Poor Tom Is Cold (11 page)

Be calm. Think! You’ve got to think!

T
HE CHAPEL AT
H
UMPHREY’S
F
UNERAL
H
OME
was used regularly for coroner’s inquests because the post mortem examination could be easily conducted on the premises. The room was panelled in dark oak with a sober brown carpet and pews. A large portrait of Her Majesty and the prince consort, surrounded by their young children, was hung at the front of the room. Murdoch assumed Mr. Humphrey had chosen this particular reproduction because of the family aspect. Queen Victoria and Prince Albert as a source of parental comfort to the bereaved.

The chapel could comfortably hold about forty people but there were at least sixty jammed into the room, extra benches having been provided. Word had spread about Wicken’s death and Murdoch also recognised many of the people he had been questioning the previous day. There were four or five constables from the station and Inspector Brackenreid himself was
present. He was looking quite disgruntled and Murdoch knew he considered Wicken to have brought disgrace to the force and particularly his station. He gave a curt nod as the detective went to take his seat near the front with the other witnesses.

In the first pew were the thirteen jurors. Murdoch slipped into the aisle seat in the second row and was almost knocked over by the various odours of camphor, violet pomade, and shaving soap. Several of the men had cleaned themselves up and taken out their Sunday-best suits, as befitted their important role in the proceedings.

Across from him was Oliver’s mother. She was in deep mourning and a heavy crepe veil fell to her shoulders. Her head was bowed and she was very still. She didn’t acknowledge anyone and she seemed alone and friendless, even though there was a woman next to her who Murdoch assumed was a neighbour. She too was in black and he saw her wiping her eyes with a black-edged handkerchief. Mrs. Wicken was not weeping.

Beside the neighbour was the patrol sergeant Hales, who had to testify, and next to him was a young woman that Murdoch didn’t recognise. She was soberly dressed in a dark grey walking suit and plain black felt hat with a short veil to the chin. He wondered if this was the woman that Wicken had apparently died for. She seemed to be alone and her head was bowed in prayer. He could imagine what an ordeal the inquest was going to be for her.

The spectators were behaving with respect and there was only a subdued murmur as they waited for the proceedings to start. A table had been placed at the front of the chapel for the coroner and the constable of the court. The side door opened and Crabtree strode in, followed by Mr. Johnson.

“Oyez! Oyez! Everybody please rise.”

There was a rustling of garments and creaking of seats as the spectators obeyed.

“An inquisition is now in session, taken for Our Sovereign Lady, the Queen, at the house of Benjamin Humphrey, situate in the city of Toronto in the county of York on the thirteenth day of November in the fifty-eighth year of the reign of Our Sovereign Lady, Victoria, before Arthur Edward Johnson, Esquire, one of the coroners of our said Lady to inquire when, how, and by what means Oliver Wicken came to his death. All of the jurors here present being duly sworn and having viewed the body.”

Johnson took his seat behind the table.

“Everyone may now sit.”

Crabtree’s booming voice filled the chapel. There was an expectant silence; nevertheless, the constable picked up the rubber mallet on the desk and banged it. He addressed the jurors.

“Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! You good men of this county, answer to your names as you shall be called, every man at the first call, upon pain and peril that shall fall thereon.”

He checked off their names as they answered.

Johnson waited impassively for Crabtree to finish, staring at a spot three feet in front of him. The roll call finished, he blinked and spoke out in his raspy nasal voice.

“I shall proceed to hear and take down the evidence respecting the fact, to which I crave your particular attention.”

He nodded at Crabtree who turned slightly to face the row where the witnesses sat. Murdoch felt a slight quiver of stage fright in his stomach. Crabtree declaimed, “If anyone can give evidence on behalf of our Sovereign Lady the Queen, when, how, and by what means Oliver Wicken came to his death, let him come forth and he shall be heard.”

He beckoned to Patrol Sergeant Hales, who stood up and approached the table.

“State your name, place of abode, and occupation.”

“Edward Hales, number fifty, Sydenham Street. I am night patrol sergeant at number four police station, which is located on Wilton Street.”

“That your full name?”

“No, sir. My full name is Edward George Wilbur Hales.”

“Say so then. This is her Majesty’s court now convened.”

Johnson frowned at the rest of the witnesses as if they too had transgressed. Crabtree waited until the coroner had finished entering the information in his
ledger, then picked up the Bible that was on the desk and held it out. Hales took it in his right hand.

“The evidence which you shall give to this inquest on behalf of our Sovereign Lady the Queen touching the death of Oliver Wicken shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. So help you God. Do you so swear?”

“I do.”

“Stand over there and address the coroner and make sure the jurors can hear you.”

Hales moved so that he was at an angle to the court.

“Constable, second class, Oliver Wicken went on duty at a quarter to seven on the night of Monday last, the eleventh of November …”

“Don’t gabble,” interrupted Johnson. “I have to write this down, you know.”

Hales continued, trying to speak more slowly. “I did my first check at twenty-five minutes past eight at the corner of Queen and River streets. The second was at twenty past ten when I met up with him at Parliament Street. Constable Wicken was present and correct. He was not under the influence of liquor. He showed me his report book and to that point his beat had been without incident.”

“Did he seem in any way morose or dispirited?”

“No, sir, he did not.”

“Other than giving his report, did he say anything to you?”

“Just about the weather.”

“His exact words, if you please, Sergeant.”

“I can’t say as I remember them exactly, sir. Something like, ‘Good weather if you’re a duck. I’ll be glad to be done.’”

“In your opinion was there anything at all in Mr. Wicken, either that night or on any other previous occasion, that would have indicated a man with suicidal tendencies?”

“Absolutely not. He was always a good-natured fellow, never whinged like some of them do. I would say he was of a cheerful disposition. And if I might add, Mr. Johnson, in all my experience as a police officer, I have never known a pistol to end up stuck between a man’s legs in the way it was found …”

Johnson stopped him. “Members of the jury, I should remind you that we demonstrated this point to our mutual satisfaction. The gun could in fact fall into that position. I am not suggesting this would happen every time. Of course not. We are not talking about an arcade. But there is quite sufficient probability. However, Patrol Sergeant Hales is entitled to his opinion. Nobody wants to accept the fact that a fellow officer was a weakling.”

Murdoch could see Mrs. Wicken had bent her head and he cursed Johnson for his lack of tact.

The sergeant had turned even redder than usual. “I returned to the station to make my report and went out
again at about two o’clock. At this time I did not encounter the constable, who should have been in the vicinity of Gerrard Street east between Parliament and River streets. I went around his beat the reverse way expecting to meet him but he was nowhere visible. I returned to the station.”

“Hold on,” said Johnson. “Why didn’t you sound the alarm?”

Hales hesitated. “Sometimes the younger constables liven up the dullness of the watch by playing tricks – harmless, sir, quite harmless and don’t affect their duty at all. Monday was a drear, wet night.”

“What sort of harmless little tricks, pray tell?”

The sergeant shifted uncomfortably. “Sort of hide-and-seek. They might duck into the laneway when they hear me coming, then jump out as I go past.”

“I see. So you thought Constable Wicken was simply playing games with you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Had he done that on other occasions?”

“No, sir. No, he hadn’t.”

“But this night, as it was, as you say, so drear, you thought he had got it into his head to act like some child with his tutor?”

Hales was stung by Johnson’s tone.

“It crossed my mind as an explanation. Wicken was a responsible young fellow. I didn’t think there was any harm if he did want a bit of a laugh. I did the rest of
my rounds, made my report, and then I went out again at four o’clock. There was no sign of him. At this point I was getting worried. I started a bit of a search, thought he might have been taken ill and be in one of the laneways. I didn’t find him.”

“Didn’t you think to inspect the empty house?”

“No, sir. For one, there were several vacant properties along the beat, and second, my pebble was still on the doorknob …”

“Explain if you please, Sergeant.”

“Sometimes just to test that the constables are doing what they’re supposed to do, I place a pebble on the doorknob of the vacant houses on the beat. It’s small so as they can’t really see it in the dark but, if it’s still there when I come round next, I know they haven’t bothered to check.”

“And you put a pebble on the doorknob of the Gerrard Street house?”

“Yes, sir. When I went by at two o’clock.”

“Did you do the same to the back door?”

“No, sir.”

“So when did you finally decide something might be seriously the matter?”

“When Wicken hadn’t shown up at the end of his shift or called in. That’s when Detective Murdoch offered to go in search of him.”

Johnson frowned. “Long after the horse had left the barn, wouldn’t you say?”

Murdoch felt like throttling the coroner. He knew that the patrol sergeant had been chastising himself severely. All the “if onlys” tearing at him. Not that it would have made any difference if he had raised the alarm, unless he’d happened on Wicken in the act of aiming his revolver at his own head.

“You can step down, Sergeant. Constable of the court, call the next witness.”

“Acting Detective William Murdoch, please come forward to be sworn.”

Hales went back to his seat and Murdoch stood up and went to the table. He tried to give Hales a sympathetic glance as they passed but the sergeant averted his eyes.

He made sure to give his full name of William Henry Murdoch, then Crabtree handed him the Bible and swore him in.

Johnson laced his fingers together and cracked his knuckles.

“Address the jury and give your statement. Please be clear and precise.”

Murdoch faced the jurors, who were still highly attentive, and related his discovery of Wicken’s body. Most of this ground had already been covered at the viewing, so there were no questions. He assumed he had been clear enough.

“Do you yourself have an opinion as to the manner of death?”

“I do not, sir. I have known Constable Wicken for some time and, like Sergeant Hales, I have always found him to be uncommonly even-tempered. It is hard to conceive of him committing such a violent act as self-murder. However, the situation in which I found him does seem to indicate that is the case. I am frankly puzzled by it.”

“Are you indeed? Well, as I remarked to the sergeant, we are not visiting an arcade. Men do not function like mechanical pieces. Perhaps any one of us is capable of irrational acts at times in our lives when we are unbalanced by our passions.”

There was no answer to that.

“You can step down, Mr. Murdoch.”

Johnson addressed the jurors. “There was a post mortem examination of the body conducted by Dr. Grieg, a licenced physician. Unfortunately, he is not able to be here in person today but I do have his written report. Members of the jury, you will be able to study this said report when you are deciding on your verdict, but I will ask the constable of the court to read it out for the benefit of the rest of the people here present.”

Crabtree did so, handling the medical terminology remarkably well. “… The anterior fossa of the base of the skull was much shredded. The base of the brain was torn and lacerated almost to a pulp … in the interior of the brain was a pepiculer of bone about
the size of three quarters of an inch long and one half an inch broad …” Again, Murdoch felt bad for Oliver’s mother. No matter how Latinate the language, what she was listening to was a description of her son’s head being shattered.

Crabtree concluded with “… abdominal organs healthy. Heart healthy.”

The only new piece of information for Murdoch was that Wicken had eaten shortly before he died. There was partially digested meat and bread in his stomach.

“Thank you, Constable. Mr. Samuel Lee is our next witness, I believe. Please swear him. His son will act as interpreter.”

Crabtree called out their names and the two Chinamen approached the desk. There was a murmur from the spectators, many of whom had probably never seen such a sight.

Both of the men were wearing padded silk jackets of red silk embroidered with green and gold thread. On their heads were black tri-cornered hats. They were like exotic birds among the sparrows and crows. And the rustle of whispers expressed a rather hostile curiosity.

Johnson said to the young man, “State your name and address first, then his, and the constable will swear him in.”

The son’s name was Foon. “This is my father, Samuel Lee. We live at number two hundred plus twenty-four on Parliament Street. We run the laundry.”

There was a giggle from somebody in the crowd and Murdoch guessed it was because of Foon’s accent.

Crabtree took a flat box from the desk and lifted out a china saucer.

“Tell Mr. Lee he must kneel down.”

Foon translated and rather stiffly his father obeyed. Crabtree handed him the saucer. Bewildered, the Chinaman took it in his hand.