to spend, although Murdoch noticed his office was well furnished. Only last month, a splendid crimson velvet rug had arrived from the T. Eaton Company. So what if the roof still leaked over the stables and the sashes on the windows were so shrunken the snow drifted through in the winter? If Brackenreid met with members of the public they served, which was rare, he did so in impressive surroundings. The sweet fruits of power.
That taste was forever out of his reach, thought Murdoch, a little dismayed at his own bitterness. As a Roman Catholic, his chances of promotion were virtually nonexistent. He was considered lucky to have even been admitted into the recently formed detective department. The men who ran the police force were Protestant. Less acknowledged, but a significant factor, was that they were also Free Masons and belonged to one of the numerous orders that dominated the commercial and social life of the city.
He swivelled around to face the wall behind him where there were two framed portraits hanging. One was of the chief constable, Lieutenant-Colonel Henry Grasett, the other of Her Majesty, Queen Victoria. When Murdoch had first heard a rumour that the queen insisted her dead husband’s clothes, shaving water, and razor be put out every morning, he’d thought such a show of grief excessive. Since Liza had died, however, he understood completely the need to cling to any vestige of that previous life, to hold on to the illusion that death was not final.
He picked up his pen and started to run the nib along a groove in the top of the desk. Some previous owner had carved the initials I.F. and, with Murdoch’s help, the letters were now dark blue scars.
There was a tap outside his cubicle. Through the reed curtain he could see the large frame of Constable Crabtree.
“The inspector would like to see you at once, Mr. Murdoch. In his office.”
“What for now?”
Crabtree poked his head through the reed strips. “A young lady came in a short while back asking for Wicken. Said she was his friend and she hadn’t seen him lately. Wondered if he was ill.”
Murdoch stared at Crabtree in dismay. “That’s not good, is it!”
“Sergeant Seymour directed her right upstairs to see Inspector Brackenreid, but he’s sent for you.”
Murdoch stood up, followed the constable out to the front hall, and hurried up the stairs to the second floor where the inspector had his office. He was admitted at once.
A young woman was standing by the window, looking down to the street below. She was tall, her height accentuated by the long navy-blue waterproof she was wearing. Her red felt hat with its big satin bow and curled white quill was jaunty and fashionable.
Brackenreid was behind his desk. With his heavy moustache and smart uniform with the velvet frogs down the front, he was a distinguished-looking man, as long as you didn’t come close enough to see the red veins in his cheeks or the stains down his jacket. Brackenreid was a toper, something, he deluded himself, nobody knew. He gave Murdoch an unusually warm greeting as he entered.
“Ah, Murdoch, glad you were available. This is Miss Isobel Brewster. She is enquiring about Constable Wicken. Miss Brewster, I’d like to present Detective Murdoch. He has, er, been, um, been involved in the case from the beginning.”
The woman didn’t stir; it was not clear if she had even heard what he’d said.
“I had to tell Miss Brewster what has happened,” he continued. “That Constable Wicken had, er, passed away. She didn’t know, so she is understandably distressed at the moment. She and Wicken were friends. She was wondering why she hadn’t seen him recently and came here to find out.”
“I see,” said Murdoch.
The woman swung around and glared at him. “What does that mean, I see?”
Her fierceness was startling.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am, I meant nothing by it.”
He stopped, not sure how much Brackenreid had told her. The inspector gave a slight shake of his head. He pulled a watch out of his pocket. “I do apologise, Miss Brewster, but I have an appointment I must keep. Can’t be put off. Why don’t you just stay here a little while and talk to Detective Murdoch. I’ll have some tea sent up, and when you’re ready, we’ll have somebody accompany you home. Will that be all right?”
She nodded and the inspector left, fast as all cowards are to leave the place of pain.
“Won’t you please come and sit down,” said Murdoch.
“I prefer to stand.” She turned from the window but didn’t come closer. She looked to be no more than twenty or so, not a beauty by any means. Her features were sharp, the nose too long, the mouth thin. She was regarding him with frightened eyes.
“He says that Oliver Wicken has died. Bu
t how? What happened? He was quite well when I saw him last.”
“When was that, ma’am?”
“Monday evening.”
“His body was discovered early on Tuesday morning. I’m afraid he had been shot.”
She gave a quick intake of breath. “What are you saying? Shot how?”
“It appears it was by his own hand. There was an inquest and the jury returned a verdict of suicide.”
She stared at him in disbelief for a moment, then laughed derisively, as if he had said something incredibly stupid. “That is out of the question. When I saw him he was in perfectly good spirits. You are mistaken.” With perceptible agitation now, she stepped closer. “Perhaps you are speaking of someone else. I am enquiring about Constable Oliver Wicken. He is blond-haired. He has a moustache and side-whiskers.” She gestured at her own cheek.
“I’m sorry, Miss Brewster, but there is no mistake. I myself found his body. There is no doubt it was Oliver Wicken. I knew him.”
She sat down abruptly on the edge of the chair, as if she could no longer trust herself to remain standing. Her manner became belligerent as shock hid itself in anger. “On what did the jury base their verdict of suicide?”
“Partly on the evidence of the post mortem examination. He had been shot in the right temple and the coroner felt this was consistent with a self-inflicted wound.” He almost demonstrated but stopped just in time.
“And that is all the so-called evidence?”
“No. There was a note found on his person that seemed to indicate he was in an extremely despondent frame of mind.”
“What did it say?”
“The exact words were, ‘Life is unbearable without your love. Forgive me.’”
He paused while she absorbed this.
“Can I see the letter?”
“It is considered part of his effects and they have been returned to his mother.”
“There was nothing else? No person addressed? No signature?”
“No, that was all.”
She jumped to her feet again and strode back to the window. She was virtually shouting. “I don’t believe it, do you hear? Ollie had no reason to feel that way.”
Sobs were threatening to break through but they were suppressed almost immediately. She came back to the chair and sat down, her back as stiff as if she were in a deportment class.
“I should tell you, Mr. Murdoch, that Oliver was my … that is, what I mean to say is, we were betrothed. We have been for almost a year.”
She caught the surprise in his face and misinterpreted it. “It was a secret engagement. Ollie was concerned about his mother. He supports her solely and he was afraid she would not approve, that she would worry about him marrying.” Suddenly, she leaned over and caught Murdoch by the sleeve. “About the letter you found … Are you certain it was written by Oliver?”
“It was not handwritten; it was printed. He had used a piece of paper from his notebook.”
Her voice dropped. “I was always on at him about how bad his hand was. He did print sometimes.”
Murdoch’s heart went out to her. She had come dressed in her best, worried but never suspecting the dreadful news she would receive. And that was not all of it. Suddenly, her eyes met his and he was taken off guard by the shrewdness of her next question.
“I have the feeling you are not telling me everything. Please believe me, it would help me to know all that happened. I am not going to have hysterics, I assure you. Was there something else that was said at the inquest?”
Murdoch wished he could soften the blow but he knew he couldn’t. “Yes, there was. A young woman came forward who said she was Wicken’s fiancée. She broke off the engagement that night, Monday, which seemed the likely cause for him to have become so despondent.”
Isobel Brewster turned putty white. She could hardly form her words.
“That is impossible.”
“The woman swore under oath. She said they had been engaged for the past two months.”
“What was this woman’s name?”
“Miss Mary Ann Trowbridge.”
“I’ve never heard of her. I …”
She groaned and her lips and chin began to shake. She held her fingers to her mouth as if she could barely risk hearing her own voice out loud. Whatever she was about to say, he didn’t hear because, at that moment, her eyelids started to flutter and she leaned back abruptly, her eyes rolling back in her head. He jumped up and caught her just as she was about to slide off the chair.
“Put your head down on your knees.”
She did as she was told and remained like that for a few moments longer, then slowly sat up. Murdoch took her right hand in his, pushed down the cuff of her glove, and rubbed the back of her wrist vigorously. The same with the left. She hardly allowed him to minister to her before she pulled away her hands.
“I’m quite all right now.”
“I thought you were going to faint.”
“I despise women who faint.” She licked her lips. “Can I have a glass of water, please?”
“Just a minute.”
He went back around to the other side of the desk. Just as he’d hoped, there was a flask in the top drawer. He shook it to make sure it wasn’t yet empty and brought it over to her.
“Sip some of this.”
He unscrewed the top and handed her the flask. She took a big sip of the brandy, coughing as it burned her throat.
“Good thing I’m not temperance,” she said with a small smile. Her colour was better now, and satisfied she wasn’t going to faint completely, he returned to his own chair. She took another drink.
“I do apologise.”
“There is no need.”
“What you have said is a great shock to me. It is quite unbelievable.”
“The young woman has a letter from her aunt testifying to the truth of her statement and we have a witness who swore under oath that he saw the constable with Miss Trowbridge the night he died.”
“What witness?”
“His name is Samuel Lee. He runs a laundry on Parliament Street. He says that Constable Wicken checked his establishment that night and he saw this young woman with him.”
“When?”
“About a quarter past eleven.”
“Impossible. I tell you that is utterly impossible. Oh, Mr. Murdoch, please believe me. It was me he saw. I was with Oliver then. I would often meet him on his beat. We needed to catch any time together that we could. I know it was against the rules but he didn’t neglect his duty in any way; he was very responsible. On Monday night, I met him on the corner as he was coming up Parliament Street and I walked with him as far as Gerrard.”
“And this was at that time?”
“Yes. It was always the same time.”
“Were you with him when he went into the Chinese laundry?”
“Yes. He went inside for a few minutes while I waited on the sidewalk.”
“The proprietor did identify Miss Trowbridge as the woman accompanying Wicken.”
“He was mistaken.”
She read Murdoch’s doubt. “Please believe me. I swear I am telling the truth. I went as far as the empty house on the corner. We often met there. It gave us some privacy.”
“Did you go inside?”
“No. Frankly, we would have but the doors were locked. We stood in the front doorway.”
“For how long?”
“About a half an hour …” She moaned. “We had an argument.”
“What was it about?”
“I assure you, Mr. Murdoch, it was not so serious. Just a tiff, a lovers’ tiff, the way any couple will argue.”
He waited while she sorted out in her mind the implications of what she was saying. That this was the last exchange she had had with her sweetheart.
“We have been engaged for almost a year now,” she continued. “I was eager to announce it and have the bans read but we could not agree. Oliver was still procrastinating. He was always afraid to upset his mother. Sh
e depends upon him entirely.”
“Did you resolve the matter?”
“No. I … er, I have a hot temper. I told him he must make up his mind or I would break off the engagement. I walked away.”
She frowned. “Wait. That is not the truth, Mr. Murdoch, and it is the pure truth that we are after, is it not? I did not walk away, I ran. I was furious with him.”
“Where was he when you left?”
“Still in the doorway.”
“Miss Brewster, sometimes in a moment of imbalance we do foolish things. In your mind is it possible that Oliver was so distressed by your quarrel he took his own life?”
“He was not that kind of weakling, Mr. Murdoch.” She almost spat out the words. “You see, I know what I’m talking about … My own father hanged himself when I was a child. As a matter of fact, I was the one who found him. He was in the living room when I came home from school. He had lost his job and he never stopped moaning about it. He would sit and brood all day long, talking endlessly about how terribly he’d been treated. Suicides make sure they give you plenty of notice so you can feel sorry for them. Ollie might have been distressed when I left but he was no coward. He would never desert me or his mother and sister; he cared for us too much. I can only think there must have been a dreadful accident.”
Murdoch spoke to her gently. “Miss Brewster, Wicken was inside that house when I found him.”
“Where?”
“In the rear kitchen.”
“But the house was locked. He tried the door.”
“He had a key in his pocket.”
Again he waited while she absorbed this information.
“Mr. Murdoch, I know what you’re thinking; I can read it in your face. But Oliver was not deceiving me. We shared everything. He talked a lot about the station, the inspector, you – he liked you. Besides he had no time to be with somebody else. He has a crippled sister who requires a lot of care, and when he wasn’t on duty, he was at home helping his mother. That’s why I would meet him on his beat. I’d take him some supper.” She plucked at the cuff on her glove. “I am certain this other woman is lying.”
Poor Tom Is Cold Page 15