ALL OF THE DAILY NEWSPAPERS had made headlines of Reverend Howard’s murder, so Murdoch wasn’t surprised to find the chapel of the funeral parlour packed, the crowd spilling to the outer rooms. He recognized several reporters, notebooks on their laps, who had to a man wedged themselves into the end seats of the rows in order to exit quickly when the verdict was announced. Their young runners were squatting on the floor beside them, ready as hunting dogs. Mr. Royce, the coroner, was seated at a table facing the thirteen members of the jury who were in the first two rows. He was busily filling out his forms. Even an inquest into such a violent murder had its tedious formalities. Murdoch hurried to a bench near the front, which was reserved for witnesses. Constables Dewhurst and Fyfer were already seated beside Dr. Julia Ogden and her father. When Murdoch slid into the remaining empty space, she turned and frowned. He smiled apologetically. Late again. He resisted the impulse to launch into an explanation about being delayed at the station while he had quickly sifted through the reports of the constables who had been on the night shifts. Nobody had reported anything untoward. The east end of the city had been wrapped in virtuous sleep.
The spectators were as quiet as if they were in church and the room was silent except for the odd choked-back cough. Royce was not intimidated by the pressure from the waiting crowd, even though one woman suddenly burst out weeping and at least two others followed suit. Finally, he affixed his seal to the document he’d been filling out, picked up his gavel, and rapped on the table.
“We will begin this inquest conducted by me, Walter Fuller Royce, on behalf of Her Majesty, the Queen. I will ask all of you witnesses to speak clearly and slowly. Remember, I have to write down what you say, as does our clerk.”
Constable Crabtree was standing beside the table, ready to take instruction, and Royce nodded at him. “Call the roll of jurors and make sure they are all present. Then get them to sign their names next to their seal.”
Crabtree did so. “Doctor William Caven, Angus Drummond, Joseph Lyons …” And so on until all thirteen had called out their varying presents. The jurymen on the whole were a well-dressed lot, almost all of them in formal frock coats, even Joseph Lyons, who’d given his occupation as reporter. We could be in a gentleman’s club, thought Murdoch.
Royce raised his hand. “This is a public inquest and we know already that the evidence we will hear from some of the witnesses will be most horrific. I suggest that any of the ladies leave now if they wish. And I will also have the court cleared of the newsboys, who are far too young to be here in the first place.”
There was a sudden rumble of indignation from the reporters. Royce was a retired solicitor and was notoriously hostile to the reporting of criminal cases in the newspapers. He claimed, and rightly, that the reports were invariably both lurid and inaccurate. In retaliation, the reporters were unkind to him in their reports, mocking his bulbous nose and florid features. Murdoch’s sympathies were with the coroner, although he doubted that the newsboys had a sensitive bone in their bodies considering the life they led. There were five of them, each paid a pittance by the reporters to run their stories to the respective newspaper offices in time for the evening edition.
“Come on,” said Royce. “Get those lads out of here. Constable Crabtree, please escort any ladies who wish to leave.”
With a great show of reluctance and much grumbling, the scruffy-looking street arabs reluctantly filed out of the courtroom. Two women in the back row stood up and left.
The coroner consulted his list. “Call the first witness, Miss Sarah Dignam, if you please.”
Miss Dignam was at the end of the row, Miss Flowers next to her. At the sound of her name, an elderly man with full side whiskers and shaggy beard, who was seated directly behind her, patted her shoulder solicitously. She got up slowly and walked to the chair beside the table. She was dressed all in black and her felt mourning hat was trimmed with ebony flowers, one of which drooped over the brim to touch her pale face.
“State your name in full, your place of abode, and your occupation,” said Royce.
“My name is Sarah Emily Maria Dignam and I live at –”
“Speak up, if you please, ma’am. I can hardly hear you, which means the jury most certainly cannot.”
Royce was not a man inclined to sympathy. Miss Dignam shrank down into the chair at the reprimand and repeated her name in a slightly louder voice.
“I live at 420 Jarvis Street, which is one of the row of houses just north of the church.”
Royce flashed her an impatient look. “Your occupation, ma’am?”
“I take care of the household for my brother and myself.”
“Spinster,” he said, making a point of writing that down. “Swear her in, constable.”
Crabtree handed Miss Dignam a bible, which she grasped in both gloved hands.
“Raise your right hand, if you please, ma’am. When I’ve finished, you must answer, I do.”
The constable smiled kindly at her and Murdoch saw her blink away quick tears.
“Do you, Sarah Emily Maria Dignam, hereby swear that the evidence you shall give to this inquest on behalf of our Sovereign Lady, the Queen, touching the death of Charles Edmund Howard, shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
“I do,” whispered Miss Dignam.
The coroner looked as if he was going to order her to speak up again.
“Miss Dignam, I realize, as I’m sure do all the members of the jury, that you have suffered a dreadful shock and that this inquest can only be an ordeal for you. However … it is our duty to determine the cause of death of the Reverend Howard and we must all rise to the challenge no matter what. In the interest of justice we can spare no one. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now, I would like you to relate in your own words, but slowly if you please, and loudly, especially, loudly, what happened when you went to Chalmers Church on Tuesday afternoon. March third.”
The room was completely hushed as Miss Dignam related her story. She was unable to raise her voice, but everybody heard what she said and there were gasps when she described her first sight of the pastor.
“I went into the office. The door was open and the pastor was lying on his back in the middle of the floor. I saw immediately that there was a knife protruding from his neck. He was soaked in blood, which seemed to be everywhere as if the entire room had been doused,” she paused here and dabbed at her mouth. Murdoch realized he was holding his breath like most of the spectators and he was glad Mrs. Howard was not present. Miss Dignam swallowed and continued. “I could see his right eye socket was destroyed … I first ascertained there was nothing that could help him and then I ran out of the church –”
“Wait a moment, ma’am.” Royce held up his hand. “In what manner did you determine he was beyond help?”
“I put my ear to his chest and I drew off my glove and put my fingers underneath his nose to see if he was still breathing.”
“Did you indeed? That was most collected, if I may say so.”
His comment brought a rush of colour to her pale face but her voice was more spirited. “I did not feel in the least collected, I assure you, sir. But as I told the detective who came to question me”–she nodded over at Murdoch – “if there had been any way to resuscitate Mr. Howard, I would have done it.”
She hadn’t mentioned exactly what she’d done, thought Murdoch, but then he had interviewed her very soon afterwards. Royce held up his hand again to signal she should wait while he wrote down what she had said.
“Continue.”
“As I ran toward Jarvis Street, I was fortunate to encounter a police officer immediately. I told him what I had found. He seemed at a loss as to what to do, but at that moment Mr. Drummond arrived.” She nodded in the direction of a man in the first jurors’ row. “He stayed with me while the constable went into the church. I’m afraid what happened next is hazy in my mind, but eventually the police constable emerged. He sent Mr. Drummond to sound the alarm. Miss Flowers, who had also come for the prayer meeting, arrived and he asked her to escort me to my home, which she did. It is, as I have said, just north of the church.”
Royce looked over at her. “When you first left your house, what time was it?”
“I would say about half past three.”
“Did you see anybody on the street or in the vicinity of the church itself?”
Miss Dignam lowered her head but her voice was clear enough. “It was a cold dismal afternoon so there really wasn’t anyone about. I saw no one.”
The coroner leaned toward her. The quieter she became, the louder his voice was. “Please remember you are under oath, ma’am. I must ask you … do you have any knowledge of who might have murdered Mr. Howard?”
“No, I do not. It is incomprehensible to me. He was a good man. One of Christ’s chosen few.”
She shuddered and Murdoch thought she might break into tears, but she held on.
“Very well, you may step down, ma’am. Constable, escort the lady to her seat.” He consulted the piece of paper on his desk. “Call the next witness, Francis Fyfer, constable second class, number forty-seven.”
Fyfer jumped up and strode over to the table where Crabtree administered the oath. The constable’s, “I do swear” was loud and Royce beamed his approval. Then Fyfer launched into his tale.
“I was on duty on the afternoon of March third and I was just approaching the end of my beat, which is at Jarvis Street and Carlton, when a woman comes running out from the side path of Chalmers Church. That woman is here in the courtroom, seated in the first row.”
Murdoch couldn’t help but smile. The young constable must have been a witness before at a formal trial. On the other hand, his demeanour was rather unfortunate, as there was the slightest implication that Miss Dignam was herself on charge. Murdoch knew enough about the collected ignorance of any emotional group of people and he feared what rumours might be getting spawned.
“At first I thought she was hurt because she had blood on her face and hands and garments –”
“One moment, constable.” Royce turned over his sheet of paper. “Miss Dignam has told us that she attempted to ascertain whether or not Reverend Howard was quick or dead. Would you say that the amount of blood you observed on her person was compatible with her pressing her head to the dead man’s heart?”
Fyfer paused and flicked nervously at his moustache. “It is possible, sir. She was certainly covered with it.”
Royce made a note and Murdoch saw the covert exchange of glances among the spectators, the ripple and shift of reactions. Miss Dignam had her head lowered as if she were praying.
The constable continued his statement in his loud, confident voice. “When I determined that she was uninjured and when I could make out what she was saying, I told her to stay where she was. Mr. Drummond, one of the parishioners who is also present in the courtroom, had arrived at this point and I left the lady in his care while I myself went into the church. I discovered the body of a man lying in one of the rear offices. This man was later identified as Reverend Howard, the pastor of the church. He appeared to have been severely beaten about the head and he was also stabbed in the side of the neck. I could see he was beyond human aid, so I ran back through the church to where I had left the lady in question, now identified as Miss Sarah Dignam. Other people were now standing outside of the church and I ordered one of them, a Miss Flowers, also here present, to take her home, having first obtained her name and address. Then I sent Mr. Drummond to sound the alarm while I did my best to watch the church in case anybody left. Detective Murdoch arrived shortly after, and we went back into the church to get a better look at things. We saw no one other than the dead man.”
“Thank you, constable. Please step down and come and read over your statement. If you are satisfied it is as you said, sign your name to the bottom left of the last page.”
Royce glanced over at Miss Dignam. “Dear me. In all the excitement, I forgot to ask you to do the same. Please come forward, ma’am.”
Miss Dignam stood up, suddenly covered her mouth with her hand, retched, then as quietly and smoothly as a suit of clothes falling from a coat hanger, she sank to the floor.