Poor Tom Is Cold (3 page)
And now look at him.
He took out his own notebook and placed the piece of paper inside. He was tempted to inspect the body further but Wicken’s rubber cape was wrapped tightly around him, which meant he’d have to be lifted. Murdoch decided to wait until the coroner arrived.
He picked up the lantern and started to walk around the kitchen. The room was totally bare of furnishings although the original rush matting remained. He examined the door and the window next to it. Dust was thick on the sill and there was no sign of forcing around the frame. How had Wicken got into the house? And why choose this particular place to take his own life? Murdoch looked out of the window at the neglected garden, forlorn and grey in the predawn light. The fence
was high all around and the house abutted a laneway on the east side. Parliament Street was on the west. There was no other house overlooking this one. Wicken had made sure his sin was a private one.
He turned back to the body.
Who was the note addressed to?
It didn’t sound as if the beloved person had died – more likely rejected him.
You get over it, my lad. Nothing is worth committing such a mortal sin. You might want to die to escape your pain but God says that is according to His will, not yours
. But Murdoch knew he himself had thought such things not so long ago when his fiancée had died. And he wasn’t completely sure he was over it.
A few feet away was Wicken’s helmet, standing upright as if he’d put it tidily on a shelf. Murdoch picked it up and held it in the light of the lantern. It seemed clean, free of blood. He replaced it in the same spot, then he paced around a second time, saw nothing more, and returned to the body.
He was about to say a brief prayer but he stopped. He could as yet find no forgiveness for Wicken. His pity was with those left behind. He’d heard that the boy’s mother was a widow and that there was a younger sister. And he wondered also how the unnamed woman would feel when she learned she had precipitated this self-murder.
He left the house, closing the door tightly behind him. The sky had turned from black to dull grey but the drizzle was unalleviated. He started to jogtrot back
to the front gate and along the street to the neighbouring house. There was a plaque on the wrought-iron gate proclaiming this was a livery stable and he could see into a long yard. At the far end was a low building, which he supposed housed the horses. He tried the gate but it was bolted on the inside and he shook it impatiently, prepared to knock the shicey thing off its hinges if need be. However, at that moment a man emerged from the stable, leading a saddled horse.
“Hey you, come over here,” Murdoch shouted.
The man hesitated, then approached slowly, the horse swaying behind him, its hooves clacking on the cobblestones.
“Who the sod are you? What’d you want?”
He was quite young, perhaps in his mid-twenties, short and wiry, dressed in corduroy trousers and jacket. His cap was low on his forehead.
“I’m sodding William Murdoch, acting detective, that’s who. Now open up.”
The fellow’s expression changed.
“Sorry, Officer. What’s up? Here –”
He threw back the bolt on the gate and started to swing it open.
“What’s your name?” Murdoch asked.
“Eakin, Frank Eakin.”
“Well, Mr. Eakin, I’m commandeering you. I need somebody to run over to the police station. At once. Ask for Sergeant Hales. Got that? Hales.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell him I’ve found Wicken. Tell him we need the ambulance and the coroner.”
“Somebody dead then?” He shifted nervously.
“That’s what it usually means when you get the coroner. Now hurry.” He pointed. “I’m in the empty house on the corner. Tell them to come to the back door.”
Eakin indicated the horse standing listlessly behind him.
“I was just going to exercise Sailor. Shall I take him?”
“Of course take him, unless you can run faster. Get going. Scorch!”
The man swung himself into the saddle, kicked his heels hard into the horse’s sides, and lunged into a gallop out of the gate.
Murdoch turned around and half-ran, half-skittered back to the scene of death.
J
ARIUS GIBB PULLED THE CANDLESTICK CLOSER
, selected a fresh pen, and dipped it into the inkwell. He did these actions deliberately, watching his own hand to determine if it would betray him with a sign of human weakness. It didn’t and, as he entered the date in the ledger, his writing was steady, even and precise as always.
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 12, 1895
I write this entry in good health. My tongue is furred but my pulse is quite steady. I have pissed copiously in the chamber and my water is of good colour. I have slept for at least four hours but fitfully. I had expected to experience a natural fatigue but so far that is not the case. In fact, I would say I am quite invigorated.
He paused. Even in his own diary, he had difficulty writing down the absolute truth. He blotted what he had written so far, and continued.
I doubt Father will be with us much longer. He looks more aged every day, although, I regret to say, his temper is unabated. This failing is made worse of course by the present situation. I must admit, even I quailed when we spoke on Saturday night. But he has brought it all on himself so I have no pity. So utterly, utterly unsuitable.
His hand had betrayed him and the writing was suddenly untidy. She was a young woman, it was true, but plain as a mouse, skin like lard, no diddies or arse to rouse a man, no wit or liveliness to explain Nathaniel’s infatuation with her.
Frank said in his delicate way that Father was “cunt-struck.” To me it was less of the human. Father lusted after her like a dog after a bitch in heat. I thought he would take her on the dining room table that first night he brought her here. “This is your new mother,” he said. None of us had an inkling. He was barely out of mourning. She is younger than Frank. A widow, she said, and she brought her own by-blow with her. A vile boy who immediately made it apparent he carried criminal blood. Within a week, I was missing several coins from my trousers. Frank said he stole from him
also. All this denied of course; Father was determined to side with the boy at all costs.
He had written an account of these events several times before but he found himself returning over and over again to that day and the weeks that followed.
I thought at first my “stepmother” must practice whore tricks to keep him panting the way he did but I stood shamelessly outside their bedroom and I heard her refusing him, crying “no” while he grunted and rutted like the goat he had become. I might have felt pity except I thought her coyness must be a way to keep him hot. Augusta says she has not yet conceived but I thought she would when it suited her.
The thought was still so unbearable, Jarius had to lay down his pen and stand up. He went to the table beside the bed where he’d left his pipe and, not bothering to fill it, stuck the stem in his mouth and clenched down hard. He returned to his desk.
I am glad to say the possibility is now remote. I am almost able to rest.
Once again he noticed a tremor in his hand and he forced himself into steadiness.
I cannot pretend I was sorry when the boy died but I must admit it was quite convenient. She plays so easily, I almost feel compunction for her state. Of course nobody believes her. She has given up any pretext of affection for dear Papa and this has been bringing about a rapid cure of his obsession. I have seen his distaste although he attempts to hide it whenever I am present, cooing and caressing with her as he did before.
The memory filled him with contempt. She was as unresponsive as stone. An unpaid whore would have more life.
Like a preening peacock he seems intent on proving his feathers are the brightest. How sweet then that she revealed what she really is. How beautifully she has played into my hands. I could hardly wait to tell him. I had expected he would throw her out immediately but he didn’t go that far. And what a pity that has proved to be!
Another pause, another struggle to contain the surge of excitement through his body.
There was quite a scene, I must say. Worthy of the stage. She screaming that I was a liar, which ironically is true but not in this case. Poor Augusta had to hurry Lewis from the room with her hands over his ears. I
was not surprised. Only a whore knows language like that and it is my conviction that is what she is.
He had checked the marriage registry and discovered she had been, in fact, legally married and her son was legitimate.
That does not eliminate the fact that she was and still is a tart.
Unfortunately, it didn’t mean Nathaniel wouldn’t continue even now to dip his sugar stick in her honey pot. And she could catch. She had shown she was fertile.
“Fertile – capable of producing issue.”
Jarius had insisted on having connections with his wife, Caroline, almost daily, but even his most vigorous pushing and shoving could not create the heir he yearned for. Her monthly courses had arrived with the regularity of the moon. Then she became ill and there was no possibility.
I will now write down the events of last night.
He was distracted by the sound of somebody talking outside in the hall. Augusta’s voice, although he couldn’t quite make out what she was saying. Then there was
an enraged scream that he knew came from his stepmother, followed by the sound of bangs and thumps. He closed the ledger quickly and waited, listening. Almost at once, there was a sharp rap at the door.
“Jarius! Are you awake?”
“Yes.”
“Can I come in?”
“Yes.”
Augusta entered, a tray in her hands. Her eyes were bright with anger.
“Did you hear her?”
“How could I not?”
“She was shouting at me in the foulest language. Listen, she’s still banging on the door.”
“What did you do to provoke her?”
“How can you ask that? I did nothing. I thought she might want something to eat and I brought her up some porridge. She’s had nothing since Saturday night. She spewed filth at me for thanks.”
“How odd. I was under the impression she liked her porridge.”
“Jarius, please! I will not tolerate her behaviour any longer. We have to do something.”
“What do you suggest?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps you can speak to Papa. He will listen to you. He always does.”
“Is he up yet?”
“Not so far.”
“And the others?”
“Frank has not shown his face … nor has my husband.”
He lifted his hands in a placating gesture. “I understand how difficult it is for you, my dear, I do truly understand.”
In contrast to his soothing voice, his thoughts were full of irritation and contempt for his half-sister. Regrettably, Augusta did not live up to the grandeur of her name; she was short with an unprepossessing figure. Even at this hour, she was already fully dressed and her hair was pinned in a tight coil on top of her head. She insisted on remaining in mourning for her mother and was wearing a black bombazine gown – even though the woman had died more than a year ago. The dull colour didn’t suit her fair complexion and she looked washed out.
Augusta gave the tray she was holding a shake, as if it were a live creature and responsible for the situation.
“I have Lewis to consider. He is being exposed to the worst kind of language and behaviour in his very own home.”
“That won’t do.” Jarius clutched the woollen shawl tight around his neck as if he were a woman going to market. “But the poor soul needs our love and sympathy, Aggie. She needs special care. More than we can possibly provide.”
She gaped at him. “What do you mean?”
“I have been thinking and praying most of the night. I think we should send for Dr. Ferrier. I fear for her mental stability.”
“Oh, dear, Jarius, I don’t know if we should go that far.”
He came over to her, removed the tray from her hands, and drew her to his chest. “Try not to fret, little Cissie. It will be for the best. Think of your son.”
She stood leaning against him. “Jarius, why did he do this to us? My mother was as good a Christian woman as you could wish for. She was devoted to him. Your mother was the same. How could he marry such a one as this?”
He stroked her cheek tenderly. “Hush, little one. He is an old man in his dotage, that’s why. But I promise the situation won’t continue. Now, why don’t you go and stir up Cullie to make me some breakfast.”
Augusta stepped back and picked up her tray.
“I had better do that. She’s a clumsy girl. She’d set us all on fire if I didn’t watch her.”
“I’ll come down shortly.”
She left, closing the door softly behind her.
Jarius went back to the ledger and opened to his last entry.
So far all is proceeding beyond my greatest imaginings. I am sure we will have no difficulty in persuading Ferrier that she belongs in an asylum. In my deepest heart I know it has all been worth it.
In spite of what he wrote, for a brief moment, quickly controlled, he quailed.
The Eakins’ servant girl, Janet Cullie, was grating sugar from the loaf into a bowl. Because she was near-sighted, she was bent over close to what she was doing. The low kitchen windows didn’t let in much light at the best of times and this morning the rain was virtually obliterating the dull early morning light. There was one oil lamp, which hung from the ceiling, but the wick was turned low. Augusta watched every expenditure, making Janet’s life miserable by her constant carping about wastage.
There was the sound of a footstep on the uncarpeted stairs and, involuntarily, the girl flinched.
Sure enough the door was thrust open and her mistress entered. She was carrying a tray, which she put on the kitchen table.
“Clear this away, Janet.”
Her voice was cool but the girl knew her well enough by now not to be fooled. Something had riled her bad. Worse even than she’d been for the last two days and Janet thought that was very bad. Very high-up riling.