~ Chapter Three ~

"Murdered?" She asked incredulously when the detective explained her husband had been shot. "My God! When did this happen?" Julia heard the shrill in her own voice as if it belonged to someone else.

Slorach answered. "While you were out of the house on your nursing rounds today."

"I don't believe it. Who would kill Joseph?" Julia directed that accusation at the detective. Mr. Crabtree unobtrusively brought a stiff drink over to the table to steady her nerves, which she tasted and then downed.

"You were making a sick call?" Slorach requested confirmation.

"Yes, I…I was assessing a patient." Julia produced a fresh burst of tears, realizing she was tending another when her husband needed her the most. After composing herself, she apologized for her outburst. "I, I'm sorry but I need to contact Joseph's parents…"

"Nurse Ogden…" William tried to keep her in her seat, but she rose and stood with her fists bunched.

She looked pleadingly at William and then appealed to the detective. "Please. I need to do this."

William rose with her. "Detective I will accompany her home and see she gets there safely."

"And I'll see to Jack and Marguerite when they come back," Mr. Crabtree offered.

The detective put a hand up.

"Is there something else?" William hovered protectively.

Slorach answered. "Is there a gun in the house, a hand gun?"

Julia blinked. "No, no gun."

"Do you know anyone who would wish to harm your husband, Mrs. Walters? Did he have any enemies? Disgruntled patients perhaps?"

Julia slowly shook her head. "No, of course not. He was an excellent physician…" She answered automatically, then cleared her throat and straightened her spine. "Is there more, detective?"

Detective Slorach spoke kindly. "Unfortunately, yes. As the next of kin I must ask you to officially identify your husband's remains."

Julia focused on keeping her head up and back straight on the journey to the morgue. Once there, she descended down a concrete ramp into a high-ceilinged white room, only faltering once as the gurney was brought out. A far away part of her mind noticed that no autopsy had begun; no incisions to open up the chest cavity. Her mouth went dry when the sheet was pulled back, revealing her husband's face, with a small hole in Joseph's forehead: her eyes fixed there. She only vaguely recognized someone calling her name, a stupor enveloping her.

"Mrs. Walters, I said can you please make your identification, for the record."

She nodded and uttered the required statement, her mouth as dry as the road she traversed to make it: "Yes. That is my husband, Dr. Joseph Walters."

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~ Toronto Constabulary, Station No. 4, 2 Wilton Street

Slorach was thoughtful as he made his way across the laneway to the station house, where the shift was ending for the day. He stood in front of his boss and reported.

"What do you think, detective? Murder in the course of a robbery? A fight?" Inspector Malcolm Lamb gestured to the chair across from his desk for his man to rest and discuss the facts. Hamish Slorach was not particularly intuitive, a characteristic Lamb thought was useful in law enforcement, but Slorach was dogged, which would have to do.

"No sir, I don't think so. There are no signs of a disturbance of any kind although there could have been a confrontation of some sort. I think someone, someone he knew, shot him face to face with a small caliber weapon." Slorach grimaced. "Would not take much talent up close to do the deed."

The inspector pointed out, "That would take some guts to do, however."

Slorach agreed. "According to Mrs. Hastings the medical practice was a busy one and its doors stayed open and unattended. Anyone could have waltzed right in. The house is substantial, even with windows open it would have muffled the sounds—and Constable Hodge says roofers were packing up for the day just as he pulled up. No one would have heard anything against all that hammering. He and the lads are getting witness statements to determine if anyone saw anything, but no luck so far." The acting detective's shoulders slumped as he opened his empty hands in a frustrated gesture.

Lamb wondered if the affable Slorach was ready for every gritty detail of leading a murder investigation and how long it could take to obtain justice. How determined is he to keep that detective's shield he wears?

"Detective, did you know what case made my career? The one which secured my promotion to detective?" He gestured to have his companion take some of the cold water he kept on the desk.

Slorach hesitated then took a full glass and drank it down. "No, sir, I don't believe I know that story."

"It was the rape and murder of Harriette King almost two decades ago when I was just a young constable. It took me two years of hounding the weakest link before I got a confession, eventually sending two men to the gallows and one to prison for the crime." Lamb remembered how his life had been obsessed with the investigation. Two years that nearly cost me my wife—and my soul.

He leaned his white head over the desk separating them and gave his best pieces of advice: "Eventually, I was smart enough not to think I had to do it all on my own." Lamb continued with a steady brown gaze, hoping Slorach was listening: "Patience, detective. Use your resources. Proceed carefully, since the victim was well-placed in Toronto Society even though he married into it. No cutting corners! The victim's father in law, Dr. Lionel Ogden, is widely known and respected by the constabulary. He's been coroner on cases I've worked on in the past—he does not suffer fools, I believe the saying goes. See what Dr. Walters was up to. In my experience things are rarely as they appear on the surface and when you dig you will bring up muck. Find out what the autopsy reveals and do your investigation. Report any developments back to me."

Lamb dismissed his detective and watched the man lumber out into the bullpen to confer with his constables who were trailing in from the crime scene. He was glad that, of all people, Constable John Hodge was assisting on this one—one last big case for Hodge before a well-deserved promotion to desk sergeant. Lamb had the paperwork submitted and approved, merely waiting for the letter of appointment to be signed.

Closing up his own office for the day and heading home to Sarah, the inspector imagined Dr. Walters' final moments of life and shuddered: Who could have possibly wanted Joseph Walters dead so badly and had the stones to look him in the eye and pull the trigger then, apparently, calmly walk away…?

He cleared his head with a shake. Ultimately it will be up to the detective to do the work. Lamb looked at the clock: six thirty. Slorach has a long night ahead of him.

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Rosedale

~ Ogden Residence

Julia Ogden Walters did not feel the bump and clatter of cobblestones beneath the pony-trap's wheels, only barely aware of William Murdoch's hip against her own on the small seat. Numbness was settling through to encompass all her senses, barely registering the streets and avenues bringing her closer and closer to her home while her medical training vaguely warned her she was likely slipping into some sort of psychological shock, while simultaneously being disgusted with herself for a lack of fortitude.

Joseph is dead, repeated itself. What will we do?

She was startled when Mr. Murdoch uttered a soft, "You are home…" and offered to hand her down outside the family entrance on the side of the house. She was slightly bewildered, taking his warm hand in hers to descend to the gravel drive. How did I get here so soon?

She almost leaned against him, then Mrs. Hastings appeared at the screen door, opening it wide as Julia found her footing and mounted the stairs on the teacher's strong arm. Her father appeared as well, and between the three of them, they guided Julia to a seat at the kitchen table where the housekeeper poured a glass of water for Julia to drink. "Thank you Mrs. Hastings," she murmured.

William saw distress in the housekeeper and that Dr. Ogden was white-faced with a tremor in his hands. Nurse Ogden was tearing up again. As much as he might wish to stay, he expressed polite condolences and made to go; clearly this was too private a time for outsiders as her housekeeper and father consoled the new widow.

Julia roused herself to shrug off the solicitous support. "Thank you, Mr. Murdoch, for your assistance." She searched around for her medical bag, which magically appeared in the teacher's hand. She had no recall of gathering it up, making a face of frustration. "And, if you would, please ask Mrs. Kitchen to accept my apologies. I seem to have forgotten to give her her treatment…"

"That is for another time," William countered, the ache of his own loss surfacing in sympathy. "I will see to the carriage and take my leave now."

Dr. Ogden nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Murdoch. Tell Mrs. Kitchen perhaps Sunday or Monday? I am sure we can take care of the nursing matter then." With that, William was dismissed.

Julia heard Mr. Murdoch quietly close the screen door behind him, feeling surprised at the loss of his presence. She studied her father, who seemed devastated about Joseph's death- her father appeared old, old and tired. I suppose I must look the same, she admitted to herself, twisting a handkerchief between her fingers, wondering idly where it came from.

Mrs. Hastings flitted between her and Father. As many times as Julia had attended the final moment of a life, even broken the terrible news to a grief-stricken family, this was the first time death had brushed her so closely in the twenty years since Mother died. Julia looked carefully at her two companions, remembering the husbands who lost wives to childbirth-even thought of William Murdoch: If they got through the death of a spouse, so can I.

"I'm, fine, really. And thank you both. Mrs. Hastings, can you fix supper for Father?"

"Of course, dear. But, you should not be alone," she advised. "There is so much to consider."

Julia agreed, for some reason thinking again of the teacher, then took in a deep breath to rouse herself to what she needed to face. "I must inform Joseph's parents and sister. It is my duty. Then I will try and locate Ruby and call down to Hamilton. Perhaps Mrs. Carter will come….I suppose we must accept condolences tomorrow.…"

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~ Station No. 4

Hamish Slorach rubbed the bridge of his nose then turned up the oil lamp by his desk as he sat trying to read scribbled notes by the weak light and sort out how to make sense of the facts. The early investigation into Joseph Walters' death yielded a preliminary time of death as between one o'clock and three o'clock, based on rigor and temperature. Dr. Johnson expressed frustration over being unable to retrieve the bullet by extraction: something called a full craniotomy was required, and was scheduled for first thing in the morning along with examination of stomach contents. Slorach was not looking forward to that as it reminded him rather of what went into dressing game when he hunted.

He picked up another page of notes. A neighbor saw someone running away from the general direction of the Ogden home. The copper on the beat said the neighborhood was generally quiet, no recent break-ins reported, although the neighbour just opposite the Ogden house complained another mischief-maker repositioned the ladder he was using to fix his gutter.

Mr. Redhook agreed he saw Dr. Walters for treatment for his gout, and was out of there promptly at one thirty with the doctor alive and well. His carriage driver confirmed that, and no, neither man saw anyone lurking.

According to the roofing foreman who had been on the job nearly two weeks, no on suspicious was seen entering or exiting the Ogden house. His crew took their pay and dispersed, probably drinking in who-knows-where pub right now for the weekend since each received a bonus for finishing up early. They'd be hard to track down until Monday morning and the start of the next job, he wagered. Slorach still thought that was a still good line of inquiry, since from the roof the view was unobstructed.

The Ogden's staff, Mrs. Hastings and Mr. Granger (their stable and garden man) had no alibis, other than their interaction with each other about moving tables and chairs to the lawn for supper; no motive that was obvious either. He'd have to explore that: they certainly had access to the house and Dr. Walters with likely knowledge that the doctor was alone. He thought Mrs. Roundtree would have to be a supreme actress to pull off such a performance if she was the shooter, so he felt confident he could discount her as suspect.

However, if Mrs. Roundtree and Mr. Redhook were to be believed, their statements actually gave him a much narrower time of death between one-thirty when Mr. Redhook left and two-ten when Mrs. Roundtree says she found his body. Forty minutes to end a life. Did the man know it was coming to him?

Motive, means and opportunity. Well, I have means, and a small window of opportunity. So I think I will work on motive. Is it love as the inspector suggests or money?

Slorach placed newspaper clippings one by one on his desk from the folder Constable Burke provided him. Dr. Walters seemed to cut a wide swath in the elite of Toronto Society, according to the Gazette. In his mind, Slorach visualized a large target, but instead of shooting at it, he imagined concentric circles of suspects -the most obvious clustered around the centre: Unknown/unnamed enemies, something sordid from the doctor's life, someone with motive involving money, followed by Dr. Ogden, Mrs. Hastings, Mr. Granger, with "The Widow" smack in the bulls-eye. He checked the wall clock and grunted at the late hour.

Tomorrow, he promised as he dowsed the lamp.

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