A LIGHT SNOW WAS FALLING as Murdoch left the Dignam house, which made bicycling unpleasant. He turned left from Jarvis on to Carlton Street and rode up to Drummond’s grocery store. At first he thought the grocer had not yet returned from the inquest, but there was a dim light burning and, drawing close, he could see the grocer standing behind the counter, reading a newspaper. There were no customers. Murdoch propped his bicycle against the curb and went into the store.
Drummond looked up, his expression was sour. “Is this official business, detective, or are you in search of fresh vegetables? I’ll tell you right now, the potatoes aren’t very good and the carrots are woody. The cabbage is all right though, as long as you’re not sick of cabbage by now.”
Murdoch thought that if this was the way Drummond welcomed all his customers, it was no wonder his store was empty. Honesty might be a sign of virtue, but it could put a damper on business.
“I’m here officially, but I will take a pound of oatmeal while I’m at it. We’re running low.”
Drummond came from behind the counter to serve him from one of the bins. He didn’t seem to have much stock and the potatoes and carrots did indeed look wizened and the few Brussels sprouts were yellowing. Murdoch glanced over his shoulder. There was a big tree a few paces to the west of the store, but it was bare of foliage. He could see the side door of Chalmers Church quite clearly.
“Here you are. Two cents.” The grocer thrust a crumpled brown paper bag at him.
Murdoch handed him the money and Drummond held it in the palm of his hand and squinted through his glasses.
“That won’t bury me, will it? Are you sure there’s nothing else I can get you?”
“No thank you.” Murdoch accepted the brown paper bag, then he pulled the cake tin from the front of his coat where he’d wedged it.
“Have you seen this before?”
Drummond looked surprised. “Of course I have. It belongs to Miss Dignam. She uses it all the time at church bake sales. Why have you got it?”
“Actually she tells me this is one of several that she possesses. She says that she took some cake to the church on Tuesday and in her shock she left the tin there. It has not been found. She has lent me this so if I do come across a cake tin I can compare the two of them.”
“That’s proof then, isn’t it?”
“Of what, Mr. Drummond?”
“Come on, detective. You know what I mean, don’t play the dummy with me. That verdict of person unknown we brought in was a pile of horse manure. A waste of time, mine and the taxpayer’s. We all know who the culprit is. And this business with the tin proves it. The tramp must have picked it up. He’s the one you should be after.” He glared at Murdoch in exasperation. “You kenna have forgot already what the matron said?”
“You mean that she noticed a man crossing the Gardens who in her opinion was a tramp?”
“‘In her opinion’? My that’s a wee too lawyerish for me. That lassie is as sharp as a thumbtack. She saw a tramp all right and you don’t have to be a clever detective to work it out. He went into the church. Had some sort of quarrel with Charles Howard, for God knows what reason, killed him, then hoofed it over to that greenhouse where Mr. Swanzey ran into him. With a silver watch I might add, that just by coincidence was missing from the pastor’s waistcoat.”
He was right, but there was something smugly know-it-all about Drummond that Murdoch found intensely irritating.
“You saw him, did you, Mr. Drummond?”
“What do you mean, ‘saw him’?”
The grocer’s cheeks, what was visible of them, were already rosy in colour, so Murdoch couldn’t tell if the man had blushed. Nevertheless, the question seemed to disconcert him.
“You have a good view of the church and the park from your shop. I noticed you seem to spend a lot of time gazing out of the window. I was asking a simple question. Did you see this tramp either enter or leave the church?”
“No, I did not. I would have said so if I had.” He dragged up a semblance of a smile. “Don’t mind me, Mr. Murdoch. I can be a rough old fox, but I’m harmless. You appear to be taking offence at my tone and I didna mean anything by it. The whole affair has got us all riled up and short-tempered. Miss Sarah Dignam is a good-hearted soul and she doesna deserve to be drawn into the whole bloody godforsaken mess. I blew off a slate when you showed me that cake tin and what it implied. No hard feelings, I hope.” He stuck out his hand and Murdoch was forced to shake it. He wasn’t sure why the grocer was doing such an aboutface and trying to placate him. Drummond went over to one of the bins and picked up an apple.
“Here, peace offering. I know it’s as wrinkled as an old man’s behind but it’s still sweet.”
“Thank you.” Murdoch put the wizened apple in his pocket. “You said a few minutes ago, ‘for God knows what reason,’ when you referred to the possibility that a tramp may have murdered Reverend Howard.”
“Ay. I canna imagine Charles Howard refusing to help any tramp if they came a asking. He was as soft as butter.” His tone was neither contemptuous nor admiring. “Strictly speaking, it wasna his own money he was giving out, it was the kirk’s. I believe if you’re trusted with that responsibility you have to be doubly careful. You can waste your own muck, but not the public’s.”
Something struck Murdoch and he said, “Mr. Howard was a Visitor for the House of Industry, is that work you’ve done yourself?”
“Ay. I volunteer when I can. They need somebody like me.” Murdoch pitied the applicants who would be on Drummond’s list.
“By the way, Mr. Drummond, I understand there was some enmity between you and Mr. Howard.”
“Who the devil told you that?” He stepped away and folded his arms across his chest. His eyes were partially obscured by the spectacles, but Murdoch could sense that he had once again hit on a nerve.
“Never mind who told me, is it true?”
“No. Not the least. We didna see eye to eye about some matters of doctrine, but it wasn’t personal and I’d no call it enmity.”
“You’re an elder at the church, are you not? I understand Reverend Howard had to be elected to his office by the church council. Did you vote for him?”
“That’s a private matter within the church.”
Murdoch leaned forward. “I’m investigating the brutal murder of a man in the prime of his life, Mr. Drummond. At the moment, there are no such things as private matters. Please answer my question.”
“I dinna like the way the wind is blowing. I had nothing to do with Howard’s death, as you seem to be insinuating.”
Murdoch threw his hands out in mock indignation. “Good heavens, sir. All I asked was if the pastor was your choice.”
“No, he was not. And there you have it. The blunt unvarnished truth. He was too –” Drummond waved his hands. “Too florid. Chalmers is an old and dignified church. We came here and broke off from the previous congregation just so we could maintain our traditions, not melt and merge into Baptists or Methodists. Ach, Howard was well educated enough and I dare say the ladies found him charming, but I have no desire to belong to a mongrel church, thank you very much.” He touched his finger to the side of his nose. “Between you and me, I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t have a sly fondness for popish practices.”
“God forbid,” said Murdoch.
“It’s true. He wanted us to start a subscription for stained-glass windows. He was devilishly keen on music, and some of his interpretations of the scriptures were bordering on blasphemous in my opinion.”
Murdoch was curious to know what those interpretations were, but he didn’t want to get off track.
“Who was your choice, if I may ask?”
“Matthew Swanzey. He might look like a dry stick, but he’s got God’s fire in his belly. You should hear the man preach.”
“He was in the running then?”
“That’s right. And he should have got it. He’s been with Chalmers for the past six years as an associate pastor. We all expected he would be called when Pastor Cameron died. I didna understand it. The Kirk session was beguiled by a smooth tongue, if you ask me. And Howard won the vote. Why bring in a newcomer at all, I’d like to know? Besides which the man was originally a Yankee.”
“Mr. Howard knew of your views, I presume?”
Drummond patted his skinny stomach, as if he’d had a good meal. “I’m not one to hide my opinions in namby-pamby language. Ask anybody as knows me and they’ll tell you Angus Drummond is a man who calls a spade a spade even if others want to name it a golden shovel.”
Murdoch was saved from the impulse to be rude by the tinkle of the bell as a customer entered the store. Drummond turned to greet her.
“Ah Mrs. Reid, come for your dinner, have you? Well you’d better take one of the tins of salmon I got in. Unless you’ve got some butter, which you probably don’t, the potatoes aren’t worth the water.”
Murdoch headed for the door and called out, “If you do come across the cake tin, please let me know right away.”
Drummond barely deigned a nod and Murdoch left him to browbeat his intimidated customer.