CHAPTER EIGHT
10 o'clock AM, Sunday June 25th, 1922
The Smalls Hotel, Queen Street, Toronto
"...We have to stop meeting like this, Detective Murdoch. People will talk…."
Julia angled her remark in his direction, not bothering to look up. She was rumpled, grumpy and a smidgeon hung over, but it never hurt to try to lighten the mood.
By the time she got to the body, a trickle of sweat slid down her back and Detective Murdoch was already pointedly examining his wristwatch. The Smalls was an apartment-hotel establishment which catered to the middle-class, mostly merchants or owners of small businesses, so she was surprised to see what, at first glance looked to be two lushes passed out in the bathroom. Of course, if they were merely passed out, there was no call for a coroner.
Putting her medical bag down with a thump, she extracted a thermometer and went to work. She was glad she chose a roomy summer dress to wear which allowed her both movement and modesty as she bent and kneeled on the tile floor.
She finished examining the husband slumped against the toilet and pivoted to the wife, who was on the floor by the bathtub. She checked the woman's eyes, then mouth and jaw, testing the arm muscles - stiff as a board. She looked at where the woman's flesh rested against the floor, as she had for the husband. Through an incision in the abdomen, she took liver temperature, wrote it down and re-confirmed room temperature, doing quick calculations. "Liver temperature compared to room temperature indicates time of death approximately between 7 pm and 9 pm last night - although this heat wreaks havoc in the calculations - perhaps while you and I were at the Crown Club, Detective. Rigor mortis is consistent with that. Livor mortis indicates they died where they were found," she told him. "What are their names?"
"Josiah and Mildred Jackson," he said. "They have lived here nearly a decade. The couple run a decor and antiques shop by the St. Lawrence Market. As you might guess." He gestured over her shoulder to the abundance of fixtures, furniture, paintings, lithographs and object d'art which overflowed the couple's rooms. "Cause of death, Doctor?"
"Baked to death?" Julia got herself off the floor, pushing off with one hand. Eye to eye with Detective Murdoch she was disappointed to see he was immaculately groomed with a dry forehead and nary a hair out of place. By his demeanor, she guessed she was not making a good impression. "There is no evidence of either of them being shot, stabbed or strangled although there is some petechiae, although ruptured blood vessels in the face and eyes can indicate alcoholism or suffocation. No obvious defensive wounds, nothing you have not observed for yourself. I will know more when I get them in the morgue and conduct the postmortem. My guess is poison."
"Perhaps poisoned alcohol they drank?"
Of course. That question was why Detective Murdoch is conducting this case. She shook her head. "Could also be poison by injection, absorption, inhalation, or other ingestion. For all I know at the moment, this could be natural causes-flushed facial features could be secondary to a heart attack, Stranger things have happened." She saw him adjust his feet slightly, giving just the tiniest portion of his impatience away.
"If it is poisoning, did they know they were sick? Feel ill? Is that why they were both in the bathroom? Trying to vomit it out?"
"You are asking me for more conclusions than I have evidence to support. It will depend on the toxin." She gave him a firm look. "What you actually want to know is: could it be a situation similar to Mr. Landswell or those other men and women who consumed poisoned alcohol. The answer is, I don't know." She considered the Jacksons: two more lives lost, perhaps stupidly, perhaps tragically, perhaps deliberately, her mood turning more irritated. "I will tell you one thing. Prohibition is idiotic. Prohibition is killing more individuals than 'demon rum' ever did. And most of the deaths never come under your professional jurisdiction."
Across the small room, the detective put his shoulders back. "Prohibition's intention to solve one problem has instead given us a worse one."
This surprised her. A copper, especially in Toronto the Good who did not have a full-throated support for the anti-liquor laws? She looked at him to make sure he was not teasing her - he looked dead serious.
But then again, she told herself, he tends to look serious all the time, doesn't he? She checked again - yep, still serious.
How will I ever crack that man open when he won't even crack a smile?
Julia put her instruments away and surveyed the washroom of the apartment hotel. It was still morning and the day was stifling hot already, which did not appear to bother the detective. She, herself, was melting, and the whiff post-death excrement released from these corpses was not helping matters. "Can you open a window, Detective?"
He hesitated, then reached over to crank the sole window open. It was stuck, so she waved him off from trying it, and escaped the hot washroom for the adjoining sitting room with the detective right behind her. Her gaze appreciated the parlor, even if it was as airless and only fractionally cooler than the bath. She studied a selection of framed pictures. Mr. and Mrs. Jackson had eclectic tastes. "Detective Murdoch, did you know in Toronto, like New York City, the death totals from poisonings are equal to all the shootings, hangings, stabbing and motor vehicle accidents combined?"
He looked surprised. "No, I did not."
She was surprised she caught him with something he did not know. That felt...marvelous. She moved on to a chest-high glass-fronted library and unlocked the doors, running her hand over the leather-bound titles packed onto four shelves. "I have been doing reading germane to my new job. In England I attended a medical conference where a group of pathologists was speculating people are hiding murders-by-poisoning amongst those which are truly accidents. A chemist in New York City named Dr. Gettler has been working out how to establish reference ranges for chemical poisonings."
"I know his work. Dr. Alexander Gettler works with Dr. Charles Norris from Bellevue Hospital, chief medical examiner for New York. I have been trying to get one of their monographs…"
Of course, he is..."Good luck with that, Detective."
Inside the library, My Secret Life, by 'Walter', caught her astonished eye. She looked closer...there was one book after another! She picked out a hand-bound volume, placing it on the top of the library. It fell open to a beautifully coloured etching of a voluptuous, naked woman, her sex on full display, being approached by her lover whose own rosy-tipped erection preceded him by an unnatural number of inches. She couldn't help but snort.
She suppressed a giggle and the urge to comment that the engraving had to have been drawn by a man as she quickly turned more pages, each one more erotic and explicit than the next. "Detective...did you say Mr. Jackson and his wife were upstanding members of the community?"
She saw him pause his own exploration to answer. "As far as we know, yes. They specialized in collectibles. Why do you ask, Doctor? Is it relevant to their cause of death?"
"I may have a clue here," she said, deliberately teasing to lure him over and discover what she was looking at, curious about his reaction. She stepped aside so he could get an eye-full of the two-page center spread depicting a scene which she judged to be a rather creative orgy. Garishly rendered, King Edward's Siege d'amour was in full deployment and fully occupied.
He came up on her left shoulder and politely waited until she stepped aside. She made sure she could see him clearly.
"What is it Doc...tor?" To his credit, Detective Murdoch only stumbled slightly and did not look away. He kept his eyes steady as if he were only examining an old and inoffensive daguerreotype to humour someone's elderly aunt. Too steady. His ears though, she noted with delight, burned crimson.
"The Jacksons possess quite an extensive collection of pornography. For instance…" she turned the page to another depiction of coitus from India, beautifully gilded, an example of the Kama Sutra, she guessed. "This one is rather, um, athletic, don't you agree? I mean, what stamina that would take!" He was clearly uneasy and fighting it, making goading him particularly fun. She thought he might even be titillated.
He cleared his throat and gifted her with a half-smile. "According to the Kama Sutra, it is the woman who dictates the fulfillment of libido. There is also instruction on three types of kissing..."
She experienced a flare of annoyance. Mick wasn't kidding about the Know-it-all part.
"How comprehensive, Detective. But there is also no discussion of mutual consent," she quipped, smiling at him while he kept himself stiff, giving away his consternation. Flipping to another page, she found a rendering of a swing in which the riders could participate in intercourse. "How fascinating!"
His eyebrows rose. "Ah yes, an aid of sorts that could help participants who are not - shall we say flexible - partake in some of the more challenging maneuvers depicted in this text...Doctor, as scintillating as this is, I'm not sure this is pertinent to our case."
Curious at what the two had been looking at, Constable Crabtree came by and looked. "Oh! It's one of those swings...you remember...just like they had at French bordellos…"
"Constable!" Murdoch snapped, cutting him off. "Need I remind you…" he jerked his head towards her.
"D...Doctor! My apologies. I... I forgot who I was in company with," Constable Crabtree began, turning a deep shade of scarlet. "I'm v…. deeply sorry, Dr. Ogden, not that I…I would know or anything…" he fumbled, looking suddenly terrified of both her and the detective.
"Constable, I assure you, I am not scandalized by such talk," Julia said as she put away the books. She was curious who was inheriting the Jackson's estate and if she might be able to purchase some of them. A new tease came to her lips, but she decided to leave well enough alone to save the poor constable from either apoplexy or a dressing down.
"Now if you will excuse me, I will have the bodies delivered to the morgue…" She attempted to leave the apartment, when Detective Murdoch approached to halt her. She thought he was going to confront her on the erotica.
Instead, he spoke most gravely. "Doctor, is it possible a person is deliberately poisoning an alcoholic beverage, say rum or moonshine, in order to kill people? I mean, to kill as many people as possible?"
Julia was shocked at his question, and disturbed by it too, because he was so serious about such a vile concept. Her playful mood dissipated. "It would be monstrous!" she said without needing to think about it. She collected herself, slowing down to make herself understood. "But my first investigation is cause of death, then manner of death for the poor souls in my morgue. Right now, I cannot even know the cause of death, with medical certainty, not down to the exact chemical or substance responsible for a purported poisoning, until I have the materials to complete the proper testing. Which I will not have until at least Monday if I am lucky. The rest is your responsibility, Detective. And I hope you are wrong."
Murdoch shot Crabtree a glare and breathed a sigh of relief when Dr. Ogden followed the Jacksons' bodies down the stairs. All ersatz literary distractions aside, she made sure he understood he was going to have to wait for any results from her, because she was in a bind. He appreciated her candor but told himself he didn't have to like it.
He was still ordering his thoughts when Crabtree coughed softly. The constable looked a bit sheepish; Murdoch took pity on him - Dr. Ogden was trouble enough for any man.
"Ah, Crabtree. Yes. Thank you. Please start in the bedroom looking for physical evidence. You know the drill and be careful. There could still be deadly poison in these rooms, possibly absorbed through the hands. I will join you after I make a telephone call."
When Murdoch returned ten minutes later, Crabtree had systematically examined the contents of the couple's wardrobe and was starting on the bureau, being overly careful with opening drawers and searching underneath and behind things. The two of them, constable and detective, had done this so often together, they fell into an easy rhythm of concentration on what they were doing and conversation.
"Up for a game of 'poke'?" Crabtree asked while he was sorting socks.
He wasn't exactly sure it was appropriate but considering the risqué dip into the Jackson's extensive pornography collection before, it seemed harmless enough. Anything to get off that topic. "If you must…"
"The category is animals. It is about the size of a rabbit and related to the porcupine," Crabtree jumped in. "It has been hunted to near extinction due to its ravages of sugarcane, potatoes and yams in South…"
He answered easily. "Agouti. I see you are back to the 'A's'." During the war Corporal Crabtree had invented 'poking the lieutenant' which provided hours of distraction for bored men. It required Lt. Murdoch to provide an answer to a question offered by one of the men, who vied with each other to stump him.
"I am still fiddling with the format of the game. To make it more exciting. Ah! I know...what if the answer had to be in the form of a question?"
"What is an Agouti?"
Crabtree's eyes got all big and round, as they always do when he thinks he is on to something. "Exactly! Now that is different. All right, same category. Next one: A large Australian bird belonging to the Corvidae family, with a large and conical bill. It has a melodious voice, is easily tamed and learns to whistle tunes."
Crabtree must study to come up with an item as obscure as possible. He was quite sure the man snuck into his own detective's office to cadge entries from the reference books he kept on his top shelf. "What is a Baritah?" That one took him longer to rummage in his memory for. "I still think you should memorialize this. Package it up as a parlour game, perhaps with teams this time? Try selling it to the Parker Brothers again." Murdoch had been almost as disappointed as Crabtree when his game had been turned down the first time.
"Actually, I... I was thinking I could sell the game on my own by subscription, with new answers and questions delivered by the post weekly, or...or do you think monthly? I need to make it more interesting, more risk or peril for the player. I need a cleverer name than the last one I tried. Oh, I know, how about "On The Spot"?...Perhaps if one gets an answer wrong the other contestants get the points? I... I already dismissed an electric buzzer or getting a pie in the nose…"
"No. I don't imagine jeopardy will sell a parlour game to the ladies."
"Do you think players could bet on getting the answers correct or not?"
"Need I remind you gambling is illegal…" Honestly, George Crabtree's imagination gets away with him.
Crabtree was using his pencil now to pick through Mr. Jackson's ties. "Sir. Speaking of animals...I was wondering if it might have been a... a snake or...or venomous spider which did the Jacksons in. You know, an exotic thing, perhaps kept as a pet."
He found himself hesitating to put his own fingers into the pocket he was trying to explore. "Doctor Ogden found nothing on the bodies…"
"But that's just it, sir. They can get in exceedingly small spaces, you see. Crawl up a pant leg." Crabtree kept stirring the drawer with his pencil.
He noticed an itch starting. "We will keep a lookout, but I see no animal or insect cages or containers here."
"Perhaps it escaped from another room, sir?"
"Constable!" He knew he spoke too sharply. "We are looking for anything which might explain these deaths. We have seen no sign of a struggle. No weapons. No external cause of death...yes, I know a bite could be hidden by clothing!" Murdoch cut him off before Crabtree could object. His calf itched and he refused to scratch it, silently cursing Crabtree for planting the thought. "Dr. Ogden's initial findings are of poison, and we are trying to see if it is related to the string of denatured alcohol deaths, so concentrate on bottles, other liquids, full or empty."
He shook out two medicine bottles from Mrs. Jackson's purse, placing them in a paper bag for later examination. "If not caused by tainted alcohol, Dr. Ogden suggests the poison, if there is one, could have been injected, inhaled, ingested or absorbed. If you come across any powders, please sample them carefully." Murdoch began with the Jacksons' desk, forcing himself to slow down to closely look at and appreciate what he was seeing, comparing it with his memory. So far, though, nothing stood out.
Crabtree nodded when he completed his own search. Murdoch saw he was empty-handed. Finished in the bedroom, without speaking, they moved on to the apartment's sitting room. "Perhaps it was an accident, sir. The gas heater left on…"
"In summer?"
Crabtree shrugged. "Perhaps Mrs. Jackson gets cold easily." Before Murdoch could respond, Crabtree then said: "Or the air was sucked out of the room, by negative air pressure. You notice how hot it is in here and the air in here does not move - hardly any relief at all from when all of us traipsed in and out. The hot air just rose and it all escaped..." He went to a window and tried to force it open. "It has been painted shut, sir...or the Toronto humidity is keeping it so tight. Too air-tight and they...they just suffocated?"
He did not think either of Crabtree's conjectures were the case, but there was an idea in there. "Do you know if the apartment and bathroom doors were opened or closed when the maid arrived with the Jacksons' food?"
"Both closed, she said. Open since then, and you'd never know it from the air in here. Of course! I have it! Maybe we can ask her if there was any glass on the floor, you know, and she cleaned it up?"
"Glass?" He had no idea where Crabtree was going with this.
"One of those glass chemical fire extinguishers you throw at...at the fire and it removes oxygen, putting the fire out…"
"George!" The Christian name slipped out in exasperation. "There is no evidence of any fire in this suite." He paused what he was doing and turned back to the bathroom, his constable following. "But you do make a compelling argument about the air killing these two."
"I do?"
"Yes. But it may involve taking the plumbing apart…."
Crabtree had his head under the sink, pulling out tins of various cleaning products. "Good grief, sir. There is enough under here to kill a horse...literally," showing them off one by one. "Or enough rat poison to take care of the mouse plague in New South Wales!"
The two kept working another twenty minutes. "We are almost through here, please get the hotel manager while I finish up," Murdoch asked.
He completed his survey of the Jacksons' suite, absently scratching his leg as he placed several more items in individual paper sacks. Crabtree brought the tall, hefty manager up behind him like a tugboat bringing a barge into dock as Murdoch quickly slid his pant leg down from the damnable itch.
"Tell me, Mr. Crumb, how is it your residents died last night, roughly between 7 and 9 pm, and no one noticed?" he asked.
"How should anyone notice?" Mr. Crumb lisped when speaking, which Murdoch thought was incongruent with the man's enormous size. "Er, what I mean to say is we take our residents' privacy and security seriously."
Mr. Crumb's eyeballs bulged when the man figured out the error in his first answer. "Mr. Crumb, when did anyone last see Mr. and Mrs. Jackson?"
"The Jacksons always have their Saturday supper early in the hotel's dining room." Mr. Crumb blanched and he started looking frightened, shaking and wringing his hands. "But I swear the meal had nothing to do with this! No one else has gotten ill, not the slightest tummy ache. The hotel fed our residents gratis yesterday-a fine chicken stew. You have to believe me...!"
It took a minute to calm the man down and get the rest of the information: no, they didn't have any visitors; yes, they ate alone and were back in their suite by seven o'clock, having never left the premises as far as the manager was aware. The maid found them this morning when delivering their standing Sunday morning kitchen order.
Crabtree confirmed the maid used her key to enter - the door being locked from the inside - but not barred. "She also said the Jacksons did not get along with their neighbors."
Mr. Crumb's head bobbed in agreement. "I cannot imagine anyone wanting to kill them!"
Murdoch suppressed a sigh. He heard that sort of naive disbelief, the public's lack of imagination and common assumptions about murder so often when he received anything else, he was immediately suspicious. The reality is, he reminded himself, with a few exceptions, people kill, not because they want to, but because they believe they have to.
The question is, who benefitted if the Jacksons were dead?
He made arrangements to examine the plumbing with Mr. Crumb, who was not pleased to be told part of the waste lines were getting dismantled. Murdoch packed up his paper bags, planning to reconnoiter with Crabtree again once when they hit the street.
"After you develop the photographs, get a couple lads onto fingerprint duty. It'll give the night shift work to do. I will wait to see if Dr. Ogden can shed any light on this while I sort through the evidence we collected from their lodgings. You go home for lunch, and report what you can tomorrow."
"Sir. Do you imagine this is another 'bootleg booze' case? They...er...the bodies are piling up."
He winced at Crabtree's adopting the newspaper's sobriquet. He looked back up at the building, tilting his homburg back to see the entire façade, thinking of Mr. Crumb's remark about being unable to imagine a motive for killing the Jacksons. "They are. But why are they piling up?"
