Vices of My Blood (9 page)

“Kill yourself then.”

Chapter Fourteen

T
HOMAS
C
OATES WAS ALSO DRUNK
, but his wife was sober, as were his four children, all of them huddled around a tiny fire in the dark backroom of a house on Bleeker Street. He had nothing to say about his Visitor except that Reverend Howard didn’t understand how hard things had been for him with a bad back and no work. He was a whiner, but the children were obviously in dire straits, Murdoch wondered why Howard hadn’t granted them relief. He supposed he was under strict orders to refuse tickets to anybody who was undeserving, that is, a drunkard and a malingerer. Murdoch left a dollar with Mrs. Coates, who immediately hid it in her apron pocket. He felt confident that she and the children at least would have supper that night.

Miss Mary Hanrahan’s room was filthy. She didn’t seem to understand any of his questions and she reeked of stale beer, but Murdoch wondered if her lack of coherence was caused by something else. She seemed lost and frail and in need of care. He crossed her off his list of possible assailants. Even in a rage of disappointment, she couldn’t have overcome a healthy man like Howard; she could hardly walk. He left her a dollar bill on her table.

The fourth name on his list was Mrs. Esther Tugwell, who lived on Sherbourne Street at the boundary of Howard’s district. As he approached the dilapidated house in the deepening gloom of the early evening, Murdoch wondered how much
this
visit was going to cost him. He didn’t have much money left. Each window had a different covering, from what looked like a tablecloth to a proper blind so he knew there were several tenants living in a house that was small to begin with. He wasn’t surprised there was no bell and he banged hard on the door that hadn’t seen paint for many years. No answer. The butler’s day off, he said wryly to himself. He turned the doorknob and stepped into a dark hallway that was fetid with neglect and the odour of many years of unwholesome meals. He waited for a moment until his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom but realized he was going to need some light. He went back to where he’d left his bicycle, removed the lamp from the handlebars, and went back inside the house.

The beam of light revealed a bare wooden floor and grimy walls. His light picked out a well-polished brass plate on the nearest door, shining like a piece of gold on a midden heap. The plate read,
THOMAS HICKS, ESQUIRE
. He could hear a low murmur coming from inside the room but only one voice as far as he could tell.

Murdoch rapped on the door and the murmuring stopped abruptly.

“Yes?” It was a man’s frail voice.

“Mr. Hicks, I’m a policeman. I’m looking for Mrs. Esther Tugwell.”

Various creaks then the sound of a bolt being shot back. The door opened a crack and the face of an elderly man peered out at him. Murdoch had expected a sullen response, but the man actually beamed at him, revealing yellow teeth as prominent in his gaunt face as those of an old horse’s.

“Come in, come in.” He stepped back and beckoned Murdoch into his room. “Have a seat, sir.” Hicks suffered from a severe curvature of the spine, which brought his chin close to his chest and movement was obviously difficult for him. He shuffled over to the table in the middle of the room, removed a newspaper from a chair, and pulled it out. “I must apologize for the untidiness of my abode, sir, but I don’t receive many visitors, especially illustrious members of the city’s police force.” Hicks’s voice was that of an educated Englishman and at first glance, his abode, as he called it, resembled the private library of an aristocrat. Tall bookcases lined the three windowless walls. There was a comfortable armchair in front of the fire and a faint smell of singed leather suggested Mr. Hicks had been propping his slippered feet on the fender. A brass oil lamp on the table cast a warm glow. However, as his host fussed with the chair, Murdoch had an opportunity to observe a little more closely. There was a simple couch in the corner, which was presumably where Mr. Hicks slept, and next to it a washstand. Two worn druggets were on the planked floor and the window had a decent-enough blind, but it was obvious that if Thomas Hicks, Esquire had ever, in fact, been affluent, he was no longer so.

The chair cleared of newspaper, the man offered his hand.

“Thomas Hicks at your service, sir.”

“Murdoch. William Murdoch. I’m a detective at number four station.”

“Ah, yes, I know it well,” said Hicks ambiguously. He waved in the direction of the hearth where there was a kettle steaming on the hob. “I was just about to prepare some tea when you knocked. May I offer you some?”

Murdoch was about to refuse, but he knew the man’s eagerness was a measure of his loneliness.

“Thank you kindly. It’s damably cold out there and a hot cup of char would hit the spot. As long as it’s no bother.”

“Not at all. Not at all. I always have my tea at this time.” Hicks flashed his powerful teeth again. “It is probably not such a good thing to be a creature of habit the way I am, but ever since my dear wife passed away, I find it a comfort to continue with our little customs.” He tapped on the table. “She would sit here and I in my armchair and we would read to each other, often for hours.”

Murdoch glanced at the bookshelf behind him, which was lined with leatherbound books stamped with gilt letters. “I see you read German.”

Hicks was busy pouring boiling water from the kettle on the hob into his teapot. “Alas no, sir. To be frank I got all of the books on that shelf as part of a job lot from a gentleman’s estate. I find to be surrounded by books, no matter what language, is like being in the middle of a company of loving friends.” He brought the teapot to the table, which was covered with a too big but clean red damask cloth. “The two shelves just above your head are also from an estate. They were going to be thrown away. They’re written in a language I don’t recognize. Portuguese perhaps and I do believe they are medical textbooks.” He chuckled. “I think they must have belonged to a specialist in diseases of the skin, the illustrations are quite gruesome.”

There was a book turned face down on the table, which was the one Murdoch presumed Mr. Hicks had been reading aloud.

“Ah yes. That is a book of sermons, which was kindly lent to me.” His lined face looked wistful in the shadowy light. “I do sometimes pine for the robust humour of Mr. Dickens or the rollicking yarns of Mr. Scott, but as they say beggars can’t be choosers.” He spoke about the books the way another person might describe missing a tasty roast beef or apple tart. “The public library is farther than I can manage in the wintertime. But soon it will be spring and things will improve considerably.”

He took two cups without saucers from the cupboard in the washstand and poured them each some weak tea.

“I’m afraid I cannot offer you milk or sugar, Mr. Murdoch, but I’d be more than happy to share my biscuit with you.”

“No, really, sir. I prefer my tea this way.”

Mr. Hicks took a sip with the slow appreciation of a man who is forced to apportion out meagre amounts to himself. Murdoch didn’t know what had brought the old man to this state of poverty and he wasn’t about to ask for his life history, but he found himself running through his own mind some way he could help financially without offending Mr. Hicks’s pride. Oh Lord, he hadn’t even got past the first tenant. He put down his cup.

“I am actually looking for a Mrs. Esther Tugwell. This is her address, I understand?”

Hicks’s eyes flickered. “That’s quite correct. She lives directly above me.” At that moment, they heard the creak of floorboards from overhead as somebody walked across the floor. “That is no doubt she. She is a hardworking soul, a seamstress by trade, who takes care of her invalid son. She also has a daughter. She …” He drank more tea and didn’t finish the sentence. Murdoch had the sense he had more to say but chose not to. “My immediate neighbours are the Misses Leask, Emma and Larissa. Next to the Tugwells are Mr. and Mrs. McGillivary, a young couple who are expecting their first child soon. Then on the top floor we have Mr. and Mrs. Einboden, recently arrived from Germany, and Mr. Taylor, who is a bachelor and quite reclusive alas.” He grinned. “We are quite crammed to the rafters, you might say. But we do look out for each other when we can.”

Murdoch put his cup on the table. At least the tea had been hot. “I wonder if I might ask you one or two questions, Mr. Hicks?”

“My pleasure, sir.”

“Did you ever meet the Reverend Howard?”

Hicks smiled at him.

“Oh yes. He is a Visitor from the city relief fund and Miss Leask needed help, as, I believe, did poor Mrs. Tugwell. I was calling on her the first time he came and he kindly furnished me with Dr. Lanceley’s book. We had the most entertaining conversation for almost an hour.”

Something in Murdoch’s expression must have communicated itself and Hicks frowned. “Why are you asking, sir? Is there something wrong?”

“I’m afraid so.” There was no way Murdoch could soften the reality of what had happened. He said quietly. “Mr. Howard has been murdered.”

Hicks gaped at him. “How can that be? He was the kindest of men.”

Kindness was not unfortunately always a protection against violence, thought Murdoch. “His body was found in his office yesterday. We believe he may have surprised a burglar.”

The old man pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose vigorously so Murdoch wouldn’t see his eyes had filled with tears. “I had such expectations we would become friends. He was a most lively conversationalist.”

“I intend to find the perpetrator, Mr. Hicks.”

“Even if you do, and I have every confidence that you will, it won’t bring him back, will it? I cannot say I knew him well, but I do believe that Reverend Howard was one of those rare human beings who is truly good.”

He was stroking the cover of the book as he spoke, as if it brought him closer to the man who had loaned it to him.

“I’m very sorry to have brought you such bad news, Mr. Hicks,” said Murdoch, “but the reason I am here is because Mr. Howard was, as you say, a relief officer. I want to speak to the people on his list.”

Hicks glanced over at Murdoch sharply. “Do you suspect one of them to be his killer?”

“I have no suspects at the moment. But it’s regular procedure to follow up on the victim’s movements prior to his death. He made his rounds on Monday. Did you speak to him at all?”

Hicks shook his head. “Unfortunately, he must have been too busy to drop by.”

He averted his eyes, a man accustomed to people being too busy.

“Did he visit Mrs. Tugwell?”

“I assume he did. I thought I heard him come in and go upstairs, but I haven’t spoken to her so I cannot say for certain.”

Murdoch hesitated. “Did Mrs. Tugwell or Miss Leask ever say anything to you that would indicate they were angry with Reverend Howard?”

Hicks pulled his lips over his prominent teeth. “Not at all. Absolutely not. I know that he was unable to give Mrs. Tugwell a docket, but she never spoke a word against him. She knew all too well why she was turned down.”

“Why was she?”

Hicks cocked his head at Murdoch. “Are you going to speak to her directly?”

“Yes.”

“Then you will see for yourself and it’s far better that you do than I say a word.”

Murdoch got to his feet, picking up his bicycle lamp and his hat. “Thank you so much for the tea, Mr. Hicks.”

“You are most welcome, sir. But tell me, has a date been established for Reverend Howard’s funeral?”

“Not yet. It will have to wait until after the coroner’s inquest. But I will make a point of informing you.”

This elicited from Hicks another clearing of his nose into the handkerchief. They shook hands again and Murdoch stepped out, back into the dank hallway.

Chapter Fifteen

M
URDOCH FOLLOWED THE BEAM
of his lamp up the uncarpeted stairs to the landing. Here there were two doors and at the far end a farther flight of even narrower stairs led to the third floor. A sliver of light was showing underneath the first door, but before he could knock, it opened and a woman emerged. She was dressed in a brown coat, plain enough, but enlivened by a wispy purple feather boa and a beribboned red hat. He presumed this young woman was the problematic daughter. She was young, but any prettiness she might have had was obliterated by the anger held in her mouth and eyes. She flashed him a tawdry seductive smile.

“What can I do for you? Lost your way, I’ll wager. I’ll help you find it if you like.”

“I’d like to speak to Mrs. Esther Tugwell.”

The false smile vanished immediately. “You a bailiff?”

“No. My name is Murdoch, I’m a detective at number four station.”

Now he saw an all too familiar look. Fear, hostility, wariness. He met it all the time.

“What you want with my ma?”

Her tone of voice was so belligerent, Murdoch felt his own flash of temper.

“As I said, I’d like to talk to her. Are you Josephine Tugwell?”

“The same. And as
I
just said, what you want with us?”

“I’m investigating a murder and I’d like to ask her some questions.”

“Ha. Who the hell’s got the big bird that my mother’d know anything about it? She never leaves the house.”

In spite of her question, Murdoch thought she wasn’t surprised to see him and she did know why he was here. Then he recognized her. She was the woman in the red hat who’d taken exception to Crabtree as he came through the crowd outside the church. She must know that Charles Howard was dead.

“Didn’t I see you at Chalmers Church yesterday afternoon?”

For a split second, she considered her answer. Then she shrugged. “Your peepers do not deceive. I came over to see what the fuss was all about.”

“So you do know who got the big bird?”

“Didn’t have to be him, did it? There could be a cove doffed every hour for all I know. What’s it to do with my ma?”

“Reverend Howard was a Visitor for the House of Industry. Your mother is on his list. I understand he turned down her application for relief.”

“He did. Man with a poker up his arse, as far as I could tell. He thought I wasn’t deserving so the rest of the family could go starve. But I hope you ain’t thinking my own mother did for him cos she was miffed?”

“I have no thoughts at the moment. I’m interviewing everybody who was on Reverend Howard’s list.”

“That’s a clever thing to do. The prospect of some soft-handed toff having the say-so as to whether you eat for the next month could get a person all riled, couldn’t it?”

“Do I take that to mean you don’t have a high opinion of Reverend Howard?”

“I don’t have an opinion, high or low. He looked down his nose same as all of them.”

“Your downstairs neighbour, Mr. Hicks, thought he was a good man.”

“That’s Christian of him.”

Josie had doused herself with some kind of strong musky scent that was overpowering in the small space of the landing.

“Given what you just said, I’d like to ask you where you were yesterday afternoon, round about three-thirty,” Murdoch said.

“That’s a laugh. I was here, shivering myself to death. Why? Don’t think I went up there and stabbed the bloke so I could get blood out of a stone, do ya?” She laughed at her own joke.

She was getting on Murdoch’s nerves. “Show some respect, young woman, or I’ll bring you into the station. Besides, how did you know he’d been stabbed?”

She grinned. “You didn’t say so, if that’s what you’re getting at, but that’s what everybody was nattering about up at the church. He’d bin stabbed and the boots put to him, from what I heard.”

The door behind her opened and a thin-faced woman poked her head out.

“Josie, what’s going on? You’re disturbing Wilf.”

“Sorry, ma. I was talking to the detective here. He’s come to take you to jail.”

Mrs. Tugwell was an older, worn version of her daughter, the same narrow nose and sharp chin but without the bold, defiant expression. She looked frightened at Josie’s words.

“What for?”

Murdoch tipped his hat to her. “Your daughter is teasing you, ma’am. That’s not the reason I’m here, ma’am. I am investigating the murder of the Reverend Howard. I would like to ask you some questions.”

Esther glanced at Josie nervously and her daughter sighed impatiently.

“I ain’t never going to get out of here. You’d better let him in, Ma. Don’t worry, I’ll come too and make sure he don’t knock you about.”

Mrs. Tugwell backed into the room, Josie went in, and Murdoch was left to follow her. The air was unpleasantly close and the front windows were uncurtained and grimy. Underneath them was what seemed to be the only real chair in the place. A couple of packing boxes served as seats. Even those meagre furnishings made the room seem crowded because most of the space was taken up by the stove and the family bed. On the floor was a pallet where he could make out a boy’s sleeping form.

Mrs. Tugwell spoke softly. “That there’s our Wilf. He’s got St. Vitus’s dance, so I’ll thank you not to raise your voice. Any loud noise sets him going.”

Josie plopped on one of the boxes. “I’d offer you some tea, but we drank the last of it this morning. And I hope you ain’t hungry because the larder is empty. So you’ll just have to forgive our bad manners. We wasn’t expecting company.”

Murdoch knew quite well she was baiting him, but he felt a pang of pity. Their state was every bit as wretched as the others he’d seen. Esther fluttered around and pulled the chair closer into the room.

“Why don’t you sit here, officer.”

She sat down on the other box and Murdoch accepted the chair. The two women were lower and close to his knees, which made him feel like a schoolmaster addressing his pupils.

“Reverend Howard came here on Monday afternoon, I understand?” he spoke to Esther Tugwell although he could tell that the real authority in the family was Josie. It was she who answered.

“That’s right. He stayed for what, Ma? Ten minutes. Decided we weren’t deserving of no meal ticket and shoved off.”

“He told you right away, did he?”

“Oh yes. They have to. Gives you a chance to go somewhere else. We went to the Sisters, who at least have some charity.”

“How did you feel when the pastor told you he wasn’t going to grant your application?”

Both women looked at Murdoch in astonishment, then Josie laughed.

“How’d you think we felt? Use your noggin. Three mouths to feed, no coal even if we did have food. Wilf is sickly, as you can see. What you think? We were happy as larks.” She slapped her knee. “Wait a bleeding minute. I thought you even gave a toss. But you mean, did we want to kill the bleeder? Well I know I did. What do you say, Ma?”

Esther shrank. She was wearing a brown velvet wrapper that must have been passed on to her from a charity. It was too big and the shoulders drooped down her arms.

“He was only doing his job, Jo. He was a good man, really.”

Josie glared at her. Not said but hanging in the air was the knowledge that she was the reason they had been turned down.

“My mother’s a real Christian, Mr. Murdoch. She thinks Old Nick himself is only doing his job when he roasts sinners in hell.”

Her tone was cruel and Esther flushed. “Josie, that’s not true.” She turned to Murdoch. “We was disappointed of course we were, but like Jo just said we was able to go to the Sisters.”

“And Monday was the last time you saw Reverend Howard?”

Josie jumped in. “Of course it was, Mr. Sly Boots. He wasn’t likely to drop in for supper, was he? Yesterday was Tuesday, and Tuesday was when he was went to the Grand Silence.”

Murdoch looked at the older woman, who’d folded her hands into the sleeves of her too big dress. “Is that the truth, Mrs. Tugwell?”

She nodded. Murdoch might have pressed her but at that moment, the boy on the pallet groaned. His arm jerked out from the blanket covering him. Esther got to her feet quickly and went to him.

“He’s awake, is he? Mama’s here, lambie.” Her voice was tender when she spoke and Murdoch saw the anger flit across Josie’s face. She’d seen that tenderness lavished on her brother all her life, something she wanted and didn’t get. She jumped to her feet.

“If you’re done now, mister, I’ll be off.” She gave him an unabashed leer. “I’m meeting a friend and I’m late already.”

Murdoch didn’t think he was going to get any further and he wanted to get out of the stifling atmosphere of oppressive poverty. Wilf was making strangled noises and his arms were jerking wildly. Esther understood what he was trying to say and she fetched a mug of soup from the stove.

“Here, lambie. I saved it for you.”

Murdoch stood up.

“I’ll be going now, Mrs. Tugwell, but I may have to come back.”

“She’ll be here,” said Josie. “She never goes out. She’s always worried about brother Wilf.”

Esther straightened up and gave Murdoch a wan smile. “I’m sorry I can’t be more help, sir. I’m sorry to hear about the pastor. He seemed like a kind man.”

Josie snorted derisively. “Kind, my arse. He didn’t care if we were starving.”

Her mother sighed and turned back to helping Wilf with his soup.

Josie grabbed Murdoch by his sleeve and grinned up into his face. “Now why don’t you do me a favour, mister, and light the way down the stairs so I don’t trip and break my bleeding neck.”

Murdoch followed her from the room, leaving Mrs. Tugwell to minister to the skeleton-thin, twitching boy.