WHILE THE CORONER DID a preliminary investigation, Murdoch went to inform Oliver Wicken’s mother that her son was dead. They lived on Wilton Street, not far from the police station. He found himself inwardly rehearsing the words he would use.
The house was narrow-fronted with brown gables that even in the dulling rain looked freshly painted. The small yard behind the iron fence was neat and the shrubs trim. At the door, Murdoch took a deep breath, then knocked on the door. There was no response and he was forced to knock again, harder. This time the door opened. A tall woman of middle age stood looking at him enquiringly. The resemblance between her and the dead constable was striking and he assumed this was Mrs. Wicken. He raised his hat.
“Ma’am. My name is Murdoch. I’m a detective at number four station. I, er …”
His words stuck in his mouth. The truth was too dreadful to say while he was on the doorstep. “May I have a word with you?”
Fear flashed across her face but, perhaps with some instinct of self-preservation, she suppressed it immediately and nodded graciously. “Of course. Please come in. We’re in the back.”
She led the way down the narrow hall toward the rear of the house. There was an elegance to her that Murdoch hadn’t anticipated. Her abundant fair hair was stylishly dressed, her silk wrapper a smart sky-blue stripe with cherry red yoke and flounces.
“We can talk in here,” she said and she drew back the portieres that covered the door to the kitchen. They were velvet and a rich garnet colour. Like the outside of the house, the interior gave the impression of care and pride. Green durrie strips had been placed on the linoleum of the hall and there were several framed paintings on the walls, mostly equestrian portraits as far as he could tell.
“You must excuse us, we were just finishing break fast.”
By the window was an invalid chair, tilted back to a reclining position. Murdoch blinked, fighting the reflexive impulse to look away. There was a child lying in the chair although it was impossible to tell whether it was male or female. The head was enormous and virtually bald, except for a few sparse strands of white hair that straggled across the forehead. The neck seemed thin as a stalk although it was probably normal size, and he saw that there was a leather brace under the chin to hold the weight of the head. The pale blue eyes beneath the bulging forehead were vacant.
“This is my daughter, Dora.”
She bent over and held a sipping cup to the girl’s mouth. Murdoch waited. The kitchen seemed to serve a double function as a sitting room; it was crammed with furniture.
Mrs. Wicken concentrated on her task, wiping away the dribbles from the child’s chin. Then she turned around and regarded him.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Murdoch, please have a seat.” She indicated a comfortable armchair but he was reluctant to take it.
“Is there somewhere we could speak in private?”
She shook her head. “It makes no matter where we talk; Dora can neither hear nor see.”
She met his eyes and what she saw there frightened her dreadfully.
“What is it? Is Oliver hurt?”
He plunged in and his mouth was dry. “I’m afraid I have very bad news, Mrs. Wicken. Oliver has met with” – he was going to say, “met with an accident,” but that wasn’t true. He tried again. “I deeply regret to tell you that your son is dead.”
The words were out unsoftened and he would have given anything in the world to call them back, to make them palatable. As if that were possible.
She didn’t cry out, or show any immediate sign of grief. She simply stared at him.
“I’m not sure I heard you correctly, sir. Are you refer ring to my son, Oliver Wicken? He is a police constable.”
“Yes, ma’am, I know him well.”
Her face had gone the colour of chalk. “I don’t understand. What has happened?”
“I myself discovered his body in a vacant house a little while ago … he had been shot.”
“Shot? By whom?”
“I, er …” Murdoch didn’t want to tell her. “He was shot through the head. The bullet was from his own revolver.”
He could see her absorbing the implications of what he said but she shook her head.
“I still cannot comprehend what you are saying. Was this an accident?”
“I’m afraid that doesn’t seem likely.”
“Then I don’t understand.”
“There was a note beside his body.”
He removed it from his notebook and handed it to her. She took it reluctantly and read the message.
“This is preposterous. It makes no sense to me. Who is this addressed to?”
“Did he have a sweetheart?”
“He did not.”
“Are you certain, ma’am? That is what the letter implies.”
“Of course I am certain. Do you think I don’t know my own son? He was devoted to me and his sister. Her care was a vital part of his life.” Her chin and lower lip were shaking uncontrollably and she turned abruptly to the crippled girl and began to fuss with her covers. The child gurgled some sounds of distress, sensing what she couldn’t hear or see. Her mother picked up the sipping cup again but held it suspended in the air. Her hand was trembling so badly, however, she couldn’t hold the cup steady and she put it down on the table. Murdoch wanted to reach out and comfort her but he couldn’t. Finally, she turned back to face him.
“I know what you are implying, Mr. Murdoch. You think he took his own life.”
“We won’t know for certain until after the inquest but I’m afraid it does seem that way.”
“That is utterly impossible. He isn’t that kind of boy. My son would never commit suicide. He loved both of us too much.”
Murdoch did not reply.
“Let me see that letter again.” She examined it. “I am not even sure if that is his hand.”
He knew printed letters were hard to distinguish but he didn’t contradict her. Abruptly, she returned the letter to him.
“Where is he?”
“At the moment he is still where I found him in the empty house on Gerrard Street. After the jurors have viewed the body he will probably be taken to Humphrey’s Funeral Home for the inquest.”
Suddenly, she sat back in her chair. “I beg your pardon …” She put her hand to her mouth, turned to the side, and retched violently, two or three times.
Murdoch crossed over to her and put his hand on her shoulder.
“I am so terribly sorry, Mrs. Wicken.”