Vices of My Blood (2 page)

Chapter Two

C
HALMERS
P
RESBYTERIAN
C
HURCH
was a large grey stone building that sat at the northwest corner of the Allan Horticultural Gardens. Murdoch was there within six minutes. Constable Fyfer had positioned himself at the top of the steps and in front of the double doors. A dozen or more people had already gathered to one side and were standing together watching expectantly.

Murdoch dismounted, caught hold of one of the spectators, a clerk by the look of him, and told him to take care of the bicycle. Then he joined Fyfer, who gave him an almost-military salute.

“What’s happened, constable?”

“It looks like the pastor of the church has been murdered, sir. His body’s in his office at the rear of the church. He’s been stabbed.”

They were interrupted by the bike-minding clerk, who called out, “Give us the truth, officer. What’s going on?”

“Never you mind,” Murdoch shouted back. He couldn’t stand the morbid curiosity that came out when there was a police affair.

“I assume you haven’t seen anybody leaving the church,” he said to Fyfer.

“No, sir. Not a soul. From the feel of the body, he hasn’t been dead that long, but as there was just me, I didn’t try to search the church proper. It seemed the most sensible thing to do was to keep watch until help arrived. I came out and blew my whistle to summon the closest constable. Fortunately, Constable Dewhurst was at the end of the Carlton Street beat and he came running. I sent him to guard the rear while I dealt with the lady.”

“Surely not the pastor’s wife?”

“No, sir, the lady that found the body. She is one of the parishioners who was coming for a meeting. Not surprisingly, she was quite hysterical, and I didn’t know what the heck was happening because she had blood on her face and hands and down her cape. I thought maybe she’d hurt herself. Finally, I got out of her that she’d found a body in the church. Somebody named Charles. Lucky for me, a man who lives on Carlton heard the commotion and came to see. I put him in charge of her while I went into the church.”

“Where is she now?”

“He’s taken her to her own home. I’ve got names and addresses.”

“Good work, constable.”

Fyfer was a new transfer to number four station and Murdoch hadn’t worked with him before. He was impressed with the young officer’s brisk, efficient demeanour.

Just then they heard the sound of the ambulance bell and the clatter of hooves as the horses galloped up Jarvis Street. Constable George Crabtree was seated beside the driver, and as soon as they pulled over, he jumped off and, pushing through the onlookers, bounded up the steps. He was a giant of a man, made taller by his helmet and winter cape, and the crowd parted in front of him except for one woman who yelled angrily, “Oi, who’d you think you’re shoving?” as her wide, over-trimmed hat was tilted to one side, almost bending one of the tall purple feathers.

Murdoch nodded at him. “George, take over from Constable Fyfer while we go inside. Keep the vultures at bay. Don’t let anybody in or out, and for God’s sake, don’t get drawn into talking to them. We don’t want the man’s wife to hear anything until we have a definite confirmation it is the minister.”

“Right, sir. And the physician should be here in a tick.”

Murdoch beckoned to Fyfer. “Show me where he is.”

“This way.” Fyfer headed down the steps to the brick walkway that ran between the church and Carlton Street. He opened the side door and let Murdoch through into a hall. “In there. It’s a mess, sir. Worse’n a butcher’s shop.”

Murdoch went to the threshold. A butcher shop, indeed. A man was sprawled, twisted half on his back in the middle of the room, with what looked like a narrow dagger protruding from the right side of his neck. The weapon must have severed the artery, for blood had spurted everywhere. The front of the man’s clothes were soaked and the pale blue carpet was drenched around the upper torso of the body. The side of the man’s face was smashed in, the right eye socket completely destroyed. His other eye was open and staring.

Murdoch looked over at the constable. He knew it was important to present a good example to the new young officer, but his own heart was beating faster. The murderer had left behind his own violence, it hung in the air and it was impossible not to be affected by it.

“Are you all right, Fyfer?”

“Quite all right, thank you, sir.”

“Is this your first murder case?”

“Yes, sir. A few assaults and drunk and disorderlies is all I’ve dealt with to date.”

“The vile smell is because his bowels have evacuated. That usually happens with sudden death.”

“Yes, I know, sir. My father was a butcher. I’m used to death.”

Murdoch thought surely there was a difference between slaughtered cattle and a human being who had been brutally murdered, but he wasn’t about to argue the point now. Better an officer who had his wits about him than one who didn’t.

He glanced around the room. The curtains had been drawn and, on a desk to the right, a lamp was burning.

“What would help is to have more light in here. There’s another lamp over there on the mantelpiece. Bring it over, will you?”

Fyfer went to do his bidding and Murdoch moved in closer to the body. The dead man was middle-aged, with thick dark hair liberally streaked with grey. Except for full side whiskers, he was clean-shaven. A handsome face, Murdoch thought. He was wearing the typical clothes of his profession: a black suit and a black waistcoat. His once-white shirt and cravat were crimson with blood.

The constable brought the second lamp over.

“Put it on that table and turn both wicks up as high as they will go. Don’t tread in the blood.”

Murdoch squatted on his heels, trying to get a sense of what had happened. He could see now that the weapon was a letter opener, and it had been plunged with such force into the pastor’s neck that only three inches of blade were visible. He touched the man’s forehead. The skin was cool but not yet icy cold. Fyfer was right, he had died quite recently. Gently he lifted both hands. They were covered with blood and he took out his handkerchief to wipe it away. There was ink on the forefinger and thumb of the right hand.

“I don’t see any defensive wounds, so the blood is probably because he was clutching at his neck to pull out the knife,” he said to Fyfer.

“What about the other injuries, sir? It looks like somebody gave him the boots.”

“The post-mortem examination should tell us more exactly, but I’m sure you’re right. Speaking of boots, his have gone. And hurriedly, by the look of it.” The socks were half off the man’s feet. He leaned in. “Look at this, Fyfer, the buttonhole’s torn on his waistcoat. Unless he’s habitually an untidy man, I’d say his watch and chain were also snatched.”

“Seems to indicate a burglar, doesn’t it, sir?”

“Possibly. It was certainly a violent attack.” Murdoch got to his feet. “But where was he when he was hit? From the spray of blood across the top of the desk and the wall, I’d say he was sitting down when he was attacked. He was hit from behind and slightly to the side. He stood up, clutched the letter opener, turned to face his attacker, then fell backwards to the floor.”

Fyfer nodded. “The odd thing is he couldn’t have been taken by surprise, could he?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Look where the desk is in relation to the door. The attacker had to come right into the room in order to be behind him.”

He was right. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. Maybe he was asleep. He could have been having an afternoon nap.”

Fyfer’s eager look vanished. “Yes, sir, of course. I was getting carried away.”

“No, no, lad, what you say is quite plausible. Anyway, we’ll do a more thorough examination later. Right now we’d better see if we have a predator to flush out or not. My hunch is we don’t, that our murderer fled immediately, but we’ve got to have a look.”

Fyfer removed his revolver from the holster. “Do you want my gun, sir?”

“No thanks. It’s been a while since I was on the beat, I might be more of a liability than an asset. Give me your truncheon. And when I said
flush out
that’s what I meant. If the murderer is hiding somewhere in this church, you can bet he’s desperate. Let’s not have any unnecessary heroics.”

Fyfer’s flicked at his wide moustache. “I’d say between us we’d be his match. I’ve been in training all winter for the police games, same as you.”

“Bicyclist are you?”

“Yes, sir. And I know this isn’t the time to go into it, but I would dearly like to talk about your training schedule one of these days. You got nipped at the wire last summer by Varley, but I’d wager you can beat him this year.”

Murdoch stared at the constable for a moment. He was a good-looking fellow with clear blue eyes and the fresh complexion of an athlete. His uniform sat well on him.

“All right then, let’s check the rooms in this area.”

“The halls have all got a hemp floor covering, and I don’t think they would hold any trace of footprints. I took a quick look before.”

He was right again, but Murdoch said, “We’ll do a thorough examination in daylight with more officers.”

They walked across the hall to the room opposite. Murdoch leaned his ear against the door, then signalled to Fyfer to stand on one side of the threshold. He took the other. He couldn’t hear any sound from the room so he turned the knob and flung the door open. Another pause, then he peered around the door frame. Nothing stirred and he motioned to the constable to follow him. The room was large and looked as if it served as the parish hall. Several rows of chairs faced a long table covered with a white cloth upon which were stacks of cups and saucers. A bank of windows at the far end gave sufficient light even at this time of day that he could see the place was empty and there was no other exit and no hiding places.

“I came here for a Boxing Day festivity,” said Fyfer. “Chalmers Church has a long tradition of Christian charity. They invite all of the poor parishioners to come in for a meal at Christmastime.”

Murdoch was startled. “Is this your church?”

“Oh no. I attend Sherbourne Methodist, but our churches have a cordial relationship and I had no family commitments that day so I thought I would help out.”

“You knew Reverend Howard, then?”

“No. He only received his call to this ministry in January. The position was vacant for six months after the death of Reverend Cameron.”

“You are an unexpected font of information, constable.”

He indicated to Fyfer that they should go back across the hall and try the room that adjoined the pastor’s. According to a brass plate on the door, this office belonged to Reverend Swanzey. Murdoch went through the same procedure as before and thrust open the door. His heart gave a painful thump as his eye caught a dark shape standing in the corner. He actually raised the truncheon before he realized he was looking at a coat tree with a fedora hanging on it.

Fyfer grinned at him. “I almost put a bullet through it myself, sir.”

Murdoch looked around. This office was smaller than Reverend Howard’s, with minimum furnishings: a rolltop desk and two plain chairs; a single bookcase against the wall. There was no wardrobe or cupboard. The fire was set in the grate but not lit and the curtains weren’t drawn. Through the window, he could see the gardens, patched with snow and bedraggled and dreary in the encroaching night. There was a single lamp on the desk and Murdoch walked over to it and touched the globe. It was cold.

“Let’s check the other hall,” he said to Fyfer.

This ran perpendicular to the one that led to Reverend Howard’s office. To the left were two doors, one marked Water Closet, the other Storage. Murdoch proceeded with the same care and opened the first door to the water closet, which was surprisingly spacious with a small sink and one of the newer types of flushing toilets. There was a delicate flower motif in the bowl and a matching decoration in the sink.

Fyfer whistled softly. “I think the station would benefit from a toilet like this, don’t you, sir?”

Murdoch agreed. The earth closet in the lower room of the station was noisome most of the time.

They moved on to the storage room. This proved to be crammed with the usual debris from a building used by the public. A couple of broken chairs, a pile of hassocks in need of repair, a bin of assorted umbrellas, an open drawer filled with gloves, a coat stand loaded down with forgotten scarves, but empty of anyone hiding.

At the end of the hall was a door, the twin of the one by which he had originally entered. He pushed it open and a wave of damp, cold air blew in. A flight of steps led to the path that seemed to circumnavigate the building, but this side was lined by a high hedge, at the moment all bare branches except for a few withered leaves and bits of paper that had blown there over the winter. Beyond the hedge was the Horticultural Gardens, and he saw the lamplighter was starting to light the lamps along the pathways criss-crossing the park. Snow was drifting through the pools of light, but it wasn’t yet sticking on the ground.

Murdoch turned back to Fyfer.

“Where is the church proper?”

“Through those doors, sir.”

At either end of the hall were two closed doors.

“You take the first one, I’ll take the second. Wait for me to give the signal.”

A moment of attention, then they each flung a door open and entered the nave.

It was much bigger than he’d expected and in spite of the circumstances, Murdoch felt a twist of curiosity. Ever since he could remember, the priests had drilled into him the peril to his immortal soul of associating with any Church other than the true Faith and to his mind that carried over to the buildings themselves. Murdoch remembered his mother, on their way to mass, hurrying him, Bertie, and Susanna past the Protestant church in the village as if it would reach out a tentacle like a giant octopus and suck them in.

The tall windows here were plain glass, no glorious depictions of Christ and the saints, and in the dim light, he could just make out the high ceiling where the large gasolier hung. There was a balcony and in the nave, rows of plain, straightbacked pews were arranged not as he was used to, perpendicular to a central aisle, but in semi-circles fanning out from the pulpit and divided by two aisles. There was not a wink of gold, no painted statues nor richly embroidered cloths to be seen. Instead of the sanctuary and the altar of his church, here was only a platform on which stood a pulpit reached by two curving sets of stairs on either side. So this was what a Protestant church looked like. Here the congregation presumably believed just as fervently in Jesus Christ and no doubt were as certain as any papist that they knew the truth, that they had the ear of God Almighty Himself.