A Journeyman to Grief (22 page)

Murdoch tried to lift the arms so he could get a better look at the other side, but rigor was at its height and the body was completely stiff.

Suddenly, Murdoch heard the front door open.

“Hello, Thom, I’m back,” called a female voice.

“Damn.” He jumped to his feet and ran over to the door, but he wasn’t in time to prevent Mrs. Stokely from entering the room. Seeing him, she stood stock-still at the threshold.

“Who are you?”

Murdoch managed to get himself between her and the body. “I’m Detective Murdoch, ma’am. I was here the other day. Please don’t come in here, ma’am. Let’s go out into the hall.”

She stared at him for a moment, then peered over his shoulder. The colour bleached out of her face and she suddenly looked like an old woman.

“Thom, oh my God.”

She would have run over to the body, but Murdoch anticipated her and caught her by the arms. She wasn’t screaming, but she was saying desperately over and over, “Oh my God. Oh my God.”

“Mrs. Stokely, you cannot come any farther. A crime has been committed. Please do as I ask.”

As gently but as firmly as he could, Murdoch eased her back through the door, pulling it closed behind him. Once in the hall, he got her into the chair by the hat stand. She was shaking from head to toe and there were flecks of saliva at the corners of her mouth. Murdoch crouched in front of her so he could meet her eyes.

She stared at him, uncomprehending. “What happened to him?”

“He has been shot.”

That elicited more agonized exclamations.

“Shot? Who did it? Who? Who in God’s name would kill a good man like Thom?”

“I don’t know yet, ma’am. I came here to talk to him and this is how I found him.”

He took a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her, but she gazed at it as if she hadn’t seen one before and the tears slid unchecked down her face.

“I should have been here. I should have. Oh why did I leave him last night, of all nights?” He could hardly make out what she was saying.

“Were you away from home, ma’am?”

“Yes, I, I…visit my granddaughter on Friday nights. I just got back.”

“When did you leave?”

“Leave? I don’t know. It must have been at my usual time.”

“When would that be, ma’am?”

“When? At eight o’clock, I suppose.”

“Did Mr. Talbert have any visitors?”

“No. He never did on Fridays. He…he liked to have his weekly pipe…I don’t like tobacco, you see…” Her voice trailed off.

“Did he mention anything about expecting anyone?”

“Not at all. He told me to enjoy myself, gave me a k –” She halted. “He told me to have a nice time and…and give his regards to my granddaughter. She has been recently confined, you see. Oh, how will I ever tell her?”

Murdoch straightened up. “Mrs. Stokely, do you have any brandy in the house?”

“Brandy?” She fluttered her hand. “Yes, Thom, Mr. Talbert, always kept a bottle in the kitchen. He didn’t drink himself, but sometimes offered it…offered it to his…to his visitors.”

Murdoch held out his hand. “Let’s go into the kitchen, shall we?”

Unsteadily, she got to her feet and allowed him to lead her down the hall. She was leaning heavily on his arm and he could feel the violent trembling of her body. He sat her at the kitchen
table, elicited the location of the brandy, and poured her a stiff cupful.

“Take a good swallow,” he instructed her and was pleased to see a little colour return to her cheeks as she did so. She wiped her eyes and nose.

Murdoch took the chair across from her. “I know this has been a terrible shock, ma’am, but I must ask you to do something for me. I need to send for a constable. Do you think you can get to your neighbour’s house and have them go to the station?”

“Yes. I can go to Dr. Pollard’s. They have a telephone.”

“Excellent. Tell them to have the operator connect them with number four station. Say that I need three or four constables here right away. They should also send for the coroner, Dr. Ogden, and we will need the ambulance. Do you remember my name, Mrs. Stokely?”

“No, I’m sorry, the shock has driven everything quite out of my head.”

“I’m Detective Murdoch from number four station. Will you repeat that for me?”

“Murdoch from number four station. I’ll remember.” Her voice was a little stronger now.

“Very good. You are being most brave. Now, let me escort you to the door. Would you prefer to go out of the back door or the front?”

She shook her head violently. “There is a high fence between our property and theirs. What if somebody is still there?”

“I think that is most unlikely, ma’am, but let’s use the front entrance so I can watch out for you. Then I want you to remain at the doctor’s house until I come over myself. Will you promise me you will do that?”

“Yes, Mr., er, Mr. Murdoch. Oh dear, oh dear, what is to become of me?”

“Try not to think of that right now, Mrs. Stokely. The most important thing at the moment is that we get on the trail of Mr. Talbert’s killer as soon as possible. Give me your hand. That’s good. Now let me help you with your jacket.”

As obediently as a child, she slipped her arms through the sleeves. She was normally a stout, buxom woman, but it was as if she had suddenly shrivelled.

“We’ll leave your hat, shall we?”

She shook her head. “I’m not going to Mrs. Pollard’s house bare-headed.”

Murdoch handed her the hat, probably her Sunday best, of beige felt, wide-brimmed, and profusely decorated with brown taffeta ribbons and yellow feathers. She put it on and straightened up.

He offered her his arm again. “Here we go, then. Hold on tight.”

Making sure he was walking on the side nearest to the parlour, he escorted her to the front door and stood on the porch while she made her way to the large house next to them. He waited until she had knocked and been admitted, then he went back inside, bolting the door behind him. He didn’t want any more unexpected visitors.

Somehow when he returned to the sight of the dead man, the scene looked even more horrible. Seeing the position the body had been forced into, Murdoch felt a rush of anger that was also tinged with fear. Was he truly dealing with a lunatic? First a brutal whipping that had brought about the death of Daniel Cooke, now this. He could only assume the two deaths were connected.

He made the sign of the cross over the body.

“May the Lord have mercy on your soul.”

CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE

M
urdoch took out his notebook and his tape measure and began to walk slowly around the body, trying to understand what had taken place. There was no sign of any struggle. Talbert’s armchair was where it had been when Murdoch visited him. Murdoch picked up the briar pipe that was perched on the brass standing ashtray beside the chair. There was still unburned tobacco in the bowl and a spent Lucifer next to it. He had lit his pipe once only. Murdoch was a pipe smoker, he knew how ornery they could be sometimes, refusing to draw on first light. So Talbert was just getting settled in and then he heard something, perhaps something as innocuous as the door knocker. He couldn’t call on his housekeeper to answer, so he put his precious pipe on the rim of the ashtray, placed the newspaper down on the floor, picked up the lamp that Mrs. Stokely had thoughtfully filled with oil for the night, and went to see who was visiting him at this hour.

And who was it, indeed?

Murdoch walked back into the hall and looked around, but his first impression had been correct. Nothing had been disturbed. The clay pot of ferns just inside the door was intact. If it had been knocked over, it would have smashed to pieces. There was a rather worn dhurrie rug covering some of the plank floor and it did not seem to have been moved. All of the framed pictures on the walls were straight. Murdoch glanced at them briefly. Talbert had favoured nature paintings. He had two of the noble stag, one standing at bay with the hounds, the other overlooking his harem of does on the hillside. Murdoch could not imagine anybody overpowering the old man in this narrow hall, however strong they were, without knocking something off the wall. Talbert had not been threatened by his visitor. He had led the person into the parlour.

Murdoch returned to the corpse. First he measured the distance of Talbert’s head from the fireplace fender: eight inches. The location of the bullet hole below the jawline was strange. If he had been shot while he was in this crouched position, the entry wound would surely have been much higher. That would be easier to determine after the post-mortem when he could see where the bullet had exited and the trajectory it had followed.

Next he went to measure the length of the blood spatters. The longest had actually hit the edge of the couch, but the streaks grew shorter like the struts of a fan closer to the fireplace. There were two breaks in the lines: one fairly close to the right edge and the other where Talbert was lying. It made sense then that Talbert had been standing, facing the opposite armchair, when he was shot. His killer had been a few feet away to his left. As he was shot, he spun to his left and collapsed, likely on the hearth, but Murdoch could not definitely determine that until he could move the body and check for a contusion on Talbert’s head. The brass fender around the hearth seemed untouched.

He bent down and removed the bank notes that were scattered on top of the body and placed them carefully to one side. There was one Imperial Bank ten-dollar note, two Bank of Montreal five-dollar bills, and eight two-dollar and five one-dollar bills from the Dominion Bank. Forty-one dollars in total. The blood-stained bills were in varying states of newness and some had stuck together.

Talbert’s wrists had been tied with a striped green and gold necktie. Before he undid the binding, Murdoch made a careful sketch of the way the body had been positioned. Then he examined the hands. The fingers were caked with dried blood, as were both palms. Talbert had probably clutched his neck in an instinctive but vain attempt to stem the bleeding. The necktie, however, showed few blood stains and the knot had been fairly loose. It would seem that his hands had been bound after he had been shot and he must have then been pulled into the ball position. It was grotesque. Obviously, binding his hands would serve no purpose when the man was already dead, so why do it?

There was a thunderous knocking on the front door and he went to answer it.

Four rather breathless constables were on the doorstep. He let them in.

“Thomas Talbert has been shot, sometime last night by the look of the body. He’s in the parlour. You might as well have a look at him but don’t go too close. I haven’t had a chance to examine the carpet yet.”

The men crowded into the hall.

“Sergeant Gardiner was able to reach Dr. Ogden,” said Crabtree. “She’ll be here as soon as she can.”

“Good. I was afraid we’d have to take Johnson.”

Burley, who was a young rather sensitive constable second class, let out an involuntary gasp when he saw the carnage.

“Who’d do that to an old man like Talbert?” asked Crabtree.

“Was it a robbery, sir?” Fyfer asked.

“I’d say not. The assailant actually left money on the body in the amount of forty-one dollars. I’ll give you more of a briefing later. Right now we need to get the proceedings moving. George, you stay with me. Fyfer, I want you to round up a jury, fast as you can. Dewhurst and you, Burley, start going through the house. Don’t rush, use your wits, and just try to determine if anything at all is out of order or if you see anything that might be related to the murder.”

“What sort of thing, sir?”

“I don’t know, Dewhurst,” Murdoch answered impatiently. “A threatening letter, a bloody handprint. Use your noddle.”

Murdoch beckoned to Crabtree. “George, he’s stiff as a board, but I want to get him up so I can see the exit wound and the blood pattern underneath him.”

Together they hauled up the body, which moved in one grotesque piece. There was a large hole just below the right temple where the bullet had exited.

“That must have blown out some pieces of bone. Hold him there for a minute and I’ll find them.”

Murdoch moved away from the body, creeping close to the floor. There they were. Several small fragments of the skull were on the floor where the body had covered them.

“I was right,” said Murdoch. “He was shot while he was standing and facing that chair. The bullet travelled on an angle upward, so either his killer was sitting or crouching or he was much shorter than Talbert, who was tall, about six feet at least. We can get an exact measurement later. Rigor is complete so he has been dead at least twelve hours, which gives us time of death anywhere between eight and eleven o’clock last night. Dr. Ogden might be a little more precise.”

There was another knock on the door. “Speaking of Dr. Ogden, that’s probably her now. Let her in, will you, George?”

Murdoch smoothed out a sheet of the newspaper and placed the bloodied bone fragments on top of it.

“Goodness gracious, Mr. Murdoch, what have we here now?”

Dr. Ogden, looking slightly dishevelled, as if she had dressed in a hurry, came into the room. Murdoch was not surprised to see Professor Broske at her heels.

“Detective, we meet under the worse of circumstances, don’t we?”

Getting rather drunk on grappa last night wasn’t a particularly bad circumstance, but Murdoch knew what he was referring to.

“What have you ascertained so far, William?” Dr. Ogden asked.

Murdoch related the conclusions he had come to about how the murder had happened.

“So he was tied up post-mortem?”

“I’d say so.”

“And why would somebody do that?”

Before Murdoch could reply, Broske said, “It has to be a statement, does it not? A message of some kind. There’s a secret society that exists in my country. They call themselves the Cosa Nostra. Apparently they will sometimes mutilate the body of their victims as a warning to others, to intimidate them.”

“What others?” Murdoch exclaimed, exasperated. “If I hadn’t come here early, his housekeeper would have discovered him. I cannot imagine she is a target of this intimidation, she’s a middle-aged woman.”