Chapter Five

MURDOCH RETURNED TO THE CHURCH. In spite of the increasingly heavy snow, a large crowd had gathered; people quietly talking among themselves, waiting to see the body removed. The police ambulance was drawn up in front of the steps, the horses jingling their harnesses and snorting from time to time. Fyfer and Crabtree had done a good job and quickly assembled the “good men and true,” who would be jurors at the inquest. They were all standing at the top of the steps by the doors. Because the church was located in a well-to-do area of the city, they were better dressed than most jurors Murdoch had seen in the past and they didn’t seem to be grumbling about being subpoenaed and losing a day or two of work. The constable was informing them of their duties in his loud, unmistakable voice. It was the juror’s duty to view the body and the scene where the crime had taken place. When the inquest was conducted, they were expected to offer an informed opinion about what had taken place and, if appropriate, point an accusing finger at the one they considered the guilty party.

Murdoch leaned his wheel against a tree and went up to talk to him. “How are things going, George?”

“I just need one more to make the twelve, sir … Ah, you over there.” He called out to a man in a tweed ulster who had just joined the crowd. “Come over here.”

The man shook his head, “Not me.”

Some of the onlookers, mostly women by now, giggled at his defiance, but Crabtree was on him in a minute.

“I need one more juror, mister, and you’d better give me a very good reason why I shouldn’t subpoena you.”

“I’m a businessman, I can no afford to lose time away from my shop.”

He was an older man with a pinched, craggy face and a full, grey-streaked beard. He spoke with a strong Scottish accent.

“That’s not good enough. It’s your civic duty same as the other men up there. I’m going to subpoena you.”

“I’ve already helped the police once today to do their job, I dinna think I should do more.”

“What do you mean, helped the police?”

“He was the gentleman who took care of the lady for me while I went into the church,” interjected Fyfer. “Mr. Drummond, isn’t it?”

“Ay.”

Fortunately for Drummond, another man, a young, smartly dressed fellow who heard this, put up his hand as if he was in school.

“Excuse me, officer. I’ll be glad to serve.”

“Can you read and write?”

“Yes, sir. I got to the sixth standard.”

“I don’t need your school record, just your name. All right, come up here. But, Mr. Drummond, we can always do with extra jurors. I’m going to subpoena you anyway. You can get somebody to mind the store for you.”

“I’ve already been closed down for the past two hours. I’ll be pauperized.”

But Crabtree was a stickler for civic duty and he hated dodgers. He began to write out the subpoena and, reluctantly, Drummond climbed the steps and took it.

“Good,” said Crabtree, “that’ll do us. Now listen, you men. First off you need to elect a foreman, then we view the body, I will administer an oath. Are there any Jews among you?”

There was a general shaking of heads. “I need to know because that’s a different oath, but it makes my job easier if you’re all Christian. Now then. Who’s going to be foreman?” Nobody stirred. “Chamberlin, you’ve been on a jury before, why don’t you do it?” Crabtree spoke to an elderly man who was sporting an impressively long white beard. “Any objections? No, then that’s resolved. Mr. Chamberlin is your foreman and he will take the oath on behalf of all of you when we get inside.”

The men shuffled their feet and a couple of them shook hands with Chamberlin. Murdoch tapped Drummond on the shoulder.

“I’m Detective Murdoch. I was just about to go and talk to Miss Dignam. How is she?”

The Scotsman eyed him mistrustfully, but Murdoch was beginning to think this was his habitual expression.

“She’s got the look of wet clay about her, but she’ll live I’m sure.”

Just then Dr. Ogden arrived and, without wasting time, ordered the men to follow her. She went down the path, the jurors trailing after her like courtiers. Crabtree and Murdoch went with them.

They crowded into the hall and Crabtree directed them into the study until they were standing around the body. The sight of the corpse sobered even the enthusiastic young volunteer, but the constable didn’t give them a chance to become maudlin.

“Listen up and hearken to your foreman’s oath.” He faced Mr. Chamberlin. “You shall diligently inquire and true presentment make of all such matters and things as shall be here given you in charge, on behalf of our Sovereign Lady, the Queen, touching the death of Charles Howard now lying dead, of whose body you shall have the view; you shall present no man for hatred, malice or ill-will, nor spare any through fear, favour, or affection; but a true verdict give according to the evidence and the best of your skill and knowledge. So help you God. Do you so swear?”

“I do.”

Crabtree addressed the remaining men. “The same oath that James Chamberlin, your foreman, hath now taken before you on his part, you and each of you are several well and truly to observe and keep on your parts. So help you God.”

A spatter of amens from the less worldly of the men, then Dr. Ogden took over and began to describe what had happened to Howard. Her terminology was clinical, but no language could bleach the horror from the description. Midway through, Murdoch was afraid he might lose some of the jurors. He sent the young man of sixth-standard accomplishment out to get some fresh air. Fortunately, the process didn’t take long and there were no questions.

“The inquest will be two days from now, March 5 at eleven in the morning at the Humphrey Funeral Home,” said Dr. Ogden. “The constable will inform you where it is and what you should do when you get there.” She nodded at Murdoch. “You can have the body taken away now. I will perform the post-mortem examination tomorrow.”

The jurors talked among themselves briefly before leaving. At least half of them seemed to have known Howard, and Murdoch was struck with the genuine dismay they expressed.

Dr. Ogden said she was going back to the manse and Murdoch returned to the front of the church.

“George, start the rounds. See if anybody heard anything, saw anything, the usual procedure.”

“Can I assist, sir?” asked Fyfer.

Murdoch hesitated. “Somebody has to stand here.” But he knew from experience how dull it was to be assigned that task and Fyfer was looking at him like an eager pup. Two other constables had been sent up from the station and were waiting for orders. “All right. Start with questioning those who’re hanging around. Just get names and addresses for now. If they have anything to say unsolicited, make a note of it, but tell them we’ll be coming to interview them as soon as we can.”

“Ugly business, isn’t it, sir?” said Crabtree. “A man ripped from his family like that. And a decent man by all accounts. The inspector is going to be on our backs about this one, sir. If I may take the liberty of putting it that way.”

“Indeed you may, George. The exact thought had crossed my mind. The deceased was a pastor of the Presbyterian Church. Inspector Brackenreid is always consistent in these matters. If you were important in life, you will be as important in death. Privilege doesn’t vanish at the Great Divide.”

Murdoch mounted his bicycle. He had discarded his muffler and gloves a few days earlier, hoping this would encourage spring to come. It hadn’t. He turned up his collar and pulled his sleeves down as far as they would go over his hands.

“Anyway, I’m off to talk to Miss Dignam now.”

“I gave you the address, didn’t I, sir?” said Fyfer.

“Yes. Thank you, constable.”

“Good luck, sir. I consider you have the worst job of all.”

Murdoch was inclined to agree with him.

Fyfer had given Miss Dignam’s address as 420, just north of the church on the west side of Jarvis Street. The house was impossible to miss as it was blazing with lights. As Murdoch approached, he saw a man and a woman turning away from the front door. Another couple was waiting for them on the sidewalk and he heard, “won’t see us …” Some of the people who had gathered at the church seemed to be here, and there were three or four clumps of people standing on the street. They watched intently as Murdoch opened the wrought-iron gate and walked up to the front door. He didn’t even have time to knock before it was opened. A wizened little man, in the formal clothes of a servant, frowned at him.

“Miss Dignam is not receiving callers, sir.”

He handed the butler his card. “Detective William Murdoch. I must speak to her.”

The little man’s attitude changed. “Thank goodness. She has been waiting for you. We’ve already been swamped with neighbours and such who want to see her. Not that they were stomping down the weeds before, I’ll have you know. But now, suddenly she’s the belle of the ball, the toast of the town. Poor dear thing.”

For a moment, Murdoch wondered if indeed he was speaking to a servant.

“And you are?”

“Walters. I’m the general dogsbody here and have been since Miss Sarah was in short skirts. My actual job is valet to Mr. Elias Dignam, but there’s just me here now so we don’t stand on ceremony.”

He stepped back into the hall. “Come on in before you get gawked to death. Miss Sarah is in the parlour. Her friend Miss Flowers is with her, but Mr. Dignam is in his study. Will you be wanting to talk to him?”

“I’m not sure just yet, Walters. Let me start with Miss Dignam.”

The valet-cum-butler led the way down the hall, which gave the impression of having seen better days. The red flocked wall covering was dingy and the one rug on the floor should have been long ago relegated to the attic by the look of it. Walters seemed to pick up his thoughts.

“We aren’t grand here, Mr. Murdoch. Mind you, we used to be when Mr. Dignam Senior was alive. Five servants then, and company all the time. But he lost all his money in a foolish investment in America and the two children were left with almost nothing.”

Murdoch thought that the old servant was probably as loyal as he was indiscreet.

“Here we are. I’ll bring in some tea.”

There were no portières, so Walters tapped lightly on the door and, without waiting for permission, he went in.

“I’ve got a Detective Murdoch here to see you, Miss Sarah.”

The parlour Murdoch stepped into was almost completely dark. Most of the light was coming from the blazing fire in the grate. Only one lamp was lit, and it was turned down low. He could just make out a smallish room crammed with furniture. Close to the fire were two shadowy figures. One of them stood up and came toward him.

“Good evening, I’m Miss Flowers, a dear friend of Miss Dignam,” she said in a breathy voice. “As you of course realize she has had a most dreadful shock, but she has expressed a desire to speak to the police, which is why we have permitted you to come in.”

Miss Flowers seemed to be trying to live up to her name. Past mid-age, she was short and stout but not deterred by her own physique. She was wearing an afternoon dress whose full skirt of heavy green satin was lavishly appliquéd with white daisies and roses. She was rather like a walking meadow. Her hair, although abundant and loosely pinned, was more grey than brown. She wore a pair of gold pince-nez.

The other woman had not stirred from her seat by the fire. Miss Flowers grasped Murdoch’s arm and stepped forward. They were only three paces from the fireplace, but she said in a loud voice, “Sarah, my dearest, I have a Mr. Murdoch here from the police. He wishes to speak to you.”

Finally, the other woman turned around and Murdoch saw that all the overdone solicitude on the part of her friend was justified. Even in the dim light, he saw the grief in the woman’s face. Miss Sarah Dignam was suffering more than shock and horror at what she had found. She was also experiencing profound loss.