CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Nine o'clock Friday
City Morgue
The door closed and locked with such a satisfying clunk. Julia took in a refreshing breath, surprised to see all the lights on so late in the nearby station house. She double-checked her watch - nine o'clock - yet No. 4 positively bustled with activity.
She was hungry, tired and irritated, hoping beyond hope that all the activity across the street didn't mean another unwitnessed death she was going to be hauled over to see about at the invitation of Detective Murdoch. But she already called the Queen's Hotel front desk - no mail at all awaited her - so there was no reason to rush home.
A huge sigh escaped her. No time like the present. Instead of walking to the adjacent police garage where her car awaited her, she slung her bag over her arm and pushed on through the front doors and down the station house steps, waving to the desk sergeant who was obviously stuck on the telephone. Detective Murdoch's office was well lit, with two wooden microscope storage boxes heaped on his worktable, spilling wires and tubes from their guts instead of magnification instruments. No detective in sight. She looked about, finding the only person not engaged in some deep conversation was Inspector Brackenreid. The man looked like he ached for a drink, whether to celebrate or commiserate she was not sure.
I am half tempted to invite him to my lair across the street to share one.
Deciding that was pushing it, she rapped on his door. "Inspector?" she lifted her morgue Gladstone full of instruments. "What is all the ruckus about? Can I assume my services will be required?"
"Ah, Dr. Ogden! What are you doing here so late?" He motioned her over to his desk, a weary but satisfied smile on him which lifted his ginger mustache. "Take a load off. We are not in need of your services, not this time. Actually, we think we have just caught a couple of murderers. With any luck, Murdoch is going to close out three cases in two jurisdictions, all in one go."
A thrilling tingle overcame her. Then these will be my first cases, too. "Excellent! Which ones?" She did not bother to hide her excitement.
Brackenreid winked and pointed to a spot behind her. She turned in time to see Detective Murdoch and his constable go past his door. "They are on the way to interview the first suspect. If it is not too late for you, you are welcome to listen in."
Interview room, Station House No. 4
Lydia O'Mara sat quietly, pulling at the handkerchief in her hands. Murdoch made sure a glass of cool water was by her elbow. He thought she looked awfully young and vulnerable, despite her stiff back and tidy grey dress, probably her Sunday best. It made him sorry for tearing out her hem when they struggled.
"Miss O'Mara. Please tell us about Corporal Worcester," he began the interrogation.
"Detective Murdoch, I am not certain you can understand what it is like to be separated from the one you love, not knowing what was happening, wishing so deeply they were with you." When she spoke, her voice was high and soft but clear, giving Crabtree no problem taking notes from his perch in the corner.
He nodded encouragement to keep her talking. He knew, intimately, having a war separate you from the person you loved more than anyone else in the world.
She smiled nervously, looking at him with large, brown eyes. "He wrote...Thadd wrote those little postcards they gave soldiers where the men cross out what they don't mean to say and leave the rest? Doesn't give you much, but I knew he was alive when I got one. He...he even sent me some of those silk embroidered ones, with the regimental colours on them." Miss O'Mara's tears started flowing; she made no move to stop them. "The whole time he was gone, I looked for something in the post every day. I...I still have them all." Her voice broke now.
He sent those same postcards to Liza - hundreds of them. Soldiers were not allowed to write anything personal on them, so the ones he sent home could only say: I am quite well. I have received your letter. Wm. Murdoch; and the date. No salutation. No, 'Dear Liza.' No 'love, William' was permitted.
Miss O'Mara took in a shuddering lungful. "I tried to keep my spirits up, you see. I prayed each night for his safety and that of his fellow soldiers. I went to work. Do my part, you understand? After a while, I just...I just…" She stopped, took another gulp of air to calm herself. She lifted her chin, her eyes misting, trying to make herself be brave. "Being apart was so terribly hard on me while I waited here and he was over there. I loved Thaddeus. He was a sweet lad, and kind. The whole time he was gone...it was as if I was trapped underwater, holding my breath. Have you any idea what that is like?"
He nodded again, feeling uncomfortable and prickly all over. She opened a window into his own life. He exhaled, shifting a few papers on the table in front of him.
"I always knew I could lose him when he went to war; he said he did not wish to marry me before he left, said he wasn't going to leave me a widow. I...I could have accepted it. I never thought..." She uttered a sob which she stifled with her fist. He waited patiently, himself exhaling slowly to make sure he did not lose his own control. She took a sip of water and proceeded. "There were just no more postcards. For weeks. Nothing! I didn't know what to make of it. I wrote to his brother, Jonathan, asking for news. We heard nothing. I...I thought he must be dead. Then Jonathan told me the military informed him Thadd had been convicted of crimes and was serving his punishment. I...I just could not believe it!" Her eyes flashed angrily, despite the tears. "How could the man I loved change so much?"
He gestured to her hands so she could dab her eyes. "Miss O'Mara, how did you connect a painting you saw here in Toronto to Thadd's criminal case?" She was silent for so long, he began to think she was going to refuse to speak further. He waited with the silence until she shifted, then prompted her gently. "I am sure this is difficult for you. Please, tell me what happened."
She gave him a haunted look. "Detective, Thadd always said he didn't do it. He told his legal representative that. He told the court that. He told us that. He sent all the trial transcripts to his brother, asking for us to get a new trial for him. We never could. The neighbors turned against the family; the shame of what his son had done took his father to an early grave. Thadd bore his punishment and was released after a year, but...but he was never the same. He was so...so angry, and he...he drank, gave up hope, locked himself away." She looked at him, searching for compassion, her cheeks flaring red in embarrassment, her eyes filling.
"By the time he came home, I wasn't the same either, Detective. And, to my shame, I didn't believe him anymore." She sagged towards the table. "Then I saw that...that damned picture." She whispered the invective. "In the court records, he was accused of stealing that particular painting and then destroying it when he got caught. That was supposedly proof of his guilt - the remains of that painting in his possession. The Love Letter. How ironic! So, what was it doing on a wall more than six thousand miles away? If one part was wrong - maybe the whole thing was wrong. Thadd might be beyond caring, but I had to know! For his mother's burden if nothing else. From the trial records, we had the names of the men who arrested Thadd and gave evidence at his court-martial. We just needed to know if there had been a mistake...we had to clear Thadd's name. We started by contacting the Military Police captain, but learned he was dead."
"Which is when Jonathan Worcester put advertisements in the papers asking for information about the other men," he guessed.
"Yes!" She leaned forward. "We thought it was worth the chance, so we put in advertisements in all the major Ontario papers. Mr. Randolph Swift was their lieutenant, so we thought he might know something. He was easy to find in the Toronto City Directory. Johnathan wrote to him, but he never responded. Mr. Conrad Landswell was easy to find as well, also in the City Directory. We wrote to him asking for an appointment. I even called him on the telephone at his office. At first he agreed to help us…" She looked down, "Or I thought he was going to. I even went and begged him in person, but he refused. Then we read in the papers he was dead." She turned her eyes back up to him, pleading.
He ignored her unspoken quest for his understanding - or was it for him to agree with her motives? "And Father Doulton? Did you find him in Hamilton?"
She brightened. "He found us - responded to the advertisement right away. Says he is going to think about what he can do."
He noticed she was using the present tense. Does she not know Doulton is dead? It was not in the Toronto papers, so maybe… He wasn't willing to reveal anything to his suspect, not yet.
"And Howard Knox? I understand you hold him particularly responsible for what happened to your fiancé."
"We never found him, Detective."
"Yet you were preparing to skip town when you saw his name in the papers. You ran from the police," he pointed out.
She sucked in air between her teeth. "That was my fault. I became skittish, frightened, after learning about Mr. Landswell died then seeing Mr. Knox's name in the papers..."
He thought hard about using her guilt feelings to trip her up into either lying or giving away information. Instead, he slid a calendar and a blank piece of paper and a pencil over the table in her direction. "Miss O'Mara, please make an accounting of your actions and your whereabouts from the time you and Mr. Worcester placed your advertisements in the papers until today. Give it to Constable Crabtree when you are finished."
She reached out to grab his sleeve. "We need their help, Detective. To right a terrible wrong that has caused so much pain and shame and now two are dead and one won't help... It's an old family, the Worcesters. A proud family that's been torn apart, where there is nothing left but grief. We need them to clear Thadd's name, if only for his poor mother's sake."
He knew if she was not directly involved with the murders of Knox, Landswell and Doulton, it did not rule out Worcester's brother from using her for his own ends to exact revenge. He found himself not wanting to believe her story, and the tragedy it told, yet she looked so pitiable, he decided to try a gambit to win her trust, hoping to wring more of the truth from her. "Miss O'Mara, assuming what you say about Corporal Worcester's case can be proven, no promises, of course, we might be able to get Thadd Worcester a new trial."
Instead of pleased, she looked even more stricken. "Didn't Jonathan tell you? Poor Thadd hanged himself about a month after we buried his father."
Holding one's breath, trapped under water.
He thought she described it exactly. Holding your breath knowing you can't keep on doing it forever, but also knowing taking in that next breath was going to end you all the same. It was what he'd been doing since Liza left.
Outside in the hall, Brackenreid waited. Somehow, Dr. Ogden also witnessed his interrogation. He addressed his boss first: "You heard her, sir. Her fiancé, Thaddeus Worcester, is dead by his own hand. Do we believe Miss O'Mara had anything, directly or indirectly, to do with Knox, Doulton or Landswell's deaths?"
"They ran when they saw you, Murdoch. That's a guilty mind. Revenge is a bloody good motive if Cpl. Worcester was unfairly convicted and then offed himself because he couldn't live with the dishonour...Even if Worcester was railroaded. A big 'if'." Brackenreid had his arms crossed over his chest, looking bullish.
"It might not matter if he was, inspector, only if the family believes it to be true," Dr. Ogden added.
He looked at her, annoyed she was interjecting even if he agreed with her.
Brackenreid shook his head. "I think it was a good idea to separate Miss O'Mara from Worcester and question her first. Soon as we get that page from her, interview Jonathan Worcester and see if you can get him to stumble on something."
He considered, and rejected it quickly. "No, sir. No weapon, no knife was found on their persons or in their rooms. No alcohol, no poison either. We can hold them forty-eight hours without charging them, so I say we leave them both in custody; Worcester here, and send Miss O'Mara to Mercer Reformatory overnight. I think we get constables to corroborate Miss O'Mara's timeline first. Check pawns shops for one of them purchasing a German trench knife; ask Worcester's mother if her son brought one home as a souvenir. I will talk with Jonathan Worcester only after I already know the correct answers. I am hoping for a full, unambiguous confession and to do that I must have every bit of evidence lined up before I see to Mr. Worcester." He held up a hand to stem the objection he knew was coming. "Sir. You reminded me to be absolutely sure we are right before making an arrest. If we are to charge this pair with a triple murder, or decide Miss O'Mara was an accomplice, wittingly or not, and go to trial, it will expose the military to scandal in the process - our military unit, sir - whether they eventually get convicted or not."
"Good God, the bloody press!" Brackenreid gave a sideways glance at Dr. Ogden, who immediately reacted, putting her hands on her hips, in a mannerism with which Murdoch was already becoming familiar. Her chin rose in a challenge directly at him...
"Gentlemen," she said in a serious voice. "Are you sure you will get this confession of yours? No one who is planning murder is going to publicly solicit their victims and leave a mile-wide trail, are they?"
Brackenreid snorted loudly. "You will find, Doctor, that plenty of daft buggers can do the deed and forget entirely about the getting away with it."
Dr. Ogden had the good sense not to argue her point. Murdoch bade his boss good night and escorted her out as quickly as possible before Brackenreid started to pontificate or spin yarns about criminals-past. "Doctor, it is late. Perhaps…"
"Perhaps, what, Detective Murdoch?" she said as she leaned in towards him. "Are you going to offer to accompany me home? As my protector?"
He stopped dead, uncertain for a minute if she was serious or not. The wink helped him figure it out. "Uh...no, Doctor. Sorry. I...um…" Why does she flummox me so? he complained to himself.
She straightened her sleeves and bent to pick up her medical bag. "Congratulations, then, on your murder cases, Detective. You and the inspector appear satisfied you will wrap it up tomorrow. Perhaps we can celebrate afterwards?" She smiled even wider at him. "A drink?"
He started to object, although he wasn't quite sure why.
"Of lemonade, then? Coffee? Oh, come on. If not to celebrate the case, then the holiday. Or, you can explain to me what testifying for your cases might entail. Something must be enough to tempt you?"
She swept out before he could find an answer.
Julia tended to love it when she left them speechless. She was feeling so smug she nearly bowled Constable Crabtree over with her bag as it swung on the end of her arm.
"My goodness, doctor!" he said as he righted himself.
"I do apologize, constable. I got carried away. We are all in a good mood when you solve a case." She beamed at him. "Say, Constable Crabtree...I have a question about Detective Murdoch…"
