Poor Tom Is Cold (13 page)

“Can we at least have a jug or two of Dominion?” asked John Shaw, who was a coal merchant. His jacket and flannel shirt were clean enough, but around his neck and wrists the skin was dark with coal dust. He considered it weakened you to bathe more than once a month. A tarry odour of coal emanated from him but it wasn’t totally unpleasant. Better than the smell of hides coming from Emery Nixon, the tanner.

“Why don’t we just get on with it? Cast our vote now,” said Chamberlin, who was an avid temperance man.

“You’re the one who’s been insisting on going over everything like you’re combing your head for lice,” interjected Jabez Clarke. “In my view the constable was a silly arse lad who thought it mattered what woman you get a bit of dock with. As for me, I’m as confused as a priest in a brothel. In other words, gentlemen, soon as the lassie with the lovely tiddies stood up, I knew at once where to put my vote – and my member.” Clarke was a corset salesman for Mr. Simpson’s store. Perhaps in reaction to the need to be constantly deferential and discreet, when in male company he was unremittingly vulgar. Some of the men considered him a wag, some did not.

“Show some respect, Mr. Clarke,” said Gibb.

“No offence meant.” He flicked his heavy moustache, which was an unnaturally black tint, as was his thick, glossy hair.

Gibb laid down his pipe and picked up the ledger where he’d been taking notes.

“Is everybody ready then?”

A chorus of “ays” but one man shook his head.

“I hate to see the lad’s mother destitute. And she will be if she don’t get that insurance money,” said Mr. Bright, an elflike man with large ears. He was a druggist who had his shop on Parliament Street.

“I feel the same way,” said Gibb, “but our job is to find the truth and we must present that unflinchingly.
I’m afraid we cannot worry about the consequences.”

“Why not?” interjected James Slade. “We are decent Christian men after all.”

Gibb took a long pull on his pipe but, before he could answer, Chamberlin spoke up.

“Jarius is right. Unpleasant as that may prove to be, our duty is to present the truth as we see it. What happens after that is out of our hands. I say we should vote.”

“Hear, hear,” agreed Stevenson. “I might even be able to get to work and not be totally out of pocket.”

Gain, who was at the far end of the table, waved his pipe to get Gibb’s attention.

“There’s something niggling at me, Mr. Foreman. It’s about the food.”

“I promise I’ll send for dinner as soon as we’re done …”

“No, I don’t mean that. I mean the food the doctor said was in Mr. Wicken’s stomach. When did he eat it?”

“I don’t quite follow …”

“According to what I’m looking at here, the constable ate his meat and cheese shortly before he died. If he shot himself at one o’clock, after his sweetheart had given him the push, when did he eat?”

The rest of the jurors were regarding him with some exasperation.

“You would be the one to focus on that,” said Slade.

“I’m quite serious. Think about it for a minute. Here’s your lady-love breaking it off; you’re not going to be
munching on your sandwich while she’s telling you that. So she leaves; would you eat then? Doesn’t seem likely to me. You’d be more likely to go off your feed than not.”

“Well, it’s obvious you’ve never been lovelorn, Mr. Gain,” said Stevenson, and the others chuckled.

“Thomas has got a point,” said Chamberlin. “People have been known to fade away to nothing when they’re pining. But usually they’re women.”

“I’ve known the exact opposite,” said Slade. “One of my customers had a cousin who lost his fiancée in a boating accident. He couldn’t stop eating. Built up over fifty pounds in less than a month. It can go either way.”

The jurors looked as if they were about to plunge into a lively argument, but Gibb called them to order.

“I thank Mr. Gain for bringing up this matter but we’re missing the point. The time of death is approximate. It’s impossible to pinpoint exactly. It could be earlier. And Miss Trowbridge was not clear as to when she left Wicken. He probably had plenty of time to polish off his sandwich before he met her.” He smiled at them. “And speaking of polishing off, let’s do it.”

“One thing I can’t get off my mind is his mother saying she wasn’t aware of a fiancée,” said Bright.

“Of course she’s going to say that,” said Slade. “She don’t want a suicide verdict. She needs the money bad.” He fished in his waistcoat pocket, pulled out an enamel snuffbox, took a pinch of snuff, and sneezed satisfactorily.
“Don’t forget, there’s an invalid sister to take care of.”

“Are you for a verdict of death by his own hand then?” asked Gibb.

“Absolutely. It’s crystal clear that’s what the fool did.”

“The patrol sergeant and the detective seemed to think differently,” said Bright.

“They’re going to stick with their own, aren’t they? Nobody wants to admit a police officer shot himself.” Slade shook out another pinch of snuff onto the back of his hand and inhaled it. He didn’t offer any around.

“Gentlemen? Other comments?” Gibb asked.

“You haven’t said much yourself, Jarius,” said Curran. “We’d like to know your views.”

Gibb leaned back in his chair, tapping the stem of his pipe on the table. “If it wasn’t by his own hand, whose was it by? There’s no sign of a fight, or a disturbance. He didn’t seem to have any more enemies than normally go to a police officer. He’s in that vacant house for no other reason. Think of it, if you were going to do yourself in, where would you go? Not home where your mother is going to find you. You’d want to spare her that. Not at the station where there’s people about all the time. You’d want a bit of privacy. Time to compose yourself to meet your Maker. I have to say that it all adds up the same way, no matter what direction I put the sums. He was plunged into a state of extreme melancholy by the rejection of his fiancée. She told us he was of a jealous and highly strung disposition.
When she left, he must have stood there mulling things over, getting more and more het up. His mind goes completely, he takes out his revolver and shoots himself. My verdict is for suicide. I’m truly sorry for his mother and wish I could say otherwise but I can’t. None of us here present is so old we don’t know what it feels like to have a woman turn you down. Am I right in this?”

“Right,” said George Griffin, the butcher. He spoke with such vigour, the others stared at him and he squirmed. “I had more backbone than that constable but love sure does put you in a miserable state.”

“Shall we take the vote then so Mr. Shaw can have his beer before he faints away? Here’s some paper; pens are in that box. Write down ‘ay’ and the word ‘suicide,’ or ‘nay’ and ‘cause of death unknown.’ Add your name.”

He handed around the slips of paper. Inkwells had been placed in front of each place and for a few moments there was only the sound of pens scratching.

Jarius wrote down his own vote and began to collect the slips as the men finished. All were done but one.

“Mr. Griffin, your paper, if you please.”

“Coming.”

The butcher was not much used to writing and he formed his letters as slowly and carefully as if he were in the classroom. Finally he passed the folded paper to Gibb, who looked at it.

“That’s it then.” Gibb recorded the votes on his sheet and placed them all in an envelope. He got to his feet
and addressed the men in front of him, reading from a card. “By a unanimous vote, we the jury here present do upon our oath all say that at the city of Toronto on the eleventh day of November, 1895, from injuries received by a pistol fired by his own hand, the deceased, Oliver Wicken, came to his death.”

“So be it,” added Chamberlin and there was a corresponding murmur of “amens” from the remaining jurors.

M
ISS
A
NDERSON WAS AT THE PIANO
, singing and accompanying herself to “Onward Christian Soldiers.” She seemed to have a small repertoire, three hymns at the most, which she had been rotating for the last hour. Immediately after luncheon, all the inmates of the ward had been shepherded into the sitting room. Peg hated it at once. It smelled like an institution – carbolic cleaner and not enough fresh air. The chairs and couches were old and shabby, the plush worn threadbare at the arms. The lamps were lit but to her it seemed as if the entire place, including the inhabitants, existed in a grey wash that leached out colours from clothes and faces.

“… with the cross of Jesus going on before.” Miss Anderson’s voice was cracked but still strong enough to reach the unconverted.

If she plays that tune once more I will surely go stark staring mad
.

Realising what she’d just said to herself, Peg had to smile. She got up and walked over to the fireplace where she stood and gazed at the bright, dancing flames, hoping they would burn away the grey film from her eyes. Suddenly she was aware that Shelby, one of the attendants, was watching her. There was something implacable in her attention that made Peg uneasy. So far the attendants had been quite kind but she had the feeling that in this woman’s eyes, once committed as a lunatic, always a lunatic. She was alert for any evidence of what she would see as madness. In spite of the fire, Peg shivered. The knowledge of her own helplessness was cold in her stomach.

There was a tap on her shoulder and she turned around. Mrs. Foster was smiling at her.

“Would you like to take a walk around the room, Mrs. Eakin?”

The older woman seemed to have forgotten totally about their altercation of the previous night and was beaming at her happily. Glad to escape her thoughts, Peg nodded and Mrs. Foster linked arms. They strolled over to the window for all the world as if they were two well-to-do ladies promenading along King Street.

“I’m so glad I have you for a friend,” said Mrs. Foster, giving Peg’s arm a hard squeeze.

In spite of herself, Peg felt a thrill of pleasure. She had always had trouble making friends. She was too stiff and awkward and gave the impression of being
standoffish. For as long as she could remember, she had been trying to understand the subtle signals that seemed to go back and forth between people, making some acceptable and others not.

Miss Green was sitting on the couch next to another attendant, and as they went past she called out in an affronted tone.

“I beg your pardon, I do beg your pardon.”

Peg hesitated, not sure what transgression had occurred.

“Bow to her,” said Mrs. Foster and bobbed in the other woman’s direction.

Peg had already curtsied to Miss Green twice as they passed her in the corridor but she did so again. However, the other woman was not satisfied.

“I beg your pardon,” she said in an even more indignant voice. The attendant stood up quickly and interposed herself between them.

“I think it’s time for you to write your letters, madam. Her Majesty relies on you.”

She led her away to a desk at the far side of the room. Miss Green was well into middle age but she had styled her hair into side ringlets more suitable for a young woman. She was wearing an out-of-fashion dress of green and blue check taffeta. The bodice was tight and the full skirt was pulled back into a bustle with a drape of blue ruffles that cascaded into a long train.

“Poor woman,” said Mrs. Foster. “She gets most upset if she thinks she’s been slighted.”

“What did I do wrong?”

“I don’t know, dear. She’s quite changeable on the matter.”

Mrs. Stratton, the woman Peg had talked to in the bath, was sitting alone on the window bench. She was oddly dressed in a one-piece loose garment of brown holland. It had legs like a man’s trousers and was fastened at the ankles and wrists.

“Good afternoon,” said Mrs. Foster. “May I introduce Mrs. Eakin?”

The woman turned her head but gave no sign of recognition.

“I believe we’ve met,” said Peg.

Mrs. Stratton nodded. “Yes, of course. Do you have children?”

Peg recoiled. “I told you yesterday that I did.”

“They’re all dead, I assume. Murdered no doubt.”

She was saved from answering by Mrs. Foster, who pulled at her arm.

“Come on, my dear. Good afternoon to you, Mrs. Stratton.” She patted Peg’s hand. “Don’t mind her. She has ten fine healthy children, seven of them boys, but she fancies they’re all dead and that her husband murdered them.” She lowered her voice. “It’s been brought on by the change. Poor thing, her flushings are very bad.”

“Why is she wearing that peculiar outfit?”

“That’s what they call an untidy suit. She must be in one of her bad spells. She’s worse than any baby during those times. Wipes her food all over herself. Not to mention her you-know-what.”

“How long has she been in the – in here?” Peg couldn’t bring herself to say the word “asylum.”

“Not that long. She came in last March.” Mrs. Foster continued. “She probably should be on the second floor with the really bad patients. It’s not nearly as nice as our floor. They don’t have any singing or dancing and nobody is allowed sweets.” Suddenly, she stroked Peg’s cheek. “You don’t want to go down there, my dear.”

Peg involuntarily moved away from her touch. “I have no intention of doing so.”

As they turned back toward the fireplace, the door opened and Miss Bastedo, the matron, and two nurses came in. All the attendants stood up in deference and one or two of the patients followed suit. Miss Bastedo was a tall woman, mature and strong featured. Like the rest of the staff, she wore a plain dress of blue wool but she omitted the apron and the cap. Her dark hair was pulled into a tight knot at the nape of her neck. She began her tour of the room, chatting to the patients as she went. Her assistants walked quietly behind her.

Peg could feel her heart beating faster as she approached. She felt as if she had gone backward to her own girlhood and this was one of the mistresses of the
orphanage. Unexpectedly, Mrs. Foster dropped her arm and wandered off in the direction of the hearth, leaving her stranded.

Miss Bastedo halted in front of Peg. “How are you feeling today, Mrs. Eakin? The nurse tells me you are settling down quite nicely.”