A Journeyman to Grief (3 page)

Murdoch was touched by the apparent affection between the dancers. He’d become rather interested in observing married couples, he realized, ever since he had proposed marriage to Miss Amy Slade.

Crabtree and Murdoch turned down Jarvis Street, and here most of the houses were protected from curious eyes by firmly closed blinds or curtains.

“I’m surprised that we’re being called to this area of town. On Mutual and Shuter Streets, there’s a physician living in every second house.”

“And as we all know, only the poorer classes of society commit crimes,” added Crabtree. He’d made his tone heavily ironic, and Murdoch grinned at him.

“There’s Fyfer.”

The constable was standing at the corner of a laneway. There was a high wooden fence behind him, which Murdoch assumed hid the livery. As they approached, Fyfer saluted.

“Good evening, sir.”

“Evening, Fyfer. How do we get in?”

“There’s a side entry just down here.”

Fyfer lit the way down the dark laneway with his lantern. They stepped through the door into a cobblestone yard. There were no lights.

“The body’s in the barn. There are two entrances for the carriages, and I barred those gates right away. Nobody has come or gone since I’ve been here.”

“Where’s the fellow who found the body?”

“I’ve put him in the office. It’s right there.”

He flashed his light. The office was just inside the south gate, and the side that faced into the yard was glassed. Murdoch could barely make out the figure of a man sitting at the desk. He didn’t move or make any attempt to come out to them.

“Have you talked to him yet?”

“Just a few questions. His name’s Elijah Green and he cleans out the stables. We didn’t go much further than that.”

Murdoch had worked with Fyfer before, and he’d grown to respect the young man’s efficiency. He was also well aware that the constable’s good manners covered a ruthless ambition. Kid gloves over a tiger’s paw.

“Good. All right, lead on.”

Fyfer opened the door to the barn and they went in.

“He’s in the tackle room, sir.”

He turned to the left and led the way along the centre aisle, which was also cobbled and lightly covered with straw. There was a warm, not unpleasant smell of hay and manure in the air and the lantern’s bull’s-eye beam picked out the rear ends of horses in open stalls. One or two of them nickered as the men went past.

“In here.” Fyfer pushed open a door at the far end of the aisle and stood back for Murdoch to enter the room.

A brass lamp sat on a low stool in the corner. By its light, Murdoch could see the body of a man hanging by the wrists from a strap hooked into the ceiling. He was twisting slightly, and his feet dangled in the straw. The sharp reek of vomit filled the air.

Murdoch went in closer, and Fyfer aimed his beam at the body.

The man’s blue eyes were open and staring and he was naked from the waist up, his back criss-crossed with livid marks. Blood
had clotted along the lines and pooled at his waist. Buzzing flies fed greedily on the wounds.

Murdoch drew in his breath. “Good Lord, he’s been whipped.”

“Yes, sir. Quite viciously, too, by the look of it.”

Murdoch walked slowly around the body. “Are we certain this is Daniel Cooke?”

“I recognize him myself,” said Crabtree, who was standing near the door.

In life, Cooke was slightly above average height. Not as tall as Murdoch, perhaps just under six feet. He had a full head of wavy grey hair and heavy sidewhiskers. He was overweight, his flabby pale flesh spilling over the band of his trousers. Vomit streaked his chest.

Murdoch placed the back of his hand against the dead man’s cheek. The skin retained some warmth. Gently, he turned Cooke’s jaw to the side. It moved easily.

“He hasn’t been dead long at all. No rigor mortis and he’s not completely cold.” He turned to Fyfer. “Where are his clothes?”

“His jacket, shirt, and underwear are over there in that corner. They look as if they were cut away.”

“Your light, please.” Murdoch went over to the pile of clothes and examined them. There was a brown check wool jacket, a blue striped shirt, and a grey cotton undershirt. All were in shreds, but it was obvious they had been cut, not torn.

“I thought the assailant must have had a sharp knife and a strong hand to cut through the jacket so cleanly,” said Fyfer.

Murdoch nodded and began to search through the jacket pockets. They were empty except for a handkerchief and two nickel pieces.

“Was that lamp here?”

“Yes, sir, and it was lit, just the wick turned down low.”

“Shall we get him down now?” Crabtree asked.

“One minute.”

Murdoch shone the beam around the area. The shelves around the walls were loaded with horse tackle, bulky collars mostly. Bridles and harnesses dangled from hooks in the ceiling out of the way of mice and rats. Nothing seemed out of place, that is if you discounted the half-naked body.

He waved the flies away and studied the stripes. They covered his entire back but seemed heavier near the middle. It was impossible without a magnifying glass to tell with any accuracy how many times Cooke had been whipped, but it was a considerable number.

“I’m surprised nobody heard him,” said Crabtree. “He must have been screaming.”

Murdoch turned up the wick in the brass lamp as high as it would go and set it on the floor. “There are bruises at the corners of his mouth. I’d say he was screaming, but he was gagged with something that was removed. I’ll need your knife, George. You’ll both have to take up some of the weight.”

The two constables had the unpleasant task of clasping the dead man while they lifted him up and Murdoch cut through the strap tying Cooke to the hook. Finally, the body collapsed, and they lowered it gently to the ground. Murdoch knelt and cut the binding at the wrists and the arms flopped away helplessly.

He examined the strip of leather that had bound Cooke’s wrists.

“It’s a lead shank, by the look of it. The clip is still attached. It’s been sliced cleanly at one end. There should be more of it. Do you see anything, gentlemen?”

The room was small, and all three of them searched quickly, but there was no sign of the remaining piece of leather. Murdoch
put the strip on top of Cooke’s clothes to be examined later.

“What do you think happened, sir?” asked Fyfer.

“I wish I knew. The man was no youngster, but he was still strong by the look of him. There must surely have been more than one person to be able to overcome him…Wait a minute, I see he’s got another wound on his head. It’s not very deep so it probably wasn’t that hard a blow. Maybe enough to stun him, certainly knock him down. If you take a man by surprise, it’s not that difficult to pin him if he’s on the ground. Perhaps I’m wrong and there was just one assailant.”

“Do you think he was attacked in this room?” asked Fyfer.

“I can’t say at the moment. We’ll have to wait to find out when we have some daylight. All right, we’d better get the wheels of justice in motion. George, go back to the medical school and see if you can bring Dr. Ogden here. Fyfer, you might as well start rounding up a jury so they’re at the ready. I’ll stay here for now and have a word with the man who found the body before I inform Mrs. Cooke.”

“I’m here, sir.”

Murdoch hadn’t heard him approach, as he was standing in the shadows just outside the door. He stepped more into the light, and Murdoch realized he was a negro.

“I was wondering when I could get on with my job.” He avoided looking into the tack room. “The horses need their feed and I’ve got to muck out.”

His tone was neutral, neither overly polite nor provocative, but Fyfer didn’t like it and he said sharply, “You’ll get on with your job when we tell you you can. Detective Murdoch here wants to ask you some questions first.”

The man blinked at the retort, but there was no other expression on his face.

“All right,” said Murdoch. “Speaking of jobs, why don’t you two get on with yours. Green, will you bring me a blanket so I can cover Mr. Cooke’s body?”

“Yes, sir.”

He disappeared into the gloom.

“Mr. Murdoch, I wonder if I might have a word with you before I get going,” said Fyfer.

“Does Crabtree need to be here?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Off with you then, George,” said Murdoch, and the constable left.

Fyfer lowered his voice. “I have serious misgivings about the darkie, sir. There are two things that don’t sit right as far as I am concerned. First, he seems unnaturally composed. You know darkies are usually very emotional, but he is as calm as anybody I’ve ever seen, given he just discovered the body of his employer in what I’d call a gruesome state. I myself even found it hard to look at him at first.” He hesitated and gave a nervous little flick of his moustache. “Secondly, he told me this isn’t his usual night to come to work. Somebody else mucks out the stables on Wednesdays, which is a day when they close early. I think it’s too much of a coincidence that he comes this night of all nights. He’d know there was no risk of running into one of the cabbies, for instance. You know how easy it is for somebody to pretend to be the one who has discovered the body and, in fact, they’re the one who made it a body, so to speak.”

He was quite right about that, and Murdoch had also wondered about Green’s lack of distress. At that moment, he saw the man in question had come up with a horse blanket over his arm. Damn, the fellow moved quietly.

“All right, Fyfer, I’ll bear what you said in mind. You’d better get hopping. Keep the jurors in the yard until I tell you. Get
them subpoenaed as fast as you can. Roust them out of bed if you have to.”

The constable saluted and left.

“Give me the blanket,” said Murdoch to Green. He went into the room and covered Cooke’s body, then stood for a moment.

“May the Lord have mercy upon your soul.”

He made the sign of the cross, aware that the stable hand was watching him from the doorway. He turned around.

“If it’s that important that the horses are looked after, I don’t doubt you can work and answer questions at the same time. Let’s close this door and you get started with your chores. I’ll follow you around and talk to you.”

CHAPTER
FOUR

G
reen stuck a pail underneath the spout and started to pump out water. Murdoch stopped him and took the handle.

“I’ll do this. How many do you need?”

“Each horse gets one pail full, and we’ve got a dozen horses.”

“Bring them then. I’ll man the pump.”

Green did as he was told, and for the next while they worked together, the stable hand carrying the pails to and from the stalls.

“How long have you been working for Mr. Cooke?”

“Twenty years.”

“And how old are you now?”

“Thirty-six.”

Murdoch had thought he was younger than that. He was wearing a snug-fitting woollen jersey, which revealed thick strong arms and wide shoulders, and his movements were easy and lithe. He was standing close to the hanging lantern and Murdoch noticed he had a small lump over his left eyebrow.

“How’d you get the goose egg?”

Green grimaced. “I bumped into a low-hanging beam. You’d think I’d know better by now, but it gets me all the time.” He went into one of the stalls and, shoving the horse aside with his shoulder, poured the water into the trough.

“Was Mr. Cooke a good boss?” Murdoch asked.

“As good as any, I suppose.”

“That sounds as if you didn’t much care for him.”

“Did it? It wasn’t meant to. I was his hired hand. It was a business arrangement.”

“Any idea who might have attacked him?”

Green concentrated on his task. “None at all.”

Murdoch felt exasperated with the man’s apparent indifference.

“Aren’t you worried about your job now that he’s gone?”

“Stable hands are always in demand.” He put down the pail and stroked the horse’s neck as it drank.

“I get the impression you’d miss these horses if you had to move,” said Murdoch.

“I’m not sure you’re right about that, sir. It’d be foolish to get attached to cab horses. They don’t last long after they come here.” He bent down and ran his hand over the horse’s hock, clicking his tongue softly. “Bendigo’s got a bit of swelling there. I’ll have to put a poultice on it. He probably should have a rest tomorrow, but he won’t get it.” He stopped.

Murdoch prompted, “Why won’t he?”

“Mr. Musgrave usually has him and he’s hard on his horses. Some cabbies won’t make the horse canter, especially at the end of the day, but he’ll always whip them up if it means an extra nickel.”

He came out of the stall and picked up another pail of water.

“Was Mr. Cooke a man of regular habits?”

“Very regular. He was here without fail, rain or shine, summer and winter, by nine o’clock in the morning. He’d leave for his dinner at midday, come back no later than two, then stay until
his supper at half past six. One hour and a half for his meal, then back here until the last cab checked in, which might be about half-past eleven. Except for the Sabbath, when nobody works, and Wednesday, when the last cab has to be back by eight. He liked to supervise the comings and goings.”

“What about you? What sort of hours do you keep?”

“I come in round about six or half past six in the morning. I’ve got to feed and water the horses, then harness up those that are going out. I gets my supper at about the same time as Mr. Cooke, then I come back to clean out the carriages and tend to the horses.” He brought the empty pail over to the pump and waited while Murdoch filled it. “I finish by eleven o’clock most nights.”

“Those are policeman’s hours.”

“Are they? But like I said, I ain’t usually in Wednesdays or Sundays.”

Murdoch finished pumping. “That’s the twelfth, by my count. I’ll do it. Where do you want it?”

He picked up the heavy bucket.

“Amber’s the only one left,” said Green. “She’s in the last stall.”

The horse was a knock-kneed roan mare who pawed the ground and tossed her head as Murdoch stepped into the stall. Suddenly, she kicked out with her rear leg, just missing him but landing on the pail, sending it flying. The water splashed over his trousers and boots, soaking them.