Vices of My Blood

by Maureen Jennings

  “Listen up and hearken to your foreman’s oath.” He faced Mr. Chamberlin. “You shall diligently inquire and true presentment make of all such matters and things as shall be here given you in charge, on behalf of our Sovereign Lady, the Queen, touching the death of Charles Howard now lying dead, of whose body you shall have the view; you shall present no man for hatred, malice or ill-will, nor spare any through fear, favour, or affection; but a true verdict give according to the evidence and the best of your skill and knowledge. So help you God. Do you so swear?”

  “I do.”

  Crabtree addressed the remaining men. “The same oath that James Chamberlin, your foreman, hath now taken before you on his part, you and each of you are several well and truly to observe and keep on your parts. So help you God.”

  A spatter of amens from the less worldly of the men, then Dr. Ogden took over and began to describe what had happened to Howard. Her terminology was clinical, but no language could bleach the horror from the description. Midway through, Murdoch was afraid he might lose some of the jurors. He sent the young man of sixth-standard accomplishment out to get some fresh air. Fortunately, the process didn’t take long and there were no questions.

  “The inquest will be two days from now, March 5 at eleven in the morning at the Humphrey Funeral Home,” said Dr. Ogden. “The constable will inform you where it is and what you should do when you get there.” She nodded at Murdoch. “You can have the body taken away now. I will perform the post-mortem examination tomorrow.”

  The jurors talked among themselves briefly before leaving. At least half of them seemed to have known Howard, and Murdoch was struck with the genuine dismay they expressed.

  Dr. Ogden said she was going back to the manse and Murdoch returned to the front of the church.

  “George, start the rounds. See if anybody heard anything, saw anything, the usual procedure.”

  “Can I assist, sir?” asked Fyfer.

  Murdoch hesitated. “Somebody has to stand here.” But he knew from experience how dull it was to be assigned that task and Fyfer was looking at him like an eager pup. Two other constables had been sent up from the station and were waiting for orders. “All right. Start with questioning those who’re hanging around. Just get names and addresses for now. If they have anything to say unsolicited, make a note of it, but tell them we’ll be coming to interview them as soon as we can.”

  “Ugly business, isn’t it, sir?” said Crabtree. “A man ripped from his family like that. And a decent man by all accounts. The inspector is going to be on our backs about this one, sir. If I may take the liberty of putting it that way.”

  “Indeed you may, George. The exact thought had crossed my mind. The deceased was a pastor of the Presbyterian Church. Inspector Brackenreid is always consistent in these matters. If you were important in life, you will be as important in death. Privilege doesn’t vanish at the Great Divide.”

  Murdoch mounted his bicycle. He had discarded his muffler and gloves a few days earlier, hoping this would encourage spring to come. It hadn’t. He turned up his collar and pulled his sleeves down as far as they would go over his hands.

  “Anyway, I’m off to talk to Miss Dignam now.”

  “I gave you the address, didn’t I, sir?” said Fyfer.

  “Yes. Thank you, constable.”

  “Good luck, sir. I consider you have the worst job of all.”

  Murdoch was inclined to agree with him.

  Fyfer had given Miss Dignam’s address as 420, just north of the church on the west side of Jarvis Street. The house was impossible to miss as it was blazing with lights. As Murdoch approached, he saw a man and a woman turning away from the front door. Another couple was waiting for them on the sidewalk and he heard, “won’t see us …” Some of the people who had gathered at the church seemed to be here, and there were three or four clumps of people standing on the street. They watched intently as Murdoch opened the wrought-iron gate and walked up to the front door. He didn’t even have time to knock before it was opened. A wizened little man, in the formal clothes of a servant, frowned at him.

  “Miss Dignam is not receiving callers, sir.”

  He handed the butler his card. “Detective William Murdoch. I must speak to her.”

  The little man’s attitude changed. “Thank goodness. She has been waiting for you. We’ve already been swamped with neighbours and such who want to see her. Not that they were stomping down the weeds before, I’ll have you know. But now, suddenly she’s the belle of the ball, the toast of the town. Poor dear thing.”

  For a moment, Murdoch wondered if indeed he was speaking to a servant.

  “And you are?”

  “Walters. I’m the general dogsbody here and have been since Miss Sarah was in short skirts. My actual job is valet to Mr. Elias Dignam, but there’s just me here now so we don’t stand on ceremony.”

  He stepped back into the hall. “Come on in before you get gawked to death. Miss Sarah is in the parlour. Her friend Miss Flowers is with her, but Mr. Dignam is in his study. Will you be wanting to talk to him?”

  “I’m not sure just yet, Walters. Let me start with Miss Dignam.”

  The valet-cum-butler led the way down the hall, which gave the impression of having seen better days. The red flocked wall covering was dingy and the one rug on the floor should have been long ago relegated to the attic by the look of it. Walters seemed to pick up his thoughts.

  “We aren’t grand here, Mr. Murdoch. Mind you, we used to be when Mr. Dignam Senior was alive. Five servants then, and company all the time. But he lost all his money in a foolish investment in America and the two children were left with almost nothing.”

  Murdoch thought that the old servant was probably as loyal as he was indiscreet.

  “Here we are. I’ll bring in some tea.”

  There were no portières, so Walters tapped lightly on the door and, without waiting for permission, he went in.

  “I’ve got a Detective Murdoch here to see you, Miss Sarah.”

  The parlour Murdoch stepped into was almost completely dark. Most of the light was coming from the blazing fire in the grate. Only one lamp was lit, and it was turned down low. He could just make out a smallish room crammed with furniture. Close to the fire were two shadowy figures. One of them stood up and came toward him.

  “Good evening, I’m Miss Flowers, a dear friend of Miss Dignam,” she said in a breathy voice. “As you of course realize she has had a most dreadful shock, but she has expressed a desire to speak to the police, which is why we have permitted you to come in.”

  Miss Flowers seemed to be trying to live up to her name. Past mid-age, she was short and stout but not deterred by her own physique. She was wearing an afternoon dress whose full skirt of heavy green satin was lavishly appliquéd with white daisies and roses. She was rather like a walking meadow. Her hair, although abundant and loosely pinned, was more grey than brown. She wore a pair of gold pince-nez.

  The other woman had not stirred from her seat by the fire. Miss Flowers grasped Murdoch’s arm and stepped forward. They were only three paces from the fireplace, but she said in a loud voice, “Sarah, my dearest, I have a Mr. Murdoch here from the police. He wishes to speak to you.”

  Finally, the other woman turned around and Murdoch saw that all the overdone solicitude on the part of her friend was justified. Even in the dim light, he saw the grief in the woman’s face. Miss Sarah Dignam was suffering more than shock and horror at what she had found. She was also experiencing profound loss.

  Chapter Six

  IN CONTRAST TO HER FRIEND, Miss Dignam was wearing an unadorned dress of navy wool, extremely plain with old-fashioned tight sleeves. The only jewellery was a silver pendant watch. Murdoch thought he was in the presence of yet another nunlike woman, although Miss Dignam was too distraught to command much authority and he doubted that even in her normal days she would do so. She was small in stature, slight and bony, her skin suggesting that she had been drying up for a long time. However,
as she offered her hand in greeting and managed a ghost of a smile, he saw that she had fine blue eyes that in her youth must have brought her many compliments.

  “I am sorry to have to speak to you at this time, Miss Dignam, but I am sure you can appreciate the necessity for the police to pursue the matter of Mr. Howard’s death as soon as possible.”

  “Of course. I expected you.” Her voice was soft but not without crispness. She looked at her friend. “May, I believe it would be better for me to speak to the detective alone.”

  For a moment, Miss Flowers looked as if she would flat-out refuse to leave, more from prurient curiosity, Murdoch thought, than genuine concern for her friend. But rather surprisingly, Miss Dignam stood up, went over to the door, and opened it.

  “Perhaps you would be so good as to look in on Elias. He’s quite upset at the news and does so need cheering up. And would you tell Walters to wait on serving us tea until I ring. Thank you, May, I am much obliged.”

  “As you wish, my dear.” With something of a pout, Miss Flowers swept off with a rustle of taffeta. Miss Dignam returned to her seat by the fire.

  “Please sit down, Mr. Murdoch.”

  Her manners were those of a woman of polite society, but Murdoch had the impression she was barely keeping other, more passionate feelings in check. He took the chair opposite, put his hat on the floor, and removed his notebook from his pocket.

  “Miss Dignam, I will have to write some notes. Do you mind if I turn up the lamp?”

  “Not at all. I cannot sit in darkness for the rest of my life, can I?”

  An odd remark, he thought, but he turned up the wick of the lamp and took out his fountain pen.

  “Will you tell me what happened, Miss Dignam? Please don’t hurry. Any details that you remember no matter how trivial may be of great importance so I do ask you to include them.”

  She stared at him blankly as if the word trivial had no place in her universe any more. There was no longer anything associated with the death of Reverend Howard that could be described in that way.

  “Will you tell me exactly what happened this afternoon?” he repeated gently.

  She shifted away from him so that she was staring into the fire. “In a way, there isn’t much to tell. Tuesday is the afternoon when the study group meets. We discuss a biblical text that Reverend Howard assigns us – I should say, assigned us.”

  “And what was the text for this week, ma’am?”

  Murdoch doubted if he really needed to know this, but he found working around the edges of the significant issue sometimes made his witnesses reveal unguarded things.

  She glanced over at him nervously. “We have been studying the Song of Songs.”

  “Ah yes, a magnificent piece.”

  “Yes, indeed it is.” She seemed to vanish again into some interior world of her own.

  “What time did you arrive at the church, ma’am?”

  Another nervous glance. “I, er, I went a little earlier, it was my turn to provide refreshment and I had a seed cake, caraway seed.” She paused. “Reverend Howard was quite partial to my caraway seed cake.”

  She turned her head away and wiped at her eyes. Her shoulders shuddered and Murdoch was afraid she wouldn’t be able to continue. He waited. Finally, she regained control and turned back to face him.

  “I do apologize, Mr. Murdoch, but my eyes are burning dreadfully. Would you mind if I put the lamp in a different place?”

  “Of course. Allow me.”

  Murdoch shifted the lamp to the table behind him and lowered the wick. Miss Dignam’s face was more shadowed now. She folded her hands in her lap.

  “I beg your pardon, I was distracted. As I said, I went to the church early. Our group meets at four o’clock and I must have been there at half past three.”

  Another pause. She was coming to the centre of the horror now. “I went in through the front door and walked down to the pastor’s office, which is at the rear of the church.”

  “Did you notice anything amiss in the church itself, Miss Dignam?”

  “Nothing. It has been a gloomy day and it was rather dark in there, but no, I saw nothing out of place.”

  “Do you usually enter by the front doors, ma’am?”

  “Yes. Is that important?”

  “I merely wondered if you had tried to go in by the side door and found it locked.”

  “No, I, er … I like to go in to the church so I can offer a short prayer before our meeting.”

  “And is that what you did today?”

  Another sharp glance. “Is that relevant, detective?”

  “It may be. I’m trying to get an accurate time sequence.”

  “Of course, I’m sorry. No, I did not stop to pray. I had taken a little longer than usual and I didn’t want to be late so I went directly to the office.”

  Murdoch braced himself for the breakdown he anticipated would occur when she had to put into words what she had seen, but Miss Dignam simply clasped her hands even more tightly together and said in a voice that had gone as bloodless and light as an autumn leaf, “The door was open and I could see Charles lying on his back on the floor. There was blood everywhere …”

  “Did you go into the room?”

  “Of course. I had to make sure he was indeed dead and that there was nothing I could do.”

  “That was very brave of you, ma’am.”

  “Was it? I don’t see it as an act of courage. If there were the slightest possibility he was still alive, I would have –” She stopped, but once again Murdoch had an eerie sense he was talking to one of the nuns he had known. Miss Dignam would have walked through fire if need be. “I could see that the injuries he had sustained were very severe. I had to leave him and I ran to fetch help. By good fortune, I encountered a constable on his beat right outside the church and directed him to the office … do I need to continue, Mr. Murdoch?”

  “Just one or two more questions, Miss Dignam. Did you touch the body at all when you went into the room?”

  “No.”

  “The constable said that your face and hands were quite bloodied and that you had blood on your cloak.”

  “Then I must have … it’s all so dreamlike, frankly. But, yes, perhaps I did touch him, to see if there was any possibility that he was alive.”

  “Did you touch anything else, either on his person or in the room itself?”

  Her reply was quick. “No, of course not. I had no occasion to.”

  “Did you hear anything at all when you went into the church? Footsteps, for instance? A door closing? That sort of thing.”

  “No, I did not. I have had some time to think about the matter. I realize Charles, er, Reverend Howard must have been killed very shortly before I arrived, but I had no awareness of anyone either in the church or the hallway.”

  “You said the church was dark. The pews are all tall. It would be easy for somebody to hide there, would it not?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  Murdoch made a note. “Did the minister have any enemies that you are aware of, Miss Dignam?”

  Even in the shadowy light, he could see how much that question upset her.

  “Absolutely not. Charles Howard was a truly good man. His eyes were as the eyes of doves, by the rivers of waters, his lips fitly set and terrible as an army with banners.”

  Murdoch barely had time to register that she was quoting from the Song of Songs when she suddenly gulped in air and began to gasp, fighting for breath. She was shaken by uncontrollable sobs that were virtually soundless and the more pitiful for it. He got to his feet, not sure how to help her, and gently touched her shoulder.

  “You’ve had a terrible shock, ma’am. Shall I fetch Miss Flowers?”

  With a tremendous effort of will she made herself stop crying. “No, I would prefer to be alone.” She managed to suppress another shudder. “Would you be so kind as to hand me my bible, which is on the sideboard. I will take the word of our Lord as my comfort.”

  He did so
but she didn’t open the book immediately, waiting for him to leave.

  “If you think of anything else at all, please send for me, Miss Dignam. I am at number four station on Parliament at Wilton Street.”

  “Yes, I will do that. Can you let yourself out?”

  He left her, wondering if he should send in the friend regardless. He didn’t need to worry. As soon as he closed the door behind him, the kitchen door opened and Miss Flowers popped her head out.

  “Have you finished?”

  “For now.”

  “I’ll go into her.”

  “She said she wanted to be by herself for a little while.”

  “Nonsense. Right now, she doesn’t know what she wants.” And she swept down the hall and into the drawing room.

  Murdoch let himself out of the front door. As he cycled away from the house, he was struck by a memory that had haunted him for years. “Monk” Brodie and his dog. What was the mongrel’s name? Ah yes, Paddy. A mangy stray that Brodie had adopted. Murdoch doubted if he would ever forget what had happened that cold winter night when the little dog had gone missing.

  He leaned his wheel against the station wall. Why was he remembering that now?

  Chapter Seven

  THE DAY HAD BEEN more like November than March, as almost every customer had remarked to the cabbie, who had pulled his muffler up around his face for protection. His latest fare, a man in a hurry to get to Union Station, had asked him to whip up the horse, twenty-five cents extra if he made his train on time. Later, trying to tell his wife what had happened, the cabbie, Mick O’Leary, admitted that he hadn’t seen the child’s hoop as it came rolling across the road in front of him until it was too late.

  “Where’s there a hoop, Lal, there will a boy surely follow, but that lad dashed like a devil out of the other place, right into me path. I pulled up Jeb as smart as I could, but we was already out on the canter. He reared in the shafts so I afeared he might break the leads and bolt. Then this woman let out the most God-awful scream I ever did hear. Timmy! Or maybe it was Tommy! I don’t know. Then the man I’d picked up, who in my mind is the one responsible, so help me God, this fellow leaned his head out of the window and yells, ‘Stop. You’ve run over a child. Stop at once.’ Which he didn’t need to shout because that’s what I’d already done. We was right outside the Golden Lion and of course all the customers were just coming in or out. There was two or three other coachmen outside waiting for their missus, but do you think they’d so much as step down to give a fellow a hand? Not them. All of them, three it was now I think, all of them sat like they was Lot’s wife. ’Course, I jumped down right smart to see the worst. The woman, who it turned out was the boy’s ma, was on her knees trying to see underneath the carriage. My fare had got out too and he was down there looking.