A Journeyman to Grief (9 page)

“Very good, very good. I agree with that, don’t you, Miss Julia?”

“I do.”

Together they examined Cooke’s back, disputing in a friendly way whether that stripe or this was an overlay or not. Finally, Broske straightened up.

“I would say he was struck between thirty-seven and thirty-nine times, but some of the blows were done after death.”

“And I agree with that assessment,” added Dr. Ogden. “The lashes as they cross here and here have broken the skin, which to me indicates that the perpetrator was becoming more ferocious as he continued.”

The professor nodded. “That happens. When I was serving in the army, I saw men completely lose their tempers over the most trivial incident, but once they had embarked, the rage seemed to overtake them and they would have killed if not separated. Dogs are the same.”

He began to undo Cooke’s trouser buttons. “If you’ll remove the boots, Murdoch, it will be easier to take off his trolleywags, if I may use such an expression.”

They worked together while Dr. Ogden watched. Underneath his trousers, Cooke was wearing flannel underwear, which Broske pulled off.

“Ah look at that.” He poked at the flaccid penis. “I’d say the man had at least one bout with venereal disease, wouldn’t you, Miss Julia?”

She leaned forward to take a look, and Broske cradled Cooke’s member in his hand.

“Yes, indeed. That’s quite a scar. A large chancre.”

“He must have contracted it some time ago, it’s not recent. So far, I don’t see any other signs of syphilis, but we’ll see more when we open up his brain. Mr. Murdoch, will you be so good as to wheel over the instrument trolley. I’ll need the scalpel first.”

He proceeded to make an incision across the top of Cooke’s head from ear to ear. He pulled back the scalp.

“Pass me the saw, if you please, Mr. Murdoch.”

Murdoch thought he would rather prefer to take notes than be the assistant, but it was too late now. Broske sawed through the skull, removed the dome, put it in a dish, severed the nerves, then lifted out the brain, which was the size of his fist.

“Ah good, the brain looks normal, fortunately for his wife. There is no current disease that I can see.”

He held it in his hand for a moment, then lifted it to the light. “Often in contemplating the brain of one of my patients, when it was visible to me, I have pondered over its structure and functions and seeing the blood coursing through it, I have imagined that I might penetrate into the inner life of the brain cells. I have thought I might learn the laws of organic change, the order, the
harmony, the most perfect concatenations, but I must admit, I never yet saw anything, not the faintest gleam that gave me hope of penetrating to the source of thought.”

He spoke with such yearning and reverence that Murdoch was astonished. As for Dr. Ogden, she was staring at Broske trans-fixed.

She spoke softly. “I myself have had such similar feelings. We know so little, do we not? I often think it is as if we are at the very base of the mountain that towers above us in all its grandeur and in our lifetime we can expect to climb only a few feet, hoping that the next generation will go on toward the top.”

There was silence while Broske laid Cooke’s brain in the dish. Murdoch didn’t utter his own thoughts, but he didn’t have to. There was an unspoken sympathy among the three of them.

Broske returned to his job. He was meticulous and thorough and moved quickly. He opened up the front of Cooke’s chest and removed his heart.

“My, my, look at that. There is an equal amount of blood in each cavity. I would say that Mr. Cooke died from shock brought about by an intense emotion.” He glanced over at Murdoch and Dr. Ogden. “I have it on the best authority that the human heart is capable of breaking in twain if confronted by grief. A certain captain came home to port expecting to be greeted by ’is beloved wife and children only to be informed that all of them had perished in a fire. He dropped to the ground dead, and when the post-mortem examination was conducted it was discovered his heart had literally burst.”

“Do you think sorrow killed Mr. Cooke?” asked Dr. Ogden.

“Not necessarily. Any of the most powerful emotions can cause such a shock, even joy. But given the lividity in his face when we found him, I would say it more likely that he died from
sheer terror. He struggled against his fate. In another man, whatever emotion he went through might not have killed him, but you can observe here that the pulmonary artery is thickened.”

Dr. Ogden leaned forward. “And see the roughness of his liver. I’d say that was early stages of cirrhosis.”

“Quite so. Well, let us continue. I’ll take that knife, please, Mr. Murdoch.”

Murdoch handed him a long knife from the tray. Broske plunged it underneath Cooke’s jaw and thrust upward, then he drew two lines away from the incision on either side. The whole of the lower jaw dropped, revealing the knife sticking up in the mouth.

“Would you be so good as to grasp hold of the tongue, Mr. Murdoch, and pull it forward so I can get to the pharynx.”

Murdoch thought it was possibly the most unpleasant thing he had ever been asked to do, but his pride was involved now and he wasn’t about to back away. He grasped the muscular cold piece of meat that had once served Daniel Cooke to utter words of many hues and tugged it out of the way until the professor had removed the pharynx, larynx, and the upper esophagus and examined them.

“No blockage anywhere. No bruising on the carotid arteries. He wasn’t strangled or suffocated. He did vomit, but it did not get swallowed so his air passages are clear. Oh dear, Mr. Murdoch, you’ve stained your cuff.”

“I’ll replace it later.”

“We’re nearing the end. Let’s take out the bladder and the urethra. They have emptied, which is quite normal with sudden death. I’ll do the stomach next, Miss Julia. A ligature, if you please.”

She handed him a long piece of twine, and he tied off the upper end of the stomach, then knotted two other pieces at the other end. He cut the stomach away and laid it on the tray.

“We’ll put the contents in one of those glass jars, please, Mr. Murdoch. They’ll have to be examined more closely later on.”

Murdoch gave him the jar, and he emptied the contents of the stomach into it, squeezing the organ as if it were a bagpipe.

“He certainly didn’t have time to digest his supper before he died.”

That fit in with what Mrs. Cooke had told Murdoch about Cooke being called from the dinner table before he’d finished eating.

“Now we’ll do the same with the intestines, and, Miss Julia, I’d be grateful if you would take care of labelling the jars.”

“I will indeed.”

Broske stepped away from the gurney and surveyed his handiwork. “I don’t know if I speak for you, Miss Julia, but no matter how many dissections I have performed, I never fail to be in awe of the wondrous workings and mechanics of the human body.”

She beamed. “You do indeed speak for me, doctor.”

Murdoch surveyed the bloody carcass. Broske had a point, but all Murdoch could see was a body that has been cut into pieces and whose various organs were distributed like meat in a market. Then to his surprise, the doctor said, “Poor fellow. I don’t know what his life was like or his character, but it is hard not to feel a twinge of pity for him.” He crossed himself. “May God have mercy on his soul.”

“Amen,” said Murdoch, and he crossed himself likewise.

Dr. Ogden nodded.

CHAPTER
TWELVE

M
urdoch was glad of the opportunity to clear his nostrils of the stink of death, and he bicycled slower than usual over to Shuter Street, where Thomas Talbert lived. The warm spring sun seemed to have drawn out half the city’s population, and Yonge Street was crowded with passersby. Women with enormous hats decorated with enough flowers to fill his front yard strolled arm in arm down the street, studiously ignoring the loud pleas from the shopkeepers standing outside their stores to “come in and look around, no obligation.” A flock of four or five boys, playing truant from school, raced alongside him in the gutter, pretending they were horses and agilely avoiding the droppings of the real creatures.

“Why aren’t you in school?” he called out, and they scattered into the crowd. He turned onto Wilton Street, less busy, but still humming. Two elderly priests in their saucer hats, countrymen for certain, dark crows amid colourful birds of paradise, threaded their way nervously in and out of the throngs of women. As he went by, Murdoch called out, “Bless me, fathers.” And they both
hastily made the sign of the cross in his direction. He grinned. This life may be transitory, but it was preferable to the irrevocable stillness of death that he had just been so close to.

Mutual and Shuter Streets were a physician’s enclave with brass plates on almost every second gate. The houses were large and elegant with generous private grounds, all impeccably maintained by fleets of gardeners. Number thirty-three Shuter was a tall, narrow house that looked squeezed in as an afterthought between the two wider houses on either side. However, it, too, looked well cared for. There were bushes in the front yard, already in bud, and the flowerbed that edged the path was thick with yellow and purple crocus and scattered with snowdrops. The grass, albeit still anemic, was freshly raked, cleared of all the sodden leaves of autumn. Murdoch wondered how Mr. Talbert, a stable hand, could afford to live in such a nobby neighbourhood. He knocked on the door. The shiny brass knocker was in the shape of a horse’s hoof.

He didn’t have to wait long. The door was opened by a plump, pink-cheeked woman wearing the dark formal gown and white starched apron of a housekeeper. Murdoch tipped his hat.

“Good morning, ma’am. I wonder if I might have a word with Mr. Talbert?”

“He doesn’t usually see visitors in the morning. He does his correspondence.” Her voice was pleasant.

He took out his calling card and handed it to her. “I’m Detective William Murdoch from number four station. I’m afraid it’s a matter of some urgency.”

“Oh dearie me, is it about Mr. Cooke? We heard there was a terrible incident in the livery.”

Murdoch wondered how much had already been distorted by rumour. “Yes, ma’am. I am here concerning Mr. Cooke.”

“You’d better come in. I’ll see if Mr. Talbot is available.”

Murdoch stepped into the narrow foyer while she scurried away, disappearing through a curtained archway at the end of the hall. Sunlight was streaming through a beautiful stained-glass window above the door lintel, but there were no dust motes to catch the light in this foyer. There was a pleasant smell of beeswax, and the wooden floor gleamed with polish as did the simple coat stand and small table beside it. Murdoch was about to have a look at the framed pictures hanging on the wall when the housekeeper emerged.

“He said he’ll see you but for no more than an hour.” She smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid he can be rather determined about his timetable no matter who it is. Let me take your hat. Come this way, if you please.”

For a stout, middle-aged woman, she moved quickly and lightly. She pulled back the green flowered portière at the end of the hall and opened the door to usher him in.

“Detective Murdoch, Mr. Talbert.”

She bustled off immediately, leaving Murdoch on the threshold.

An elderly man with long white hair was seated by the fire, which had been built up to a roaring blaze, making the room stiflingly hot. He turned around at Murdoch’s entrance.

“You wanted to see me?” His voice was flat and unwelcoming, his expression suspicious and unfriendly.

Murdoch could barely hide his surprise. Talbert was a negro.

“You are Thomas Talbert, are you not? You work at the livery owned by Mr. Daniel Cooke?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I understand from your housekeeper, sir, that you already know about the death of your employer.”

Talbert stared at him for a moment, then he got out of his chair and walked over to the tea trolley that was nearby. He was a tall,
wide-shouldered man, thin and straight-backed, who even at his advanced age emanated strength and authority. However, Murdoch wondered if he had even heard what he’d said or comprehended it.

“Mr. Talbert?”

“I do know. Elijah Green came and told me last night. He said Cooke had been whipped.” Talbert started to pour himself a cup of tea, his back toward Murdoch.

“The assault brought on a heart seizure, so it has become a case of manslaughter. Which is why I am here.”

“What do you want from me?” Talbert returned to his chair with his teacup in his hand. “Don’t tell me you’ve got me in your sights? Why is that, mister? Is it because I’m a nigger man? I’m a bit too old to be going around
assaulting
men, wouldn’t you think?”

His tone of voice was conversational, but a sharp edge was close beneath the surface and he’d got under Murdoch’s skin.

“I haven’t got you in my sights, as you put it. And, frankly, I had no idea you were a negro until I came into this room.”

For some reason that amused Talbert and he laughed out loud. “I could see that. It was written all over your face. For a frog, begging your pardon for the expression, you reveal too much. Just because I live on the same street as a dozen rich sawbones and my house is well kept and I have a nice plump pink housekeeper, you thought I was white. Must have been a shock when you found yourself staring at an old darkie.”

“A surprise, more like.”

Talbert waved in the direction of one of the chairs. “Why don’t you pull over that chair and sit down. And I suppose you’ll be wanting some tea?”

“Thank you, I’d like that.”

Talbert put his cup on the floor beside him. With a little grunt, he pushed himself to his feet and went over to an ornately
embroidered bell pull beside the mantelpiece and gave it a hard tug.

Murdoch had never been in the house of a negro before, and he glanced around as discretely as he could. The room was well furnished and it looked like many others he’d been in. Not quite as jammed with furniture as some, but the pieces were of good quality, and like the foyer, any wood that was visible gleamed from beeswax. Over the mantel, there was a large oil painting of Jesus ascending to heaven, next to it, a large gold cross – without the crucified Christ that Murdoch was used to.