Poor Tom Is Cold (27 page)

“It is possible but not likely.”

Nathaniel poured himself a generous amount of
wine from a decanter on the side table and took a good swallow. “I don’t see the point of this, sir. Even if the officer did come to this house, which he didn’t, what does it matter? It don’t overturn the coroner’s verdict. The man took his own life and that’s all there is to it.”

Murdoch decided to change tack. “As I said, there are one or two loose ends to the case. The more I know about Wicken’s last movements, the better.”

Eakin took another drink of wine as if it were water. “You’re wasting your time here.”

There was the merest slur to his words. Murdoch knew the signs, and in spite of himself, his body, which had its own wisdom, grew tense.

“I’ll be able to determine that myself after I’ve spoken to Mrs. Eakin personally. And may I ask, what is wrong with her?”

Augusta shifted uncomfortably and involuntarily smoothed the antimacassar that was on the back of the chair. Her father made a show of staring at Murdoch as if he were a likely candidate for a freak show.

“She’s been taken up the loop, that’s what’s wrong. She’s gone batchy, barmy.”

“Insanity has many faces, doesn’t it? My question has more to do with the form that your wife’s lunacy has taken.”

“I thought you were a police officer, not a physician.”

“Father …” Augusta tried to place a placating hand on Nathaniel’s shoulder. He immediately shrugged it off.

“I would imagine Mr. Murdoch wants to know if Stepmother is a danger to herself or anybody else. Isn’t that right, sir?”

Murdoch hadn’t actually been that clear in his mind as to what he wanted, but he nodded.

“Is she?”

Nathaniel drew deeply on the cigar; the end glowed red through the ash. He didn’t reply, his thoughts suddenly pulled away. His daughter answered.

“Unfortunately, Mrs. Eakin suffered a tragic loss not too long ago. Her son by her previous marriage died suddenly of peritonitis. The doctor feels that the grief has caused a temporary derailment of her faculties.”

“Derangement. You mean derangement, fool.”

Nathaniel had come out of his daydream as vicious as a ferret from its hole. Murdoch smiled falsely. “I can see you’ve been a schoolteacher, Mr. Eakin.”

“No, I have not. But any fool can use words properly if they want to. She’s had more education than I ever did. I never had the opportunity to continue past standard two even if I wanted to. I had to work. The family needed my wages.”

Mrs. Curran attempted a feeble retaliation. “I hardly think he needs to know our personal history, Father.” Her fair skin flushed with humiliation but she continued to address Murdoch.

“She began to suffer from delusions of persecution. She became convinced the child was poisoned and that she herself was in danger.”

“Speak to the physician if you don’t believe us,” said Nathaniel. “He wrote the death certificate. Boy died from a burst appendix. Nothing could be done.” He gulped down the last of the wine. Then he leaned forward toward Murdoch, fixing him with eyes that were fast becoming bloodshot. “The thing is, Margaret knows this lot is against her and she mulled that over in her mind until she went batchy.”

His daughter fluttered nervously. “Nobody is ‘against her,’ as you put it, Father. I, in particular, have tried to be welcoming. She would have none of it. She was so hostile from the very beginning.”

“She was afraid. Stands to reason she would be. Here I was, a widower. Children grown. My daughter here is used to running the house. You know what women are like when another hen comes into the barnyard.” He made pecking motions with his fingers. “
Cluck, cluck, cluck
. Fact is, they’re all afraid she’s going to get one under her apron and claim their inheritance.”

Murdoch was beginning to feel sorry for Mrs. Curran. She turned her face away and moved over to the hearth. There were neither mourning crepe nor festoons of black ribbon in this room, Murdoch noticed.

“What was the name of the doctor who attended your wife?”

In spite of what he’d said, he wasn’t at all sure this inquiry was going to yield anything, but Eakin was such a vile-tempered old sod, he didn’t want to let him off too easily. Nathaniel didn’t reply but began to puff on his cigar again. Murdoch knew the procrastination was a further attempt to intimidate him, to put him in his place, and he could feel his own temper rising. This man might have money and fancy himself a gentleman, but he had the temperament of a pugilist, and if he wasn’t careful, he, Murdoch, would take up the challenge, old man or not.

Augusta answered for him. “Dr. Ferrier. He lives just across the road. Number three hundred and twelve.”

Murdoch took out his notebook and wrote down the name and number.

A gong started to mark out the hour and he saw that there was another clock on one of the shelves that was identical to the one in the parlour. The coins around her bosom gleamed in the firelight.

He folded up his notebook, returned it to his pocket, and stood up.

“Are you going out to the loony bin?” asked Eakin.

“Yes, I’ll go tomorrow.”

Nathaniel got to his feet and came over to him. He was a good head shorter than Murdoch, which meant he had to look up and Murdoch could smell the cigar and the wine on his breath.

“What they should tell you is that my wife suffers from erotomania. Do you know what that means?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Well, you should write it down in your little notebook. It means as soon as she sees a pair of trousers, she’s going to lift her tail for you. She went for Jarius in the same way. And my son-in-law, her husband …” He jerked his thumb in Augusta’s direction. “I wouldn’t recommend you take her up on the offer. She’d do it for the butcher’s boy if he came by.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” said Murdoch.

“Yes, I would if I were you.”

Sullenly, he backed off. With a nod to Mrs. Curran, Murdoch left.

M
URDOCH JOGTROTTED ALL THE WAY
to Ontario Street in an attempt to dispel his anger. His head was filled with fantasies, all of them violent, of what he would do to Nathaniel Eakin. When he’d finished smashing the man’s head against the floor for the second time, he slowed himself down. Yes, the old geezer was a horse’s arse but Murdoch knew the rage he’d stirred up didn’t totally belong with him. His memory of his father shouting about his mother was a tight pain in his chest and he felt short of breath. “She’s a whore, a tart, cheap as a dish clout.” And more, words that he didn’t want to recall. She, silent as always, going about her task, head bowed in a way that made him, the boy, want to scream out, “Look up! Don’t lower your head like that.” But when he spoke to her afterwards, she wept, and his feelings of fear and pity became overlaid with contempt for her and a burning rage toward his father that even
now made him hot. According to the local magistrate, his mother had died accidentally, while she was gathering shellfish on the beach. A slip, a hard knock on the head that rendered her unconscious, and she drowned. Murdoch had gone to the shore afterwards, trying to find the pool where she’d died. He couldn’t place it exactly but it didn’t matter, they were all shallow, no more than splashing deep. That made her death even more meaningless.

“Evening, Mr. Murdoch.” His next-door neighbour, O’Brien, was going by. He had a sailor’s duffel bag slung over his shoulder and Murdoch assumed he was off once again to some exotic place. He turned and waved in the direction of his house and Murdoch could see his wife and children were crowded into the window. They all waved back with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Murdoch thought O’Brien had probably once again impregnated Mrs. O’Brien and they could expect to see child number nine.

All the little faces were watching Murdoch now and he tried to give them a cheery smile. He resolved to pick up some more barley sugar sticks from Mrs. Bail’s confectionery as soon as he could.

He let himself into the house and was greeted by the sight of his landlady and landlord.

Arthur was walking slowly down the hall, Beatrice close behind as if ready to catch him. They both turned around to welcome him.

“Evening, Will,” said Arthur.

“What are you doing out here?”

“Taking in the sights. I’m getting corns on my rear end from sitting so much. I thought I’d take a stroll. I’m pretending this is King Street. Any minute now I’m going to go in one of the fancy shops and spend a lot of money.”

“Good thing you’ve come, Mr. Murdoch,” said Beatrice. “He always overdoes it and he won’t listen to me. We’ve done quite enough for one night.”

Arthur had dressed himself in trousers and a flannel shirt for the occasion. In the candlelight, with a brighter energy in his face, he looked almost healthy. Murdoch felt a rush of affection for him and would have embraced him if he hadn’t known it would embarrass everybody. He tapped his foot on the floor. They had rolled up the hall rug to make walking a bit easier.

“This is perfect for doing a schottische. Mrs. K., we can practise whenever you’re ready.”

“I’ve forgotten how. Here, let me take your things,” said Mrs. Kitchen, abandoning her husband. “It’s been so miserable all day. I’ve got your dinner warming.”

“Thank you. As usual, I’m famished. Will you join me, Arthur?”

“Why don’t you eat first. I’ll have a rest to satisfy my wife and then we can have tea.”

“You can go right into the parlour,” said Beatrice. “I’ll just see to Father.”

“No, you won’t,” said Arthur and he flexed his arm to make a muscle. “I am strong as the Borneo Wild Man. I will go myself and sit in my chair until called.”

He was speaking jokingly but his frustration was evident. Before he became ill, Arthur Kitchen had been highly active, a keen bicyclist and walker. According to his wife, he was an excellent dancer, specialty the polka, something Murdoch was still aspiring to.

Beatrice went on down to the kitchen and Arthur into the middle room. Murdoch stood for a moment, blowing on his cold hands, but really trying to listen for sounds from upstairs – the typewriting machine, or Enid talking to her son. He was just about to go into the parlour when he heard the stairs creak. Mrs. Jones herself came down the stairs. She was holding her son’s hand and they were both dressed for the outdoors in long rubber waterproof coats. There was something in her expression that he couldn’t quite read. Guarded, not altogether happy to see him. He felt a rush of disappointment. Back to that again, were they?

“Mrs. Jones, Alwyn. Where are you off to on such a dreary night?”

“There is a special meeting at the church. A speaker has come up from Wisconsin. He is just returned from our mission in Nigeria. Apparently, he is most inspirational.” Her voice was full of enthusiasm and Murdoch felt jealous. It made him sharp.

“I sincerely hope he is worth braving the rain.”

She was aware of his tone and her face clouded. “He will be, I am sure. He has worked for Our Lord for many years.”

Murdoch stepped back so she could pass him. He tapped the boy playfully on his cap but the child shrank away as if he had dealt him a blow. That irritated Murdoch as well. The boy was a mardy tit most of the time. At the door, Enid hesitated and turned back to him.

“I really don’t expect us to be late, Mr. Murdoch. Perhaps you and I could have a word together if you’re still up?”

“For that I’ll wait till midnight.”

He’d meant to be gallant but the words came out angry.

“Good evening, then.”

She opened the door, letting in a surge of cold, wet air. Murdoch went into the front room, chastising himself for being such a boor. Mrs. Jones seemed highly devout to him. Not likely to change her religion. He caught himself. If it came to that, what about him? Could he denounce his faith, which is what he supposed he would have to do if … Again he stopped. Look at him, racing ahead of himself like a fanciful girl. Marriage on his mind and they didn’t even use each other’s first names! He went over to the table and sat down at the place set for him. Does any of it really matter? Our Lord didn’t declare himself a Baptist or a Catholic for that matter. He’d started out his life as a Jew. Who was he
anyway? Murdoch had asked that question once when he was being taught his catechism. The priest had slapped him with the holy book on the side of the head. “Those sorts of heathen questions sound too close to blasphemy, young man. Go kneel down in that corner and say your Paternosters until I tell you to move.”

Murdoch had stayed there until his knees screamed with pain but he had not begged for release.

He rubbed at his face hard. This seemed to be his day for chewing over old grudges. Father O’Malley was one. A big, tough priest, he had both a brogue and brain as thick as an Irish bog.

Murdoch knew his mother would have liked to have seen him enter the priesthood, but he couldn’t imagine it. However, his sister Susanna had gone into a convent school and took her final vows at the age of eighteen. She lived as a cloistered nun in a convent in Montreal and he hadn’t seen her for a long time. He was allowed to write and received one letter a year. Hers was impersonal, full of devout phrases. The playmate he had loved, argued with, and ultimately protected had vanished behind a veil of platitudes.

“My, you are looking very fierce, Mr. Murdoch.”

Mrs. Kitchen came in carrying a tray.

He grinned at her, glad to be brought out of his thoughts. “You’re right. I was thinking about the Church.”

She gave him a shrewd glance. “The Church or people in the Church?”

He helped unload the dinner plate. Tonight she had cooked his favourite dish, sausages and mashed potato and baked rutabaga.

“Your sweet is an egg custard. Mrs. Jones made it. She insisted. She said your gum was probably still sore. Arthur even tried some. Very tasty too.”

“Can I start with that?”

“Don’t you dare.” She smiled at him. “I find Mrs. Jones is a woman who grows on me. Quiet. I thought she was standoffish at first but she’s just reserved. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Murdoch?”

“I do indeed.”

“I particularly like the fact that she teaches her boy proper manners. She won’t take any nonsense.”