Night's Child (16 page)

He removed Liza’s photograph from the drawer and stared at the blurry face. She’d held strong opinions about the question of sexual activity and the law.
If two grown-up people in their right minds want to do weird and unnatural acts with each other, let them. But if coercion is involved or any misuse of children or animals, I think they should be prosecuted and the punishment should be severe.

He remembered being shocked when she’d said that, wondering how on earth she even knew of such things as “weird and unnatural acts.” He’d finally asked her and she said she’d read about it. He smiled ruefully. If women had been allowed, she would have studied law. What an odd mixture of conventional and radical thinking she’d held. She had insisted they wait until marriage before consummating their love according to their church’s dictum. He’d agreed but how he regretted that now.

He returned the photograph to the drawer. Thinking about Liza seemed to affect the way he felt about Enid and he found it hard to shake off vague feelings of discontent. What a shock it had been to see
Enid Murdoch
.

Then there was Miss Amy Slade. He halted. What the hell did he mean,
And then there was Miss Amy Slade?
He hardly knew her. Besides, he wasn’t the kind of man who could dally with one woman while promising himself to another. Was he promised to Enid? He didn’t feel like answering that question. He glanced up at the portrait of a young and pretty Queen. Even the Queen of India and the Empire was not spared grief. She had been a widow for a long time now and showed no signs of coming out of mourning.

Impatiently, he pulled the notepaper closer. He hadn’t got very far with the notes he was supposed to be making.

The talk with Arthur had deeply affected him, as had finding out that the Kitchens were leaving. Nobody had said as much, but it was highly unlikely that Arthur would come back. Murdoch rested his head in his hands. What would it be like if Arthur were to recover? If he and Murdoch did race each along the edges of the lake? Like all impossible dreams, this one brought a sense of almost unbearable longing.

There was a tap on the wall. Through the reed strips, Murdoch could see Constable Crabtree.

“Come in, George.”

Crabtree poked his head in. “The inspector wants to see you right away.”

Murdoch didn’t move. “Did he say why?”

“No, except to come at once.”

Murdoch stood up. “At once, it is.”

Crabtree hesitated. “Are you all right, sir? You look a bit peaked.”

“I’m well enough, thank you. But I feel as if I have been listening to the hooves of
equis nocti
drawing closer. The sound can make a man grow pale.”

“Yes, sir. He does seem in rather a foul mood, I’m afraid.”

Murdoch smiled at the constable’s misinterpretation.

“Fair or foul, give me Inspector Brackenreid any day. He is mortal after all.”

Slightly cheered by his own humour, Murdoch followed Crabtree out into the corridor.

Brackenreid handed him a piece of paper.

“Take a look at this, Murdoch. Different twist.” He made no attempt to hide his sneer.

Murdoch unfolded the letter.

Dear Sir. Your acting detective, William Murdoch, is not doing his job. He is not ‘acting’ at all but sitting on his buttock while Sergeant Seymour continues unpunished. If this matter is not dealt with the entire station will be shamed.

“So what do you say, Murdoch?”

“I wonder if the writer was referring to the left or the right?”

“What?”

“The left or the right buttock, sir. That I am allegedly sitting on.”

Brackenreid flapped his hand. “That’s got nothing to do with it.”

“I presume the letter came with the first post, sir?”

“Yes. The early worm gets the bird.”

Murdoch glanced up at him, not sure if he was trying to be witty. Clearly not.

“Quite so, sir. I’ll take this and compare it with the others, make sure they are by the same writer.”

The inspector stared at Murdoch. “Of course they are the same. This one is typewritten.”

“I just don’t want to make any assumptions. I’m wondering how the writer knew that I had been assigned to the case.”

Reluctantly, Brackenreid conceded the point. “It doesn’t necessarily mean anything. You are the only detective here. It is only logical you’d be given the case.”

Murdoch wasn’t entirely satisfied with that explanation but he nodded.

“Acorns from mighty oaks do drop, as you might say.”

Brackenreid sniffed. His face was normally florid, but this morning it seemed to have taken on a purplish tinge. He had all the signs of a man suffering the aftermath of overindulgence.

He drummed his fingers on his desktop. “I am inclined to agree with the letter writer on one thing, Murdoch. You aren’t doing enough.”

“May I point out I have only been on the case since Tuesday, sir. Less haste more waste.”

That jest sailed right over Brackenreid’s head. “Maybe so, but it’s not the only place where you’re dragging your feet. I haven’t seen any progress on the Smithers situation.”

“We’ve questioned everybody, sir. We have no leads.”

Brackenreid waved his hand impatiently. “I’m sure the woman lost the damn brooch herself, but she called three times yesterday and insisted on talking to me. The telephone is a menace in the hands of women like that. You’ll have to go over or send one of the constables and see if you can appease her. Arrest somebody.”

Murdoch couldn’t believe he was serious but in this mood he was. Definitely not the time to tell him about the photographs.

“I’ll do what I can, sir.”

Brackenreid leaned forward on his desk. “Let’s put it this way, Murdoch. If you do find out the po-faced sergeant has been up to no good, he will have to pay back every penny he’s getting now for sitting on his arse at home.”

Murdoch got to his feet. “If that’s everything, I’ll get going, sir.”

The inspector swivelled around in his chair so that he was facing the window, his back to Murdoch.

“I want a full report by Monday. On both cases.”

Back in his cubicle, Murdoch took the two other letters out of the file and spread them on the desk, studying each one with the magnifying glass. As far as he could see the latest one had been typewritten on the same machine as the others. The tone was certainly similar. Educated, school-marmish almost. “Buttock,” not “arse” or “rear end” or “duff.” And his full name. This letter was aimed much more at him than Seymour. He drew in his breath angrily. Who the hell was playing around like this? And where should he start searching? He supposed the only lead he had, if you could call it that, was the faintest suggestion that Seymour was indeed up to something. Whatever it was, the anonymous letter writer knew enough about the sergeant’s life to accuse him. It made sense then, that by following in the sergeant’s footsteps, or one of his friends at the lodging house, he might find the writer. And what if the sergeant was doing something against the law? What then? Presumably Murdoch would be forced to charge him. He didn’t relish that task. What sort of impact would that have on Miss Slade, who considered Seymour one of the most honourable men she had ever met?

There was a tap on the outside wall and he could see Crabtree’s shape through the strips.

“Yes, George?”

The constable stepped into the room. “There’s a telephone message just come in for you, sir. From Dr. Bryce. He’s over at the morgue and he’d like you come over right away.”

Murdoch frowned. “Did he say why, or am I just to admire his finesse?”

Dr. Bryce enjoyed being called as a medical examiner and had no compunction about boasting about his skill.

“Apparently somebody found a body in a trunk on the lake and there’s no doubt it’s a homicide.”

“In that case, I will indeed go right away.”

CHAPTER
TWENTY

D
r. Bryce was a tall man, with a bald head and a heavy moustache. He had an air of confidence that was perilously close to arrogance, but Murdoch rather liked him. In spite of his brusque manners, he cared about what he was doing and the fact that the bodies he was dissecting had once been living human beings. Not all physicians behaved in that way.

As soon as Murdoch entered the room, the doctor called out to him. “We’ve got a nasty business on our hands, detective. Come and have a look.”

Murdoch walked over to the table where Bryce was standing, a blood-stained apron covering his elegant grey worsted suit. There was a small steamer trunk on the table with the lid open.

“I don’t know how much I can do right now,” the doctor continued. “The body is still frozen. It’s stiff as a board. We can’t even get it out.”

Murdoch peered into the trunk. Inside was the body of a young man, stark naked, his knees bent up to the chest and his arms folded across each other. His head was pushed sideways. For a brief moment, Murdoch was puzzled why the youth looked familiar, but then with a jolt, he realized it was the same boy who had been in the stereographic photograph. He wasn’t wearing the turban, but there was no mistaking him.

“Is he one of yours?” Bryce asked.

Explanations weren’t necessary at this point, so Murdoch was evasive. “I haven’t met him before. I’ll have to take Bertillon measurements to see if he’s in our criminal system.”

“Well, you’ll find him there, I’ll wager. The man was a catamite.”

“Is that so?”

“Here, touch his chest.”

Murdoch lightly touched the icy skin. The chest wasn’t as smooth as it appeared.

“He’s shaved off the hair,” continued Bryce in his lecturing tones. “On the chest and it looks like also at the pubis. Of course, I’ll swear to it when I do a rectal probe, but there’s not much doubt.”

Murdoch wasn’t surprised. The painted face and lascivious pose of the photograph had suggested as much.

“How did he die?”

“I can’t tell you that, detective! You’ll have to wait for my report. I have to do a proper postmortem examination. He could have had a heart attack, he could have consumption, syphilis, who knows?”

Murdoch pointed at the corpse. “He’s been badly beaten and I’d say there are marks around his neck.”

Bryce nodded approvingly as if he were an observant pupil. “I’d say the poor wretch has been strangled. But there are other traumas. See there. His left shin is quite shattered and there are at least two ribs on the same side that are depressed. You can see the bruises. More than likely he was kicked. He may have a skull fracture, but I won’t know that until I remove the scalp.”

“Is there any possibility the injuries were caused when he was stuffed into the trunk?”

“No, no. Look at his leg. There has been a flow of blood down to the ankle that could only occur if he was alive when he was hurt. My guess is that he was beaten, then strangled, and then his body bent so it would fit into the trunk, which may have caused further damage. I can verify that later.”

“Do you have any idea when he died, doctor?”

“None at all. All deterioration has been halted because of the cold. I see no staining on the body, so that tells me he was put into the trunk almost immediately after death. He could have been killed as long ago as two weeks when we experienced that severe cold weather or as recently as a few days past.”

Bryce attempted to move one of the boy’s arms but it was still intractable.

“How old do you think he is?”

“His genitalia appears to be fully developed. I’d place him at about twenty years of age.” Bryce lifted the corpse’s upper lip as far as he could. “His teeth seem decayed. He’s thin, probably not well-nourished. I suppose one should feel sorry for him.” He looked up at Murdoch, who made no comment. “Well, that’s it then.” Bryce removed his apron, crumpled it up, and dropped it on the floor. “I can’t do anything more for now and I have to attend one of my patients who is at the point of delivering a baby. The bookends of life, eh, Murdoch? Mr. Boys is acting as coroner and he’s called an inquest for Monday morning. I should have my report for both of you no later than Saturday.”

“Thank you, doctor.”

As soon as Bryce had left, Murdoch took his measuring tape from his pocket and did the best he could to at least get the approximate height of the dead man. He was about five feet tall. His hair was dark and cut short, but there were signs around his nails, neck, and the back of his ears that he hadn’t had much opportunity to keep himself clean. Or didn’t care to.

The air was stinging with the chloride of lime the doctor used to keep down the smell. The room was bare, lined with shelves that were empty although some large jars were stacked in one corner. A weigh scale, the kind found in most kitchens, was on a backless chair by the table. This morgue could not be called well-equipped, and Murdoch knew most of the doctors who were called upon to do postmortem examinations preferred to use one of the funeral parlours such as Humphrey’s on Yonge Street. He stayed another three-quarters of an hour, taking what measurements he could for the Bertillon files and examining the trunk as closely as he could. It was well used by the look of it, but there were no identifying traces of custom stamps or steamer stickers. No address to help him.

Finally, he straightened up, crossed himself, and muttered a quick prayer for God to have mercy on the boy’s soul. Bryce had estimated his age as close to twenty but death had erased care from his face and he looked very young. What the hell was Agnes Fisher doing with his picture and why had she drawn a black border around the card? There was only one answer to that: She knew he was dead.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE

T
he Sackville Street School was closer to the morgue than Sydenham Street was so Murdoch decided to go there first just in case Agnes was now in attendance. The weather hovered between snow and sleet with an overcast sky and damp, chill air. Even at this midpoint of the morning, most of the houses showed lit lamps and candles. He couldn’t shake off his own inner dreariness either. He’d investigated cases of murder in the past, and one or two of them had brought him to the edge of despair over the darkness human beings were capable of. This case felt equally ugly. He almost doubted that Agnes Fisher was still alive. She could well be implicated in the youth’s death, which would have put her in grave danger. Unconsciously, he braced his shoulders. He’d been accused more than once of being as stubborn as a mule, and he felt mulish now. He intended to find whoever was exploiting Agnes Fisher, but he also knew by removing them he was cutting off only one of the many heads of the Hydra. This was not a happy thought.