MURDOCH’S KNOCK WAS ANSWERED PROMPTLY by an elderly manservant whose manner was so gracious he could easily have been mistaken for the master of the house.
“Good morning, sir.”
Murdoch handed him his card. “My name is William Murdoch, and I’m a detective at Number Four Station. I wonder if I might have a word with Dr. Semple on a professional matter.”
“Do you have an appointment, sir?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“Please step inside. I will see if he is available.”
Murdoch entered. The hall was well lit with gas wall brackets and a large central chandelier.
The butler soon returned. “Dr. Semple is working in his laboratory, but he can give you a brief interview. We can go in directly. I’ll take your hat and coat. Chilly morning, isn’t it?”
Murdoch agreed that it was and divested himself of his long coat and his Astrakhan hat, not for the first time feeling somewhat ashamed of the shabbiness of both. Not that the butler with his impeccable manners gave any indication he was aware of this. Murdoch wondered where the man had come from.
After his apparel was duly hung on the coat tree, the butler led the way down the hall and tapped deferentially on a closed door to the right. There were no softening portieres, and the door itself might have suited a castle with its ostentatious brass doorknob and prominent keyhole. There was an unpleasant smell in the air, and for a moment Murdoch feared his sealskin coat had been reeking again. However, he realised this odour was too pungent and too close. It was also more like rotting meat than fish.
“Enter.”
Murdoch was ushered into Dr. Semple’s laboratory.
The stench of decay was like an assault. A tall, skinny man in a brown Holland smock was standing at a bench with his back to the door. He made a note on a pad of paper and turned to greet Murdoch.
“Good morning, Inspector. Forgive me the informality, but I’m under the gun to get some results and I can’t spare you much time.” In spite of the words, his tone was friendly. “I won’t shake hands either. I’ve been messing around with cadavers, and you wouldn’t want that on your fingers.” He waved his hand vaguely. “I suppose the place stinks to high heaven, does it? When you are in here for a while you get used to it. I thought you looked a little taken aback when you came in.”
“There is a rather strong odour, I must admit.”
“I’m doing a post mortem examination, that’s why.”
He stepped back and Murdoch saw what his body had shielded. For one brief moment, he thought he was looking at a doll, but then he realised it was an infant. The scalp was pulled down over the face like a red mask revealing the grey convolutions of the brain. The chest cavity was gaping open. The rest of the body was ash white. A male child.
“A young woman is up on a murder charge. Usual story. Silly girl got herself in the family way and was afraid to tell in case she lost her position. The baby must have come early, and she stuffed it into a valise and left it under a tree in the nearby field. She says it was stillborn, but I’ve got to determine that. It is possible she suffocated it as soon as it came out. There’s no milk in the stomach, but the lungs do show some air. That is not necessarily conclusive of course. We know that in some circumstances an infant will breathe while still in the womb. Look, what do you think?”
There was a little heap of what looked like fresh calves’ liver on the bench, and the doctor sawed off a piece and dropped it into a glass tank filled with water that was in front of him. The fragment of lung floated for a moment then slowly started to sink to the bottom of the tank. Semple reached into the water and squeezed the tissue between his thumb and forefinger. “See, no air at all. I’m inclined to think the infant didn’t breathe. There is some meconium in the intestines, which is typical of stillborns.” His voice had the resonance of a man accustomed to lecturing. Murdoch knew the doctor was a demonstrator at the Toronto school of medicine. He was suddenly aware that there were several glass jars on a shelf to the right of them that contained pickled embryos. Semple noticed where he was looking.
“Each of those specimens show a foetus at different stages of development in utero. My little fellow looks to be about six months, which is consistent with what the mother said and with life being unsustainable.”
He leaned his knuckles on the bench, lecturer style. “Of course, some women are altogether too cunning and will kill by virtually undetectable means.” He illustrated his words by pulling up his own eyelid. “A needle thrust in here will cause death at once, or here.” He indicated his lower spine. “However, I see no indication that took place or any suspicion of suffocation or a broken neck.”
Murdoch’s feelings must have revealed themselves because Semple grinned.
“Beg your pardon. Got carried away for a moment. Too many hours in the lecture room.” He cut off another piece of lung and tossed it into the water. This time the tissue hardly floated at all.
“There we go then. That’s a relief. I hate being the one to condemn a woman to the gallows unless it’s totally certain.” He started to wipe his hands on a rag. “Not that a jury will bring in a verdict for hanging. Women get too much sympathy. Pity really,” he added ambiguously.
Suddenly, he swivelled around and removed a pile of papers from a high stool.
“Take your weight off your beaters.” He patted the stool.
Dr. Semple spoke with a slight Irish brogue and had the typical colouring of a Celt: fair skin, blue eyes, and black hair, which was slicked smooth across his head to hide his premature balding. His moustache was thick and in need of a trim, the ends looking as if he sucked on them in moments of contemplation. He looked about the same age as Murdoch himself.
“Now, Inspector, what can I do for you? You said you had an urgent matter.”
“Not inspector, Dr. Semple, merely acting detective. I just wanted to verify a few details of a case at which you were the medical witness.”
“And why is that?” asked Semple, and his voice was sharp.
“The accused denies his guilt, and I have agreed to go over the evidence again.”
“Have you indeed? That’s unusual, isn’t it?”
“All right, what was the case?”
“The man is named Henry or Harry Murdoch. He was charged with murder on August four of this year. He has been convicted and is sentenced to hang on Monday.”
Semple frowned. “Isn’t your name Murdoch, or did I get it wrong? Any relation?”
“The accused is my father, sir. I have only just discovered his situation.”
“Bad luck. Not intent on proving we were all wrong, I hope. Waste of time if you are.”
He wasn’t hostile, just a busy man.
“I have no particular aim except to make sure that all the evidence is, as you say, conclusive.” He hesitated but he liked Semple’s no-nonsense manner and answered in kind. “As perhaps you can imagine, I would sleep easier if I knew I had done everything I could.”
“Quite. What would you like to know from me then?”
“I was hoping you would go over the evidence again with me. Show me exactly why you reached the conclusions you did.”
Semple clicked his teeth. “Very well. The Armstrong case is done really.” He threw a cloth over the dead baby. “However, I do have to set up an experiment for my class this afternoon. It won’t take but a moment.”
Most of one wall of the laboratory consisted of long, uncurtained windows. On each side were several wicker cages, which contained two or three sparrows. They weren’t moving or attempting to fly around their small prisons but sat on the perches, their heads tucked down into their feathers. Semple opened a cupboard below the bench and removed a bottle labelled CHLORINE. He unscrewed the lid, and the pungent odour made Murdoch cough immediately. Semple poured a capful into an empty beaker and replaced the lid.
“As you just experienced, this gas had a considerable inflammatory effect on the air passages. Too much of it will kill. Don’t worry, you only had a whiff. I myself seem to have become impervious to it. People can work in an atmosphere of chlorine with impunity and become immune. They do, however, always lose weight and remain thin. We’re not quite sure why that is.”
He measured out some water into another beaker, took a syringe from an open case on the bench, and drew up some of the chlorine into the needle.
“Now, I add the water to the two-hundredth part, and we’re ready.” He laid down the syringe and reached into one of the cages. The sparrows fluttered and chirruped, but he caught one of them and drew it out. “I have to demonstrate how the blood responds to the chlorine. Sorry, little fellow,” he said to the bird, who opened its beak silently. With a practised motion, Semple injected the chlorine solution and replaced the creature carefully in the cage. He checked a large clock that was beside him and made a note in his book.
“Should take less than five minutes.”
Then he walked across the room to a large metal filing cabinet and pulled open one of the drawers. Murdoch couldn’t take his eyes off the sparrow, which was now obviously gasping for air. The other birds shifted along the tree branch out of the way.
“Here we are, Regina v. Henry Murdoch.”
He turned back to Semple, who had a folder in his hands.
Murdoch heard a soft noise from the cage, and he saw that the bird had fallen to the bottom of the cage and was lying on its side, feet stretched out like a wooden toy. It was dead.
Semple came over and looked at the clock. “Hmm. That didn’t take long. Let me just make a note of the time, and then we can go over your file.”
Murdoch swivelled the high stool away so he could no longer see the cage.