Vices of My Blood

by Maureen Jennings

  “I don’t believe so, ma’am.”

  “She won’t take it well. She is of a most highly strung disposition.”

  Rather stiffly, she got to her feet. “You’d better start to summon a jury, detective. In the meantime, I will deliver the news to Mrs. Howard.”

  “I would prefer to be present when you tell her, ma’am.”

  Not that he relished witnessing the inevitable shock and grief the woman was going to experience, but this was a murder case and at the moment, nobody was excluded as a suspect.

  Dr. Ogden regarded him frostily. “It would be far better if I were alone. She will probably need a sedative as it is. And you are a stranger to her, are you not?”

  “We have never met and I have no desire to add to her distress, but I am investigating a murder.”

  “Good Lord, detective, surely you aren’t implying Louisa Howard had anything to do with her husband’s death?”

  “I’m not implying anything, ma’am, but at this time, all possibilities are on the table.”

  They eyed each other, trying to assess the extent of the other’s stubbornness. It was Murdoch who backed down. Calm and controlled on the surface, Dr. Ogden had a core as stiff and unyielding as a whalebone corset – which she probably didn’t need to wear, he thought uncharitably.

  “Perhaps you could on ahead, ma’am, and I will follow in about a half an hour. As you say, my presence may be too hard on her.”

  “Very well. After she is settled, I will return and instruct the jurors.” She picked up her medical bag. “You had better have a constable stand guard here and perhaps you should go to talk to the woman who discovered the body.”

  “I was intending to do that.”

  His voice must have been sharper than he realized because, unexpectedly, she turned rather pink. “I beg your pardon. Telling people what to do is an occupational hazard with doctors.”

  He liked her better for her discomfiture and smiled. She went to the door.

  “I should go at once. Louisa mustn’t hear the news from anyone else, least of all prurient neighbours. You will follow me then?”

  Murdoch almost answered, “Yes, Sister,” but caught himself in time.

  After she left, he stood for a minute in the doorway of the office. He wanted to get a sense of the man who’d used it.

  It was a spacious room, the furnishings simple but pleasant and comfortable looking, not as austere as he had imagined a Presbyterian minister’s office would be.

  Opposite the door, a marble fireplace dominated the wall and the fire was lit and well drawn. Two floor-to-ceiling, glass-fronted bookcases, the books sober and neat as a library’s, flanked the fireplace. Close to the brass fender was a brown leather armchair and across from it a straightbacked wooden chair. Lined up along the wall to the left of the door were half a dozen identical chairs. Above these hung some oil paintings, all of them still-lifes of fruit and flowers. The floor covering was a pale blue wool rug, well worn.

  He went over to the armchair. Beside it was a small table on which was an open book placed spine up. It turned out to be a book of sermons by a Reverend J.T. Lanceley, volume one. Tucked into one of the pages was an envelope and inside it was a catalogue from a supplier of church goods. It looked as if Howard had sat in his chair, opened the envelope with his letter opener, then put the pamphlet in the book. If he had put the letter opener on the table, as was most likely, it would corroborate that in order to get hold of the weapon, his assailant had come right into the room. The single wooden chair was out of place from the others. Was this its normal position or did it indicate Howard had company?

  Murdoch turned to the curtained window. If the pastor had been killed two hours ago, it was early to close the curtains, but perhaps it was because the day had been so dull and dreary. He drew one aside. Reverend Howard hadn’t had a good view. His window overlooked the side path and the tall hedge that ran around the property.

  Murdoch returned to the blood-spattered desk. Constable Fyfer was astute in his observation. Whoever Howard had allowed in was somebody he knew or, at least, somebody he saw no reason to fear because at some point he had turned his back as he sat at his desk. Unless of course he was asleep, but somehow Murdoch doubted that.

  There were no signs of a struggle. The attack had been swift and unexpected. He’d noticed that Reverend Howard’s index finger was ink-stained, just as Murdoch’s was. He’d been writing something and he had been using the pen recently. Yes, there it was beside the blotter, but there was no paper or letter to be seen. A sheaf of unused notepaper and envelopes was neatly stacked in a tray. Murdoch checked the wastebasket beside the desk, but it was empty. On the floor was a briefcase made of gutta percha, labelled PERSONAL PORTFOLIO. It was untied and inside were cardboard pockets sorted alphabetically and stuffed with papers. He closed the case. He’d take it back to the station with him later.

  Howard had been a tidy man and the top of his desk was clear except for the brass lamp, the tray of notepaper, and a photograph in a silver frame. It was a studio portrait of him as a youthful-looking pastor with a pretty young woman on his arm. They were both dressed in formal attire. She was wearing a wide-brimmed hat with ostrich feathers and holding a bouquet of cascading flowers. Murdoch assumed this was their wedding picture. They were solemn and unsmiling as one had to be for photographs ten years ago, but even so, they seemed happy to be together.

  He looked down at the dead body. Even with the dreadful disfiguring injuries, it was obvious he had been an attractive man.

  He made the sign of the cross.

  “May the Lord have mercy on his soul.”

  He wasn’t sure how a Presbyterian minister would take to being blessed by a papist, but he hoped doctrinal differences weren’t important when you were dead.

  Chapter Four

  MURDOCH WAS ADMITTED into the house by a young, frightened-looking maid.

  “I’m Detective Murdoch. Is the doctor with your mistress?”

  “Yes, sir. They’re in the drawing room.”

  Even in the hall, he could hear the sound of anguished weeping. “Would you announce me. Just speak quietly to the doctor.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She disappeared through the chenille portière of the drawing room, and Murdoch began to pace up and down slowly. He tried to concentrate on one of the paintings on the wall, a fierce biblical scene of Abraham about to sacrifice Isaac. It was a story that Murdoch had never liked, as blind obedience was not his idea of virtue regardless of whether you believed the order was from God. The crying stopped abruptly and the maid emerged followed by Dr. Ogden, whose face was stiff with strain.

  “You can speak to her now, Mr. Murdoch, but not for long. Please ask only the most pertinent of questions.”

  She stood aside to let him enter, then followed him into a small dark room, its furnishings heavy and sombre. Mrs. Howard was seated on the sofa, a hoop of needlework beside her. What jolted him was that the informal silk tea gown she was wearing revealed she was enceinte, perhaps six months.

  “Louisa, this is Detective Murdoch. He needs to ask you some questions. Can you do your best?”

  The other woman managed to nod. She had fine reddish-brown hair and was probably normally fair-skinned, but now her face was blotched with red, her eyes already shadowed.

  Without being asked, Murdoch sat down on the nearest chair across from her. He felt he was less intimidating that way. Dr. Ogden took the chair to his right.

  “Mrs. Howard, please accept my deepest condolences. I would not trouble you at a time like this, but I want to find the man who is responsible for this crime and I need to act promptly.”

  He had taken out his pen and notebook when he was in the hall and he kept them discreetly at his side.

  “First of all, will you tell me when you last saw your husband?”

  She could barely manage a whisper and he had to lean forward to hear her.

  “We had our luncheon together as we usually do. He
left just before one o’clock. Tuesday is his day to be in his office.” She licked her lips. “Could I have some water?”

  Dr. Ogden immediately stood up and tugged the bell pull beside the fireplace.

  Murdoch resumed. “Was it common knowledge that your husband would be in his office at that time?”

  “I assume it was. He was there on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. The other afternoons, he made calls in the parish.” She broke off. “My husband was one of Christ’s most diligent servants, Mr. Murdoch. Who would do such a thing to him?” There was a rising note of hysteria in her voice. The doctor came over to her and laid a hand on her head.

  “Louisa, calm yourself.”

  There was a tap at the door and Dr. Ogden went to answer it.

  After a short, whispered conversation, she closed the door and returned to Mrs. Howard.

  “Doris says that Mr. Drummond is here. He would like to speak to you. Do you want to receive him?”

  Louisa had been slumped against the back of the sofa, but she suddenly sat upright.

  “No, I will not. How dare he come here!”

  “I’m sure he wishes to express his condolences, my dear,” said the doctor soothingly.

  “He does not. He wishes to gloat.” Louisa was virtually shouting.

  Dr. Ogden pursed her lips. She turned to Murdoch.

  “As you can see, Mrs. Howard is in no condition to be interviewed. I must administer a sedative and perhaps you should return to the church.”

  “Of course.” He picked up his notebook. “One more question, if you please. Mrs. Howard, was your husband in the habit of wearing a pocket watch?”

  “Yes, he had a lovely silver engraved one that had belonged to his father. Why do you ask? Has it gone?”

  “It appears to have been snatched from his waistcoat.”

  Louisa abruptly got to her feet. “I want to see him. I want to see Charles,” she said to the doctor.

  “Absolutely not. I cannot allow it.”

  To Murdoch’s distress, the widow turned to him. “You are the detective in charge. Surely it is up to you. It is my right to see my own husband.”

  “That is true, Mrs. Howard, but I do not recommend it. Better to remember him as he was.”

  But he regretted the words even as they left his mouth. Her imagination was going to paint the picture now. She was going to fill in what he hadn’t said.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. But he knew whatever she might imagine had happened could not possibly be as shocking as the actual thing.

  “Louisa, you really must …” At that moment they heard voices outside in the hall.

  “I have sent for some of the women to be with you. I have to return to the church.”

  Mrs. Howard caught the doctor by the hand. “How shall I tell the children?”

  “You won’t tell them anything for now. When I have finished my duties I will come back and deal with it for you.”

  “Who is here?”

  “The Misses Frobishers and Mrs. Watson.”

  “Not Miss Dignam. I will not see her. Nor Miss Flowers.”

  “No, not them. Just the ones I mentioned.”

  Just then, they heard the sound of the door knocker, followed almost immediately by a man’s voice, raised and excited. The door opened and a man burst in, Doris following helplessly behind him.

  “Mrs. Howard, my dear lady –” He halted when he saw Murdoch and Dr. Ogden. “I beg your pardon. I was just at the church and heard the news. I had to come and see you.”

  “This is Reverend Swanzey,” said Louisa. “Dr. Ogden and Detective Murdoch.”

  Swanzey hovered awkwardly by the door. “Have you arrested the culprit yet?”

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “Do we know what happened?”

  “Mr. Murdoch says that Charles’s watch has been stolen.”

  “Ah, a burglar then, I thought it must be that.”

  “Why so, sir?” Murdoch asked. He’d kept his voice neutral, but Swanzey flinched.

  “Charles Howard didn’t have an enemy in the world. He was truly a vicar of Christ on earth.”

  His words made the new widow weep once more, exhausted, almost tearless crying that was painful to see. Dr. Ogden went and sat beside her.

  “I have asked some of the women from the parish to stay with Mrs. Howard,” she said, her tone making it clear this was no place for men. Swanzey promptly edged toward the door. He was a tall, gangly man of middle age with a lantern jaw and bristling side whiskers. The wind had reddened his cheeks and nose in an unattractive way. His awkwardness was not soothing.

  “Of course. I don’t wish to intrude, but I couldn’t, er. I couldn’t not come.” He turned to Mrs. Howard and gave her a quick bow. “I will call tomorrow. If there is anything at all I can do, please send for me.”

  She gave him a wan smile. “Thank you, that is very kind.” She began to stroke her distended stomach in an unconscious search of comfort. Murdoch noticed the embroidery she had been working on was a nursery sampler.

  Swanzey bowed again to Murdoch. “Good day, sir. I will make myself available at any time if you need to speak to me.”

  He backed out of the room, and Dr. Ogden exchanged a look with Murdoch. It was time for him to leave as well.

  “Mrs. Howard, I will have to come back at a later time. Again please accept my sincerest sympathy.”

  She nodded and turned her head away. He was now the enemy.

  Out in the hall, Murdoch tipped his hat to the three women who were standing there. Older, respectable women whose faces reflected the shock and sorrow of what they had heard, they were here to offer support to the new widow. He wondered how many times through the centuries women had come in such a way to comfort their bereaved sisters.

  Chapter Five

  MURDOCH RETURNED TO THE CHURCH. In spite of the increasingly heavy snow, a large crowd had gathered; people quietly talking among themselves, waiting to see the body removed. The police ambulance was drawn up in front of the steps, the horses jingling their harnesses and snorting from time to time. Fyfer and Crabtree had done a good job and quickly assembled the “good men and true,” who would be jurors at the inquest. They were all standing at the top of the steps by the doors. Because the church was located in a well-to-do area of the city, they were better dressed than most jurors Murdoch had seen in the past and they didn’t seem to be grumbling about being subpoenaed and losing a day or two of work. The constable was informing them of their duties in his loud, unmistakable voice. It was the juror’s duty to view the body and the scene where the crime had taken place. When the inquest was conducted, they were expected to offer an informed opinion about what had taken place and, if appropriate, point an accusing finger at the one they considered the guilty party.

  Murdoch leaned his wheel against a tree and went up to talk to him. “How are things going, George?”

  “I just need one more to make the twelve, sir … Ah, you over there.” He called out to a man in a tweed ulster who had just joined the crowd. “Come over here.”

  The man shook his head, “Not me.”

  Some of the onlookers, mostly women by now, giggled at his defiance, but Crabtree was on him in a minute.

  “I need one more juror, mister, and you’d better give me a very good reason why I shouldn’t subpoena you.”

  “I’m a businessman, I can no afford to lose time away from my shop.”

  He was an older man with a pinched, craggy face and a full, grey-streaked beard. He spoke with a strong Scottish accent.

  “That’s not good enough. It’s your civic duty same as the other men up there. I’m going to subpoena you.”

  “I’ve already helped the police once today to do their job, I dinna think I should do more.”

  “What do you mean, helped the police?”

  “He was the gentleman who took care of the lady for me while I went into the church,” interjected Fyfer. “Mr. Drummond, isn’t it?”

  “Ay.” />
  Fortunately for Drummond, another man, a young, smartly dressed fellow who heard this, put up his hand as if he was in school.

  “Excuse me, officer. I’ll be glad to serve.”

  “Can you read and write?”

  “Yes, sir. I got to the sixth standard.”

  “I don’t need your school record, just your name. All right, come up here. But, Mr. Drummond, we can always do with extra jurors. I’m going to subpoena you anyway. You can get somebody to mind the store for you.”

  “I’ve already been closed down for the past two hours. I’ll be pauperized.”

  But Crabtree was a stickler for civic duty and he hated dodgers. He began to write out the subpoena and, reluctantly, Drummond climbed the steps and took it.

  “Good,” said Crabtree, “that’ll do us. Now listen, you men. First off you need to elect a foreman, then we view the body, I will administer an oath. Are there any Jews among you?”

  There was a general shaking of heads. “I need to know because that’s a different oath, but it makes my job easier if you’re all Christian. Now then. Who’s going to be foreman?” Nobody stirred. “Chamberlin, you’ve been on a jury before, why don’t you do it?” Crabtree spoke to an elderly man who was sporting an impressively long white beard. “Any objections? No, then that’s resolved. Mr. Chamberlin is your foreman and he will take the oath on behalf of all of you when we get inside.”

  The men shuffled their feet and a couple of them shook hands with Chamberlin. Murdoch tapped Drummond on the shoulder.

  “I’m Detective Murdoch. I was just about to go and talk to Miss Dignam. How is she?”

  The Scotsman eyed him mistrustfully, but Murdoch was beginning to think this was his habitual expression.

  “She’s got the look of wet clay about her, but she’ll live I’m sure.”

  Just then Dr. Ogden arrived and, without wasting time, ordered the men to follow her. She went down the path, the jurors trailing after her like courtiers. Crabtree and Murdoch went with them.

  They crowded into the hall and Crabtree directed them into the study until they were standing around the body. The sight of the corpse sobered even the enthusiastic young volunteer, but the constable didn’t give them a chance to become maudlin.