AT THAT MOMENT, THEY HEARD the north side door open and a woman entered. Murdoch frowned, about to usher her out again, expecting to have to deal with the hysterics of an unwary parishioner when she smiled politely.
“Good afternoon, I’m Dr. Julia Ogden. I am here to act as coroner.”
Murdoch recovered quickly. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Where is the body I’m to examine?”
“In here, ma’am … Fyfer, go and report to Constable Crabtree.”
The doctor looked at the young man in surprise. “Hello, Frank. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Good afternoon, Dr. Ogden. The church is on my beat. Er, this is Detective Murdoch.”
She offered her hand. “Why is your name familiar?”
“We met last summer, I believe. That is, not met exactly, we spoke on the telephone because you performed a post-mortem examination for us.”
“Ah, yes, I remember.”
Murdoch wasn’t sure she really did. He recalled speculating at the time about what the good doctor looked like, as her voice was youthful, English in intonation. She was older than he’d expected, almost of middle age, tall and thin with greying hair. She was wearing a black mackintosh cloak and she reminded him of a nun who’d taught him when he was in standard two. Sister Regina had the same air of unshakeable composure and competence. He’d found her most intimidating.
“I’ll report to Constable Crabtree,” said Fyfer and he left.
“I know his family,” Dr. Ogden said to Murdoch. “He’s a very fine young man. The police force is lucky to have him.”
“So I am learning, ma’am. This way, please.”
He indicated the pastor’s office and opened the door. She stood in the doorway and regarded the dead man. Her expression changed and her hand flew to her mouth. Her composure was not so unshakeable after all.
“Oh dear me, it’s Charles Howard. I wasn’t told anything except that somebody had died. I never dreamed it would be him. I thought … Oh my goodness … excuse me, detective, I …”
She stopped, struggling for control.
“His wife is one of my patients. This is quite, quite dreadful. What happened? Who did this?”
“I’m afraid we don’t know as yet. One of the parishioners found his body hardly more than half an hour ago and I’ve just been called in.”
Murdoch waited a moment to see what she was going to do. She breathed deeply and braced herself. Control was back.
“Do you want to examine the body now, ma’am?”
“Yes, of course.”
She had her medical bag with her and she placed it on the floor. She unfastened her cloak, removed it, and put it carefully on top of the bag. Then she pulled off her gloves and, with a steady hand, reached forward to touch the minister’s forehead. Murdoch knew that sort of discipline. Sister Regina would have stared down the devil himself if she thought it was her duty.
“He is barely cold. Death has occurred within the last two hours.” Without looking at Murdoch, she said, “I have to remove the dagger.”
She leaned over the body, put her left hand on Howard’s shoulder, and with her right grasped the handle. With strength worthy of a teamster, she gave a jerk, and with a soft, gulping sound the weapon came out, the blood seeping over her fingers.
“That was in quite deep.” She held out the thing to Murdoch. It was about nine inches long, of brass or gold, the handle carved in the shape of a serpent, with leaves and tendrils curling about the blade. “It looks like a letter opener.”
He took it from her and wrapped it in his own handkerchief. He would examine it later to see if it had any more to tell them. She looked at the pastor’s hands. “There are no cuts on his fingers.”
“I believe the blood on his hands is from him trying to pull out the letter opener, ma’am.”
“Ah yes, good thinking. He would try to do that, of course.”
“Would he have died instantly?”
“Quickly, but not necessarily instantly. But those wounds to his head look very severe. They probably finished the job.”
“I think he was kicked while he was on the floor.”
She nodded. “It appears that way. Two or three times, I’d say, but I can confirm that when I do the post-mortem examination.” She sat back on her heels. “Who would do such a thing? Charles Howard was such a kind, friendly man. I cannot believe he would have an enemy in the world.”
“It’s likely it was a thief. His boots have been pulled off and his watch and chain appear to be missing, but we’ll have to confirm that with his wife.”
Again there was a crack in the doctor’s composure. “Poor, poor Louisa. Does she know?”
“I don’t believe so, ma’am.”
“She won’t take it well. She is of a most highly strung disposition.”
Rather stiffly, she got to her feet. “You’d better start to summon a jury, detective. In the meantime, I will deliver the news to Mrs. Howard.”
“I would prefer to be present when you tell her, ma’am.”
Not that he relished witnessing the inevitable shock and grief the woman was going to experience, but this was a murder case and at the moment, nobody was excluded as a suspect.
Dr. Ogden regarded him frostily. “It would be far better if I were alone. She will probably need a sedative as it is. And you are a stranger to her, are you not?”
“We have never met and I have no desire to add to her distress, but I am investigating a murder.”
“Good Lord, detective, surely you aren’t implying Louisa Howard had anything to do with her husband’s death?”
“I’m not implying anything, ma’am, but at this time, all possibilities are on the table.”
They eyed each other, trying to assess the extent of the other’s stubbornness. It was Murdoch who backed down. Calm and controlled on the surface, Dr. Ogden had a core as stiff and unyielding as a whalebone corset – which she probably didn’t need to wear, he thought uncharitably.
“Perhaps you could on ahead, ma’am, and I will follow in about a half an hour. As you say, my presence may be too hard on her.”
“Very well. After she is settled, I will return and instruct the jurors.” She picked up her medical bag. “You had better have a constable stand guard here and perhaps you should go to talk to the woman who discovered the body.”
“I was intending to do that.”
His voice must have been sharper than he realized because, unexpectedly, she turned rather pink. “I beg your pardon. Telling people what to do is an occupational hazard with doctors.”
He liked her better for her discomfiture and smiled. She went to the door.
“I should go at once. Louisa mustn’t hear the news from anyone else, least of all prurient neighbours. You will follow me then?”
Murdoch almost answered, “Yes, Sister,” but caught himself in time.
After she left, he stood for a minute in the doorway of the office. He wanted to get a sense of the man who’d used it.
It was a spacious room, the furnishings simple but pleasant and comfortable looking, not as austere as he had imagined a Presbyterian minister’s office would be.
Opposite the door, a marble fireplace dominated the wall and the fire was lit and well drawn. Two floor-to-ceiling, glass-fronted bookcases, the books sober and neat as a library’s, flanked the fireplace. Close to the brass fender was a brown leather armchair and across from it a straightbacked wooden chair. Lined up along the wall to the left of the door were half a dozen identical chairs. Above these hung some oil paintings, all of them still-lifes of fruit and flowers. The floor covering was a pale blue wool rug, well worn.
He went over to the armchair. Beside it was a small table on which was an open book placed spine up. It turned out to be a book of sermons by a Reverend J.T. Lanceley, volume one. Tucked into one of the pages was an envelope and inside it was a catalogue from a supplier of church goods. It looked as if Howard had sat in his chair, opened the envelope with his letter opener, then put the pamphlet in the book. If he had put the letter opener on the table, as was most likely, it would corroborate that in order to get hold of the weapon, his assailant had come right into the room. The single wooden chair was out of place from the others. Was this its normal position or did it indicate Howard had company?
Murdoch turned to the curtained window. If the pastor had been killed two hours ago, it was early to close the curtains, but perhaps it was because the day had been so dull and dreary. He drew one aside. Reverend Howard hadn’t had a good view. His window overlooked the side path and the tall hedge that ran around the property.
Murdoch returned to the blood-spattered desk. Constable Fyfer was astute in his observation. Whoever Howard had allowed in was somebody he knew or, at least, somebody he saw no reason to fear because at some point he had turned his back as he sat at his desk. Unless of course he was asleep, but somehow Murdoch doubted that.
There were no signs of a struggle. The attack had been swift and unexpected. He’d noticed that Reverend Howard’s index finger was ink-stained, just as Murdoch’s was. He’d been writing something and he had been using the pen recently. Yes, there it was beside the blotter, but there was no paper or letter to be seen. A sheaf of unused notepaper and envelopes was neatly stacked in a tray. Murdoch checked the wastebasket beside the desk, but it was empty. On the floor was a briefcase made of gutta percha, labelled PERSONAL PORTFOLIO. It was untied and inside were cardboard pockets sorted alphabetically and stuffed with papers. He closed the case. He’d take it back to the station with him later.
Howard had been a tidy man and the top of his desk was clear except for the brass lamp, the tray of notepaper, and a photograph in a silver frame. It was a studio portrait of him as a youthful-looking pastor with a pretty young woman on his arm. They were both dressed in formal attire. She was wearing a wide-brimmed hat with ostrich feathers and holding a bouquet of cascading flowers. Murdoch assumed this was their wedding picture. They were solemn and unsmiling as one had to be for photographs ten years ago, but even so, they seemed happy to be together.
He looked down at the dead body. Even with the dreadful disfiguring injuries, it was obvious he had been an attractive man.
He made the sign of the cross.
“May the Lord have mercy on his soul.”
He wasn’t sure how a Presbyterian minister would take to being blessed by a papist, but he hoped doctrinal differences weren’t important when you were dead.