CHAPTER THIRTY- FOUR
1815 hours Monday July 3rd, 1922
Miss Henny's Rooming House
"Argyle Hudson, I am arresting you for the murders of Howard Knox and Conrad Landswell, and the attempted murder of Randolph Swift."
The cackle of laughter erupting from Hudson's bed sent an electric current up Murdoch's spine to his hair, enraging him.
He and his men caught a break in finding Hudson, working the problem until Higgins came back after two hours at the main telephone exchange, knowing where the call to Swift originated. They cross-checked it with the bank where Hudson cashed his war veteran's pension cheques, granted him, after much difficulty, for being gassed. Constables went door to door, street after street, block after block asking about Argyle Hudson, until, finally, Miss Henny admitted he was her tenant and she knew for a fact he'd come in and remained in his room, "feeling poorly," as she called it.
Out of an abundance of caution, it took almost another hour to remove bystanders and get men in place. Brackenreid stayed back at the Station House, but Julia came along to help secure forensic evidence.
Murdoch was wrung out and not amused at Hudson mocking him. "Mr. Hudson," he growled, "this is not a joke! We have an accusation you provided poisoned alcohol to all three of them, except Mr. Swift did not drink enough to die."
Julia looked at him, startled by his vehemence, but she said nothing, appearing to assess Mr. Hudson with her physician's eye. The room had a sick-bed smell to it. Something was wrong with the man, perhaps with more than his mind.
"Me? Do in Knox and Landswell? Not me!" Hudson continued to laugh harshly until Murdoch ordered Crabtree and Higgins to get him to his feet. Hudson jerked away, rising unsteadily, a wild-eyed and sharp-toothed set to his nature. He spoke again derisively. "Detective, the joke is on you. It's that rat bastard Randolph Swift what killed me!"
His dark brows rose towards his hat. Hudson was apparently as deranged as Swift suggested. "Come again?"
"After all I done for him and all we been through, Swift turned on me. I still can't believe it! He's poisoned me."
Not just deranged, full blown paranoia. "How is that?" Murdoch, asked. "Mr. Swift is concerned for your state of mind, sir. What happened?"
Julia eyed him, gesturing for him to wait, then approached Argyle Hudson when she got permission. "Sit down, Mr. Hudson. Please." He did as she bid him to. She checked his colour, his pulse, respiration and pupils. He had a sheen on his pale skin and his thin blonde hair was plastered to his head. "Mr. Hudson, what did you mean that you have been killed by poison?"
Hudson gestured towards the floor. "Them toadstools they call the Angels. Fed me them Saturday night is what I figured. I was sick as a dog yesterday and now the awful bad part has passed. But I know my fate. Saw soldiers die from it in the Great War if they was hungry or stupid enough to add them to their grub."
"Why should he do that?" He did not understand where this was going.
"To shut me up!" Hudson's mouth and eyes were hard and his lungs heaved with shouting.
"You are certain, Mr. Hudson?" Julia interjected quickly with a worried look. "Amanita ocreata?"
"No idea what you just said, Miss, but if that's a toadstool, yeah. Saw 'em myself when I visited his place the first time. Set himself up as if he were a toff. He's got this big glass house you see, likes to show off ex-ah-tic things in it. They were not there anymore the last time I was there."
His visual memory provided him with the scene of walking through Swift's hot and humid greenhouse, with its collection of Canadian woodland plants. He had no trouble at all recalling the graceful white fungi amongst trillium, Cypripedium candidum, ferns, Jack-in-the-Pulpit and May-apples.
"Destroying Angel," Julia breathed. She looked a second time at Hudson, the whites of his eyes, his skin, then nodded sadly. "Detective, if Mr. Hudson has consumed these fungi, even though he looks well at this moment, his liver or kidneys will irreversibly shut down. He is correct. There is nothing I nor any physician can do for him."
During the war, supplementing rations with whatever extra could be found, Murdoch knew, was a common enough occurrence, especially at the front. He'd heard of sickness and deaths from spoiled food, and more than one case of picking the wrong mushrooms. He made sure Crabtree was taking notes. He watched as Hudson shifted back down on the bed. "If this is so, Doctor, is he well enough to speak with me now?"
She nodded. "His vital signs are stable, Detective."
He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the room's sole dresser. Instead of a quick arrest and hustle down to the station house, this was going to take a while longer. "Well, Mr. Hudson. You are making quite an accusation. One which will need some sort of corroboration. Perhaps you can start from the beginning."
"You know what we did, don't you? In the war, eh?" Hudson asked gruffly with a wince.
"Something happened to you. Something which made you turn on your comrades in arms and want to eliminate other members of your squad." He laid out the gist of Swift's information, interested to see how accurate it was.
Hudson's face twitched, making deep creases in his skin. "He says I've lost it? You know, don't you? Or didn't Swift share that tidly-bit?"
"No." Murdoch was feeling a rise in anxiety, his intuition yammering that his theory of the case was unravelling, yet again. "So, enlighten me," he demanded.
Hudson barked a cough. "The case against Worcester was rigged. He never stole that stupid painting. We did and he got blamed. After the war we agreed to go our separate ways. Never to see each other ever again. Only way to be safe." Hudson lit the tobacco and took a ragged drag of his cigarette. "We kept to that the last five years," he said, blowing out smoke.
This was about Worcester after all? How, in God's name? Hudson's words shocked him. "Go...go on," he said, his mind racing.
"Like I said, we was in the clear. I never thought about it again, after all this time. I didn't know Worcester was all napooed and dead by hanging hisself. Poor sod."
Murdoch saw his opportunity. "It all fell apart when Cpl. Worcester's family started making inquiries, didn't it?"
"Worcester's brother and that stupid girl, sendin' her letters, stirring up trouble! Putin' notices in the papers! Doulton was goin' to squeal about everything!" Hudson complained.
"Father Doulton was going to the authorities?" Was this what set everything into motion? Letters to the papers and ex-military squad members?
"Yeah. That's what Doulton was supposedly goin' to do. After the war he got religion, got hisself the collar. Preached to the wicked, he did, about their wickedness. A right hip-o-crite, eh?" Hudson hissed.
"And Howard Knox?" he asked.
"Worcester's brother must'a twigged Knox somehow - I think by offerin' money for information in the papers. Knox got hisself all in a flap by them sniffin' around. When the brother jigged on him, Knox forgot our promise not to talk with each other and went to see Doulton. Knox must 'a thought since they was mates in the Great War, what's the harm? A priest can't pass on what's in confession anyways, now, can he? 'Cept Doulton told Knox he was already ahead of him, already plannin' to come clean."
"Mr. Knox panicked, they argued and Mr. Knox stabbed him." Julia added softly.
Hudson's eyes were wide, nodding back. "Knox s'pposedly told Landswell he didn't mean to stab Doulton. Just the knife was already poking out of Doulton's chest."
That single stab detail was not printed in the Hamilton papers. He was intent on Hudson, knowing the Hamilton police never recovered the knife and none was found with Knox's effects. "But he was dead just the same, and Mr. Knox pulled out the knife, wiped it off and, what? Threw it in the lake?"
"Yeah, somethin' like that. He scarpered away." Hudson sighed, sounding disgusted. "That sorry priest was goin' to tell the whole tale to the world - confess what greed and lies had been weighing on his tortured soul; and throw us to the wolves with him! If not for that we'd all be safe as houses!"
He started seeing it unroll in his mind, picking his way through the distractions and red herrings. "To ensure your safety, you asked Conrad Landswell to pay off Howard Knox, then you changed your mind when things heated up, deciding you needed to eliminate both co-conspirators, Knox and Landswell, making it look like Knox killed Landswell then himself either on purpose or by accident, to close the loop and stave off any further investigation. When the police eventually linked Father Doulton's and Conrad Landswell 's murders to our suspect, Howard Knox, Mr. Knox, would be dead." He pushed for the truth, egging the man on. "You even tried to kill your old lieutenant, Randolph Swift, in case he could provide evidence against you for stealing the painting and putting the blame on Cpl. Worcester. All to protect your own skin."
Hudson threw his cigarette to the floor and stamped it out. "Not me, I told you! It's all about Swift, Detective Murdoch. You think four Canuck foot-sloggers like us was all that clever to pull off a smugglin' ring?"
"Smuggling ring?" So...not just Worcester...
Hudson looked from him to Julia to the constables and back as if doubting their collective common sense. "Wasn't jus' some painting. We was lootin' for at least two years. It was Lieutenant Swift who was the brains of our little en-ter-prise." Hudson's tone was sarcastic. "Each of us - me, Landswell, Knox, and Doulton had a separate job, separate part of the gig. Swift did all the plannin' and fencin'- we suckers did the execution." For a moment Argyle Hudson looked almost proud of himself, then his face closed in and he shook his head. "Stupid me...I was not worried when I saw in the papers that Landswell died. I wasn't even thinkin' much was amiss when I first heard tell Knox copped his packet from the drink. He al'ays was prone to the drunken zigzag. But it was Swift who got to Landswell and Knox."
"How?" He eyed Julia, who continued to look skeptical as well.
"Knox al'ays was our weakest link. It was Swift told me after Knox stabbed that do-gooder Doulton, that Knox hit up Landswell for money to get out of town, threatenin' if he didn't come across, Knox was going to try blackmail. 'Cept Landswell had no cash to give. Landswell was already in a state, havin' been visited by Worcester's sweetheart, some girl named Lydia, askin' questions about the war and what happened to Worcester. Some story about a picture that turned up that was part of what we nicked, got the family thinkin' Worcester's talk about being framed might be legit." Hudson leaned forward, getting a breath from such a long speech.
"You have confirmed for us Mr. Knox stabbed Father Doulton to death. Are you now suggesting Mr. Swift is the one who killed Mr. Knox and Mr. Landswell, not yourself?"
"Exactly, copper. You are catchin' on!" Hudson smiled more smoke through his teeth.
"Except Mr. Swift received threats - someone tried to kill him," he pointed out. "He says it was you. We found you here because of the threats you made to him."
"Sure, he did!" Hudson laughed sarcastically. "He'd say anything. Cook up evidence, wouldn't he? It's how he stuck it to poor Worcester in the first place. Probably got you all wound up to thinking Worcester's brother or that girl of his was taking revenge or something, didn't he? Nice bit of mischief now, wasn't it? Then mebbe pointed you in my direction?"
Crabtree and Higgins both looked away because that is exactly what had happened. He cleared his throat. "Mr. Hudson, what you have said so far is merely hearsay." He was getting frustrated with Hudson, who reached for the tin of tobacco and matches again. He withheld the tobacco, placing a firm hand on the tin lid. "How did Mr. Swift kill Mr. Landswell and Mr. Knox?"
Hudson glared at him. "Swift set up a right booby-trap. Swift knew sooner or later Landswell was going to crumble too. Swift got to Landswell by playin' on Landswell's habit to put on airs and hobnob with the hoity-toity, by tricking Knox into deliverin' Landswell a bottle of the good stuff, inside of which was yer poison. Swift knew the cheap, tight-fisted Landswell was never goin' to share it with anyone and knew Knox was going to be unable to resist takin' some for hisself. All the while Swift keeping his own hands all squeaky clean."
He let the tobacco tin go. Hudson coughed loudly after getting another cigarette lit.
He paused at that. It was, in fact, a brilliant solution if it were true: Swift putting time and distance between two murders by having one man kill the other, then perhaps unknowingly kill himself.
Crabtree looked up from his notes. "Sir. We never did positively track down who delivered cognac to Mr. Landswell. Might have been Knox."
Hudson cut in. "You bet Swift arranged that! Besides, Knox couldn't afford two pennies! Where else would he have gotten any of that stuff to off hisself with? It's what happened, isn't it?"
He and Hudson continued to stare at each other. That was another central piece of information from Julia's findings never released to the public, that the exact same liquid killed both Knox and Landswell. It was also information only someone close to the crime would know. The question was: Hudson himself? Or Swift?
He nodded slowly, hoping he was not making a mistake. "Mr. Hudson, it is a compelling story, but you are still not providing any proof," he pointed out.
"Ten to one, you'll find you can track the poison and poisoned booze back to Swift. There's your proof!"
He thought Hudson sounded defiant and awfully sure of himself. He walked towards the hallway and motioned. "Higgins," he whispered. "Find another man to cover your duty, then get Hodge and get a judge for a warrant to search Mr. Swift's house."
He came back to Hudson's bed. "Be that as it may, Mr. Hudson, before we get a doctor to thoroughly examine you, you still have to come with me to the station house to be booked on the murder charge and arraigned on the charges of smuggling and receiving stolen goods to which you have admitted. Your solicitor can argue your case on the murder charges, and you can swear out a complaint against Randolph Swift and we will investigate it."
This time Hudson's cackle verged on unhinged, a strangled giggle from his contorted lips. "No need, Detective Murdoch. I may be a gonner, but that's one job's right done. You'll find Swift hangin' in that glass house of his-I strung him high - while his toady of a butler has his half day off. Just like that poor fool, Worcester."
