THE AIR IN THE CHANGING ROOM was dank, tinged with the ubiquitous carbolic, but the smell from too many unwashed bodies and clothes overwhelmed the efforts to keep the place clean. The communal showers were at the far end behind a tiled partition that reached partway to the ceiling, not for reasons of privacy but to serve as a backsplash for the water from the half a dozen faucets attached to the wall. A battered sign on the partition declared “ENTRANCE ONLY.” An arrow pointed in the correct direction. Next to that was another sign: “NO SPITTING ALLOWED. IF CAUGHT YOU WILL BE BARRED.” And beside that: “USE THE URINALS IN THE TOILET ROOM. DO NOT USE THE SHOWER.” There were shelves with rows of wire baskets along all four walls, and wooden benches in front of them.
“The men put their clothes in the baskets while they are taking a shower,” said Steinberg. “If they are going to the dunk tank they have to wear a regulation bathing costume. Those are loaned out free of charge.”
“Do you have a problem with theft?” asked Murdoch. He could see no way to secure the contents of the baskets.
“I’m happy to say we do not. Too many observant eyes. Most of our patrons live by the ‘Don’t do unto others what you don’t want them to do unto you’ motto. You don’t steal my things and neither will I steal yours. Besides, in most cases you would be exchanging rags for rags.”
“Those must belong to our fellow,” said Murdoch, pointing to the only basket that wasn’t empty. He removed it from the shelf and placed it on the bench.
Contrary to Mr. Steinberg’s comment about rags, the clothes were decent enough, if on the shabby side. A brown overcoat, relatively new, was on the top; under it was a grey woollen jacket, patched at the elbows, and a pair of black trousers, also patched. A thin white shirt; the collar had been turned not too long ago. Darned socks. A pair of worn black boots were tucked underneath the clothes. Underneath them was a brown envelope.
The name on the front gave him a jolt: “To Miss Fiona Williams.”
He turned the envelope over in his hands. There was a name and address written on the back in the same immaculate handwriting: “D. Samuels, 10A Hagerman Street.”
The flap of the envelope hadn’t stuck properly, and, carefully, Murdoch tugged it open.
There was a slim red book inside. Canada In Flanders, by Sir Max Aitken. Murdoch knew it well. It had been published the previous year and had sold like hotcakes. He had bought himself a copy, eager to study the maps of the battles that had occurred since the war began. By then Jack had already been sent to the Front, and he wanted to understand as much as he could about what his son might be facing.
“D. Samuels” had signed and dated the front page, “May 15, 1916.” Murdoch turned to the back. There was the same neat signature and address. But this time, in the lower corner of the page, was another date, “Sept. 1915,” and underneath it a series of what looked like ink scratches. The ink and handwriting were identical to that of the signature and address above. Murdoch knew enough to recognize this was in fact Pitman shorthand. Clerks and secretaries used it to transcribe verbatim what an employer was dictating. But what the shorthand message said, Murdoch had no idea.
He was about to replace the book in the envelope when he noticed there was something pressed between the pages. It was a small white feather.
“Oh dear me. I wonder who gave him that?” said Steinberg, who had been watching keenly.
Murdoch knew that some young women earlier in the war had got into the deplorable habit of handing young men who weren’t in uniform a white feather, a symbol of cowardice. He hadn’t seen it lately, thank goodness, as it had become increasingly obvious that the war ministry couldn’t snatch up every possible young man—someone had to keep things going at home. He wondered who had given it to Samuels and how it had affected him, if it had anything to do with his suicide.
He returned the feather to the book and tucked it inside his own jacket. The envelope he returned to the basket. The attendant was watching him anxiously.
“Bad business, what’s happening in the world these days.”
“Indeed it is,” said Murdoch. He could feel his eyes starting to burn with the amount of carbolic in the air. “Is there somewhere more comfortable we can go to talk?”
“There’s a room at the end of the corridor. The attendant on duty is permitted to use it for his tea.”
“Let’s go there, then. Can we lock this door?”
“Yes, sir.”
Steinberg selected a key from the bunch at his waist and locked the door.
The door to the pool room was open. The body had been removed. The pool was still, no ripples disturbed the surface.
The tea room was more like a cubbyhole than a room and it reminded Murdoch of his first so-called office at number four station. At least this room had a door. He’d had to rely on a bead curtain in his old office.
There was space for two wooden chairs, a standing cupboard, and a tiny oil stove with two rings. No sink, but a water jug and bowl on a washstand.
“Don’t suppose you’d want a cup of tea, would you, sir?” asked Steinberg.
“Not right now, but make one for yourself if you like.”
The attendant busied himself with filling the kettle and preparing the teapot. He was quite adept, despite being effectively one-armed.
He poured some weak-looking tea that was barely steaming, carried his cup over to the other chair, and sat down. He took a gulp of the brew.
“Thank goodness I remembered to put up the CLOSED sign.” He glanced over the rim of his cup at Murdoch for approbation. Murdoch nodded.
“Let’s go over what happened again. If anything else comes to you, just add it.”
Murdoch forced himself to concentrate. The description of the young man who had tried to save Samuels fit Jack to a T. And the scarred pal was certainly Percy McKinnon.
What had the shout been all about? What had so distressed Samuels that he had rushed to take his own life?
FROM CANADA IN FLANDERS
When Dominion Day came they remembered with pride that they were the Army of a Nation, and those who were in the trenches displayed the Dominion flag, decorated with flowers of France, to the annoyance of the barbarians, who riddled it with bullets….
But the shouting baseball teams and minstrel shows, with their outrageous personal allusions, the skirl of the pipes and the choruses of well-known ragtimes, moved men to the depths of their souls. For this was the first Dominion Day that Canada had spent with the red sword in her hand.