Maureen JENNINGS - Except the Dying

The driver cracked his whip, wheeled the horse around, and they set off again at a brisk canter back along Queen Street.

Alice got to her feet, rubbing at her rump. She brushed the snow off her skirt, rewrapped her shawl and started to walk. Her stomach was cramping badly and she needed to get home soon. She should’ve known better than to trust those snaggy sausages of McCay’s. If there was a morsel of real pork in there at all she’d be surprised. More like rotten horsemeat, by what it was doing to her stomach.

She was going by the Dominion Brewery now, the pleasurable part of her route. In spite of the increasing urgency of her indigestion, she paused in front of the entrance. The smell of hops hung heavy and sweet on the night air. She sniffed hungrily but the cold made her cough. Sod it. She headed up Sumach Street. Her toes had gone numb. Even though she’d stuffed newspaper into her boots, they were so split they were useless.

“Lucky for that little tit, whoever she is. Gettin’ a ride to some warm place. Why’d it never happen to Alice?”

Constable Second-Class Oliver Wicken was looking forward to the end of his shift, when he could warm his feet at the station woodstove. His thick serge uniform and cape kept his body warm enough but his feet were frozen and a chilblain itched painfully on his right heel. He stopped for a moment and stamped to restore his circulation. Since the early hours of the morning a steady snow, soft and pure, had been covering the grey detritus of the week. Now with dawn approaching the wind had got up again, burning his face, and tiny icicles had formed along the edge of his fine blond moustache.

At this hour the streets were empty. He hadn’t encountered another living soul during his entire beat except for a bread man in his dray rumbling down River Street. Privately, young Wicken always hoped for a little excitement he could relate to his sweetheart. She was a romantic girl and was always after him to tell her his adventures. Like he’d told her, the graveyard shift in the winter wasn’t going to be lively. The citizens were sealed up tight in their snug houses. Summer was different. Larceny, pickpockets on the increase, violations of Sunday bylaws. And, of course, the flood of drunk and disorderly. Over three thousand cases of D-and-D charged in 1894. Made you want to take the Pledge. Almost.

This month his main task was to check the vacant houses to make sure no vagrants had broken in to get shelter for the night. Toronto was just climbing out of bad times and there were over a thousand properties standing empty throughout the city. The police were placed in charge of protecting them.

He turned north on Sumach Street. He badly needed to relieve himself and he wasn’t sure he could hold it until he got to the station. Just up a ways was a dark laneway, and he walked in for a few feet, intending to use one of the outside privies that served the row of houses along St. Luke Street. However, the pressure in his bladder became too urgent and he stopped by the tumbledown fence.

In a hurry to unbutton his trousers, he didn’t notice the body immediately, as the whiteness of it was blended into the snow. But two large rats were sniffing at the girl’s head, and at Wicken’s approach they scurried away like shadows and attracted his attention. He had placed his lantern beside him on the ground and it was only when he raised it aloft that he fully comprehended what he was seeing.

He went close enough to confirm the girl was dead and then spun around and ran as fast as he could to the telephone signal box that stood on the corner of Wilton and Sumach. Panting, he tugged free his key, opened the box and grabbed the receiver off the hook. He turned the crank and waited for what seemed endless moments until the police operator at central headquarters answered. Wicken could hardly hear him above the usual static and hiss of the telephone. He yelled, “Connect me with number-four station. It’s an emergency.”

Sunday, February 10

ACTING DETECTIVE WILLIAM MURDOCH crouched beside the dead girl and lifted the dark hair away from her face. Despite the pallor of death, there was still a sweetness in the curve of her cheek, the skin unmarked by life’s experience. He felt a pang of pity at the sight. Behind him Constable Crabtree shifted nervously and the ambulance driver leaned over from his seat to gape. Fortunately, the gathering crowd at the entrance to the laneway were being kept in check by young Wicken, but even at this early hour on the Lord’s Day a ragtag mob had formed, roused by the clanging alarm. One man had even brought out a stool to stand on so he could see better.

“Fetch a blanket, will you, Crabtree?” Murdoch called over his shoulder to his constable.

He sat back on his heels, shielding the body as best he could. The girl was lying on her back close to a rickety wooden fence. On the left side of her body were the purple marks of lividity. Rigor mortis was advanced, the head unmovable, the arms and legs frozen. Her eyes were closed, and he lifted one eyelid. The pupil was a mere pinprick in the light blue iris. The right eye was the same. He bent and sniffed at her mouth but there was no detectable smell of liquor. At first sight the cause of death was not apparent, no blood or obvious wounds. He leaned closer. There were three small bruises at the left wrist. He placed his own fingers on the spots. They fit. There was also a largish contusion on the inside of the forearm and another at the elbow. Gingerly, he examined her hands. The nails were cut short and there was nothing caught there that he could see. He ran his finger over the cold flesh of her palm, feeling the slight roughening. He brushed aside the snow and checked her feet. The toenails were likewise clean and there were no scratches or marks on the soles.

“Here you go, sir.” Crabtree handed him a grey hospital blanket. “She looks to be about the same age as my sister. Fourteen, if that,” he said.

“I’d put her older, myself.”

The face was youthful, especially with the thick dark hair loose about her shoulders, but her body was voluptuous, the breasts full and the hips and buttocks rounded. Murdoch covered her over and straightened up, frowning.

“Bloody peculiar, Crabtree, her eyes…”

He stopped as the police horse whinnied. There was an answering neigh from the street. Wicken was pushing the onlookers back as a two-wheeler turned into the laneway. The constable went over to hold the horse, and the elderly driver got down stiffly. He was wearing an old-fashioned houndstooth cloak and stovepipe hat and his lower face was wrapped in a white silk scarf. When he reached Murdoch he muttered, “Abscess tooth,” and indicated the scarf. He looked down at the body.

“… happened here?”

“I don’t know, sir,” answered Murdoch. “One of our constables found her about forty minutes ago.”

He pulled away the blanket so the coroner could see.

“Whoze she?”

“We haven’t determined that yet.”

“A doxy?”

“I don’t think so, sir. She’s quite clean and the constable on this beat says he hasn’t seen her before.”

The coroner indicated the purple stains on the side of the body. “… you move her?”

“No, sir, somebody else did.”

“Clothes?”

“Nowhere around. Probably stripped.”

“Heathens.” He tried to bend closer but the movement caused pain in his jaw and he straightened quickly. “She’s dead … right enough, but I…” He frowned at Murdoch. “Where’ve … seen you before?”

“Last December, sir. The Merishaw case.”

“Course, remember now. Shocking … heathen!”

The Merishaws’ servant girl had given birth to a stillborn child and tried to bury the body in the neighbour’s front yard, where some children had found it. Arthur Johnson had been the attending coroner in that instance and without the excuse of an abscessed tooth he had been just as perfunctory.