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WHEN DETECTIVE JACK Winston arrived at the station the next morning, the desk constable greeted him with a grim face, his mouth a stiff line. “Sir, we’ve just had word. A body near False Creek, at the foundry.”
WINSTON AND MILLER arrived at the foundry, one of many industries that had sprung into operation on the north side of the small inlet, False Creek. They found a patrol constable taking shelter under the eaves of an outbuilding. The men exchanged greetings with firm handshakes and serious expressions.
“I thought you should see this, sir. It might be your missing man, Walter Huntington.”
Winston strained to hear as rain pelted his umbrella. Hammers clanged from a nearby building. His last spark of hope for finding Huntington was doused by the man’s words. Winston nodded toward the body. “Constable Newton. How did it get up here? I thought he was found in the water, but we are twenty yards from the shore.”
Newton looked over his shoulder. “I haven’t moved him, though. I covered him up ... for dignity. With the rain, should I have moved him?”
“No, better you didn’t,” Winston said. “Who found him? Where?”
Newton pointed to a man a few yards away.
Winston greeted the man, introduced Miller, and asked, “When you found the body, was it there? Where it is now? Or did you move it?”
“No,” the man replied. “He was just lying there. When he didn’t respond, I sent for you lot.”
Winston thanked the man. He counted to three and approached the blanket-covered body. Kneeling at one end, he lifted a corner of the blanket, revealing a face clear of bruises or cuts, glistening from the rain. The dark hair, though plastered against the forehead, matched the photograph of Huntington shown to him by the man’s mother. Winston called to Constable Newton. “The doctor may be able to confirm identity when he arrives. He’s been sent for?”
“Yes, Doctor Cole, sir.” Newton shifted his weight. “If there’s nothing else, I should get back to my patrol, sir.”
Winston waved the man away. No need to force him to stand in the rain.
While he waited for the doctor, Winston surveyed the scene around the body, cursing the now-heavier downpour. He leaned closer to the ground. Within the mud he could see flecks of metal. Shavings from a cartwheel? Looking down at his feet, he saw that his own shoes had picked up the flecks. He’d need to spend extra time that evening cleaning them.
“Learn what you can while I examine this area,” Winston said to Miller. He walked around the body, keeping back at least a foot, not wanting to disturb any footprints or other evidence more than the rain was already doing. He stepped away and circled the body again, stopping in front of the shoes protruding from beneath the blanket. The detective moved closer to kneel before them. Easing the covering from the legs, he called to Miller. “Constable, what do you make of this?”
Miller leaned over Winston. “It looks ... wrong, sir.”
“What does?”
“There is something ... something off.”
“What do you see?” Winston encouraged the younger man to lower himself closer to the body.
Miller’s eyes widened. “It’s the shoes. They’re on the wrong feet.”
“What does that tell you, Miller?”
“He didn’t dress himself.”
Winston nodded. “And whoever did appears to have been in a rush.” He lowered the blanket, tucking it under the body’s leg. “As soon as the doctor examines the body, let’s get it out of the rain. He’ll be here shortly, I should think.” He stood. “Miller. How would you transport a body?”
“Alone?” The constable pointed toward two ruts, made deeper by the rushing rainwater. “By cart or wagon.”
Winston looked at the entrance to the foundry as a cart and horse passed through it. He nodded toward the ground. “There are too many tracks to know which are relevant. And even if we followed them to the road, it’s impossible to say where they go next.”
“Detective Winston!”
The detective swivelled to see a tall figure approaching, holding an umbrella aloft. The man stepped gingerly to avoid deep puddles forming on the path. “Doctor Cole, we’d intended to meet today, but certainly not in these circumstances.”
“No indeed, Detective.” The doctor handed Miller his umbrella. “I understand you think the body may be your missing man.”
Miller held the umbrella over the doctor. When they reached the body, Winston matched the other man’s crouch.
Cole lifted the blanket. “I know the man. He’s a patient, Walter Huntington.” The doctor felt along the neck, then raised his eyes. “And I can confirm that he’s dead, although I’m unable to say much more until he is somewhere dry.” The doctor rose.
Winston stood. His legs felt like lead.
“It appears he has drowned,” said Cole. “And I believe death arrived recently.”
“You’re certain? Only it looks like he’s been here on the ground for some time. Surely he’s not near enough to the water to have drowned.” Despite the rain, heat coursed through Winston as he looked toward the shore. Could he have saved this man?
“It takes a surprisingly little amount of liquid to drown, Detective.” Cole brushed a rock from beside the body. “There is little decomposition. I would say death was last night. I will need to examine him thoroughly before I say more.”
Before Winston could speak, the doctor waved his hand to signal for someone to remove Huntington’s body. “As to why his body is here and not there,” Cole pointed at the shore, “that is not my puzzle to solve. He could have stumbled here while drunk and met his end in a puddle.”
“Wouldn’t he be face down, then?” Winston asked as Miller and the summoned man lifted the body onto a large piece of wood and walked it under a nearby overhang to wait for a cart. Winston followed with the doctor. He tugged his pant legs up to prevent further dirtying the cuffs as his shoes sank into the mud.
“Perhaps when he was found, he was turned over.”
The men lowered the body to the ground. The doctor started at the head, reaching his hands underneath, working them down the body. He inspected each finger and continued checking the rest of the body. Winston found a plank of wood to stand on to avoid sinking into the muck.
“Have you noticed anything unusual?” Winston asked as Cole rose.
“Other than the man appearing to have drowned rather far from the water?” Cole asked. “No, but I will let you know what I find after I examine him more thoroughly. It wouldn’t be appropriate to remove his clothing here.” Cole checked his pocket watch. “I have an appointment this afternoon and would rather not interrupt the autopsy to attend to it. Huntington’s body will keep until tomorrow morning. You can ask me your questions then, too. Though perhaps the answers are of less value now.”
“You’re certain it’s Huntington?” Winston let his question hang.
Cole’s mouth formed a thin line. “Yes, I’m afraid so.” He cast his gaze toward the body, sadness reflected in his eyes.
Winston considered the doctor’s suggestion. “May I meet you at your office to ask my questions anyway, before you examine him?”
Cole tilted his head. “I’ll conduct the examination at the station. I see patients in my home, and I’m not equipped to conduct the post-mortem examination there.”
Winston looked at his shoes. “I just thought it might be more pleasant than—” He cleared his throat. “More pleasant than speaking over a body.” When he looked up, Cole gave him an understanding smile, flooding Winston with relief.
“You are correct, Detective. However, as I am sure you know, it is much easier if I can point out specifics to you. I will refrain from showing you the goriest of details, not that I expect any in this case, but you may find it more informative to join me for the autopsy. Please ensure the body is kept cool. Decomposition can be quicker in drownings.”
“Thank you for your consideration, Doctor.” Winston shifted his weight. “One more thing. His shoes. What do you think of them being on the wrong feet?”
Cole waved the air above the body. “If this was the result of a drunken night, I’m not at all surprised he struggled to dress himself.”
To Winston’s mind, Huntington’s body did not have the appearance of a man who had imbibed too enthusiastically. Though perhaps the heavy rain had washed away any smell, and his time in the water may have masked the sallowness he associated with overindulgence. Winston had another thought: surely the man’s shoes would have metal shavings on them if he had walked to the foundry on his own. He lifted the covering to check. Nothing.
Winston waited with the doctor while the body was lifted into a cart. Walter Huntington left for what would be his final checkup.
WINSTON BRACED HIMSELF as he knocked on Mrs. Huntington’s door. A maid opened it, with Mrs. Huntington standing behind her. Seeing Winston holding his hat, she spun on her heel and walked away—unwilling or unable to hear his news. The maid let him in, then followed Mrs. Huntington. Standing in the parlour, Winston clasped Ellis’s rock, his thumb rubbing the smooth, cool stone. When the maid appeared a few minutes later without her employer, she shook her head. He would have to return the next day.
WINSTON STARED AT THE name on the page in front of him. He had seen—and written—the name many times before, but not in the margin of this page of his journal. He leaned back in his chair and retraced his recent movements. Before he and Miller had left for the foundry, he had placed the journal in his desk drawer and re-locked it, as was his habit. Winston patted his wool trouser pocket and traced the outline of the key beside Ellis’s rock. Nobody had bumped into him on the street, and even the best pickpocket would have struggled to remove the key without his noticing, never mind return it. Even if the pickpocket succeeded, he would not be among the few at the station who could sit at Winston’s desk without being challenged. And why would a stranger write in Winston’s journal?
Winston leaned closer to the lock. It was undamaged. He pulled on the drawer, rattled it, but it remained closed. He stood, pulled the heavy desk away from the wall, and squeezed his hand into the space he created. The smooth back of the desk made it impossible to access the drawer from behind. Winston shoved the desk back into place and returned to his chair, leaning forward to feel for an interior cavity. Nothing. The desk was solid.
He looked around the small police station. Ten of the other twelve officers were on duty, but most were on patrol, leaving Winston, Miller, and two others in the building. Nobody appeared to take any special interest in him. Even if a colleague had unlocked the drawer without a key, none wrote in this bubbly script he’d found in the journal. It would be highly irregular for someone to consider this a joke.
Winston sat and pulled the journal closer, looking at the name again. He underlined it and slipped the journal into his bag. Tearing a page from his small notebook, he wrote a message and slid it into the drawer. I’ve caught you. That should discourage any future would-be pranksters. Winston made a point of locking the drawer, checking twice that it was secure. If one of them was behind this, his note would be sufficient to warn them from repeating their trickery. The mystery of the appearing name would have to wait until he solved the mystery of how Walter Huntington had met his death.
After giving the drawer a final tug, Winston stood and approached the duty desk, where Miller had resumed his position. “Constable, did you take anything from my desk?”
Miller narrowed his eyes. “Is something missing, sir?” He turned to look through the open interior window behind him into the room Winston had just exited. “I haven’t noticed anyone near it.”
“It’s no matter. I must be mistaken.” He shrugged off his unease.
“Shall I keep an eye out for something, sir?”
“Not to worry.” Winston brushed his pocket, checking for the key again. “You should be relieved from here soon, Miller. Make sure you get a good meal in. It has been a long day.”