Poor Tom Is Cold (2 page)

“The whole pot if you find him safe,” said Hales. “And you’d better take my lamp. But don’t let Gardiner see you if you can help it.”

Murdoch went back to the hall. He managed to whip the lantern off the hook while the duty sergeant was turned away, getting a file from the cabinet. However, Gardiner saw him at the door.

“Where’s my tea? What are you doing, growing it?”

“Hales’s doing it,” muttered Murdoch. “Got-tuh go.”

The sergeant called after him. “Have them all pulled out. You’ll be better off in the long run.”

Murdoch waved his hand.

Outside, dawn was coming in begrudgingly and the rain had slowed to a drizzle. He set off at as fast a pace as he could manage, heading east along Wilton to River Street. Even though moving quickly caused the pain to pulse through to his eye socket, he felt the need to hurry. He couldn’t imagine why the young constable wasn’t on his beat. No one with a brain in his head would take a joke this far and risk losing his job. That left the possibility that something had happened to him and that wasn’t good either.

River Street wasn’t as heavily populated as the other streets in the division and there were several vacant lots. They reminded him of missing teeth, a gap between molars. Quickly, he checked the doors of the houses that were boarded up. On each knob was balanced a small pebble. Wicken’s beat started at the corner of Parliament Street and Gerrard and would have taken him in an easterly direction toward River Street, where he turned south to Queen, back west, then north again up Parliament. During the long night, he walked this square many times, making sure all the God-fearing were safe in their beds. If he had the bad luck to miss any criminal occurrence, such as a break-in, he was held accountable. As far as the chief constable, Lieutenant-Colonel Henry Grasett, was concerned, a crime meant the constable on the beat was remiss in his duty and he was always reprimanded.

Murdoch turned left onto Gerrard and paused, looking down the deserted street. More lamps were showing in the houses now, welcome smudges of light. If the constable had run into any kind of trouble, it had been silent. No one had raised an alarm.

He continued to Parliament Street, past Toronto General and the Burnside lying-in hospital on the north side of Gerrard.
Even as I’m going by, an infant might be squawling its first cry
. His mind skittered away from the thought because that led straight to Liza, and what they had hoped for.
Four children, Will, and then
we’ll see. I’m not going to be one of those women whose job in life is to be a breeding mare
. Murdoch sighed.
Fat lot of good all that nattering did us. There won’t be any at all now
. The memory of her sudden death from typhoid fever, two years ago, was still a cause for anguish.

He forced himself to focus on what he was doing. Across from the hospital grounds was the medical school. Quite a lot of lights burning there. It took him about fifteen minutes to reach Parliament Street but there was absolutely no sign of Wicken. He stopped for a moment until the throbbing in his jaw subsided. On the southeast corner there was another vacant house. It had once been quite grand, but now the windows were boarded up and the front fence was protecting only weeds, colourless and drooping. He squeezed by the stiff iron gate and walked down the path to the front door. Shrubs, heavy with raindrops, brushed against him as he went up a short flight of steps into a deeply recessed porch. Hales’s pebble was where he’d put it. Murdoch knocked it off, turned the doorknob and shoved. The door had lost much of its paint but was solid wood and it didn’t yield. He stepped back, fished out a box of matches from his pocket, and lit the dark lantern. The bull’s-eye beam was bright and strong and he directed it at the windows. They too looked intact, no sign of breakage.

There was a flagged path that branched off to the rear of the house and, pushing his way through the long
grass that had overgrown it, Murdoch tramped around to a high gate that opened into a walled garden. This was neglected and overgrown, but like the house, suggested a former grandeur. To his right was a patio with a fancy design of yellow and red brick. He walked over to the back door. Around the lintel there was a climbing rosebush, two or three frostbitten buds still on their stems. An image of the church window, Christ’s blood on the thorns, jumped into his mind, taking him by surprise with its intensity.

He turned the handle and the door opened easily. He stepped inside.

The light shone on Wicken’s body.

He was lying on his left side, facing the door; his head was uncovered and surrounded by a halo of blood, which had soaked much of his blond hair. His legs were crossed at the ankles and between his thighs was wedged his revolver, barrel uppermost, stiff and protruding like a grotesque symbol of manhood.

P
EG HAD ALREADY WEDGED
one of the armchairs underneath the doorknob, but in a sudden rush of fear, thinking she heard Nathaniel’s voice, she dragged over the chiffonier and pushed it so that it toppled against the chair. There were two doors she had to worry about. This one, which connected with the master bedroom, the other, which opened onto the landing. The latter had been fitted with a bolt some time ago. Nathaniel said this was so he and Harmony could have some privacy from the children. Everything he said had an implied reproach. His previous wife had liked nothing better than to spend time with him alone; she had been loving and compliant.

Not like you. Never like you
.

She went back to reassure herself that the bolt was in place. They would have to break the door down to
get in. She stood still as she could, listening. Whatever she’d heard had gone. The house was silent.

She shivered. There was no longer any heat in the room as she had used up the last piece of coal the night before. The tips of her fingers were cold. Suddenly she caught a glimpse of herself in the chiffonier mirror and she stared, hardly recognising herself. There was a crust of dried blood at the corner of her mouth where his ring had cut her lip. She touched it gingerly with her tongue and shuddered. The salty taste of her own blood frightened her. He was an old man but still strong and made more so by his rage.

She looked again at her reflection. Her eyelids were reddened from lack of sleep, her hair unpinned and lank. The sight repelled her – a doxy’s face if ever there was one. She could have been looking at her own mother. She snatched the crocheted antimacassar from the Morris chair and draped it over the mirror.

You and the boy will be well looked after, my sweet. I promise
. That’s what he’d said when he first came courting, and foolishly, desperate, she had given in. She moaned. That promise would not be kept now. His feeling for her had withered away, corroded by his own humiliation.

She’s a whore, Father. You’ve married a whore
.

Jarius was calm, his voice as dispassionate as if he were reciting the order of hymns for the day. And they had stared at her from the table, all of them there, even the child.

Did you do this? Did you go to Jarius’s room and offer yourself like some Jezebel?

And all she could answer was,
He is trying to murder me. He put poison in my food. He killed Charley
.

But he repeated,
Did you go to his room?

When she said yes, Nathaniel hit her hard across the face.

One of the candles in the wall sconces sputtered and Peg’s heart thudded.

I must save them for nighttime. They’re burning down too fast
. She reached for the candlesnuffer but stopped herself.

It’s all right. He’ll be back long before then … he believed you
.

She returned to the couch, suddenly so tired she thought she would fall down. She would rest for a moment, just a moment, then she had to think. She had to make plans. She lay back and closed her eyes.

Off the dining room of the Village Home was a tiny pantry that the matron referred to as “the calming room.” Naughty children were put in there, in the dark, until they thought better of their behaviour and were willing to act like grateful Christian children and not heathens. Not too long after she had been admitted, Peg was locked in there for using bad language and for scratching and biting another child.

She stole my cup. The bint took it. It’s mine
. The matron, Mrs. Southgate, was firm.

Nobody owns the furnishings here. The cups and plates, the knives and forks, belong to everybody. You have behaved most wickedly and you must pray for forgiveness
.

Although Peg had kicked and fought, the matron and two of the bigger girls easily subdued her. She was closed inside the pantry to think about her wrongdoing. Perhaps Mrs. Southgate did indeed forget; she was a busy woman with many cares. Perhaps the time in the darkness was not as long as Peg experienced it. However, when she was finally let out, she had messed in her drawers and was hoarse with crying. Overnight, she became a model child and was frequently paraded before visitors as an example of the miracle of love and Christian teaching. When she was sent to Canada as one of the quotient of child emigrants, Mrs. Southgate handed her a splendid testimonial and kissed her.

Peg sat up. The memory burned like acid in her gut.

She got off the couch, went over to the window, and raised the blind. The sky was lighter and relief ran through her body. The night was over. She gave a quick, hard tug on the window sash but she knew it was futile. Frank had nailed it shut earlier in the week. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against the glass. Even if she smashed it, there was nobody to call to, nobody who would help her. She hadn’t been friendly with the neighbours, sensing their disapproval. If word of Jarius’s accusation ever got out, they would turn away completely. And she knew he would make sure it did get out.

He was young, fair-haired. His eyes were kind and she could tell he was listening so she tried to speak calmly. She told him everything. About Charley, about the poison she’d tasted the two nights she’d become ill. How they all hated her. She also told him about Jarius and lastly about Frank. “Show me,” he’d said to the others and they took him off. “I’ll come back,” he had said. And he would, she trusted he would
.

She felt short of breath, as if the air was being sucked away, and she returned to the couch and lay down again. She’d brought this piece of furniture with her when she’d married Nathaniel and its familiarity was a comfort. She stroked the plush surface as if it were a creature and pulled the velour cover over her face. Under the tent of it, she could smell her own stale flesh.

All she had to do was wait
.

Suddenly, there was a sharp rapping on the door and she jumped.

“Stepmother? Stepmother?” the voice outside called to her and the doorknob rattled. “Please let me in, Stepmother. I’ve made you some porridge for your breakfast … You must eat something.”

Augusta was speaking softly, falsely, as if she were trying to trick a child to take foul medicine. But Peg knew it wasn’t medicine that she wanted her to swallow.

She didn’t answer and the doorknob shook again. Augusta’s voice was less patient this time.

“Stepmother, open the door.” Another rap.

A rush of white-hot rage surged through Peg’s body and she jumped off the couch and ran over to the door.

“Sod off,” she screamed. “You can all sod off. All the frigging lot of you.”

She banged with her fists on the unyielding wood.

M
URDOCH BROUGHT THE LANTERN CLOSE
to the ravaged face. The source of the injury seemed to be a small circular wound near the right temple, and the blood which was covering the right eye was from that wound. The left eye was open.

What in God’s name happened?

Slowly, he swung the beam along the length of the body. The metal of the gun barrel gleamed in the light and abruptly Murdoch tugged the gun loose from between the thighs. Placing the lantern beside him on the floor, he crouched down and snapped open the cylinder. All police pistols had six chambers but, for safety reasons, officers were allowed only five cartridges. The hammer was always to rest on the empty chamber. Wicken’s gun held four undischarged cartridges; the fifth had been fired. Near his right shoulder was the empty shell case. Murdoch left it where it was. Hurriedly, he tugged off his own glove and held the back of his hand
beneath Wicken’s nose to check for any indication of breath, although he knew there could be none. He touched the chin; the skin was grey and cold, and when he tried to move the jaw from side to side, it was stiff. The rigor of death had already started. The constable must have died four or five hours earlier. More carefully, his hands steadying, Murdoch began to scrutinise the body.

Wicken was lying with his left arm underneath him and the right arm was flung across his chest, the gloved hand touching the floor. Just beyond the reach of his fingers was his notebook and underneath that was tucked a piece of paper.

Gingerly, Murdoch extricated it. Printed neatly in pencil were the following words:

LIFE IS UNBEARABLE WITHOUT YOUR LOVE.
FORGIVE ME
.

He felt a rush of anger.
You stupid boy. May God forgive your sin. I won’t
.

He stared at the note again as if there was some answer in the terse words.

LIFE IS UNBEARABLE WITHOUT YOUR LOVE
.

Whose love? Why had it been withdrawn?

Murdoch didn’t know much about Wicken’s personal life. As an acting detective, his rank was above the
constable’s, and off-duty they were not expected to have much to do with each other. On the occasions when they had met, however, he’d liked the young man. And in fact, he’d talked to him only last evening when Wicken had come on duty. What was it they’d chatted about? He couldn’t remember because his toothache had obliterated everything else. No, of course, that’s what it was. Wicken expressed sympathy. Said he’d had a tooth pulled when he was young. Murdoch was too proud to ask if it had hurt but Wicken had told him cheerily, “Hurt like the deuce at first but the pain doesn’t last that long.” The constable had seemed in perfectly good spirits. Quite normal.