Poor Tom Is Cold (12 page)

“Instruct him he must break the saucer in two,” said Crabtree. “He can smash it on the floor if he likes.”

A short, fast exchange took place between Foon and his father, and with a slight shrug, Mr. Lee slammed the saucer hard, breaking it in two.

“Now repeat to him the following,” said the constable. “You shall tell the truth and the whole truth. The saucer is cracked and, if you do not tell the truth, your soul will be cracked like the saucer.”

Foon translated.

“Does he understand?”

Lee nodded.

“You can stand up now,” said Johnson.

Crabtree picked up the broken pieces and returned them to the box.

The audience had watched this ritual as avidly as if they were at a magic show. The coroner looked at Lee. “As a witness in this investigation you are required to tell the jury exactly what you told the detective when he came to question you yesterday.”

Foon repeated what he’d said and his father answered animatedly. Foon translated it all back into English. When he mentioned seeing a young woman with Wicken, a ripple of excitement ran through the crowd. When he had finished, Stevenson put up his hand.

“What now?” asked the coroner in exasperation.

“Just want to make sure the gentleman knows what he is saying. That there’s no mistake. How did he know for certain it was twenty minutes past eleven o’clock when Constable Wicken came to the door?”

Lee spoke at once to his son.

“My father says he looked at the clock, wondering who was coming so late.”

“He tells the time, then, does he?”

Johnson saved Foon the embarrassment of a reply.

“Mr. Stevenson, you are revealing an appalling ignorance. The Chinese invented clocks, isn’t that so, Mr. Foon?”

“Ay, sir.”

There was a titter at Stevenson’s expense but Murdoch had the impression most of the listeners were surprised to hear this.

“Any other questions for the witness?”

Jarius Gibb, the foreman, indicated he had one.

“In the opinion of the Chinaman, was the constable in low spirits or good spirits?”

Foon translated and his father paused for a moment before he answered.

“My father regrets to say he could not distinguish what sort of demeanour the constable was in. Nor the lady. But he must emphasize, he only glimpsed them as they walked up the street together.”

“Talking or not talking?”

“He believes talking.”

The coroner consulted a sheet of paper in front of him. “He can step down but he is still sworn. Remind him, Mr. Foon. Call the next witness.”

“Miss Mary Ann Trowbridge, please come forward.”

The young woman edged her way along the row. As she crossed in front of Mrs. Wicken, she hesitated, made as if to reach out her hand, thought better of it, and went on.

Crabtree swore her in and she answered in a soft, light voice.

“Give your statement, Miss Trowbridge,” said Johnson. “And please speak up; I won’t bite.”

She nodded but more volume seemed beyond her and Murdoch had to strain to hear.

“I am, that is to say, I was betrothed to Oliver Wicken.” She glanced over at Mrs. Wicken. “It was a secret betrothal. Nobody knew, not even his mother. We became engaged two months ago but …” She stopped, swallowing back tears. “On Monday evening I broke off our engagement. Oh, if only I hadn’t.” Her voice trailed off.

“You really must speak louder, my dear young
lady. The jurors need to hear you.” Johnson was being most solicitous.

Miss Trowbridge lifted her veil to wipe her eyes and Murdoch had a good view of her face. She was a pretty girl with fair skin and light-coloured brows. Her eyes were well shaped, blue or grey, and her chin was rounded. He judged her to be less than twenty.

“Oliver was most upset. He begged me not to abandon him … He said his life was nothing without me. I was dreadfully worried but I could not go back on my decision. I felt we were not suited to each other and that eventually he would be happier with another. He did not think so … We quarrelled dreadfully.”

“Did he make threats at that time to take his own life?” Johnson asked.

Mary Ann nodded. She reached into her reticule and took out a folded piece of paper.

“I live with my aunt, Mrs. Avison. She would have come here today but she is in poor health. However, she wrote out a letter to you, Your Honour. I spoke to her the moment I returned home, so she can vouch for what I said.”

Johnson took the missive, scanned it quickly, and put it into the folder that was on his desk.

“So, the last time you saw Oliver Wicken was this Monday past?”

“Yes, that is correct.”

“And where did you see him?”

“I must confess, your Honour, I met him on his beat. I know I should not have done this as he was on duty but … I felt safer. I did not think he would dare to pursue me. So I arranged to meet him in the empty house. I knew he had the key because he’d begged me to meet him there before which I had not done … When we were inside, in the former kitchen, I told him my intention … He became very angry. He began to shout at me, dreadful cruel things … I was afraid he would actually strike me. I ran off …” She was having a hard time speaking. “I wish now I had stayed, tried to talk to him until he was in a more reasonable frame of mind, but I was afraid …”

Suddenly, Mrs. Wicken burst out, “That girl is not telling the truth. Oliver was not like that. He would never have become engaged without informing me.”

Her voice was harsh and she was panting as if she had been running. Unnecessarily, Johnson thumped the table with the mallet.

“Order please. Mrs. Wicken, I do appreciate your distress but you cannot call out like that. This is a law court. If you wish to make a statement, you have to be properly sworn. Is that what you want?”

Her neighbour touched her arm and whispered at her but Mrs. Wicken shrugged her off.

“Yes. I would like to testify.”

“Very well. When Miss Trowbridge has finished you can come up. But I must ask you to control yourself. I will not allow any hysterics.”

He turned back to the young woman. “Do continue.”

She wiped at her eyes again. “I’m sorry, sir. I cannot bear to upset Oliver’s mother in this way but I can’t lie because of that, can I?”

“Absolutely not. Is there anything else you want to add?”

“No, sir. That’s all that happened. He must have remained in the house until … until he …”

“That’s all right, Miss Trowbridge. We understand. Now, does any member of the jury have a question? Oh no, Mr. Stevenson, not again?”

“Yes, sir. I just wanted to know how long this encounter lasted.”

The girl answered. “Not long. Ten or twelve minutes at the most. As I said, I was afraid and I left as soon as I could.”

“And what time of night was this?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say exactly. I don’t carry a watch. It was after midnight, I believe.”

“One more question, Miss. Isn’t that very late for a young woman to be out unescorted?”

She turned to Johnson. “Would it be too much to ask for a glass of water?”

“Of course not.” There was a glass and a carafe of water on the table, and Johnson poured some out and handed the glass to the young woman. She sipped some of the water.

“I’m sorry, sir, what was your question?”

Stevenson repeated it.

“You are quite right, sir, and believe me I would not have done such a thing if I were not desperate. As I mentioned, my aunt is in ill-health and I am the sole watcher. I could not leave her any earlier. But where I live isn’t too far away and I hurried as fast as I could.”

Miss Trowbridge was looking more and more frightened. Murdoch wished for her sake that the ordeal was over.

Chamberlin waved his hand. “One question, sir … Ma’am, how did you find out what had happened to the constable?”

“I read about it in the newspaper this morning. I came directly to the coroner, as I thought it was my duty to say what had occurred, even though there were those who might blame me.”

“Nobody of a reasonable mind would blame you, Miss Trowbridge,” said Johnson.

Murdoch thought he was acting like a besotted old fool and it added to the list of grievances he held against the man.

Gibb indicated he had a question. “Miss Trowbridge, had Wicken shown any previous signs of mental instability?”

“I regret to say that he did. If I even had a cross word for him, which was not often, he would become distraught. He said he could not rest until I had forgiven him. He was horribly jealous and made mountains out
of molehills over everything … That is why I broke off our engagement. I know he didn’t show that part of his nature to the world, but please believe me, I saw it all too often.”

“I think we’ve heard what we need,” said Johnson. “You may return to your seat, Miss Trowbridge.”

She did so, this time ignoring Oliver’s mother.

Johnson pulled out a large gold watch from his waistcoat pocket and consulted it.

“We will hear from Mrs. Wicken.”

She stood up, swayed for a moment on her feet. Murdoch was afraid she was going to fall. But she held tightly onto the back of the pew in front of her until she was composed and then she approached the table. When Crabtree swore her in her voice was audible, in spite of the encumbering veil.

Johnson nodded at her and ostentatiously dipped his pen at the ready for her statement.

“I know of no such engagement entered into by my son and I am entirely unacquainted with Miss Trowbridge. However, even if Oliver were betrothed to her, I cannot believe for a moment he would kill himself because she rejected him. From an early age, Oliver was a sensible boy.”

In spite of the sympathy that was her due as bereaved mother, Mrs. Wicken was not endearing herself to the spectators. Her composure, which had momentarily deserted her, was now firmly in place and Murdoch knew that most of those listening would see her as
unnatural and unfeeling. They far preferred a story of love and passion and the evidence of heartbreak that Miss Trowbridge had given them. However, he knew how Mrs. Wicken had reacted when she’d heard of her son’s death and his heart went out to her.

The indomitable Stevenson raised his hand again and Johnson nodded permission for him to speak. “Excuse me, ma’am, for asking, but was your son’s life insured?”

“Yes, it was. After my husband died, Oliver became the sole support of me and his sister. We took out modest policies for both of us.”

“Thank you, that is all.”

He didn’t have to press the point. Everybody knew that, if it was determined that Wicken had killed himself, there would be no payout from the insurance company.

“I myself wish to ask one thing, Mrs. Wicken,” said Johnson. “I commiserate with you most sincerely but this is a court of law and you are sworn under oath to tell the truth … you do understand that, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Did your son show any signs of a melancholy disposition at any time prior to his death?”

“No, he did not. Never.”

“Thank you, madam. That is all.”

Tall and erect she returned to her seat.

Stevenson’s hand was in the air immediately.

“I’d like to ask the previous witness, Mr. Lee, a question, Your Honour.”

Johnson sighed. “Is this the last?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. Mr. Foon, please tell your father to stand up. Remind him he is under oath.”

Foon spoke to his father and he obeyed the instruction.

“I do want to make it clear, Your Honour, that I mean no disrespect to Miss Trowbridge in any way at all,” said Stevenson. “This is strictly for confirmation, you understand …”

“Spit it out, man. We don’t have all day.”

“Mr. Lee, is the young woman who has here testified the same person that you saw when Oliver Wicken came to your laundry? Miss, would you be so good as to stand and raise your veil again. Thank you.”

Mr. Lee regarded her for a few moments, then spoke quickly to his son. Foon nodded.

“My father says that is of certainty the young woman he saw on the street with the constable.”

A sigh of gratification went through the room. Mrs. Wicken only sat straighter.

Johnson banged the mallet on the table. “We will adjourn for fifteen minutes.”

Crabtree stepped forward. “Court, please rise.”

With much shuffling and scuffling of boots, the spectators stood up while Johnson left.

T
HE JURORS WERE SEATED AROUND
a table in the viewing room of the funeral parlour. On two shelves at the back were displayed empty coffins, the quality ranging from expensive polished oak lined with white satin to plain pine with no brass and thin cotton lining. At first these eternity boxes had served as silent
memento mori
, but now they had assumed the same invisibility as a sideboard.

The men had taken out their pipes and the air was thick.

“Has everybody now read over the witness statements?” asked Gibb. There were murmurs of agreement.

Gain, a porter, called out, “Wonder if they could bring us a bite, Mr. Gibb? It’s past my dinner time and my belly is starting to eat itself.” There were some grins at this. Thomas Gain was a stout man with heavy jowls and an abundant stomach. “And as for Peter Curran
here,” he continued, “his is growling so loud I can’t hear the half of what’s being said.”

The man beside him answered before Gibb could respond.

“If you want to eat, you’d better hurry up and settle the verdict. They’re not going to give us anything until you come to a decision. It’s the rule.” His name was James Slade and he owned a grocery store on Jarvis Street. He wasn’t at all happy at being subpoenaed to serve on the jury, but at the least he thought he should have been foreman, given the social standing of his clientele. He spoke in a condescending tone that had already set the rest of them on edge.

“That used to be the practice, Mr. Slade,” said Gibb, “but I don’t believe it’s the case nowadays. If you men want some refreshment, I’ll order it right away.”

“They won’t, you’ll see.”

Stevenson, who was next to him, groaned, glanced around for somewhere to spit, caught Gibb’s eye, and refrained.