A Journeyman to Grief (5 page)

“I see the jurors have been gathered,” said Dr. Ogden. She addressed Crabtree, who had come into the barn. “I assume you have a sufficient number?”

“Yes, ma’am. More than enough. We’ve sworn in thirteen.”

“Good, bring them in then.”

Crabtree went back to the yard and they heard him shouting.

“This way, gentleman. Through this door, step lively. The sooner we get started, the sooner you can go home. I’ll read you the oath when we’re in the room.”

The men began to trickle into the barn, Crabtree and Fyfer behind them, rounding them up like so many cattle.

On the whole, they were an affluent-looking lot, which wasn’t surprising given the area. Two soot-blackened navvies were also a part of the group somehow having fallen into Crabtree’s net. The other men flowed around them like a river around a tree stump.

“This way, mind the horses.”

Dr. Ogden in the lead, they all walked down to the tackle room.

Murdoch called out. “Ma’am, I must go and notify Mrs. Cooke.”

“Very well. Your constable can inform you of the date of the inquest and I will be doing the post-mortem examination tomorrow. You will, no doubt, want to attend.”

“I shall, ma’am.”

“Good night then, Mr. Murdoch,” said the professor. “I will probably have left by the time you return. I have to give another lecture tomorrow at a most uncivilized hour in the morning.” He smiled. “In case you wondered, detective, it is the twin lecture to the one you were attending. I’m entitling it ‘Courage.’”

“That sounds fascinating. I’m sorry I can’t attend.”

Murdoch tipped his hat and left. Speaking of courage, one of the most difficult things he was ever called upon to do was to tell a family member that a loved one had been murdered.

CHAPTER
SIX

I
t was close to midnight by now, and Cooke’s house was in darkness except for a solitary lamp in the doorway, presumably left burning for the master. Murdoch had no choice but to wake up the household. He had rung the doorbell a few times when he saw the gleam of a candle moving toward the entrance. Finally, the door was opened a crack and a sleepy-looking man, who had obviously dressed hastily, peered at him.

“What’d you want?”

“I’m Detective Murdoch from number four station and I must speak to Mrs. Cooke.”

“The mistress? She’s a-bed.”

“I must ask you to wake her.”

“Oh dear me. Has something happened to the master?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“What?”

All of this conversation was conducted through the crack in the door.

“I’d like to come in, if you don’t mind.”

Under normal circumstances, the servant was clearly a man with a keen eye for protocol and proper position. He hesitated.

“Well, I don’t know about that. How do I know who you are?”

“I just told you. Here is my card. Now, please do as I say. Does Mrs. Cooke have a personal maid?”

“Why, yes–”

“Wake her up also.”

He had to push a little, but the man reluctantly stepped back and allowed him into the hall. The butler studied the calling card carefully.

“You’d better wait here then.”

Murdoch had no intention of delivering his news in the hall.

“I think we’ll all be more comfortable in the drawing room.”

“We can’t do that. There’s no fire lit. Why? What’s ’appened?” He had a Cockney accent that was becoming more pronounced as he became more distressed.

“I can’t give you any information until I’ve spoken to Mrs. Cooke.”

He looked frightened.

“Of course, sir. I’m sorry. Please don’t think me impertinent, I’m just trying to do me job. Come this way. I’ll have Lucy wake the mistress at once.”

Murdoch heard a door opening overhead and a light appeared on the landing. A stout, grey-haired woman in a red satin wrapper was standing at the top of the stairs. “What is it, Ferguson? What’s going on?”

“A policeman wants to talk to you, madam. About the master.”

She gave a little cry of alarm. “Something’s happened, hasn’t it? I knew it, I knew it. He’d never normally go rushing out like that without finishing his supper.”

She hurried down the stairs, straight over to Murdoch, and caught him by the arm. “Something terrible’s happened, hasn’t it? I can see it in your face.”

“Mrs. Cooke, er, I think you should sit down.” There was a coat stand in the hall with a bench. Murdoch took the lamp from the woman’s hand and gently guided her to the seat. The butler didn’t move but stood clutching his candleholder, watching them.

“I’m Detective Murdoch, madam. I’m afraid I do have bad news…I am very sorry to have to tell you, but your husband, Daniel Cooke, is dead.”

Her fingers flew to her mouth. “I knew it,” she said again. “I knew there was trouble.”

“What kind of trouble, Mrs. Cooke?” Murdoch asked.

“Somebody called at the house at suppertime with some kind of message. We hadn’t even finished our meal, but Daniel, Mr. Cooke, got up at once. He said he had to go to the stable right away.”

“Did he say why?”

A fleeting expression of anger passed across her face. “No, he did not. But ask Ferguson here. He was the one who brought in the letter.”

Murdoch looked over at the butler, who became more jittery. “I don’t know, I’m sure, sir. It was a sealed envelope that I handed him. I don’t know what sort of message it was. I can say, though, sir, seeing as you are with the police, he did seem very upset by it.”

He glanced at Mrs. Cooke furtively, as if he was being disloyal, but she nodded and said, “He turned quite white and I asks him, ‘What’s wrong, Daniel?’ but he just jumped right up and says, ‘I’ve got to go to the stable at once.’”

“Who brought the letter?”

“The porch was quite dark–”

“I told you to fix the lamp, Ferguson. How many times have I asked you to take care of it and now look what’s happened.”

Murdoch attributed the irrelevancy of this remark to shock on Mrs. Cooke’s part. Certainly the reaction he’d anticipated in a woman suddenly widowed hadn’t yet occurred.

“I did repair the lamp, madam, but it’s situated in such a way that at night the porch is quite shadowy–”

“Can you describe the messenger at all?” Murdoch interrupted.

“It was a young coloured man–”

“So it must have been Green,” said Mrs. Cooke.

“No, madam. I was about to say, it wasn’t anybody I’d seen before. Elijah Green would have identified himself anyways.”

Murdoch made a point of opening his notebook. “It would be helpful if you could give me any details at all about this person, Mr. Ferguson.” He could see that the old man actually trembled at the question.

“I’m afraid I wasn’t paying a great deal of attention, and as I said the porch was dark.”

“But you saw he was negro?”

“Yes, sir. He did have a white scarf wrapped around his face and a black fedora pulled down low, but I could see part of his forehead and the skin was dark.”

“It wasn’t just the shadows of the porch?”

“No, sir. Besides he sounded like a negro when he spoke. He had a Yankee accent. He had a sort of raspy voice too, rather as if he had a sore throat.”

“What did he say?”

“Not much. ‘Give this letter to Mr. Cooke right away,’ or some such words.” Ferguson pursed his lips, his nervousness momentarily superseded by his indignation. “He was quite rude, I thought. Not so much as a ‘By your leave’ or ‘If you please.’”

“Can you say anything else about him? How tall, for instance? What else was he wearing?”

“He was about my height, I’d say, which is five feet, three inches. He had on a long black overcoat and the hat I mentioned, but that’s all I noticed.”

He was so worried, Murdoch almost patted him. “That’s good, Mr. Ferguson. Thank you.”

Mrs. Cooke got back into the picture. “He must have been luring my husband to the stable so he could rob him.” She stood up. “I’ll go there with you, Mr. Murdoch.” She paused. “I suppose there’s no doubt it is my husband who is dead?”

“The stable hand, Elijah Green, identified him and so did my constable.”

“And where is the body?”

“At the moment it is still in the barn, but he will be moved to the funeral parlour as soon as the coroner has instructed the jury.”

“I shall get dressed as quickly as I can and we can go to the stable. You’ll no doubt need me to see what has been stolen.”

Murdoch was taken aback. “Er, well, that would be helpful, ma’am.”

She hadn’t shown any curiosity at all about the way Cooke had died, but, giving her the benefit of the doubt, Murdoch decided not to go into details until she asked.

She started up the stairs, calling out to her butler, “Fetch Lucy to help me.”

“Yes, madam.”

The butler looked as if he was consumed with curiosity even if his mistress wasn’t, but he had no choice but to do as she commanded. He scurried off down the hall with his candle, and Murdoch was left in the semi-darkness of the foyer. He opened the front door. Ferguson was right, the lamp wasn’t adequate, but there was enough light to make his description of the unknown
messenger credible and Murdoch thought he was telling the truth.

He took out his pipe, stuffed it with tobacco, and lit it, drawing in deeply. He would have preferred to wait until there was daylight to go back to the stables, but Mrs. Cooke seemed quite determined. Down the street a cat yowled and was answered by the deep-throated bark of dog.

He wondered what sort of message the strange Yankee man had brought that would make Daniel Cooke abandon his dinner and run out. To his death.

As for Mrs. Cooke, he had never met a bereaved woman who seemed to grieve so little, but what that meant, he didn’t yet know. For that matter, Ferguson hadn’t been devastated either. Nor Elijah Green. What kind of man had Daniel Cooke been who left so little sorrow at his abrupt departure from this life?

For all her urgency, Mrs. Cooke took a long time to get dressed but eventually appeared properly pinned and corseted. When they got to the livery, the constable who was now on duty told them that Dr. Ogden, the professor, and the jury had left and Crabtree had removed the body and transported it to Humphrey’s Funeral Parlour. Mrs. Cooke headed straight for the office.

She knew the combination to the safe and, at her command, Murdoch opened it at once. She gasped.

“The money’s gone.”

There was a five-dollar bill and a cardboard box tied with a shoelace and labelled
bills
lying in the bottom of the safe, but that was all.

“How much money was there, ma’am?”

“Yesterday he told me he had four hundred and five dollars in the strong box. I told him he should take it over to the bank, but he said he’d go later this week. Now see what’s happened. We’ve been robbed.”

She suddenly burst into tears. She was certainly showing more grief at the loss of the money than the loss of her husband, Murdoch thought, but again he excused her. People often behaved strangely when they were most upset. He waited for a moment for her to calm herself.

“Did anybody else know the combination to the safe other than you and your husband?”

“Nobody. You can’t be too careful, we always said. But that darkie must have forced him to open it and then he took the money and killed Daniel.” She looked vaguely around the office. “Where did you find him?”

“His body was in the stable.” Murdoch wasn’t sure she was ready yet to hear the facts. “Is there anything else missing, Mrs. Cooke?”

She came over to the desk and opened first one drawer and then the other. “His revolver’s gone.”

“He kept a revolver?”

“He stayed late at the stables almost every night. Cabbies can be a rough lot. We both felt it was safer for him to be armed. Only a few months ago, he surprised a burglar and he purchased the gun after that.”

Murdoch took out his notebook. “Could you describe the revolver to me, Mrs. Cooke?”

“I certainly can. We discussed at length what was the best for his purpose. He finally decided on a bulldog, thirty-two calibre. It was nickel-plated and had a rubber stock.”

“Thank you, ma’am. That is excellent. Did he always keep the gun in the desk?”

She averted her eyes. “Let’s put it this way, Mr. Murdoch. My husband believed in keeping his work life and his home life quite separate. I can count on one hand the number of times I have been here. I did visit him one evening not so long ago and took
him by surprise. He had the gun in his hand when I came into the office.” She chuckled in an awkward sort of way. “We made quite the joke of it afterwards. He replaced the gun in that drawer, I do remember that.”

“And did he lock the drawer?”

“I don’t recall. But he did always made sure the office door was locked.”

“There was no key on his person that we have discovered, ma’am. It’s possible he dropped it somewhere in the barn. We will look in the morning.”

“There were two on the ring. The office key and the master key to the side doors.”

Murdoch made a note. “Did he report the previous incident to the police, ma’am?”

“No, he didn’t. I told him he should have, but nothing was taken and he said he hadn’t got a good look at the man anyway. He was too soft-hearted, is the truth. Didn’t want to bring in trouble. He thought it might give other people ideas.”

“Perhaps we could both take a look around the room, while you are here, just in case he did put the gun somewhere else and in case you notice anything else out of place.”

“Very well.”

There really wasn’t anywhere else to look. There was nothing in the bookcase or the filing cabinet. However, in the lower drawer of the desk, Murdoch found a pile of racing forms. They went back several months and were heavily marked and notated.

“Mr. Cooke liked to gamble, did he, ma’am?”

She saw what he was referring to and she frowned. “He was a man who made his living by hiring out horses. Occasionally he could get a rundown racehorse for a reasonable price. They make good cab horses.”

She’d come up with that answer pretty quickly, thought Murdoch, who didn’t think comments such as “Closing fast in last race,” “Likes slop,” and “Now’s the time” were about potential cab horses.