“HERE YOU GO, WILL. This’ll wake you up.”
Sergeant Charlie Seymour plonked down a mug of steaming tea on the table. Murdoch could see that he’d made the pot of tea so strong, a spoon would stand up in it, but he didn’t mind. He needed it. He yawned again and Seymour laughed.
“If you don’t stop that, you’ll set me going too and I’ve got a few more hours on my shift to go.”
They were sitting in the duty room where the officers were allowed to have their meals. Seymour looked tired. All of the police sergeants worked twenty-four hours at a time. One turn of duty on, one off. If the station was quiet, they could nap during the night but never for more than two hours at a stretch. He sat down across from Murdoch, who was cautiously sipping at the tea.
“Did anything come out of the post-mortem examination?” Seymour asked.
“Not unless you count the smell that’s stuck in my nostrils. The doctor said she thought Howard had been kicked at least three times. The wound to the neck killed him, but he would have lasted a few minutes probably before he died.”
“Poor soul. Not the way he expected to go out, I’ll wager. What about the search of the church? Did that bring us anything?”
“About two dollars in coins, two lady’s handkerchiefs, both silk, three men’s umbrellas, and four different ear bobs, which had fallen under the pews. Nothing that seems important.”
Seymour had a thick slice of meat pie on a plate in front of him and he stuffed a forkful into his mouth. “Delicious,” he mumbled.
“Katie’s?”
“Hmm.” He wiped away some crumbs from his moustache. “Crabtree should be due in soon. He was doing house to house along Gerrard Street with Fyfer. Dewhurst and Birney were both doing Jarvis Street.”
“Tell them I’d like to talk to each of them when they report in. I’m going to check on the reverend’s relief list. I don’t know how long I’ll be, but they’ll have to wait for me even if their shift is over. I also have a list of the casuals who were taken into the House of Industry last week, but tracking them down is going to be a headache.”
“Do you think the inspector is going to assign us more men?” Seymour asked. “It’s a bloody large area to cover.”
“I don’t understand him sometimes. The pastor’s death is the biggest news the city has seen for months, you’d think he’d throw everybody into the investigation.”
Murdoch sighed. “He always wants to appear self-sufficient to the rest of the police nobs, if you ask me. And as you know he hates spending money. He won’t pay for extra shift work if he can avoid it.”
“Right, but I noticed he had a new filing cabinet delivered the other day. His other one looked fine to me.”
“Hey, mine is falling apart, perhaps I can nab it myself. Where is it?”
“Out in the stables.”
“Anyway, Charlie, do your best with what we’ve got. I’ll also put an advertisement in the newspapers, see if anybody comes forward. We’ll get that in tomorrow’s editions.”
“Do you want a pipe before you go?” Seymour asked as he took out his own bag of tobacco.
“No thanks, Charlie. I’d better kick off.”
In fact, Murdoch had decided to give up his pipe smoking for Lent, but he felt rather uncomfortable telling Seymour. He wasn’t sure himself why he was doing it as he was more and more alienated from the practices of his church. Somehow, however, he could accept the notion of a small sacrifice to remember a greater one. Besides, not many women liked the smell of tobacco on a man’s clothes and breath.
Murdoch shoved a piece of paper across the table. “This is a list of applicants for city relief that Howard visited on Monday. I’m going to start with the four he turned down, but there’s nothing to say somebody on the list didn’t have a miff at him. Maybe they didn’t get everything they asked for. Two soup tickets instead of three. It matters when you’re starving. Any names you recognize?”
Seymour studied the list. “Coady, of course. He’s a guest of the city on a regular basis, but I can’t see him murdering anybody. He’s too drunk to stand most of the time … there’s nobody else that I know.” He stood up. “Heck, I wasn’t watching the time. I’d better get back to the desk. Best of luck.” He crammed the tobacco pouch in his pocket and left.
Murdoch lingered for a few moments, enjoying the warmth of the fire on his back. The station cat was rubbing her head vigorously against his leg.
“All right, Puss, all right. You’ll wear a hole in my trousers at that rate.” He pushed back his chair and the cat gave a loud meow of triumph and ran ahead to the cupboard beside the fireplace where the milk was kept. Murdoch followed her, took out the bottle of milk, and poured some into her saucer. “There. And when you’ve finished how about doing some work. I found some little black droppings in my cupboard this morning and you know what that means, don’t you?”
The cat ignored him.
The first name on the list was the Gleeson family, who lived in a small workman’s cottage on Wellesley Street. As Murdoch leaned his wheel against the curb, he could hear the sounds of an angry squabble going on inside, children, from the pitch of the voices. Then the front door was flung open and a boy ran out, a bigger boy close behind him. They both collided with Murdoch. He went to grab hold of the smaller lad, but he squirmed away and took off down the street, running hard. This was no happy game Murdoch had interrupted. The older boy hesitated, torn between his anger and a quick fear about the visitor’s presence. Murdoch relieved him of the choice by blocking his path.
“I’m looking for Mr. Gleeson. Is he your pa?”
The boy didn’t respond to the question but managed to slip in a shrewd appraisal of Murdoch. He didn’t like what he saw and he began to back away, hands held out in supplication.
“I don’t know nothing, mister.”
“Who was that boy you were so intent on killing? Is he your brother?”
A reluctant nod. “He took my last piece of sausage.”
Murdoch fished in his pocket and brought out a twenty-five-cent piece.
“Here. I’d rather you go buy yourself another sausage than be guilty of homicide.”
The boy accepted the money and stepped back immediately in case Murdoch should change his mind. “Thanks, mister.”
“Is there anybody else in the house?”
The boy’s expression became opaque. “My ma and pa are, but they’re both taking a short kip right now.”
“Unfortunately, I’ll have to wake them up. I have some important business I need to discuss with them.”
“Are you a bailiff?”
“No. I’m a detective. I’m not going to report them to anybody, I just need to ask some questions.”
“What about?”
“Before I answer that, how about telling me your name.”
Reluctantly, the boy answered. “I’m Jethro.”
“Jethro Gleeson?”
A brief nod as if even that much commitment was dangerous.
“Did you ever meet Reverend Howard, Jethro? He would have come to see about your pa’s request for relief.”
That was easy. Jethro shrugged. “I don’t know nothing.”
Murdoch sighed. “All right then, my lad. Why don’t you go and get your meat pie or sausage or whatever you want while I talk to your ma and pa.”
Jethro was probably about ten years old, skinny and dirty-faced. His trousers were too short and his shirt had big holes in it. He smelled of neglect. It was far too cold to be out long without a coat, but Murdoch guessed the boy didn’t own one. He dipped into his pocket again.
“Here’s another two cents. Have some gravy as well. Go on, get off with you.”
Jethro didn’t wait to be told a second time and he bolted down the street. Murdoch watched him go for a moment then walked up to the house.
The boys had left the door open and Murdoch stepped into the dank, stinking interior. It was gloomy, no candles or lamps, and only a dull fire in the grate. He could just make out two lumpy forms on the bed in the corner. He walked over to them. Mr. and Mrs. Gleeson, lying curled up together in sodden intimacy. The smell was vile. Unwashed linen, stale beer. He grabbed the man’s shoulder and shook it hard.
“Mr. Gleeson, wake up. Mr. Gleeson.”
The man stirred, mumbled, saw Murdoch leaning over him and went from drunk to sober in a matter of seconds.
“Who’re you?”
“My name’s Murdoch. I’m a detective. I need to ask you some questions.”
“I don’t know nothing about it.”
Murdoch almost smiled. “I haven’t said what it is yet.” He moved away from the bed more for his own self-preservation. “I’d like you to wake your wife and to sit up.”
Both commands were easier said than done. Gleeson was pinned under the heavy embrace of his wife, who was locked in a deep stupor. Finally, he got out from underneath her arm, sat up, and started to shake her.
“Mags. There’s a frog, er, officer here who wants to talk to us. Get up, old girl. Come on.” His rather endearing tone was for Murdoch’s benefit and it didn’t last. When his wife showed no signs of responding, Gleeson, in exasperation, suddenly pinched her nose closed and the consequent spluttering and gasping for breath jolted the woman awake. She hauled herself more upright. It was a ludicrous scene. The two of them still in bed, nightcaps on, dirty quilt pulled up to their chins, Murdoch standing at the bedside like an invalid’s solicitous visitor. Or two invalids, in this case. He decided that making them get dressed would be more trouble than it was worth.
“You recently applied for relief, I understand.”
“Thas right.”
Murdoch could see Gleeson struggle to assess whether this question boded well or ill.
“I’m sorry to inform you that your Visitor, the Reverend Howard, has been killed.”
A pause, more from puzzlement than fear or guilt.
“Whatch ya mean, killed. Was he run over or something?”
“No. Somebody stabbed him, then kicked him in the head.”
Definitely fear now. Even Mrs. Gleeson seemed to comprehend what Murdoch had said.
“We don’t know nothing about that. We didn’t do anything to him, did we, Mags?”
Still mute, she shook her head then winced.
“Why’re you telling us?” Gleeson asked, recovering a certain belligerence that Murdoch suspected was his habitual manner.
“I understand your application was rejected by the minister.”
“It was, but that don’t mean I up and killed him. I’d have ’alf the city dead if I followed that line.”
“Where were you Tuesday afternoon?”
“Here in bed like always.”
“What do you mean, like always.”
Margaret Gleeson found her tongue at last. Her voice was roughened. “Show him, Tom.”
Gleeson pulled back the quilt and for a moment Murdoch almost flinched. The man’s feet were swollen to twice their size and a livid purple colour. In a couple of places, the skin had ulcerated.
“He can’t hardly get himself to the chamber pot,” said his wife.
“What about you, ma’am? Where were you yesterday afternoon?” Murdoch said. He saw the glance of triumph that flashed between them. They’d got him.
“I was in bed beside him,” she answered. “See,” and she too pulled back the quilt. She was in a state of advanced pregnancy. “I’ve got to rest my legs.” She raised her stained nightgown so Murdoch could see the purple swollen veins, snaking up from her ankles. She patted her mound of a belly. “I’ve lost two before this one, so I’ve got to be careful.”
Murdoch felt like yelling at her that sobriety might help the unborn even more than lying in bed, but he held his tongue.
“What can you tell me about Reverend Howard’s visit?”
“Not much. It didn’t matter to him that Mags here is expecting and I can’t work. He’s a nob. They’re all nobs and they don’t give a piss for people like us. If we starve to death, we’re one less name on the books as far as they’re concerned. He didn’t stay long. Just said that he couldn’t give us any tickets. We’d have to find another source of charity.”
Gleeson hawked and spat on the floor, just missing Murdoch’s boots. He’d seen his own father do that many a time and he’d heard that tone of voice before. Aggrieved, self-righteous, defiant. He used to be a good man, Will, his mother had whispered to him once as he lay in bed smarting from the most recent beating. Try not to think too harshly of him. He just can’t abide it when you talk to him that way. He sees his own failure.
Murdoch had been full of helpless rage and in no mood for forgiveness. He could feel that old anger stirring at the back of his mind, stiffening his neck in a way he had no control over.
“You seem to have found enough money to buy drink,” he said. “You could have got food instead.”
Gleeson didn’t answer, but somewhere in his ruin of a face Murdoch saw a glimpse of desperation. They were both beyond redemption, but they also had two sons and a baby imminent. He felt disgusted with them and with himself for having a reaction he had tried so desperately for years to control.
“Listen. I’m not going to give you money, but I’m going down to the pie shop at the corner and I’ll have them send down some bread and soup.”
Margaret looked as if she were going to thank him, but Gleeson gave him a vile, unrepentant glare. Murdoch dropped a dollar bill on the table.
“Kill yourself then.”