Chapter Forty

MURDOCH WAS BEGINNING to feel as if he could fall asleep on the spot. He longed to be at home, in bed, with his stomach full of Katie’s hot pork chops and potatoes. However, even fatigue couldn’t wipe out the pain of his lumbago and there was no comfortable position, sitting hardly better than standing, and walking agony. The only kind of movement that didn’t hurt was bicycling and he was glad to get on his wheel and head for Hicks’s lodging house, where the two constables were searching. Before he left the station, he instructed Gardiner to give Traveller a good dinner and a pipe of tobacco but not to release him as yet.

“What about the other two toe-rags?”

“If Burley comes back and the Sisters have confirmed their alibi, we’ll have to let them go, but don’t feed them. And make sure they tell you where they’re going next.”

He was pedalling slowly along Wilton when he noticed somebody huddled in the doorway of the grocery shop at the corner. Murdoch stopped.

“Alf, what are you doing here?”

The boy looked completely miserable, his nose reddened from the cold.

“Hello, Mr. Williams. I’ve done my three days at the workhouse and my brother throwed me out so I don’t have nowhere to go.”

Murdoch cursed under his breath. Gardiner must have turfed Alf out of the jail when Murdoch released him.

“And you have no money for a doss house, I presume?”

“No, sir. Mr. Traveller was going to look after me but I don’t know where he is.”

Murdoch took out his notebook and began to scribble a note. “Alf, I want you to take this note to the House of Providence. Do you know where that is?”

“No, sir.”

“All right, I’ll tell you in a minute. When you get there you must ask for Sister Mary Mathilda. Say it to me.”

Alf repeated slowly, “Sister Mathilda.”

“Give her this note. She’ll give you something to eat and she’ll find you a bed for the night.”

Before Murdoch could stop him, the simpleton jumped up and grabbed his hand and planted a hearty kiss on it.

Murdoch pushed him away gently. “That’s enough, Alf. Now put the note in your pocket … that’s it. Off you go. Straight down Parliament Street to Queen Street. Then you turn left. Show me your left, Alf. Good. Just before St. Paul’s Church is the street that leads to the House of Providence. You can see it. I’m going to come to the House in the next few days and I will expect a good report.”

Alf giggled in real joy. “Can Mr. Traveller come too?”

“Not at the moment. And Alf, Sister Mary Mathilda is a lady, a nun, and you mustn’t grab her hand or kiss her without asking. That’s not polite.”

“No, sir. I won’t.”

“Get going then. Fast as you can.”

Obediently, Alf trotted off and Murdoch watched him to make sure he’d got it right. At the corner, he turned and gave a big exuberant wave as if he was far away and bidding farewell to a longlost friend. Murdoch felt a pang of sorrow. His brother, Bertie, used to stand on the pier and send off the fishing boats with just that exuberance. Most of the fishermen tolerated him, but their father was always irritated. He looks like a fool. Don’t let him act like that. The chastisement came down heavily on everybody in the family, especially their mother.

Murdoch waved back.

He continued on his way along Wilton to Sherbourne.

Fyfer greeted him at the door to Hicks’s room. “We found this in his cupboard, sir. It’s his will, written three years ago. There’s fifty dollars as well.” He handed an envelope to Murdoch. “We’ve turned his room inside out, sir, and there isn’t a trace of a bottle of prussic acid nor a suicide note.”

Higgins was shaking out the last of the books in the bookcase.

“Be gentle with those books, constable,” said Murdoch. Higgins looked bewildered but began to move a little slower. Murdoch opened the envelope. Inside was a single piece of paper headed.

The will was signed and witnessed by two people who gave their occupation as clerk.

The money was a mix of crumpled notes from various banks and of various denominations. In spite of his poverty, Hicks had saved enough money for the burial he wanted.

“Higgins, I want you to take this paper and go to Mr. Deacon. See if this was the last will that Mr. Hicks had drawn up. Find out if he had taken out any insurance policies.”

The constable left.

“Let me just show you something, sir,” said Fyfer, and he led the way over to the window. The curtains had been opened when Dr. Ogden did her examination, but Murdoch hadn’t paid a lot of attention.

“This is an old house and the frame is cracked. Somebody has gone to a lot of trouble to seal the window.”

He indicated the newspaper that was stuffed into the gaps around the frame.

Murdoch looked puzzled. “He’s keeping out the drafts. I’ve done that myself.”

Fyfer smiled, happy at his own astuteness. “Look at the date on the newspaper. It’s yesterday’s Globe. This was just done. I take that as too much of a coincidence. Man blocks any air, then that same night dies from carbon monoxide poison. It would be easy to dislodge a brick in the chimney and create a block. We all know the danger of burning cheap coke without proper venting. I’d say it’s a clear indication of self-murder.”

Murdoch sighed. “But why do both? Why take prussic acid and also set up carbon monoxide poisoning?”

“There’ll be an insurance policy, mark my words, sir. They’ll pay for an accident, not for suicide.”

“But why haven’t we found the bottle of prussic acid?”

“It must be here somewhere, sir. It wouldn’t just walk away.”

“But it could be carried. What if somebody else gave him the poison?”

“Offed him for his insurance money, you mean?”

“Fyfer, you’ve got insurance on the brain.”

“Sorry, sir. I just took out an indemnity policy myself, maybe that’s why. My parents will do well if I’m run over by a streetcar.”

“Leaving aside the possibility of an unknown person being the beneficiary of the as-yet-unfound insurance policy, somebody could have poisoned him with the prussic acid, maybe even at his own request, then set it up to seem like a tragic accident with the blocked chimney.”

“But why go to all that trouble, unless they stand to gain something? … Yes, sir, I know what you’re going to say but what if the murderer was a friend? What if Mr. Hicks says to that friend, Hey, I’m tired of living without my old lady, will you poison me, because I’m ascared to do it myself, but then make it look like an accident so none of my friends will be upset and think the less of me? Was he a papist, do you know, sir?”

“No, I believe he was a Presbyterian. At least he was reading the Psalms, but I suppose he could have been any denomination.”

Fyfer was looking a little smug and Murdoch held up his hand. “All right. That theory doesn’t hold water. If Hicks wanted to kill himself, he could have easily set up the carbon monoxide poisoning and made it look like an accident. It’s the prussic acid that’s thrown a wrench in the works. That doesn’t make sense. According to Dr. Ogden, the poison acts quickly. Hicks was an old man and she believes he would have gone unconscious almost immediately.”

Murdoch was sitting at the table, which was easier on his back. There was a teapot on the table but no cups. Over by the sink, Hicks’s few mugs were on their hooks. Murdoch reached over and removed the lid from the teapot. There was some tea left in the bottom. He took a good sniff.

“Damn, I should have checked this before. Have a smell, Fyfer, there’s prussic acid in there all right.” The constable confirmed his suspicion. “We’ll get this to Dr. Ogden right away. So you have to be right about there being a second person. The mug is washed and hung up. Hicks couldn’t have done that.”

“Whoever it was, friend or foe, wasn’t thinking too clearly, were they, sir? They should have emptied out the teapot. Either that or made it blatant and left the bottle in the cupboard or something. They must have taken it with them.”

“As you say, Hicks’s guest wasn’t thinking clearly. He, or she, must have been distressed at what they were doing.”

“They probably thought nobody’d suspect. Criminals don’t realize what doctors can find these days when they cut you open. So what do you think, sir? Was it a friend or a foe?”

“It’s hard to believe the man was deliberately murdered. If ever a man seemed harmless, Thomas Hicks did.”

“So’s an anthill until you kick it,” said the constable somewhat ambiguously. “Shall I get started on questioning the neighbours, sir? See if anybody noticed anybody coming in.”

“Dr. Ogden thought he died about midnight so I assume the second person came about ten o’clock. The German woman who lived upstairs said she heard voices. That’s probably who it was. Get some help, Frank. I want every resident on the street interviewed. The usual. Did Hicks quarrel with anybody? What sort of man was he and so on.” Murdoch stood up and pressed his hand into the small of his back. “Lock the door, will you, and leave the key at the station. I’m sure his landlord will be wanting to rent out the rooms immediately and I’m not going to let him. I’m going home for a short spell, but if anything of a dramatic nature comes up, come and get me.”

“Yes, sir. By the way, I know a good treatment for lumbago.”

“Don’t tell me, take a purge?”

“That’s right, sir. Works wonders. Remember that attack I had last winter when I was shovelling out snow in front of the station? I was bent double, but I took a few Ayers pills and they got me right as rain in no time at all.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”