“Where are they now?”
“Across the street with one of the neighbours, a Mrs. Cole.”
“Does the blocked chimey look like an accident to you, George?”
“It’s impossible to say, sir. He may have killed himself. Suicides will do this sort of thing to make it look like an accident so the family doesn’t lose out on insurance. You talked to him, sir. Did you think he was unbalanced?”
“He was a lonely man full of sorrow, but I wouldn’t say unbalanced and I’m sure he’d know his act could cause the death of other people.”
“Not everybody realizes how monoxide travels, sir.”
“Mr. Hicks was very well read. He used to be an engineer, he told me.”
“It’s hard to imagine somebody blocked that chimney deliberately. But I suppose we have to keep that under consideration, don’t we, sir?”
“He never went out. He’d hardly sit there while some cove went and stopped up his chimney. Besides, what earthly reason would anybody have for murdering a frail old man like this?”
Crabtree didn’t answer. They’d both seen enough of human depravity to know almost anything was possible.
Murdoch went over to the dead man and, with difficulty, bent to pick up the book that had fallen from Hicks’s lap. It was the Book of Common Prayer.
“I was going to bring you a book to read, but I didn’t get around to it. I only wish you’d had a chance to read some more rollicking tales, Mr. Hicks.”
“Shall I go and round up a jury, sir?”
“Yes, indeed, George. I’ll go upstairs and talk to the physician. Who is it, by the way?”
“Dr. Ogden again.”
“Good.”
Murdoch waited until the constable had left, then he gently closed the staring eyes of the dead man. He made the sign of the cross.
“May God have mercy on your soul.”
Stiffly, he climbed the stairs to the second floor and went into the Tugwells’ room. Dr. Ogden had just finished her examination of the bodies and she turned to greet him.
“Good afternoon, Detective Murdoch. Oh dear, you have lumbago, I see.”
“Yes, ma’am. I was chopping wood.”
“Do you have a female at home?”
“Er, no, ma’am, I’m not married.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean is there somebody at home who could use an iron on you?”
“Er, I’m not quite sure what you are asking me, doctor?”
She smiled slightly. “The best treatment that I know of is to have somebody apply a hot iron to your lower back muscles. It should be done over thick brown paper, but one or two treatments like that will cure you in no time.”
It was on the tip of Murdoch’s tongue to say, “Yes, Sister,” but he caught himself.
She turned her attention back to the bed where Esther Tugwell and her daughter were lying side by side. Except for the pallor of their skin, they could have been asleep. Dr. Ogden had removed the tattered quilt to do her examination, but otherwise the situation was clearly as it had been when they went to bed. There was no sign of disturbance or struggle. Murdoch could see the same red blotches on both of their faces that had been on Hicks, but neither of the women had vomited. The son was a different matter. He had obviously tried to get out of bed and he was entangled with his blanket, half on the floor.
“Rigor mortis is well established but carbonic monoxide poisoning tends to delay the onset so it is more difficult to determine with accuracy when death occurred. But I’d say they all died at approximately the same time, which would be no earlier than ten o’clock last night but could have been as late as one or two in the morning.”
“Is there any doubt that the monoxide was the cause of death?” Murdoch asked.
She snapped the clips shut on her medical bag. “None at all. There are no signs of trauma to the bodies, except for the lad bruising his face when he fell to the floor. I intend to do the postmortem examination this afternoon. You can attend if you wish or I will have the results sent to you immediately.”
The other constable had been standing by the window, looking a little queasy.
“Higgins, did you examine the chimney in this room?” Murdoch asked.
“Yes, sir. It was clear.”
“Poor innocent souls,” said the doctor.
“I understand the fumes originated down below with a blocked chimey.”
“It looks that way, ma’am.”
She tugged her gloves on. “No matter how much you might warn them, people are so careless. He was probably using coke.”
“Yes, he was. A poor quality.”
“That wretched fuel should be outlawed.”
“It’s cheaper, ma’am.”
“I’m aware of that, detective. As far as I am concerned the poor are often their own worst enemies.” With that she headed for the door but paused in front of Higgins. “Constable, you should go outside at once. The gas can linger for a long time. Mr. Murdoch, don’t forget my suggestion concerning your back and above all, keep your bowels open.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
MRS. COLE, THE NEIGHBOUR who had offered refuge to the German couple, was a young woman, plump and pretty, who was obviously newly married and set up in her own house for the first time. The furnishings were sparse and cheap but brand new and the air was thick with the smell of beeswax polish. She served the three of them underbaked cake and weak coffee but with such kindness and hospitality, Murdoch thought Mr. Cole was a lucky man.
The Einbodens, who were seated on Mrs. Cole’s best couch, seemed desperately poor, spoke little English, and were extremely nervous. It took a while for Murdoch to make himself understood and in turn to understand their replies. What he finally came away with was that Hicks may have had a visitor late that night, but as he was in the habit of reading out loud they couldn’t possibly swear to that. Nobody had visited the Tugwells and Josie had come home with her usual noise about nine o’clock. The Misses Leasks were spiteful old women who didn’t like foreigners and they had nothing to do with them. The same with Mr. and Mrs. McGillivary. They never saw Mr. Taylor. Only for Thomas Hicks did they shed a tear. Metaphorically. They were both too afraid of Murdoch to show any emotion other than a cringing subservience.
After an hour, he took his leave. Burley was standing guard at the rooming house, but the ambulance had left and the blustery wind had scattered the curious like pieces of newspaper. The constable had nothing to report and Murdoch headed for the station. Sitting down for so long had stiffened up his back and even riding his wheel was painful.
Seymour greeted him as soon as he walked into the station. His usual dour face was beaming.
“Very good news, Will. We brought in the tramps and I think we’ve nabbed our man. See here.” He held up a man’s silver watch. “It fits the description exactly of Reverend Howard’s piece.”
Murdoch took it from him and flipped open the lid. Inside was engraved the date, October 30, 1892, and the initials, C.H.
“Excellent. Who had it?”
“Jack Trevelyan. It was hidden in the lining of his coat. Constable Fyfer gave them all a thorough search that I doubt they’d experienced since the midwife pulled them into the world. He’s a good officer, that one.”
“Indeed. What did Traveller have to say for himself?”
“Says he found the watch in the Horticultural Gardens on Tuesday. Says he hid it because he was spending the night in the workhouse and you can’t trust anybody in that place.”
“What about the other three?”
“The simpleton is enjoying himself, as far as I can see. Won’t stop giggling. He didn’t have anything hidden. Bettles and his mate are as tough a pair of natty lads as I’ve come across. They both had knives tucked in their boots and almost ten dollars between them hidden in their coats. So much for being paupers. They’re richer than I am.”
“Let me talk to Traveller. Will you have him brought to my office.”
>
“Do you want him cuffed?”
“We’d better. But, Charlie, can you bring in some food. He hasn’t had anything to eat since yesterday.”
The sergeant chuckled. “You’re in luck, Will. Katie sent me off this morning with a pork pie that would feed an army. I’ve had my fill. He can have the rest of it.”
The mere mention of Katie’s pork pie made Murdoch’s stomach growl.
“If there’s enough for two, I wouldn’t mind some later.”
He walked slowly to his cubicle of an office and eased himself into the chair behind the desk. Within a few minutes, he heard footsteps in the hall and Constable Fyfer appeared in the threshold.
“He’s here, sir.”
If Murdoch hadn’t heard them he would have smelled them coming. The odour of sulphur permeated the cubicle. “Bring him in.”
Fyfer pulled aside the reed curtain and stepped back so that Traveller could enter. Murdoch had expected the tramp to be surprised when he saw him, but he merely grunted and sat down promptly on the chair.
Murdoch nodded at Fyfer, who withdrew to the hall.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Trevelyan,” said Murdoch.
“Good afternoon to you. How’s your back?”
“Sore.”
“You should have known better than to put your block on the ground like that.”
“I know. I was also chilled … you don’t seem surprised to see me.”
“Not the least. I suspected you was a nark from the beginning, that’s why I kept you close to me. I weren’t totally sure until we was in the ward. You gave yourself away there.”
“In what way?”
“Well it was how you handled those toe rags, Bettles and Kearney. You knew what you were doing, for one thing. And I thought to myself, This cove ain’t no wayfarer.” Traveller chortled. “We tobies tend to fight a bit more dirty, if you know what I mean. Like they was about to. But it was good what you did with Alf last night. I would have taken care of him, but what you did was manly.”
Murdoch couldn’t help but grin. Here was Traveller, up to his neck in hot water, dishing out compliments like he was a schoolteacher.
“And you got me out of trouble so I’m grateful to you for that,” said Murdoch.
Traveller shrugged. “I’d have done it for anybody. I told you, those scum was after me.” He raised his hands. “Would you consider taking these off. I ain’t so stupid as to cause trouble in a police station.”
Murdoch called out to the constable. “Fyfer, will you uncuff Mr. Trevelyan? And will you tell Sergeant Seymour we’re ready?”
The constable came in and unlocked the handcuffs and Traveller rubbed at his wrists. “They was put on too tight.”
Fyfer looked as if he would like to stand by and get in on the proceedings, but Murdoch nodded at him to leave.
Traveller gazed around the cubicle, taking in the shabby furniture. “I would have thought a detective would have a fancier place than this.”
“Money’s tight everywhere.”
“Ha. Ain’t that the truth.”
Murdoch reached in his drawer and took out his pipe and a packet of tobacco. “Have you got your pipe?”
“No, it’s taken a walk. And me baccy.”
“You can use mine.” Murdoch pushed a box of matches and the tobacco packet across the desk. “It’s a good Bull Durham.”
Traveller filled the pipe, lit up, and drew in deeply, letting go with a sigh of appreciation. “I suppose you’re wanting to ask me about the watch I found. I hear it used to belong to some poor fellow who got himself murdered.”
“Who told you that?”
“The constable who found it in my coat.”
Damn, thought Murdoch. Fyfer should have kept that to himself.
“Where did you find it?”
“Like I told him. In the Gardens.”
“Where exactly?”
Traveller blew out some smoke. “Near the entrance to the greenhouse. I was in there keeping warm a couple of days ago and when I was leaving, to get to my hotel, which was about to open, I saw the watch lying on a bench.”
“There might have been a reward offered, why didn’t you turn it in to the police?”
Traveller grinned at him. “’Cos you lot would immediately suspect me of stealing it and I’d be bothered with a lot of questions like now and it is very unlikely I’d get a reward. I don’t have a watch to keep track of my appointments so I thought finder’s keepers.”
“What day was this exactly?”
“Can’t say exactly. Wayfarers tend to lose all track of time. Wasn’t yesterday, could have been the day before, but I won’t swear to it.”
I bet you won’t, thought Murdoch. Vagueness is a good defence until you find out where the trouble is.
“Did you see anybody while you were in the greenhouse? Did you talk to anybody?”
“Yes, I did as a matter of fact. A gawdelpus. A good fellow he was. He gave me two nickels.”
“Did you ask him for money?”
“Not me. You and me both know that’s against the law.”
“What time was it when you encountered this charitable gentleman?”
“I can’t tell you that. Like I said, we tobies don’t have a good sense of time. We had a little chat or, more precisely, the gentleman talked to me about my sins. They always like to practise Sunday’s sermon on folks like me, do the gawdelpuses. Then he walked off and I stayed thinking about my Saviour for the next little while, then I left too. When I found the watch it was reading ten minutes to five.”
“So you must have met up with him about, what, half an hour earlier?”
“It’s possible, but I wouldn’t swear to it.”
Murdoch sighed. He was up against a professional here.
“How long were you in the greenhouse altogether?”
“It’s hard to say. I had a little kip on a bench so maybe a couple of hours. I left just before five o’clock to get to the spike. You know how it’s better to be there early.” Traveller took another deep draw on the pipe. “I’m curious, by the way, as to what you were doing there? It can’t be because you’re a pauper, even, begging your pardon, with a crib like this.”
“Frankly, I was looking for you. Maybe not you specifically but a tramp I thought might be able to answer some questions concerning Reverend Howard.”
“Do you suspect a wayfarer killed the gentleman?”
“Yes, I do.”
“It’s always easier, isn’t it, to pin the crime on one of us? Saves you a lot of work.”
“That’s not the reason.”
Murdoch pulled the box out from underneath his desk and put Howard’s boots on the desk.
“Have you seen these before?”
“No, can’t say I have, but they look uncommon good boots. Not yours, are they?”
“They originally belonged to the murdered man. They were taken from his body by somebody who wore them in the workhouse, where they were stolen a second time. I obtained them from the second thief.”
“Must be good boots.”
Murdoch drummed his fingers on the desk. He wasn’t getting very far with the wily old fox. “Tell me, Traveller, have you ever been in Guelph?”
There was a flash of wariness in the man’s eyes. He paused to draw on the pipe again. “Yes, I’ve been there. Just last week as a matter of fact. It’s more comfortable than the House of Industry, I promise you that. Wish I could have stayed.”
Murdoch tapped at the boots. “Do you swear to me you didn’t take these from the pastor’s body?”
Traveller’s face was briefly hidden in a cloud of smoke. “I’m getting the impression it don’t matter much what I say. You’ve got me tagged as the murderer and I can protest till I’m blue in the face but you ain’t going to change your mind.”
He put down the pipe and held out his hands to Murdoch.
“You’d better put the cuffs on right now and make your arrest. It’ll look good for you.”
; There was a knock on the wall outside and Seymour pushed through the reed curtain. He was carrying a plate on which sat a thick wedge of pork pie.
Murdoch held up his hand. “Never mind, Sergeant Seymour, Mr. Trevelyan isn’t hungry after all. In fact, he’s going back to the cell. Put the handcuffs on him.”
Seymour deposited the plate on top of the filing cabinet by the door and Murdoch saw Traveller cast one quick glance at the aromatic pie.
Murdoch watched while the sergeant led the docile tramp away.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
SEYMOUR RETURNED a few minutes later.
“Are you going to charge him, Will?”
“Not at the moment. Contrary to what he thinks, I’m not partial to making tramps scapegoats. He’s bloody evasive for sure but that might be habitual and nothing to do with the murder. But I do know this, George, our Mr. Traveller will only tell me when it suits him. I want you to get him to remove his boots and bring them here. He’ll have to go in his socks.” Murdoch pointed at the piece of pie on the cabinet. “Is there more of that?”
“Like I said, Katie made enough for an army. There’s at least two more servings left in the dish.”
“Good.”
Murdoch grabbed the plate and stuffed the pie into his mouth, swallowing it down in two gulps. Seymour grinned at him.
“Shall I give Katie your compliments?”
“Cardboard would have tasted good, but don’t tell her that.” He wiped his mouth with his handkerchief. “All right, let’s bring in Alf. You don’t need to cuff him.”
Seymour left, taking the plate with him, and Murdoch managed to drop the boots into the box again and put the watch underneath his notebook.
Vices of My Blood Page 23