CHAPTER 1

"The victim's name is Brendan Walsh," Constable John Brackenreid met Detective William Murdoch at the door of the grain storehouse. The horses for the ambulance pawed at the ground. The young man stepped back and let his superior officer go through, while some other constables pushed the crowd back, away from the body in the barley. "He didn't show up for work this morning," John added.

Murdoch raised an eyebrow. "So it would appear," he said pointedly. "Who discovered him?"

John pointed to a dark-haired man standing back with the crowd. "Him, sir." He flipped through his notebook. "Connor O'Neill. He was shoveling out the grain and happened upon Walsh buried in the pile."

Murdoch crouched down, studying the body, making the sign of the cross as he did. Brendan Walsh wore a plain cotton shirt and wool pants, held up with a pair of suspenders and sturdy work boots. "No outward signs of trauma," he noted. "We'll have to wait on cause of death until Dr. Ogden does the postmortem." He frowned, looking down at the plank flooring. "John, have a look at this."

John came around the body and bent down next to Murdoch. The detective pointed. "Notice these footprints," he said, gesturing to them. "Looks like a workboot."

John frowned. "But, Detective Murdoch, there's footprints all over in this room," he said. "You can see them in the dust. And a lot of these men are wearing boots."

Murdoch nodded thoughtfully. "That's very true, John. But, these prints are clearly from muddy boots," he explained, plucking his pen from his breast pocket and poking at them. "Note the dirt that's stuck to the floor."

"It rained last night," John offered. "Mother was excited because her tulips in the front yard were looking a little worse for the wear." He got down on his hands and knees and studied the dead man's boots. "These don't look like the same tread. They don't belong to our man here."

Murdoch smiled encouragingly. "Well done, Constable. We'll make you a fine officer of the law yet." John grinned. Murdoch returned to the footprints, and prepared to take a photograph of them with his boxy camera. "So these could perhaps belong to our killer."

"Or someone could have tracked it in this morning," John pointed out.

"These prints are dry," Murdoch stood up and waved for the ambulance. "Let's get this body out of here, and we can start questioning these men."

"How long's that going to take?"

Murdoch looked up as a shadow fell over him. A tall, burly man in a red shirt was standing over him, arms crossed over his chest. Next to him, a skinnier man in a suit and tie also stood, looking impatient. Murdoch looked the both of them up and down. "And…you are?"

"Henry Parkington," the man in the suit introduced himself, sounding for all the world like that was something Murdoch should have known. "And my man in charge of the storehouse, Alexander Martin. How long will this take? If this grain gets ruined-"

"A man was found dead in your barley pile," John said. "Doesn't that mean the grain is already ruined?" Murdoch gave him a side eye, eyebrow raised. John bit his bottom lip.

Martin waved a hand over the room. "As you can see, Constable-" He spat the word out like it tasted bad. "-There's a lot more in here, and much more out there to replace it. My men are on the clock. We'd like to get back to work."

"Mr. Martin, one of your men was found dead in here," Murdoch countered. "And it is my job to figure out what happened to him. I am also on the clock," he said pointedly. "However, what we can do here, we can do at the station. Constable, please take the names of these men so we can bring them in for questioning later."

"Yes, sir," John nodded. He gave a polite nod to Martin and Parkington before heading over to the group of workers.

Murdoch stepped back as the body was lifted off the ground. "Does this man have any family that we can notify?" he asked the two men.

"They'll have his files up at the office," Parkington said shortly. "If you'd like to follow me," he said, staring Murdoch down, as if he dared the detective to do otherwise. Murdoch gave him a polite bow and tipped his hat to Mr. Martin. "John, meet me back at Station House 4 when you've finished," he ordered the younger constable.

"Will do, Detective," John said. He turned to the next man in line. "Your name?" he asked him.

The man ran a hand through his longish brown hair. "He's got a wife," he said softly.

John looked up from his notebook. "I'm sorry…what?" he asked him.

"Brendan." The worker looked out the door, where they were just shutting the ambulance doors. "I-he has a wife," he repeated. "And twin boys at home," he said sadly.

"I'm sorry. Did you know Mr. Walsh well, then?" John asked him. "Mr-?"

"O'Neill. Connor O'Neill," the worker told him. "And yeah. Me and Brendan…we were friends. Lived next door to each other."

John scribbled that down. "What-"

"All right you bums!" John jumped as Mr. Martin's booming timbre echoed in the space. "Back to work," he yelled. The big man stopped in front of John and Connor. "All of you," he said, glaring at Connor.

"Yes, sir," Connor muttered, with one last look at John. He turned and headed back to the grain pile. John saw him hesitate as he moved to pick up his shovel again.

City Morgue
Dr. Julia Ogden carefully stitched up her Y-incision on Brendan Walsh and snipped the end of the suture. She set the scissors back on the cart and made her way over to the sink to wash her hands. When she dried them off, she jumped in shock at the sight of Detective Murdoch standing beside the body of Brendan Walsh. "Dear God. William, next time you scare me like that, you're going to be the next body on my table," she chided him, pressing a hand to her chest.

Murdoch grinned at the blonde-haired coroner. "Hello to you too, Julia," he replied. She shook her head at him but she was smiling as she did it, so he knew he wasn't in too much trouble with his wife. "I'm sorry I wasn't home this morning for breakfast," he apologized.

"Yes, about that," Julia said, wiping her hands off on a towel by the sink. "You can tell the Inspector that if he calls that early in the morning again, that warning I gave you will also apply to him!"

Murdoch grimaced. "I'll be sure to pass that along," he said, shaking his head. "In the meantime, what have you, Doctor?"

Julia crossed the room. "Well," she began. "I can tell you that your initial assumption was correct-there are no outward signs of trauma. A bit of redness here, around his neck," she tilted Walsh's head back so Murdoch could see the red skin around his neck and near his shoulders. "His shirt," she continued, handing it to her husband. "It is positively soaked in what smells like whiskey."

"He did work at a distillery," Murdoch said.

She raised an eyebrow. "Well, if the shirt is anything to go off of, not only did he work at one, but he must have sampled the product quite often. Or, swam in it."

Murdoch chuckled. "Do you have a cause of death for me, Doctor?"

Julia nodded. "I do. Cause of death was asphyxiation."

"Suffocation?" Murdoch clarified. Julia nodded and opened the dead man's mouth. "I found grain dust and barleycorns in his mouth."

Murdoch pondered that. "So," he postulated, "Brendan Walsh was drunk, and stumbled or fell into the pile, where he suffocated."

"It's certainly feasible," Julia concurred. She frowned. "An awful way to go. But there's the redness around his neck to consider as well," she reminded him.

Murdoch was bent over the body as the door to the morgue opened and Constable George Crabtree knocked on the doorframe before removing his helmet. "Morning, Detective, Doctor," the Newfoundland-born constable greeted the two of them, running a hand through his gelled black hair. He turned to Murdoch. "Um, sir, Constable Brackenreid is back and he has some information for you."

"Thank you, George," Murdoch said. He paused. "George. A moment?"

George shrugged. "Sure, Detective. What do you need?" He walked down the ramp and came to join the two of them. "Is this the body you found this morning? John was telling me about it-found it at Parkington Whiskey?"

Murdoch looked at Julia. "Indeed it is. Julia, the redness around the neck." He moved to stand behind George. "Would you say that looks consistent with-" He reached around George's head, wrapped his arm around the constable's neck and applied pressure.

George's eyes went wide in surprise. "Sir?" he choked out, his hands going to the detective's arm to try to pry him off. Murdoch tightened his grip, pressing his other hand into George's temple so that the other man's neck was pushed into the crook of his arm. Julia watched the exchange, amused. Murdoch let go of George and the younger man gasped for air, loosening the top button of his collar with his fingers. "What was all that about?" he inquired, leaning against the railing for support.

Julia tapped her chin. "I would say that certainly fits," she agreed. "So someone rendered Mr. Walsh unconscious and then, what, buried him in the grain pile?"

"That's my guess," Murdoch told her. He clapped George on the back. "Thank you, George." He nodded to his wife, heading for the door.

"Glad I could help," George whispered, rubbing his neck around his uniform collar. Julia shot him a sympathetic smile.