CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Murdoch returned to the Shaw house first thing the next morning. George’s body had been moved to the undertakers on Yonge Street, but where he had lain was demarcated by the stencil of congealed blood on the oilcloth. Murdoch went over to the place, standing in the clean area as much as possible. He was near the large pine cupboard. One of the doors was unfastened and he opened it. Inside were a few plates and bowls, some chipped mugs. He pretended to reach for something. One blow from behind, he staggered forward; another blow to the neck and he crumbled to the floor, falling sideward. His position fitted exactly with the angle of George’s body and suggested his assailant had come from around the table. Was that who was eating the bread and cheese? It didn’t make sense that George had surprised a stranger, some thief breaking in for a bit of supper. He would not have advanced into the room if he perceived he was in danger.
Murdoch sat down at the table, taking the chair that faced the door. The used plate was directly in front of him, the loaf of bread at his right hand. The murder weapon was a bread knife. What seemed likely was that George entered the kitchen, saw the person, but wasn’t perturbed enough to turn and run. In fact, at some point he went toward the cupboard. Was there a quarrel? Some provocation so severe that the other person snatched the bread knife, ran at George from behind and delivered two powerful blows. The first wound punctured the lung and a fine spray of blood had covered the corner of the table. There were several sheets hanging on a rack between the windows. The ones closest to the cupboard looked as if they had been dyed pink. Murdoch rubbed one of them between his fingers. It was good quality linen. Somebody was going to be missing their laundry soon.
Given that the murder looked like an unpremeditated act, Murdoch expected that the killer panicked and ran out, most likely by the shortest route to the door. That would take them right across the path of the body and the blood. He crouched down and moved slowly forward. Nothing that he could see, just some scuff marks and bits of mud which were probably left by the jurors who had viewed the body.
He spent the next half hour examining the kitchen, but could find nothing else that seemed relevant to the murder. He was glad to move on to the rest of the house. Reenacting the attack had brought back disturbing memories. He knew the shock and pain of an unexpected blow. His father had landed many of them. Worse had been the sight of his young brother, Albert, knocked senseless for some misdemeanour he had no awareness of. Murdoch’s own rage churned biliously in his stomach. It had not diminished after all these years. Murderous anger was an emotion he could understand.
He went into the parlour, opening the curtains this time and thrusting up all the window sashes. Mrs. Daly had spoken about an album. An important book by the sound of it. He hadn’t seen it the first time he examined the room but he had more idea now of what he was looking for.
For the next hour he searched thoroughly, taking up the carpet, a once-luxurious Axminster, moving aside all the grand furniture. Nothing. He wondered if he’d misinterpreted the money in Dolly’s pocket. Perhaps she herself intended to pay somebody. According to the neighbours she owed money. Maybe one of her creditors got fed up with waiting. Lost his temper and sent her off. That possibility didn’t sit right though and he felt frustrated. Once again there were too many paths to go down. He left and went upstairs.
Lily’s room was untouched as far as he could see but he sieved through it again just in case. It yielded nothing.
The boys’ room was also the same as he’d seen it last. He’d done no more than a perfunctory search before. The room was so bare and, at that point, he didn’t suspect either of the two boys. Perhaps he was wrong. He remembered the whispers while he was in Lily’s room. Were they hiding evidence? If so, what?
When he was about George’s age he’d started to steal tobacco plugs from his father. His father hadn’t seemed to notice and young Murdoch chawed away, savouring not the bitter taste but the defiance, the secret victory. He kept the stash under his mattress and was never found out.
Murdoch went over to the bed and with a heave turned over the mattress. It was filthy but intact, and nothing lay underneath it on the iron bedsprings. However, the one pillow fell to the floor and he could see wool stuffing dribbling out of one end. He picked it up and patted it. There was something firm in the middle. Too small to be the album, but something hidden. He fished inside and his fingers came in contact with what felt like a roll of paper. He pulled it out in a flurry of wool bits which stuck to his fingers like Golding’s tubercles. He shook them off and unwrapped the bundle, which was in a piece of the Globe. Inside was a wad of bills, mostly one dollar in denomination. He counted them. Forty-three dollars. He couldn’t believe the money was George’s or Freddie’s. They would be lucky to have twenty-five cents to their name. He probed the pillow’s innards again and this time plucked out a leather cord at the end of which dangled a small brass key. Looked like the missing desk key.
He riffled the notes. Forty-three dollars wasn’t a lot of money but perhaps enough to kill for if you were as destitute as these boys were. He folded the wad and put it in one of his envelopes. He would have discarded the newspaper, but suddenly a photograph caught his eye. A group of people on a lawn. In the centre was his honour, Walter Pedlow, seated with a rug over his legs. A younger man was to his right. Murdoch peered closer. The picture was fuzzy but he recognized this fellow. He was the one who had partnered Annie Brogan at the Derby. The too-long hair and thick moustache were unmistakable. He read the caption. “His honour, Walter Pedlow, at the reception of his nephew, Henry, recently returned from India. Mrs. Walter Pedlow is to the left of her husband and their ward, Miss Sarah Carswell, is directly in front of her.”
Maud had her head turned away from the camera. Somebody had circled the child’s face.
Murdoch felt a flush of excitement. Don’t tell me there’s no connection between Dolly Shaw and the Pedlows. Never heard of the woman, my eye! And why is Henry Pedlow hanging around Annie Brogan if they’re all such total strangers? The date of the paper was at the top, Wednesday, July 17, and there was a brownish stain across the side that looked like blood. He placed it in the envelope with the money.
There was nothing else in the room, just the fetid stink of misery.
It was approaching noon when he got back to the station. As he entered, the duty sergeant, Seymour of the sour puss, called him over.
“Package for you, Will, just arrived.”
He handed him a large brown envelope. It had the coroner’s seal on the back and Murdoch took it with him to his cubicle at the rear. He felt as if the smell of death clung to his clothes and he removed his jacket, putting it on the peg by the door. Her Majesty watched him benignly.
Vaux, the coroner, had sent on a copy of the doctor’s post mortem examination.
This is to certify that I, Robert Joseph Grieg, a legally qualified physician of the city of Toronto, did this day make a post mortem examination upon the body of a person identified as George Tucker, with the following result.
The body is that of a youth of about thirteen years of age, undernourished. Genitalia is mature. Rigor mortis was resolving with some remaining rigidity in the feet. Abdominal organs, kidneys, normal in size. There were signs of worm infestation in the lower bowel. Both legs were curved concavely. In my opinion evidence of childhood rickets. The entire chest cavity and pleura were filled with blood, the result of two stab wounds to the back, one close to the left scapula, and approximately seven and one half inches below the occiput, the other slightly higher, that is six inches from the occiput but the same distance from the scapula. Both wounds punctured the left lung. The third wound was at the junction of the left clavicle and the thoracic vertebrae. This wound severed the aorta. The knife had penetrated to a depth of four inches. Most of the body’s blood had drained from these wounds. The murder weapon is an ordinary kitchen knife with a saw-tooth edge and a bone handle. In my opinion all blows were administered with great force from above by a person who is right-handed. Respectfully submitted, Robert Grieg M. D.
The language was cool and clinical, as it should be, but Murdoch felt troubled by what it meant in human terms. Dr. Grieg had written, “genitalia mature,” but George Tucker was far from adulthood in size and strength. He’d had so little comfort in his short life and the brutality of his death was surely undeserved.
Murdoch returned the report to the envelope and stood up. He needed to be active. He left his cubicle and went to the off-duty room to see who was there. Crabtree was sitting at the table and he was about to take a big swallow from a bottle of stout.
“Wait!”
Startled, Crabtree halted, the bottle held in midair.
“Let me have a sip, I’m parched.”
Surprised, Crabtree handed over the bottle. Murdoch paused. He thought Brackenreid was as full of wind as a barber’s cat but…he sniffled at the bottle, the rich smell of stout wafting up to him. What now? If he himself dropped dead in violent spasms it wouldn’t necessarily help Crabtree. The constable was watching him curiously.
“Something wrong, sir?”
“Did you open this yourself?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What are you eating?”
“Some bread and ham that my wife put up.” He looked uneasy. “You’ve been talking to the inspector, haven’t you? He keeps dropping these peculiar hints that somebody is trying to poison me.”
“It’s not out of the question,” Murdoch said reluctantly. “How’s your stomach?”
“Not too good, sir. Bit of the cramps.”
While he was speaking, he took out a small pillbox and shook four green-coloured tablets into his palm.
“What’s that?”
“Strengthening pills the inspector gave me. He got them from the Sears catalogue. Special order.”
“Can I have a look?”
Crabtree gave him the pillbox and Murdoch sniffled at it.
“Smells like almonds.”
“That’s the flavouring.”
“Hey, hold on, Crabtree, it says here to take four a day. At intervals. Why are you taking them all at once?”
“I’m not exactly. The inspector recommended that I increase the dosage seeing as I’m big. I’m taking four pills six times a day.”
“Maybe you should cut it back. They may be upsetting your stomach.”
Crabtree looked dubious. “The inspector was insistent, Mr. Murdoch. You know how he is.”
“I certainly do. Look, lend me the box for a couple of hours. I’ll do a bit of research.”
“I don’t think–”
“I’ll take full responsibility.”
“All right. But I wouldn’t take too long if I were you, sir.”
Murdoch put the pillbox in his pocket.
“I’m off to see the Brogan woman. See what she has to say for herself this time.”
“Dreadful to think of that poor lad being done in like he was.”
“I want to make sure the other young titch isn’t going to be sent off either. If he’s still alive that is. Crabtree, don’t buy any apples from ugly old women.”
“Sir?”
“Never mind, just joking you.”
Murdoch left, realizing he hadn’t tasted the stout and feeling like a yellow coward as a result. Mr. Bright the druggist was standing in exactly the same place behind the counter as when Murdoch had seen him previously. He beamed a smile of recognition as the detective entered the shop.
“I’ve another request, Mr. Bright.”
“Ask away. Anything to help safeguard the law.”
Murdoch gave him the pillbox.
“Can you tell me what are the ingredients of these tablets?” He paused and glanced around the little shop. “A man’s life could be saved. A good man too. A strong Christian.”
The druggist looked solemn, as befitted the responsibility.
“I’ll run some tests. Can’t get back to you ’til later this afternoon, though.”
“That would be fine. I’ll drop by.”
“You don’t need to. We’ve a telephone put in. Just last week. See?” He pointed proudly behind him where a shiny black walnut box was fastened to the wall. “I can call you up at the station as soon as I’ve done.”
Murdoch thanked him. He felt obliged to show his appreciation more tangibly because he didn’t think Mr. Bright had much custom.
“Do you have anything for sweetening the breath?”
“Wife complained, has she?”
Murdoch murmured unintelligibly.
“Is it teeth or tobacco? Causing the problem, I mean. If it’s teeth, I’ve got whole line of homeopathic tinctures that’ll take away pain and odour both. If it’s tobacco, I’ve got some cachous that’d make Beezelbub himself acceptable.”
“Should work for me then. I’ll take a tin of those.”
Warming to his task, Mr. Bright began to suggest other remedies for ills that Murdoch sincerely hoped he’d never have. He managed to withstand the Peruvian wine of coca for strengthening and the electricating liniment for sprains but succumbed to a few sticks of olive wax pomatum for his hair.
His package stuffed in his pocket, he edged out of the shop, Mr. Bright still suggesting medicines he might like.
As he stepped outside, he almost collided with a young woman who was walking at a brisk pace down Parliament Street.
He tipped his hat. “Sorry, ma’am.”
Initially the woman was prepared to be cross at his clumsiness, but suddenly she smiled up at him.
“Mr. Murdoch. What a surprise.”
For a moment, he didn’t recognize the chubby, rose-cheeked face below him, then he realized it was his dancing partner from the previous evening. She was soberly dressed today in a charcoal-coloured silk cape and black skirt. Only in the crimson plumage and cherries that decorated her straw hat were there indications of the little exotic bird he’d danced with.
“Miss er…”
“Kirkpatrick. Clarice. I do hope the matter wasn’t too dreadfully serious that made you run off like that.”
“Unfortunately, it was.”
She gazed up at him curiously but he didn’t elaborate. He never talked about police work if he could avoid it. People had very odd reactions.
“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” he asked her.
“I’m going to work.” She giggled a little. “I’m always late and today won’t be any exception.” She pointed down the street. “I work at Heineman’s on King Street. I sing the latest songs for people to hear before they purchase the sheet.”
“How marvellous.”
“You should come and hear me sometime. You can pretend to be a customer. They’ll never know.”
“Thank you. I will.”
Miss Kirkpatrick had pretty blue eyes which were twinkling at him, but she wasn’t a coquette, rather a simple, open-hearted young woman.
“Promise?”
He smiled. “I promise.”
“And will you be at the next dance party?”
“Only a tidal wave would stop me.”
The red cherries bounced a little as she lowered her head with a blush.
“I’ll say good afternoon then, and be on my way. I don’t want to get sacked.”
Murdoch watched her briefly, admiring the jauntiness of her steps. The encounter warmed him. He sighed and retrieved his wheel from the curb. He didn’t expect his next meeting would be as pleasant.