Poor Tom Is Cold (4 page)

“Must I finish this first, ma’am?”

“Of course, finish. You should have been done by now.”

“Yes, Mrs. Curran. Sorry, ma’am.”

She gave a quick curtsey as she had been taught to do in the school. Janet Cullie was only fourteen and this
was her first placement. Augusta had taken her from the Industrial Refuge for Girls, a school where orphan girls who might be in danger from bad influences were set to rights by being trained in working skills, mostly domestic service. Janet knew she should be grateful to Augusta, but many nights she cried herself to sleep, her head pushed into the pillow so as not to wake anybody. The school had been strict but there were other girls to chatter with and the work was not anywhere near as hard as what she was expected to do here. Besides, no matter how much she tried not to, she seemed to irritate her mistress and Augusta’s voice became sharp and impatient. This only made the girl more nervous and ingratiating.

Augusta picked up the porridge dish from the tray.

“No sense in throwing this out; it wasn’t touched.” She scraped the porridge back into the pot that was cooking on the stove. “You can start the bacon for Mr. Jarius.”

“Shall I do up some for you, ma’am?”

“No, just toast and coffee will suffice. Why isn’t the pot on?”

The girl grimaced. “We’ve run out of coffee, ma’am. There isn’t any.”

It wasn’t Janet’s job to order supplies but she was supposed to tell Augusta when they were getting low.

“Make me tea then.”

Augusta dropped the porridge dish into the pail of water which stood beside the sink.

“I have a task for you after you have served breakfast.”

Janet glanced over at her nervously. Her tone of voice suggested something disagreeable.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I want you to go for Dr. Ferrier. Mrs. Eakin has been taken poorly.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am.”

She meant it. Ever since Peg had come to the house, she had felt an affinity for her. The new Mrs. Eakin was a watcher the same as Janet. She knew the poor woman had shut herself up in her sitting room for the past two days, but so far nobody had said a word about it.

“Come from losing her little one, doesn’t it?” she continued.

“What?” Augusta turned to stare at her.

“Our under-matron had a little girl that died. Only two she was. Missus never came back to work after. We heard she’d lost her mind. She had –”

She halted. Even though Augusta was standing a few feet away, Janet felt the sudden rage that came from her body.

“Whatever gave you the notion that this was any of your business?”

“I, er … I’m sorry, ma’am, I didn’t mean anything –”

“Don’t ever, ever, overstep your position like this again, or you will be dismissed instantly without reference. Do you understand me?”

Janet curtsied. “Yes, ma’am.”

“You are a very ignorant girl. There are many women who have the misfortune to lose their children and they do not become lunatics. They continue on with their lives.” There was a fleck of spittle at the corner of Augusta’s mouth. “Is that clear?”

The girl ducked her head.

“Yes, mistress.” Augusta looked as if she could have said much more, but with an ostentatious gesture of self-control, she turned and swept out of the kitchen. Janet sniffed hard, trying not to cry in case Augusta came back in and saw her. But she couldn’t help herself and the tears welled up in her eyes. She used her sleeve to wipe away the dribble from her nose. Then she dipped her forefinger in the soft, shiny sugar and stuck it in her mouth. The sweetness on her tongue was comforting and she sucked on her lips to make it last. She wished desperately that she had somewhere else to go but she didn’t.

W
HILE THE CORONER DID
a preliminary investigation, Murdoch went to inform Oliver Wicken’s mother that her son was dead. They lived on Wilton Street, not far from the police station. He found himself inwardly rehearsing the words he would use.

The house was narrow-fronted with brown gables that even in the dulling rain looked freshly painted. The small yard behind the iron fence was neat and the shrubs trim. At the door, Murdoch took a deep breath, then knocked on the door. There was no response and he was forced to knock again, harder. This time the door opened. A tall woman of middle age stood looking at him enquiringly. The resemblance between her and the dead constable was striking and he assumed this was Mrs. Wicken. He raised his hat.

“Ma’am. My name is Murdoch. I’m a detective at number four station. I, er …”

His words stuck in his mouth. The truth was too dreadful to say while he was on the doorstep. “May I have a word with you?”

Fear flashed across her face but, perhaps with some instinct of self-preservation, she suppressed it immediately and nodded graciously. “Of course. Please come in. We’re in the back.”

She led the way down the narrow hall toward the rear of the house. There was an elegance to her that Murdoch hadn’t anticipated. Her abundant fair hair was stylishly dressed, her silk wrapper a smart sky-blue stripe with cherry red yoke and flounces.

“We can talk in here,” she said and she drew back the portieres that covered the door to the kitchen. They were velvet and a rich garnet colour. Like the outside of the house, the interior gave the impression of care and pride. Green durrie strips had been placed on the linoleum of the hall and there were several framed paintings on the walls, mostly equestrian portraits as far as he could tell.

“You must excuse us, we were just finishing break fast.”

By the window was an invalid chair, tilted back to a reclining position. Murdoch blinked, fighting the reflexive impulse to look away. There was a child lying in the chair although it was impossible to tell whether it was male or female. The head was enormous and virtually bald, except for a few sparse strands of white hair that straggled across the forehead. The neck seemed thin as a stalk although it was probably normal size,
and he saw that there was a leather brace under the chin to hold the weight of the head. The pale blue eyes beneath the bulging forehead were vacant.

“This is my daughter, Dora.”

She bent over and held a sipping cup to the girl’s mouth. Murdoch waited. The kitchen seemed to serve a double function as a sitting room; it was crammed with furniture.

Mrs. Wicken concentrated on her task, wiping away the dribbles from the child’s chin. Then she turned around and regarded him.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Murdoch, please have a seat.” She indicated a comfortable armchair but he was reluctant to take it.

“Is there somewhere we could speak in private?”

She shook her head. “It makes no matter where we talk; Dora can neither hear nor see.”

She met his eyes and what she saw there frightened her dreadfully.

“What is it? Is Oliver hurt?”

He plunged in and his mouth was dry. “I’m afraid I have very bad news, Mrs. Wicken. Oliver has met with” – he was going to say, “met with an accident,” but that wasn’t true. He tried again. “I deeply regret to tell you that your son is dead.”

The words were out unsoftened and he would have given anything in the world to call them back, to make them palatable. As if that were possible.

She didn’t cry out, or show any immediate sign of grief. She simply stared at him.

“I’m not sure I heard you correctly, sir. Are you refer ring to my son, Oliver Wicken? He is a police constable.”

“Yes, ma’am, I know him well.”

Her face had gone the colour of chalk. “I don’t understand. What has happened?”

“I myself discovered his body in a vacant house a little while ago … he had been shot.”

“Shot? By whom?”

“I, er …” Murdoch didn’t want to tell her. “He was shot through the head. The bullet was from his own revolver.”

He could see her absorbing the implications of what he said but she shook her head.

“I still cannot comprehend what you are saying. Was this an accident?”

“I’m afraid that doesn’t seem likely.”

“Then I don’t understand.”

“There was a note beside his body.”

He removed it from his notebook and handed it to her. She took it reluctantly and read the message.

“This is preposterous. It makes no sense to me. Who is this addressed to?”

“Did he have a sweetheart?”

“He did not.”

“Are you certain, ma’am? That is what the letter implies.”

“Of course I am certain. Do you think I don’t know my own son? He was devoted to me and his sister. Her care was a vital part of his life.” Her chin and lower lip were shaking uncontrollably and she turned abruptly to the crippled girl and began to fuss with her covers. The child gurgled some sounds of distress, sensing what she couldn’t hear or see. Her mother picked up the sipping cup again but held it suspended in the air. Her hand was trembling so badly, however, she couldn’t hold the cup steady and she put it down on the table. Murdoch wanted to reach out and comfort her but he couldn’t. Finally, she turned back to face him.

“I know what you are implying, Mr. Murdoch. You think he took his own life.”

“We won’t know for certain until after the inquest but I’m afraid it does seem that way.”

“That is utterly impossible. He isn’t that kind of boy. My son would never commit suicide. He loved both of us too much.”

Murdoch did not reply.

“Let me see that letter again.” She examined it. “I am not even sure if that is his hand.”

He knew printed letters were hard to distinguish but he didn’t contradict her. Abruptly, she returned the letter to him.

“Where is he?”

“At the moment he is still where I found him in the empty house on Gerrard Street. After the jurors have
viewed the body he will probably be taken to Humphrey’s Funeral Home for the inquest.”

Suddenly, she sat back in her chair. “I beg your pardon …” She put her hand to her mouth, turned to the side, and retched violently, two or three times.

Murdoch crossed over to her and put his hand on her shoulder.

“I am so terribly sorry, Mrs. Wicken.”

W
ITH A GRUNT, THE CORONER
, Arthur Johnson, got to his feet. He was getting on in years and his knees were plaguing him. The wet weather made the ache worse and his temper fractious. He had been examining the wound in Wicken’s temple. Murdoch was standing to his right and jammed around the room were the thirteen members of the jury. Constable George Crabtree was at the door. He had been appointed constable of the court and commissioned to find and swear in at least twelve men to serve as jurors. Because of the early hour, he’d managed to net thirteen, catching them before they went to work. For most of the men, this meant missing a day’s wages and they had griped and complained. Only two of them were genuinely willing. Albert Chamberlin, retired and lonely, was more than happy to do his duty, and Jabez Clarke, a traveller, was eager because he knew the situation would make for a
good tale to recount at a dinner party. However, the sight of the corpse had silenced all of them, even the vociferous labourer, Sam Stevenson, who would sorely miss the money he would have earned that morning.

Johnson beckoned to them irritably. “All of you men, come in closer. What you expect to see from over there is beyond me.”

Reluctantly, the men shifted and shuffled forward.

“Come on, come on. Unlike the constable here I haven’t got all day.”

Murdoch thought for a moment Johnson was referring to Crabtree, then the flippant remark hit him. He would’ve loved to have made some sharp retort but he daren’t show his disapproval too openly. He already had a dickey relationship with his inspector and if he antagonised Johnson, he ran the risk that the coroner would report him. The fine for insubordination was hefty.

“Have you chosen a foreman?” asked the coroner.

“Yes, sir. I am he.” The speaker was a tall, lean-faced man, middle-aged, who was dressed in the sombre clothes of a clerk.

“Your name, sir?”

“Jarius Gibb.”

“Mr. Gibb, are you prepared to be sworn in?”

“I am.”

“Constable, please address the jury.”

Crabtree clasped his official papers and in a voice
that would have been easily heard in the rear seats of the new Massey Hall, he read:

“‘Gentlemen, hearken to your foreman’s oath; for the oath he is to take on his part is the oath you are severally to observe and keep on your part.’ Mr. Gibb, take this Bible in your right hand.”

Gibb did so. He had a rather prissy face with tightly pursed lips as if he was used to disapproving of the transgressions of humanity. Murdoch wondered where he was employed. Crabtree continued:

“‘You shall diligently inquire and true presentment make of all such matters and things as shall be here given you in charge, on behalf of our Sovereign Lady the Queen, touching on the death of Oliver Wicken now lying dead, of whose body you shall have the view; you shall present no man for hatred, malice, or ill will nor spare any through fear, favour, or affection; but a true verdict give according to the evidence, and the best of your skill and knowledge. So help you God.’”

“Amen.”

Crabtree addressed the remaining jurors:

“‘The same oath which Jarius Gibb, your foreman upon this inquest, hath now taken before you on his part, you and each of you are severally well and truly to observe and keep on your parts. So help you God.’”

There was a varied chorus of “Amens” and then the jury was sworn and ready. Johnson had been waiting impatiently for it all to be concluded.

“All right then. Pay attention all of you.” He indicated the wound at the right temple. “The bullet entered here, exited here.” He raised Wicken’s head releasing trapped blood, which dripped onto the floor.

“Blasted butcher’s shop,” the labourer muttered to his neighbour.

“Watch your language, Stevenson,” Crabtree warned. “This is Her Majesty’s court now present.”

Johnson pushed at the dead man’s shoulder. “See, he’s getting stiff as a statue. That’s what we call ‘rigor mortis.’ Happens to all of us when we die – man, woman, or babe.” He started to warm to his role as demonstrator. “Anybody know what we can tell from the development of rigor?”