CHAPTER THREE

Murdoch, thinking weighty and melancholy thoughts about the capriciousness of life, watched two flies crawl around the lip of the saucer. One succumbed to temptation and fell into a sweet, sticky death, the other flew away. Because the stables were adjacent to the police station, it was impossible to keep the fly population anywhere close to bearable. However, Mrs. Kitchen had assured him the best way to catch flies was with a mixture of egg yolk and molasses and he’d placed two full saucers on his desk. So far he’d only netted four carcasses. It was more efficient to swat them. He despatched two in quick succession, both unfortunately crawling across the portrait of Her Majesty which hung behind him and which was now pocked with tiny blood stains. The matching portrait of Chief Constable Grasett was even more defaced but that was probably because Murdoch pursued the flies on that picture with more vigour.

He stretched his arms above his head and rubbed hard on his brow to wake himself up. He would have given a day’s wage for a short kip, but he knew that if Inspector Brackenreid found him asleep it would be truly costly. The problem wasn’t only his sleepless night. The cubicle that passed as his office had only one small, high window that let in plenty of flies and dust but not much air or light.

Yet another yawn rippled up his throat. The morning had been quiet and the only report he’d had to do was complete. A cabbie was charged with galloping his horse along Queen Street. He said he hadn’t, that the horse had got the bit between his teeth, but two witnesses swore they’d heard him crack his whip. The case would go before the courts.

There was a tap on the wall outside the cubicle. Because the space was so small he’d done without a door and the entrance was hung with a reed curtain. He could see the outline of Constable George Crabtree looming on the other side.

“Yes?”

Crabtree pushed aside the clacking strips.

“There are two ragamuffins out front, sir, with some story about their mother being dead. They can’t rouse her they say.”

“Dead drunk?”

“It’s possible, sir, but they do seem quite ascared. Say she’s gone stiff.”

Murdoch stood up, welcoming the diversion.

Number-four police station was not the largest or busiest in the city but it maintained law and order over a diversified area. To the west and north were gracious homes on wide, tree-lined streets such as Church and Gerrard. To the east and south were run-down row houses, workmen’s cottages, small businesses, and manufacturers’ properties. Most of the crimes that elicited charges were for petty theft or drunk and disorderly conduct. Without exception these misdemeanours occurred in the east side.

Murdoch followed Crabtree to the main hall of the station. A high counter divided the room in half, on one side the upholders of the law, on the other their uneasy charges. Two boys were sitting close together on the wooden bench that ran around the far side of the room. They were barefoot and dirty.

“Hello, young masters, what’s the problem?” Murdoch asked.

“She’s dead, sir, stone dead.” The older boy who spoke was scrawny, smelly, and ill-dressed. His eyes were badly crossed and this inability to meet a direct gaze made him seem shifty. His words tumbled out. “She didn’t get up in the morning, see. No sign of her. I thought she might just be feeling under the weather so I took her in some tea. There she was on the floor, stiff as a poker.”

“Hold on. Who’re you talking about? Who’s dead?”

“Our mother, Mrs. Dolly Shaw. You’d better come see, sir.”

“Where is she?”

“In the parlour. She’s stiff as a board,” he said again.

“Your mother, you say?”

“She’s not really our mother, I mean not blood, but we’ve always bin with her, haven’t we, Freddie?”

He nudged his companion, who nodded vigorously. This boy was a quadroon, with dusky skin and light brown curly hair, very tangled. He kept his eyes to the ground except for quick anxious glances at his companion.

“And what’s your relationship to each other?”

The older one looked puzzled. “I dunno, sir. I suppose we’re brothers.”

Murdoch didn’t think that was biologically possible given how different they looked, but he didn’t comment. He took out his notebook and pencil from his pocket.

“We’ll come take a look. Where do you live?”

“Over on River Street, corner of Wilton. Number one-thirty-one.”

“Your names?”

“I’m George Tucker, this is Alfred Locke.”

Murdoch squatted down in front of the quadroon boy.

“Cat got your tongue, Alfred?”

He shook his head, shrinking back into the bench.

Murdoch straightened up.

“Let’s go and see what’s up, Crabtree.”

“Shall I fetch the coroner, sir?”

“Not yet. We’d better find out what’s happened first. I’ll ride on ahead on my wheel. You bring the boys.”

“Please, sir, can we come with you? We can run real fast, can’t we, Freddie?”

Murdoch gazed at their worried faces and relented.

“All right. Come on. But I warn you I’m a scorcher.”

They both smiled a bit.

In spite of what the boy had said, Murdoch had doubts that the woman was really dead. More likely passed out from too much jackey.

 

Annie could hear her sister moving about in the next room and she opened her eyes reluctantly. Sleep was a warm cocoon she wanted to stay in, and as consciousness returned the memory of the previous night inched closer like a poisonous spider that had been waiting for her to move.

She sat up, squinting her eyes against the bright sun trying to squeeze around the edges of the old velvet curtains at the window. There was a band of dull pain pressing behind her eyes.

“Mildred? Millie? What are you doing?”

Her sister answered from the kitchen. “I’m making tea.”

“Good. I could do with that.”

“There isn’t enough for two.”

Selfish tit, thought Annie.

“I don’t mind if it’s weak. Add more water.”

Tentatively she swung her legs out of bed and waited, testing the level of pain in her head. A whet would be far better than a spot of cat-pee tea but there wasn’t any. She had finished the bottle last night when she got home. She’d sat in the dark kitchen while Millie snored softly in the bed. She would have drunk herself into oblivion if there’d been enough gin but there wasn’t.

Moving slowly, she pulled the chamber out from under the bed and squatted. Millie came in carrying a tin tray. She didn’t look at Annie but plunked the tray on top of the washstand, pushing aside her sister’s stays, which were draped there.

“Tea’s finished, so’s the bread.”

“Can’t you–”

“No. There’s no more tick.”

Her face was sullen and Annie could feel her own anger rising. Ungrateful bint. She got up from the pot and Millie handed her one of the cracked cups, took the other, and sat on the one chair by the bed. Annie inspected her cup, half-filled with insipid tea, held it in both hands, and took a cautious sip.

“Ugh, what’d you do, wave a tea leaf at it?”

“Don’t drink it if you don’t like it.”

“What’s up with you?”

“It’d be nice for once to have a bit of money. You took all of it.”

“Sod it, Millie, I had to pay for the medicine, didn’t I?”

“What medicine?”

“What medicine? My ear lugs must be plugged up.”

She put down her cup, and opened the drawer of the washstand.

“Here.” She thrust a brown paper bag at Millie.

Reluctantly Millie opened it.

“What is it?”

“Those are special herbs.”

“Where from?”

“A woman of my acquaintance.”

“How d’you know they’ll work?”

“They will, believe me.”

For the first time, Millie looked directly at her sister, caught by her tone.

Annie shrugged. “Never mind that now. Come on. No sense in dawdling. You have to stew the whole lot in boiling water for half an hour, then you drink two cups every two hours until–well, until it works.”

Millie put the bag on the washstand and averted her head.

“I’m not going to do it.”

“What do you mean, ‘I’m not going to do it.’ Do we have a choice, my lady?”

Her sister began to weep, sniffy infuriating cries.

“I want to keep the baby.”

“Then what? You’ve already bin warned. One more day off and you’ll get canned.”

“I was sick. I couldn’t help it.”

“And when the kid’s sick and can’t help it, do you think the boss’ll understand? Bloody hell, Millie, you’re a nickel girl, if that. They won’t hold no job for you. And don’t think you can count on me to watch the squawler.”

“Don’t worry, I wouldn’t consider it.”

“What then?”

Millie swallowed hard.

“I could put it up for adoption. There are lots of decent people who haven’t been able to have a baby of their own. Rich people.”

Annie slapped her hard across the face and Millie screamed out.

“What’s that for?”

“To wake you up, you stupid tart. It’s easy to say that now when the thing is just gas in your stomach. Wait until it grows and moves and then comes out, a sodding flesh-and-blood baby. See if you want to let it go then. You might as well try to cut off your arm or your leg and give that away.”

“Annie!”

“I never thought you’d be this stupid, Millie.” She grabbed up the brown bag. “Here. Go and make the brew. I’ll stay with you while you go through it even if I have to cut work.”

Millie was sobbing in earnest. “I can’t…it’s him inside me, Annie. I’m carrying John. I can’t get rid of his baby.”

Annie grabbed her sister by the arms, and started to shake her.

“You nocky bint. Do you think he cared a piss where he dipped his beak? Do you? Answer me. I want an answer, you mardy tit. Do you think he cared which doodle sack he put it in? Carrying John my arse. He’s bunked off, hasn’t he? Like they all do.”

Mildred’s hair was coming loose with the violence of the shaking, and although she didn’t fight back she was shocked into some semblance of backbone.

“He might be ill. That might be why he hasn’t come to church. You don’t know, Annie. You think you know everything but you don’t.”

Annie let her go in disgust.

“I know he’s like any other flash man, lots of glib-glab, pushing to have a bit, and before you know there’s a bun in the basket and no husband to be seen.”

“He loves me, Annie, I know he does.”

“Good. Good. If that’s the case he’ll marry you, won’t he?”

Millie shook her head. “I told you it’s not possible. He’ll lose his job. His employer is very strict.”

“You’re a little liar, Millie Brogan. That’s not the only reason. He can get another job. What is it? Is the sly arse married already?”

“No!”

“What then?”

“I can’t say, you’ll think the worst.”

Annie raised her hand. “Tell me!”

“He’s betrothed.”

Annie snorted. “Ha. Well that’s one engagement that’s meant to be broken.” She pulled off her nightgown and reached for her stays. “Come on.”

“Where?”

“We’re going to have a chat with John–what’s the sod’s name again?”

“Meredith.”

“Merry Dick?”

“Annie!”

“Where does Mr. Merry Dick live?”

“Annie, we can’t go there.”

“We can and we will.”

Millie lowered her head stubbornly but Annie yanked her hard by the hair, forcing her to look up.

“Would you rather I have a whisper in Reverend Jeffery’s hairy ear? What would your good friends think about that?”

Her sister flinched, then said, “He’s in service but I’m not sure where–a big house on Jarvis Street. He showed me once after church.”

“Too bad it wasn’t the only thing he showed you.”

She let her go, then picked up the corset.

“Here, help me with this.”

She held her breath while her sister laced her up.

“Give me my hairbrush.”

Millie opened the drawer of the washstand and scrabbled through the jammed contents.

“It isn’t here.”

She started to look in the cupboard below, but Annie called out.

“Stop! It’s not in there.”

However, Millie saw the album that was stuffed at the back of the washstand. It was a deep blue colour with gilt letters that spelled Friends. Before Annie could prevent her she took it out.

“What’s this?”

Annie snatched it away.

“Never mind. It’s mine.”

“Where did you get it?”

“I said never mind.” She thrust it under her pillow. “Now come on. Find that brush else I’ll do something to make you hurry.”

Millie swallowed a sob. “Sometimes I think you hate me.”

Once again, Annie caught her sister by the arms and gave her a shake but this time she was softer. “Silly bint. Of course I don’t. I’m your sister, aren’t I? Haven’t I always looked out for you?” She gave her a kiss on the mouth. “Get yourself fixed up, little Sissie, we’re going to pay a call on Mr. John Merry Dick.”

 

With the two boys running beside him as fast as they could, Murdoch pedalled along Wilton towards River Street, which was only three blocks away. At the corner a small crowd of the curious had already gathered. George pointed to the house on the northwest corner, a dilapidated dwelling badly in need of paint.

“That’s us,” he panted. The short run had left both boys gasping.

Murdoch dismounted and, blowing his claghorn, pushed his bicycle through the edge of the crowd.

“Police! Make way! Come on, let me through.”

The onlookers parted willingly, calling out to him.

“What’s up, mister, what’s happening?”

Eager faces gaped at him. It seemed he wasn’t the only one whose morning had been dull.

“I’ll be sworn if you want, sir,” cried out one of the men.

Murdoch nodded in acknowledgement and opened the rusty gate in the iron railing that ran around the house. George and Freddie were close on his heels and he beckoned to the older boy.

“Hold my wheel. Don’t let anybody touch it on pain of death.”

“Yes, sir,” said George and he looked proud. Freddie stayed right beside him.

A woman was sitting on the steps, her face buried in her apron. She was rocking back and forth, making strange keening sounds. A thin, grey-haired man was standing beside her, his hand on her shoulder.

“That’s our Lily,” called George. “She’s the missus’s daughter. She’s a dummy.”

Murdoch walked closer and the grey-haired man greeted him with relief.

“I’m Clarence Daly, a neighbour.” He waved vaguely in the direction of one of the houses. “Lily here just clapped eyes on her mother.” He patted her shoulder, kindly. “She don’t hear nothing or talk much so I can’t explain to her.”

“I’m Acting Detective Murdoch. Where’s the woman in question?”

“I’ll show you,” said Daly.

At that moment the crowd stirred again as Constable Crabtree, slightly red and sweaty from his fast jog to the scene, pushed his way to the gate. Murdoch was wearing his everyday clothes, fedora, brown tweed jacket and trousers. The woman on the steps had hardly seemed to pay him any attention. Crabtree, however, was in his navy-blue police uniform. He was a formidable man, easily six foot three, and his high rounded helmet added another good eight inches. The woman looked up and saw him come through the gate. She gave a high-pitched cry, an almost doglike yelp, and scrambled to her feet. Before anyone could divine her intention, she jumped down from the steps and bolted along the side of the house. Immediately, Murdoch leaped after her and caught her as she tried to climb over the fence. He managed to grab hold of her arm but she screamed such a dreadful cry that he momentarily loosened his grip. She wrenched herself free and shoved him violently away. Off balance, he fell backwards on the ground, sprawling awkwardly. The woman half rolled, half vaulted over the low railing and ran off at full speed, disappearing almost at once into a laneway. A couple of boys started off in pursuit, but their mother yelled to them and they stopped like hungry hounds thwarted in the chase. The onlookers all stirred excitedly but nobody else followed the woman. Crabtree came over to Murdoch, who was scrambling to his feet, a touch embarrassed by his ungraceful fall.

“Shall I go after her?” the constable asked.

“Not now,” said Murdoch, brushing dust from his trousers. “Let’s go inside.”

Daly hovered at the top of the steps.

“She’s a high-strung girl that one,” he said to Murdoch, like a host apologizing for a misbehaving child. He ushered them into the hallway. Uncarpeted stairs were directly ahead. To the left was a door hung with ornate burgundy portieres.

“In there,” said Daly.

Murdoch pushed aside the curtains and entered the parlour. The room was small, hot, and dark. The stench was overpowering and there was the heavy drone of sated flies. He waited a moment to let his eyes get accustomed to the gloom. The body of a woman was lying on her back close to the hearth, her head resting on the brass fender.

He turned to the man hovering behind him in the doorway.

“Mr. Daly, I’d thank you to stand outside for the moment.”

“Right, sir.” He happily obeyed.

Murdoch went over to fireplace, negotiating his way through the furniture that crammed the room. It was obvious the woman had been dead for several hours. Flies were crawling over her face, in her eyes and open mouth. Her skin was grey. Gently, he tried to move the chin. It was stiff, the rigor of death firmly established. He called to the constable, who had stayed in the hall.

“Crabtree, come in here, would you?”

The constable entered, grimacing as the odour hit his nose. Death had loosened the woman’s bowels.

“Help me turn her.”

Together they rolled the rigid body on its side. The post mortem staining in both of her hands and fingers was clearly visible. Black felt slippers were half-on, half-off her feet and in the bare heels was the same purple coloration. She had died in the position they found her. She was wearing a grey flannel dressing robe and an old-fashioned white mobcap. A few strands of hair of an unnatural auburn tint had escaped and draggled about her face, looking like rivulets of bloody tears.

“Hold her up for a minute, will you, Crabtree?”

Near the base of the skull, the cap was marked with a rust-coloured stain. Gingerly, Murdoch lifted up the edge. The hair was matted underneath with what he assumed was blood.

“Hard bash to the noggin by the look of it.”

Crabtree grunted. “Seems that way, sir.”

Murdoch looked at him. “Don’t tell me you’re having trouble with this bit of weight? You’re our Samson.”

“It’s not the weight, sir, it’s the smell.”

“Put her back then.”

Crabtree started to lower the body to the ground but as he did so, Murdoch felt something in the right pocket of the woman’s robe.

“Wait a minute.”

He pulled out a plain envelope, unmarked and unsealed. He opened the flap and looked inside. He whistled. Stuffed in the envelope were several banknotes. Ten fifty-dollar bills to be exact.

“That’s a nice bit of dosh. Wonder where she got it?”

“From the look of her, sir, that money would have to be a lifetime’s earnings.”

Murdoch tucked the money into his inner pocket out of harm’s way. He’d find out who had the right to it later.

“All right to put her down now, sir?”

“Fine.”

“Can I open the windows?”

“Break them if you have to before we choke.”

Murdoch gazed down at the corpse, to which the flies had returned. The front placket of the nightgown was splotched with brownish stains and similar smudges were on her chin and neck. Even with all the other odours it was easy to detect the smell of beer. There was an overturned jug close beside her on the left. He picked it up and sniffed at the dregs, then he sat back on his heels and looked around. The parlour was the same size as his sitting room but contained easily twice as much furniture. The mantelpiece in front of him was black mahogany and draped with a purple satin cloth. The fender, the unwitting perpetrator of her death, was solid brass. No fire had been laid. The coating of dust was like a second skin on every surface. An oaken sideboard was against the far wall, and taking up most of the space beneath the window where Crabtree was currently breathing in fresh air was a massive rolltop desk of burled walnut. Very nobby. To the right of the door was a Turkish couch of crimson velour, partly covered with a sateen comforter. A pillow lay on the floor. He assumed this room had served as Mrs. Shaw’s bedchamber. And dining room by the look of it. Dotted about the room were several used plates and dishes. One such was sitting on a nearby Morris chair and it was caked with a lemony residue that the flies were enjoying. Looked like pudding.

“Shall I send somebody for the coroner now, sir?”

“Yes, we’d better do that before she corrupts on the spot. Make sure none of those men come in until they’re sworn.”

The constable wrinkled his nose.

“Disgusting piece, isn’t she?”

Murdoch had to agree. One can’t really help loose jowls or bad teeth if she hadn’t the money to fix them. Nevertheless when Crabtree had left, Murdoch made the sign of the cross over the body and said a brief prayer for the woman’s immortal soul.

 

By two o’clock, thirteen men had been sworn for the coroner’s jury and they were jammed into the tiny room. Their first job was to view the body and even with the door and windows open, the heat and smell were overpowering. Arthur Johnson was the coroner and he was showing signs of impatience. Legally the jury had to be made up of a minimum of “twelve just men and true,” but as they received no remuneration most men were reluctant to serve. It meant that if they were working they would lose pay. On his first sortie into the neighbourhood Crabtree hadn’t been able to find more than ten willing to be sworn. Finally he peremptorily grabbed two passersby, two brothers who happened to be walking down River Street on their way to the market. They weren’t pleased but they had no choice.

“Pay attention now,” said Johnson. “The sooner I get done, the sooner you can all breathe fresh air again. I’m going to point out some things to you.”

The men, who had been grumbling among themselves, quieted down. Murdoch had positioned himself slightly behind the coroner’s back so he could see properly. It was apparent the man next to him had recently been tucking into a meal of boiled beef and cabbage. With onions on the side. Murdoch turned around. He could see the top of Crabtree’s helmet by the door. He hoped the man was all right. He still looked rather nauseous. Not that Murdoch blamed him. He, himself, was trying to breathe as shallowly as he could.

“Right now, listen carefully.” The coroner bent over the corpse, pointing for emphasis as he talked. “The woman has been dead several hours. The rigidity of death which we call rigor mortis has set in completely. Notice that purple-coloured marking on her hands and feet. There, look! if you can’t see move forward. You ones in front, crouch down so the others can see.”

Three or four men did so.

One of the men muttered something about this being closer than he ever got to his old lady, but the responding titters were quickly squashed by Johnson’s frown.

“The staining is termed lividity. It’s where it should be. The blood settles in the lowest extremities and this tells us she hasn’t been shifted from the position where she died. I can’t turn the head, she’s still too stiff. That’ll start releasing fairly soon.” He grinned at the men. “It’s after that the fun and games begin. The skin’ll turn black, maggots are everywhere, and before long not even her own child would know her.”

The jurors with the more vivid imaginations shifted uneasily.

“If we roll her on her side, like so, you can see some blood on the back of her cap.” He waited while they peered at the mark. “She stinks of ale. There are stains on her robe and there was a jug right next to her. I’ve put it on that table. There were beer dregs in it. As you can see she’s lying on top of the fender. There’s a tiny mark of blood there. No, it’s all right, you don’t have to all move. You can take my word for it. There are no obvious signs of violence on the body, the room is not disturbed. It’s a disgusting mess but that’s not the same thing.”

Some of the men laughed, glad to relieve the tension.

“I assume therefore that the woman got herself pie-eyed, fell, and connected her head with the fender in a manner so as to crack her skull.”

“Is that what killed her, sir?” asked Clarence Daly, who was one of those subpoenaed as a juror.

“That’s what I’m suggesting, isn’t it? Any better ideas?”

The men variously shook their heads. More than one of them had had the experience of falling down drunk.

“We’ll know for sure after the post mortem examination,” Johnson continued. “Now who is she? One of you must know her, surely.”

“I do,” said another man.

“And who are you? Speak up so the constable can write it down.”

“My name’s Dick Meadows. I live down the street a piece. Her name was Dolly Shaw.”

“Do you know her to be a heavy drinker?” asked Johnson.

“Worse than any judge if you ask me, sir.”

There was a chuckle at his little joke, but the coroner glared. “I don’t want to hear any impertinence from you men. This is a serious matter.”

“Sorry, sir.” Meadows tugged at the brim of his hat in deference.

“Detective Murdoch here has found some money on the woman’s person. Anybody know anything about that? What did she do for a living? Daly, do you know?”

“I don’t think she did anything, sir,” answered Daly. “Leastwise not that I saw. She has a grown daughter and she takes in washing. There are two nippers live with her but they’re too young to bring in much.”

An older man with a long unkempt beard spoke up. “I’ve lived on this street for ten years, sir. Dolly Shaw came here three years ago. There’s never been a whisper that she had muck. She was always begging and borrowing from the neighbours as I heard.”

There was a murmur of assent.

Johnson shrugged. “She most likely didn’t want it known she had any savings. Why you people don’t put money in the banks where it belongs, I’ll never understand. Any questions so far?”

There weren’t.

“I’ll fix the inquest for Monday morning at ten o’clock. We might as well hold it at Humphrey’s. That’s the undertaker on Yonge Street for those of you who don’t know. Just north of Wilton Street on the west side. The doctors usually like to do the post mortem examination there.”

“Excuse me, sir.” A broad-shouldered man with a wide, red-veined face put up his hand. “I’m on the night shift at the Dominion Brewery. I have to get my kip in or I’m a goner.”

Johnson called over to Crabtree.

“Constable, how many jurors did you say we have?”

“Thirteen, sir.”

“All right then, you’re lucky, young fellow. Seeing as we’re only required to have twelve you’re excused. Everybody else, I will see you at ten o’clock. Sharp, do you hear! We’ll have the doctor’s report by then and anything else Detective Murdoch digs up.”

The men began to shuffle out, a burst of chatter released among them. One of them accidentally trod on a plate that was on the floor. Irritably, he wiped his boot clean on the carpet. Whatever the food had been, it wasn’t identifiable. Maybe mashed potatoes.

“Do you have an ambulance outside?” the coroner asked Murdoch.

“Yes, sir.”

“Take the body over to Humphrey’s. Let’s get on promptly.” He waved his hand. “This weather, the sooner we put her under the better.”

Murdoch heartily agreed.