The Biographer

One: A Body and a Brawl

"What have we, George?" Detective Murdoch asked briskly.

Constable Crabtree, despite his youthful looks, was no longer naïve or inexperienced, but his normally cheerful face was a little paler than usual, and grimly set.

"It's another one, sir, like the last three. The local constable found it on his morning beat and guessed what it was. I took the liberty of sending for Dr Grace, sir, and she's already here."

Murdoch nodded his approval. "Good work, George. Have you examined the scene?"

Crabtree nodded. "As best I could, sir. But as you can see, there's not much hope of finding any clean traces."

Murdoch glanced around. The street they were on was close to Torontos' bustling docks, people and vehicles began passing here in the early morning and did not stop until late in the evening. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to separate any tracks even if the street had not been cobbled.

"Wrapped in a blanket?" Murdoch asked, and when George nodded he continued, half to himself. "Left in a public area, easy to find."

That was unusual, most killers at least tried to conceal their victims' bodies. Murdoch had seen them buried, shallow or deep, thrown into lakes or pools, in all states of dismemberment, burned or dissolved in acid. It was far from common to leave bodies to be found. But then it was far from common for four women to be killed the same way in two months.

Murdoch approached the body. He noted that it was still mostly wrapped in the blanket and was thankful for the restraint of the constable who found it. Bad enough that passers by were seeing the Constabulary gathered round what could only be a body. If it became known that the body was that of a naked woman, there would be a near-riot! As it was, most people passing were too busy to do more than glance, and the few loafers who did gather were sent briskly about their business by George and two other constables.

The body had been placed in a doorway. Not so concealed as to be hard to find, but not so open as to be found too soon. The plate on the door declared that the office behind it would not open for at least another hour. Murdoch was thankful for the sharp-eyed beat constable who had spotted the blanket-wrapped bundle and guessed what it was. A curious clerk or officious manager would undoubtedly have disturbed the body and perhaps lost vital clues.

Murdoch leaned over to see that the face, at least, had been exposed. He crossed himself, then said quietly. "Dr Grace?"

Dr Grace looked up from the corpse, her pretty, piquant features intense with concentration. Murdoch knew that many of his fellow detectives disapproved of his custom of asking the coroner to examine bodies in situ. So did many coroners, who were at best reluctant to leave the morgue. Fortunately, Emily Grace was cut from the same sturdy cloth as her predecessor, Dr Ogden.

"Detective Murdoch." She acknowledged. "I've confirmed that the victim is in fact dead, but beyond that, and the fact that she is a woman of about thirty, nothing else. If it is possible, I would like the body to be transferred to the morgue as it is for further examination. If I am able to unwrap her in a clean and controlled environment, I may be able to find evidence in the blanket itself."

"An excellent idea, Dr Grace." Murdoch commended. "Is there nothing else you can tell me now?"

She frowned slightly. "I would say that she's been here perhaps two hours. It rained around four o'clock this morning, I remember waking and hearing it on my window, and your constable confirmed it. You will note that the bottom end of the blanket, where it protruded into the street, is quite wet, whereas the majority of it, which was sheltered in this porch, is dry.

"I can infer, therefore, that she was placed here some time before four in the morning."

"But not killed here?" Murdoch asked.

"Impossible to say just yet." Dr Grace was cautious. "But if she's like the others, then no."

"You think it is the same killer?" Murdoch wanted to be sure.

"Well, obviously, I'll need to establish cause of death, and see the state of the body in full." Dr Grace replied carefully. "But so far, it does fit the pattern."

Murdoch made arrangements to have the corpse transported, and tried to take a look around the scene. Unfortunately, by now the daily business of Toronto was well started, and there was a great deal of traffic. Had the body been discovered earlier, it might have been possible, if awkward, to block off the road for a time, but it was now far too late. He was about to give it up when Inspector Brackenreid arrived.

"Another one, Murdoch?" The Inspector asked without preamble. "That's what, four now? And no closer to catching the bugger, eh? We're bloody lucky the papers haven't got wind of this, or we'd be right in it, me old mucker!"

"We have been fortunate." Murdoch allowed. "The bodies so far have been easily found, but all either early in the morning or late at night, so that a crowd wasn't drawn. Also, the places where they were found are quite distant from each other, so that only we have made the connection between them."

"Beats me why he's leaving them where they can be found!" Brackenreid shook his head. "Showing off his handiwork, maybe?"

"I don't believe so, sir." Murdoch told him. "If that were the case, he would surely leave them in more public places, and not wrap them so carefully. No, I believe that this may be a sign of remorse."

"Remorse?" The Inspector spluttered. "Are you telling me that a man who can do that to a woman has a shred of remorse in him, Murdoch?"

"It is difficult to believe, I know." Murdoch agreed. "But there have been other cases where the most savage of killers has shown remarkable care and respect in handling his victims after death."

Brackenreid shook his head dolefully. "I don't know, Murdoch. Either our murderer is completely off his bloody rocker, or you are!"

Constable Crabtree approached them at this point. "Sirs, if I may?" He asked. "I've been speaking to some of the people around here, and they told me that it's impossible to turn any kind of carriage or wagon around in this street. In order to get out of the docks area, you have to drive on through here, turn left and then left again further up. Our killer will have had to do that when dropping the body."

"Or come round the other way." Murdoch said. "Either way, there will be no chance of finding any tracks now, George."

"I know, sir." Crabtree assured him. "But I'm told that several of the places of business along the docks work through the night, while others have night-watchmen. Someone may have seen something."

"Good work, Crabtree!" Brackenreid said. "Come on, Murdoch! While we're here, we might as well ask a few people."

"Well, sir, I should really be getting back to the station..." Murdoch began, but Brackenreid cut him off.

"Nonsense, Murdoch!" He said heartily, but not without a certain sly humour. "A bit of honest legwork'll do you good. Remind you of what being a copper is really about!"

The three officers proceeded about half-way along the section of busy warehouses and ships' chandlers, and gathered the addresses of two night-watchmen who had been on duty at the time. They'd also been told that at least one of the warehouses stayed open all night, but that the night-shift had all gone home.

"We'll talk to them tonight." Brackenreid decided. "Likely as not they'll have been too busy to see anything, and you don't drag a working man out of his bed without a bloody good reason! The watchmen are a better bet."

He did not add that the public houses in the area were usually open in the small hours, and that night-shift workers often stopped and refreshed themselves on the way home, making waking them at best a dubious proposition. Watchmen, if they were any good at their job, tended to greater sobriety of habits.

Just then, a man came out of one of the warehouses, carrying a bundle of goods. Murdoch noticed him because, unlike most of the big, muscular, rawboned men who worked the docks, this man was short, barely more than five feet. Nevertheless, he had considerable breadth of shoulder and carried the heavy bundle with apparent ease. The docker set the bundle down carefully with a pile of others waiting to be hoisted aboard a nearby vessel, then stepped back for a moment to check his handiwork.

There was a sudden yell of "LOGAN!", and another docker appeared from nowhere. A giant of a man with a face full of rage, running fiercely at the small man. There was the flash of a blade, a spurt of red, then the short man struck his attacker, a powerful blow that sent the larger man to the ground.

The three policemen were already in motion. Murdoch rushed to the injured man while Brackenreid and Crabtree went for the downed attacker. The docker stood a clear six and a half feet tall and was built on heroic lines. He was already struggling to his feet, brandishing an ugly-looking knife. But the active young constable and the burly, veteran Yorkshireman were both old hands at this game. The docker was disarmed, pinned down and cuffed before he fully realised what was going on.

Murdoch grabbed the other man by the shoulders. "Are you all right?" He asked.

"Fine." The man replied in a gravelly, whisky-roughened voice. The eyes that met Murdochs' were dark and frighteningly intense. "Just a scratch."

But he made no protest as Murdoch replied. "I'd better have a look," and pulled up the bloodied shirt.

It was fortunate that the man had turned quickly at his attackers' shout. What had been meant to be a stab to the gut had instead resulted in a long, deep slash along the side. Murdoch noted that the bleeding had already begun to slow, but the wound was still an ugly one.

"I think we had best get you to a hospital." He said. "That wound will require several stitches at the very least. Your name is Logan?"

"Jim Logan." The docker replied. "I don't need a hospital, just a bandage and a chance to lie down for a bit."

"Well, I've a bandage here, and you'll be doing your lying down in the hospital, Jimmy."

This was a new voice, a pleasant tenor with a musical Irish lilt. Murdoch turned to see another man standing nearby, with a length of pristine white cloth in his hands. He was almost as big as the man who had attacked Logan, had a mass of fiery red hair, a pleasantly ugly face and was wearing a white shirt, dark trousers and waistcoat, with a heavy brass watch-chain across it.

"And you would be?" Murdoch asked.

"Liam Finnegan." The man answered. "I'm the manager of this warehouse. Jimmy here is one of my best fellers, and I'm not wanting to lose him, so let's be binding him up. I'll take him to the hospital in one of the carts meself."

Logan clearly saw no point in demurring further, so he stood passively as Murdoch assisted Finnegan to deftly bind the slash.

"You have some expertise in this, I see, Mr Finnegan."

"That I have." The manager allowed. "Workin' around here isn't safe. All kinds of accidents happen from knocks on the shins to broken necks. There's some as will just kick a man off the docks if he's hurt, leave him to make his own way. Me, if a man's hurt doin' work I've given him, I think I've a duty to see him looked after proper."

"Very commendable." Murdoch approved. "By the way, I am Detective Murdoch, Toronto Constabulary, and this is Inspector Brackenreid. Inspector, Mr Finnegan here is the manager of this establishment."

"Right." Brackenreid said. "We've got the other one cuffed, what d'you want us to do with him?"

"I don't want to press..." Logan began, but Finnegan cut him off.

"Well I do, Jimmy." He said firmly. "Take the spalpeen away and lock him up, Inspector. It's enough of his drinkin' and his foul temper I've had. I'll be after gettin' Jimmy patched up and then we'll be down to the station to make statements, so we will. Which station house?"

"Number Four." Brackenreid told him.

Back at the station house, Murdoch faced a difficult interview. Henri Martineau was the brother of the second victim, Justine Martineau, who had lived in Toronto under the name Justine Martin for some five years before her untimely death. He had identified her body and now sat in Murdochs' office in an attitude of resignation rather than sorrow. Murdoch had always disliked the necessity of interviewing the deceaseds' loved ones, but it came with the job, so he steeled himself as he took stock of his visitor.

Martineau was a native of Montreal, and his appearance betrayed his Gallic ancestry, with his neat moustache, sober but elegant clothing, pale skin and sleek dark hair. He was about the middle height, and rather plump, with a round face more suited to laughter than his current mood.

"M Martineau, my condolences for your loss. I am Detective William Murdoch, and I am investigating the circumstances of your sisters' death. Thank you for coming all the way from Montreal to help us."

"Anything I can do, of course, M Murdoch." Martineau replied. "But beyond identifying my poor sister's corpse, I cannot see 'ow I can 'elp. It has been five years since we 'ave 'eard from poor Justine. I still do not know 'ow you managed to find us, though you 'ave my thanks for doing so."

"As to that," Murdoch told him, "we found evidence in your sisters' lodgings indicating she had once lived in Montreal. We telegraphed the local police with a description, and they identified your sister as a woman reported missing there five years ago.

"We were surprised that the file still existed, but I gather your family is a highly-regarded one and that a considerable reward was offered for information."

Martineau gave a short, bitter laugh. "'Ighly-regarded indeed!" He said. "And by none more than my parents!

"M Murdoch, you are, as they say, a man of the world, no? You 'ave seen much, this I can tell by your eyes. Do you know what 'arm the obsession with status, appearance, respectability can do to a family?"

"I have seen such things." Murdoch noted. "I take it that your sister quarrelled with your parents?"

"Quarrelled?" Martineau threw up his hands. "Ma foi! If it were only quarrels, M Murdoch! Quarrels all families 'ave, but this, this was la guerre!

"Papa is a director in one of Montreals' biggest banks, and an owner of factories. His father, Grand-pere Louis, was but a humble shopkeeper. So Papa is ever most conscious of his position in society, to appear always most grave and respectable. Maman is a woman most pious, dividing her time between Church and good works.

"For me, then, it was business that I must enter. This was not difficult, as I 'ave the 'ead for figures, and if I am less grave than Papa, more given to a jest or a smile, this 'as done me no 'arm.

"My parents wished Justine to marry well, according to their choice, and to do as Maman does, the Church and the charities. But Justine 'ad a spark, a fire in her 'eart and mind. She wished to learn, to study, to go to college. The duties of a wife, the pastimes of a pious woman, these were not enough for 'er.

"She ceased to attend church. She kept company with thinkers, philosophers, artists and men and women of science. People my parents considered immoral and of a different order from us. There were many quarrels and much bitterness. The day after 'er twenty-first birthday, Justine left 'ome in the middle of the night. We 'ave not seen 'er since.

"My parents never spoke of 'er again, they treated 'er as one dead to them. I reported the matter to the police. I did not wish to bring Justine 'ome, merely to know that she was well. But rien until your letter. It was a blow, but not one entirely unexpected.

"Can you tell me what it was she occupied 'erself with in Toronto?"

Murdoch nodded. "From what we can tell, she worked in a shop for some three years whilst attending classes at a number of different establishments. For the last two years, however, she was a private tutor to well-off and progressive families who wished their daughters to have a somewhat different education from that normally given to girls. She tutored these young women in the basics of the sciences and philosophy, mainly, and was highly-regarded by her employers. It was one of them who reported her missing.

"She does not appear to have had any romantic relationships at any time, though she had several male friends. Outside of her work, she was a member of the Toronto Society of Atheists, the Toronto Ladies' Scientific Guild and the Philosophical Reading Club. She was also – and this is the only time she came under police notice – a campaigner for birth control. She was not arrested, but her name was taken and she was moved on."

Martineau gave a small, sad smile. "Ah, Justine!" He sighed. "Ever contrary! Is it possible, M Murdoch, that any of these activities led to 'er death?"

"We are considering that, along with other lines of investigation." Murdoch told him. "You will understand that I cannot discuss the matter any further here and now."

There were a few more formalities, then Martineau left. Shortly after, Brackenreid came into the office.

"This is a bad business, Murdoch." He said grimly. "I've just been with the Commissioner, and at least he's agreed we have to keep it out of the Press for now. We don't want a panic, or a station full of nutters confessing to things they've not done!

"Doesn't Dr Ogden have some sort of idea about this kind of killer?"

Murdoch nodded. "She once theorised that there were men driven to kill at intervals, in a specific, often ritualistic manner, due to some kind of obsession. She called them 'sequential killers'. The alienist Dr Roberts agreed that there was some merit in the idea."

"Perhaps you ought to call her in on this one." Brackenreid suggested.

"Sir?" Murdoch was surprised. "You are aware of my relationship with Julia."

"I know you're courting." Brackenreid said. "But I also know that you two, along with young Crabtree and Dr Grace, are the best team in this or any station in Toronto. Get her in here, Murdoch! We need every brain we can get on this one." He clapped Murdoch on the shoulder. "Just keep the canoodling to a minimum, mate!"

Murdoch was about to protest, when Crabtree came into the room.

"Sirs," he said eagerly, "I believe I have identified our latest victim!"

"That was bloody quick work!" Brackenreid said. "You suddenly got psychic, Crabtree? Did her ghost tell you?"

"No, sir." Crabtree responded seriously. "That would require a séance. But the victims' face was familiar to me, and I checked back on some other cases. Do you remember the Ishtar Club?"

"You mean the knocking shop we raided last month?" Brackenreid asked. "The one where they showed those mucky moving pictures and had all those dirty photographs?"

"Yes, sir." Crabtree produced a photograph. "I went through the evidence and found several photographs of a lady I believe to be our victim, sir."

Murdoch and Brackenreid examined the picture. It showed a woman reclining, quite naked, on a chaise-longue against the background of a respectable drawing room. The face was definitely that of the dead woman from that morning.

"That's her all right!" Brackenreid said. "Any idea of her name, Crabtree?"

"Not yet, sir." Crabtree told him. "But the name of the photographic studio is printed on the back of the picture. We were planning to raid the premises but this new case took up all our resources before we could. It's likely that the photographer will have records of his models, sir."

"Then follow it up, Crabtree, follow it up!" Brackenreid ordered. "Promise the pervert anything, as long as he gives us her name, and preferably her address!"

Crabtree left, and Brackenreid examined the picture again.

"He's a sharp lad, that Crabtree, just don't tell him I said so!" He shook his head. "If I'd seen this picture before, it wouldn't be her face I'd remember!"