MURDOCH WAS GLAD WHEN Peter Fenwell insisted he wasn’t too tired to accompany him. He liked working with him.
“I almost forgot to mention,” said Fenwell as they drove off. “I ran into George Crabtree at the curling rink. He asked me to pass along his regards.”
“He was promoted to sergeant last year, I hear.”
“That’s right. He said he’s counting the days until his retirement. And he told me he has two of his sons at the Front.”
“Does he? I wish them all the best. I knew those boys when they were nippers.”
“By the way, what happened to Inspector Brackenreid?” Fenwell asked. “I hear he’s living in England now.”
Murdoch grinned. “He is. Apparently he’s breeding hunting dogs. Trying to find the perfect cross between a spaniel and a retriever.”
“He probably retired just in time. I’m sure he wouldn’t have been too happy about having to enforce these temperance laws.”
“I’d say you’re right about that, Peter.”
Murdoch pulled up at the end of the laneway, where Constable Mogg was keeping watch. He saluted the pair of detectives. He had been called back into service from retirement a few months earlier when the ranks of the police were being stripped by the demands of the war. He was a conscientious man, reliable and, if a bit slow, an asset, in Murdoch’s opinion.
“Body’s down there, sir,” he said to Murdoch.
“I assume you were the one who found him?”
“Yes, sir. Didn’t know what it was at first. Looked like a heap of discarded clothes. I went in closer and saw it was a body.” He handed Murdoch a silver card case. “This was in his jacket, sir. I removed it for the purpose of identification.”
Murdoch snapped open the case. The calling cards were on good stock, the printing elegant.
Arthur Aggett, Esquire
He showed Fenwell. “Fancy. Must have cost him a pretty penny.”
“Was there anything else?” Murdoch asked Mogg.
“A few coins in the right-hand pocket of his trousers and a handkerchief in the left breast pocket of the jacket. I left them there.”
“Good.”
Murdoch removed his own handkerchief and wrapped the case carefully before stowing it inside his coat. Since his early days as a detective forensic science had advanced considerably, and fingerprints had become an accepted tool of investigation. The card case might yield something helpful.
He pointed down the laneway. “What’s on the other side of that wall, Constable?”
“Just a patch of waste ground, sir.”
“Did you find the weapon?”
“It’s not in the immediate area but I haven’t had the opportunity to mount a serious search. I thought I should wait for you.”
“Thank you, Constable. Stay here please. Don’t let anybody by.”
A few curious passersby were already lingering around the motor car, trying to see what was going on.
Murdoch nodded at Fenwell. “Let’s take a look. Keep to the side. If there are footprints, we don’t want to trample on them.” As they approached the body, the shock of fair hair, currently blood soaked, and the tweed jacket confirmed what Murdoch had feared.
“It’s Arthur Aggett all right.”
He was lying on his left side, close to the wall. One arm was underneath his head, the other stretched out in front. The right side of his head was a bloody pulp.
“He was definitely attacked from behind,” said Murdoch. “Multiple blows, from the look of it. Delivered mostly from the right side. The fingers on that hand are smashed. He attempted to fend them off.”
“What was he doing in the laneway? It doesn’t seem to lead anywhere. The wall is too high to climb easily.”
Murdoch bent over the body. “I’d say this is the answer.” He pointed to the victim’s trousers. “His buttons are undone. He must have come up here to relieve himself.”
Carefully, he fished inside the pocket. There were several coins, which he took out and spread across his own palm: a couple of five- and ten-cent pieces and a few unfamiliar small coins.
“They look like English shillings,” said Fenwell.
Murdoch flipped over one of the pieces. “This is a French sou. What do you make of it, Peter?”
“There’s all sorts of foreign currency floating around nowadays. The soldiers bring it home. It’s not legitimate but some people will accept it. They just pass it along.”
“Give me your handkerchief. I’ll take these back to the station with me.”
Fenwell did so. “I wonder why he’s not wearing a hat or an overcoat. It was nippy out last night.”
“According to his mother, he stepped outside only to go to the privy in the yard. His overcoat and cap are still in the house.”
“So either he was suddenly seized with the impulse to go walking or…”
“Or he wanted her to think the privy was the only place he was going. I’d say whoever or whatever he encountered was fairly close to where he lived.”
“Which was?”
“On Armoury Street. Probably just three or four minutes away.”