MURDOCH BROUGHT THE LANTERN CLOSE to the ravaged face. The source of the injury seemed to be a small circular wound near the right temple, and the blood which was covering the right eye was from that wound. The left eye was open.
What in God’s name happened?
Slowly, he swung the beam along the length of the body. The metal of the gun barrel gleamed in the light and abruptly Murdoch tugged the gun loose from between the thighs. Placing the lantern beside him on the floor, he crouched down and snapped open the cylinder. All police pistols had six chambers but, for safety reasons, officers were allowed only five cartridges. The hammer was always to rest on the empty chamber. Wicken’s gun held four undischarged cartridges; the fifth had been fired. Near his right shoulder was the empty shell case. Murdoch left it where it was. Hurriedly, he tugged off his own glove and held the back of his hand beneath Wicken’s nose to check for any indication of breath, although he knew there could be none. He touched the chin; the skin was grey and cold, and when he tried to move the jaw from side to side, it was stiff. The rigor of death had already started. The constable must have died four or five hours earlier. More carefully, his hands steadying, Murdoch began to scrutinise the body.
Wicken was lying with his left arm underneath him and the right arm was flung across his chest, the gloved hand touching the floor. Just beyond the reach of his fingers was his notebook and underneath that was tucked a piece of paper.
Gingerly, Murdoch extricated it. Printed neatly in pencil were the following words:
LIFE IS UNBEARABLE WITHOUT YOUR LOVE.
FORGIVE ME.
He felt a rush of anger. You stupid boy. May God forgive your sin. I won’t.
He stared at the note again as if there was some answer in the terse words.
LIFE IS UNBEARABLE WITHOUT YOUR LOVE.
Whose love? Why had it been withdrawn?
Murdoch didn’t know much about Wicken’s personal life. As an acting detective, his rank was above the constable’s, and off-duty they were not expected to have much to do with each other. On the occasions when they had met, however, he’d liked the young man. And in fact, he’d talked to him only last evening when Wicken had come on duty. What was it they’d chatted about? He couldn’t remember because his toothache had obliterated everything else. No, of course, that’s what it was. Wicken expressed sympathy. Said he’d had a tooth pulled when he was young. Murdoch was too proud to ask if it had hurt but Wicken had told him cheerily, “Hurt like the deuce at first but the pain doesn’t last that long.” The constable had seemed in perfectly good spirits. Quite normal.
And now look at him.
He took out his own notebook and placed the piece of paper inside. He was tempted to inspect the body further but Wicken’s rubber cape was wrapped tightly around him, which meant he’d have to be lifted. Murdoch decided to wait until the coroner arrived.
He picked up the lantern and started to walk around the kitchen. The room was totally bare of furnishings although the original rush matting remained. He examined the door and the window next to it. Dust was thick on the sill and there was no sign of forcing around the frame. How had Wicken got into the house? And why choose this particular place to take his own life? Murdoch looked out of the window at the neglected garden, forlorn and grey in the predawn light. The fence was high all around and the house abutted a laneway on the east side. Parliament Street was on the west. There was no other house overlooking this one. Wicken had made sure his sin was a private one.
He turned back to the body. Who was the note addressed to? It didn’t sound as if the beloved person had died – more likely rejected him. You get over it, my lad. Nothing is worth committing such a mortal sin. You might want to die to escape your pain but God says that is according to His will, not yours. But Murdoch knew he himself had thought such things not so long ago when his fiancée had died. And he wasn’t completely sure he was over it.
A few feet away was Wicken’s helmet, standing upright as if he’d put it tidily on a shelf. Murdoch picked it up and held it in the light of the lantern. It seemed clean, free of blood. He replaced it in the same spot, then he paced around a second time, saw nothing more, and returned to the body.
He was about to say a brief prayer but he stopped. He could as yet find no forgiveness for Wicken. His pity was with those left behind. He’d heard that the boy’s mother was a widow and that there was a younger sister. And he wondered also how the unnamed woman would feel when she learned she had precipitated this self-murder.
He left the house, closing the door tightly behind him. The sky had turned from black to dull grey but the drizzle was unalleviated. He started to jogtrot back to the front gate and along the street to the neighbouring house. There was a plaque on the wrought-iron gate proclaiming this was a livery stable and he could see into a long yard. At the far end was a low building, which he supposed housed the horses. He tried the gate but it was bolted on the inside and he shook it impatiently, prepared to knock the shicey thing off its hinges if need be. However, at that moment a man emerged from the stable, leading a saddled horse.
“Hey you, come over here,” Murdoch shouted.
The man hesitated, then approached slowly, the horse swaying behind him, its hooves clacking on the cobblestones.
“Who the sod are you? What’d you want?”
He was quite young, perhaps in his mid-twenties, short and wiry, dressed in corduroy trousers and jacket. His cap was low on his forehead.
“I’m sodding William Murdoch, acting detective, that’s who. Now open up.”
The fellow’s expression changed.
“Sorry, Officer. What’s up? Here –”
He threw back the bolt on the gate and started to swing it open.
“What’s your name?” Murdoch asked.
“Eakin, Frank Eakin.”
“Well, Mr. Eakin, I’m commandeering you. I need somebody to run over to the police station. At once. Ask for Sergeant Hales. Got that? Hales.”
“Tell him I’ve found Wicken. Tell him we need the ambulance and the coroner.”
“Somebody dead then?” He shifted nervously.
“That’s what it usually means when you get the coroner. Now hurry.” He pointed. “I’m in the empty house on the corner. Tell them to come to the back door.”
Eakin indicated the horse standing listlessly behind him.
“I was just going to exercise Sailor. Shall I take him?”
“Of course take him, unless you can run faster. Get going. Scorch!”
The man swung himself into the saddle, kicked his heels hard into the horse’s sides, and lunged into a gallop out of the gate.
Murdoch turned around and half-ran, half-skittered back to the scene of death.