Poor Tom Is Cold (5 page)

The men avoided his eye.

Murdoch said, “When I found him, at about six o’clock this morning, rigor had started in the chin and neck. I figured he’d been dead for approximately five to six hours.”

He didn’t want to show off, just let Johnson know there was somebody else in the room he couldn’t lord it over.

The coroner nodded. “That’s right. So let’s see. Rigor is now more advanced. I would agree with the detective. He probably died some time between midnight and two o’clock last night. It’s quite cold in here so that slows down the stiffening. Now what else can you tell me about the body? Hm? One of you men speak up. What do you see?”

The jurors stared at him, trying to figure out what he wanted. Johnson shook his head impatiently.

“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? He’s in uniform. He was on duty. Isn’t that right, Murdoch?”

“Yes, sir. The patrol sergeant last spoke to him at a quarter past eleven.”

Sergeant Hales had seen Wicken’s body before the coroner arrived and he had been very upset. Saying he didn’t want to watch them poking and prodding, he’d put himself in charge of keeping back the curious onlookers who had gathered outside.

“His helmet is about six feet away from him. You didn’t move it, did you, Murdoch?”

“I did examine it, sir, but I replaced it in the same spot.”

“You said the constable’s pistol was wedged between his thighs. Show us exactly where it was, will you.”

Murdoch had no desire to do so but he couldn’t refuse. He walked over to the body, picked up the gun, and holding it by the handle, tried to push it between the rigid thighs. It was obscenely difficult.

“All right,” said Johnson. He scanned the jurors, then pointed to one of them, a short, squat man who looked as if he were trying to make himself invisible. “You at the back. Yes, you. You with the scars.”

The man’s nose was wide and flattened across his face and the lower lid of his right eye was pulled down by the pucker of a scar, exposing the red. The pupil was dull and unseeing.

Murdoch hoped the fellow wasn’t sensitive about his appearance.

“What’s your name?” asked the coroner.

“Peter Curran, sir.”

“Occupation?”

“I work in the livery stable next door, sir.”

“What happened to you? A horse kick you?”

“It was a cow actually, sir. I was just a nipper at the time.”

“Unfortunate,” said the coroner, his tone brisk as if Curran might be one of those malingerers who are always pleading for sympathy. “Now, then.” He held up the note that Murdoch had given him. “The detective found this close to the right hand, under the constable’s notebook. What did it say again, Murdoch?”

“Life is unbearable without your love. Forgive me.”

“Rather poetic, wouldn’t you say? You can all have a look at it.”

Murdoch handed the note to the closest juror, who took it gingerly, studied it, and then passed it on. One of the men raised his hand as if he were in the classroom. He had a chubby, weather-roughed face and bright, dark eyes.

“Excuse me, sir. But do we have the pencil that this note was wrote with?”

Johnson frowned. “Do you, Murdoch?”

“No, sir. Perhaps he returned it to his pocket.”

“We’ll look in a minute.”

“I do have another question, sir.”

“Yes? State your name so I know who I’m dealing with.”

“Stevenson, labourer.”

“Speak out.”

“Why was the gun between Wicken’s legs? It seems an odd place for it to be.”

“It must have fallen there as he collapsed, then it was fixed in the grip of death. Don’t you agree, Mr. Murdoch?”

“Actually, I was wondering about that myself, sir. It would seem more likely to fall beside him.”

There was a palpable ripple of uneasiness among the jurors, who sensed the coroner would not take kindly to contradiction. Most of them had learned to be intimidated by authority.

Johnson shook his head. “Typically, in the case of sudden death, the body can go into seizures. The gun must have been trapped at that moment. Let’s move on. The spent casing was here, as you see. What now, Stevenson?”

“Where is the bullet?”

“I don’t know, still lodged in his head probably. The post mortem examination will tell us.”

“Beg pardon, sir.”

It was Constable Crabtree who had spoken. “There is a hole in the wall right here beside the door. Can I examine it?”

“Do, please do.”

The constable felt into the small hole and, breaking off some of the plaster, he fished out a bullet and brought it over to Johnson.

“Probably the one that killed him. Take care of it, will you, Mr. Murdoch?”

Murdoch took out one of the envelopes he had at the ready in his pocket and put the bullet into it.

“The entrance of the bullet into the wall seems rather low, sir. Certainly not six feet.”

Johnson stared at the spot he indicated. “What religious denomination was the young man?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Hm, an important facet of a man’s life, I would say. Strange not to know. Constable?”

“He was Episcopalian, I believe, sir.”

“So there. He was no doubt kneeling and saying his prayers. At least he stands a chance of divine forgiveness. Lucky for him he wasn’t a Papist. He would head straight to hell for a sin like this.”

Murdoch didn’t think the coroner could possibly know that he was Roman Catholic but he was stung by the contempt in the man’s voice.

“Excuse me, Mr. Johnson.” He tried to keep his voice devoid of expression. “At this juncture, we are not absolutely sure he did shoot himself, are we? Won’t that be determined at the inquest?”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he
regretted saying them. They were more likely to close up Johnson’s mind than open it.

“No, we are not
absolutely
sure but as close to as makes no difference. We have a farewell note and the position of the wound is consistent with suicide. I fail to see how we can come to any other conclusion.”

The jurors were quiet, aware of the rebuke, sympathetic. Then one of them, an elderly man with an old-fashioned full beard, indicated he had a question. Johnson nodded at him.

“Chamberlin, sir. Retired. I was wondering why his helmet was beside him.”

“You are most perspicacious. If he were wearing it, the strap would prevent it from being blown off. Conclusion, Wicken must have placed it where he did prior to shooting himself. As to why he did, I have no idea. Some kind of mental preparation, I suppose. People who drown themselves often take off their clothes and fold them up neatly. Like going to bed.”

“Can we see his notebook, sir?” This was again from Stevenson.

“As you wish.” Johnson handed him the book. A couple of the other men looked over his shoulder.

“There are two entries with yesterday’s date.
Monday, November 11.9.07 Gerrard and River. All secure
. The second entry says
Monday, November 11.11.12 Queen and Parliament. All secure and accounted for
. He sounds quite normal here, sir.”

“Come, man, what do you expect? He’s not going to use his official notebook to write down his inner turmoil. Typically self-murderers vacillate, sometimes for days, until the actual moment.”

Stevenson handed back the notebook.

“Let’s move on. We’ll examine his clothes, then we’ll call it a morning.”

Murdoch signalled to Crabtree to help him. He undid the neck button of the rubber cape and tugged it away so they could reach into Wicken’s pockets. He started with the trousers and pulled out a clean handkerchief from the right-hand pocket and, from the left, a small brown paper package that contained a half slice of cheese. The pencil was here and an iron key.

“Constable, see if it fits the back door,” said the coroner.

Crabtree, who seemed even bigger than usual in the cramped room, walked to the door and tried the key. It fit the lock perfectly.

Johnson glanced around at the jurors. “I don’t know if there’s any more to be done here. We will request a post mortem examination and you will hear that report at the inquest. Murdoch, will you take charge of the effects?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Johnson, could I ask something?” Once again it was the labourer Stevenson who spoke.

“What now? I’ve got to be getting on. I don’t have all day to speculate.”

“I’ve just been thinking, you see.”

Johnson made a surprised face that caused some of the other jurors to titter sycophantically.

“What I mean is, I’m wondering why Wicken didn’t do himself in the first time.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

His tone was so withering, the man was abashed. Murdoch interjected.

“If I may speak for Mr. Stevenson, sir, I was about to ask the same question. If we are to assume that Wicken was so despondent, why did he wait so long to kill himself? He could have come into the house immediately.”

Mr. Johnson smiled. “You weren’t listening, Detective. As I said, people can shilly-shally for a long time. To me it is very clear. He is ambivalent about what he is thinking of doing. He knows it is a blasphemy against the Divine Will. He walks his beat, round and round through the empty streets, trying desperately to decide. His sweetheart has abandoned him. His heart is broken. He does not want to live. He has the means at hand to commit the act but he cannot make up his mind. Finally in the darkest hours of the night, he can bear it no longer. He enters the house and … well, you can see the rest.”

“Where did he get the key?” asked Murdoch.

Johnson frowned, annoyed that Murdoch had spoiled the effect of his little speech. “I don’t know. Don’t the police keep the keys to vacant houses?”

“Occasionally we do, but I don’t recall ever seeing this one at the station.”

The coroner waved his hand dismissively. “We might not be able to tie up all the loose ends. This is something you, yourself, can investigate. Now, I’m setting the inquest for tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock, Humphrey’s Funeral Home.” He pulled on his fur-lined kid gloves. “Constable, please read the jurors their duties and obligations. And Mr. Murdoch, as you seem so anxious to have this case absolutely certain, you have my permission to investigate further. You can tell your inspector I have requested it.”

He made his way to the door, then he paused and turned around, a bemused look on his face.

“You’re not Roman Catholic by any chance, are you, Detective?”

If Murdoch could have controlled his own flush by sheer willpower, he would have done so, but he couldn’t. All the other men were gazing at him curiously. The coroner had a fine sense of an exit line.

“As a matter of fact I am, sir. But I don’t understand why you ask.”

“It’s just that you people are so jumpy about suicide. Mortal sin or something in your religion, isn’t it? Go to everlasting damnation, don’t you?”

“That is the teaching, yes, sir.”

“Well, don’t let it blind you to the truth, that’s all I ask. Remember the oath. We want a true verdict.”

Johnson was busy wrapping himself in his muffler or he would have seen the expression on Murdoch’s face. Crabtree saw and said loudly, “Off you go then, you men. And don’t forget to report in tomorrow. No feeble excuses. You don’t show up, you’ll be fined.”

The jurors shuffled out and Murdoch was left alone with the constable.

“Don’t let him get to you, sir. He’s a first-class fart if I can put it that way.”

“You certainly can, George.”

“Do you think it’s a suicide, Mr. Murdoch?”

“Let’s say I’m keeping an open mind.”

“Shall I have him off to the morgue now?”

“Yes. Ask Hales to go for the ambulance. I’ll wait here.”

The constable left and when the door had closed behind him, Murdoch crouched down beside the dead man.

“May our Lord have mercy on your immortal soul.”

He made the sign of the cross with his thumb on Wicken’s cold forehead.

F
RANK
E
AKIN SLICED A PIECE OFF THE APPLE
he was holding and held it underneath the mare’s nose. She sniffed at the fruit and went to take a nibble but Frank stepped back quickly and put the slice between his own teeth.

“Kiss me,” he said and he poked his head forward. The horse tossed her head but didn’t move. Frank said again, “Come on, Duchess, kiss me.”

Peter Curran was leaning against the stable partition watching. “Doesn’t want to, does she? Can’t say I blame her.”

Suddenly, Frank kicked out and his heel caught Curran right on the shin. He yelped and grasped his leg.

“For God’s sake, Frank. What are you doing?”

Eakin didn’t deign to answer but he made more seductive noises at the mare and this time she stretched
her neck and gently nibbled the piece of apple away from his mouth. He grinned.

“See, she’s learning.”

“That’s wonderful,” said Curran sullenly. “You can both join the frigging circus.”

However, he made sure he had stepped out of reach as he spoke.

“And you could join the freak show,” said Frank, “but I doubt they’d take you. Your face would scare the nippers off.”

Peter Curran was used to his brother-in-law’s jibes but he didn’t ever like them. Only fear of the younger man’s temper kept him from retaliating.

“So are we going to twitch her or not? Fellow said he’d come by tomorrow.”

Frank gave Duchess the remainder of the apple and stroked the horse’s soft nose.

“She’s a lovely little tart, isn’t she?”

Then he grasped her upper lip and twisted it, holding it tightly pinched between his fingers. Far from shying off, the mare stood motionless as if she had gone into a trance. Curran picked up an iron file from the shelf and started to rub at the exposed front teeth, which were splayed out with age.

“There you go, my pretty. You’re going to look like a filly all over again,” said Eakin.

“Only in the dark. They’ll notice for sure.”

“You’re a cheerful charley, aren’t you? Is something the matter? Is there something darkening your view of life?”

“Leave off, Frank.”

He worked on in a sullen silence, while Frank spoke soothingly to the horse.