Let Darkness Bury the Dead Read online

  ALSO BY MAUREEN JENNINGS

  MURDOCH MYSTERY SERIES

  Except the Dying (1997)

  Under the Dragon’s Tail (1998)

  Poor Tom Is Cold (2001)

  Let Loose the Dogs (2003)

  Night’s Child (2005)

  Vices of My Blood (2006)

  A Journeyman to Grief (2007)

  CHRISTINE MORRIS SERIES

  Does Your Mother Know? (2006)

  The K Handshape (2008)

  DETECTIVE INSPECTOR TOM TYLER SERIES

  Season of Darkness (2011)

  Beware This Boy (2012)

  No Known Grave (2014)

  Dead Ground in Between (2016)

  NOVELLA

  Shipwreck (2011)

  SCREENPLAYS FOR MURDOCH MYSTERIES TV SERIES

  “Staircase to Heaven” (co-writer) (2011)

  “Victoria Cross” (co-writer) (2012)

  “Murdochaphobia” (co-writer) (2013)

  “Shipwreck” (adapted from the novella) (2014)

  “House of Industry” (2015)

  “The Missing” (2016)

  Copyright © 2017 by Maureen Jennings

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the publisher—or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency—is an infringement of the copyright law.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication is available upon request

  ISBN 9780771050589

  Ebook ISBN 9780771050596

  Cover Design By Leah Springate

  Cover Art: Soldier © Stephen Mulcahey / Arcangel; Texture © Komkrit

  Preechachanwate / Shutterstock; Florals © Drobjektiff / Shutterstock

  McClelland & Stewart,

  a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited,

  a Penguin Random House Company

  www.penguinrandomhouse.ca

  v4.1

  a

  To Iden, as always and forever. He unfailingly provides me with support and encouragement.

  And to all the boys who never came home.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Also by Maureen Jennings

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Author’s Preamble

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Thee

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Aftermath

  Acknowledgements

  Author’s Note

  On being informed of the death of his son, Harry Percy, Northumberland goes into a frenzy, vowing to unleash terrible rage upon the perpetrators. He says:

  But let one spirit of the first-born Cain

  Reign in all bosoms, that, each heart being set

  On bloody courses, the rude scene may end,

  And darkness be the burier of the dead.

  —WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Henry IV, PART 2, ACT 1, SCENE 1

  THE GOLDEN AGE

  Not for national or personal aggrandizement are we to combine—far be it from us! But we need the invincible strength of union for righteousness and peace, the sheltering power under which no man need suffer wrong and the resources of great Empires may be developed for the good for all….

  The energy, the inventive genius, the self sacrifice and wealth of the world can surely be set to a better task than by perfecting the engines of war by which to crush out in agony our brother man? For war is no abstract term—it is the bloody holocaust of thousands of brave men…and the bitter heartbreak of more thousands of desolate women….

  And yet it can only be “By Mutual Consent.” Peace and goodwill must be no veneer, but right through the heart of the nations and their rulers, before strong defence can be abandoned as a slur on the good friends and neighbours of any land.

  —S.J.C., England’s Welcome

  (ON THE CORONATION OF GEORGE V)

  AUTHOR’S PREAMBLE

  DETECTIVE WILLIAM H. MURDOCH came into being (fictionally, that is) in 1895. He was thirty-four, single, lonely, and focused on his job. Seven books later (fictional time 1896) he retired, as it were, to take up a life on television. At this point he had found love.

  The TV world and the book world are often, as you can imagine, quite different. As a writer whose books are adapted, you hope they are not too different. I’ve been very lucky that way. Murdoch Mysteries, produced by Shaftesbury and shown for the last few years on the CBC in Canada, have been faithful to the characters that came out of my brain. Nevertheless, when I decided to write a new Murdoch book, I thought it might be confusing to new readers if I attempted to pick up where I’d left off. Besides which, I was already enthralled by the stories of World War I, both on the battlefield and on the home front. It has been some of the most fascinating exploration I’ve ever done. So in this book we meet an older Murdoch. The year is 1917. He is fifty-six years old, a senior detective now, still living in Toronto. He has a son, Jack, who is returning from the trenches.

  Canada’s participation in World War I was highly significant, and that is a major part of this story. I have tried to create a picture of the city of Toronto as it was at that time. A city that slept in sorrow. As for Murdoch, it is his job to maintain the law, even though it may be at a terrible personal cost.

  PROLOGUE

  THEY MARCH INTO PLACE in front of the canvas screen and the post that has been hammered into the ground. It’s not yet dawn but the sky is greyer now, seeping down into the pocked, muddy field, one mirroring the other. As commanded, they About Turn so that their backs are to the place of execution. They face the black silhouettes of the skeletal trees.

  The sergeant is a big man, and the cutting wind has reddened his face and the drizzling rain made droplets on his moustache. He star
ts to pace in front of the line. His gaze is fixed on a point over their heads.

  “Listen to me, lads. I know some of you have tender hearts and you might be tempted to feel sorry for this prisoner. I’m telling you: don’t. He is a proven coward who left his unit in the lurch.” The sergeant has a strong voice, hoarse at the edges, as if he has spent his life shouting into large spaces.

  “I know what it’s like to be scared. I’m not ashamed to admit it. We all know, but we deal with it like men. We don’t muck our britches and run off to cower behind Mother’s skirts. In this case, the enemy mounted an attack and the prisoner dropped his rifle and refused to go over the top. There were several casualties in the push. Others volunteered to bring in the wounded, at great risk to themselves. He would not do even that. He was needed and he let us all down. If we can’t rely on our comrades, who can we rely on?”

  Nobody answers. They’re not expected to.

  The sergeant halts and deliberately meets the eyes of each man in turn. His brown eyes are bloodshot.

  “You’ve probably heard the story that one of these rifles has a blank, not a bullet. That may or may not be true. But if you’re the sort with a woman’s conscience, you can comfort yourself with that notion. You might not be one of those who shot the poor sod. Even if one of these rifles holds a blank, not even me knows which one is which. It’s random. Up to the Almighty. And don’t think you’ll be able to tell the difference because you can’t.” He begins to pace again. “But please, all of you lads, don’t think you’ll be doing the prisoner a kindness by firing over his head. All that will do is prolong his misery. If he’s not dead after the first volley it’s left to me to finish him off.” The sergeant wipes rain from his cheeks. Surely not tears, just rainwater. “Rumours to the contrary, I too have a soft heart and I don’t fancy doing that if I don’t have to.”

  At the end of the line, the sergeant reverses his path. Again, he fixes his gaze on a point above their heads.

  “The prisoner will be seated on a box in front of the screen. His hands will be tied behind him and fastened to the post. Most likely he will not move but you never know. Some prisoners do manage to wriggle and squirm. Makes things harder for us. He might be shaking but don’t let that deter you. It’s nippy this morning. He’s had a good tot of rum for breakfast. He will have a reversed gas mask hood covering his head. Apparently he wanted it off but that’s never a good idea for all concerned so the request was refused. Now don’t forget this prisoner has shown himself to be as much an enemy to us as any Hun in his trench. You might even say more so.”

  There is the sound of a motor car coming along the road.

  “Right,” says the sergeant. “Here’s the ambulance. It’ll take a minute to get him settled then I will give the command. You’ve all been picked because you are crack shots, but to make things easier for you, there will be a circle of white paper pinned to his chest. That is your target.”

  He stares off at something they can’t see. Then he’s back. He continues. Louder.

  “There will be three commands. First: About Turn, which you will do smartly and without hesitation. Second: Present Arms. Third: Aim, Fire. One volley only. When your guns are discharged, I will give the At Ease. You will wait while I go and check on the condition of the prisoner. I will remove the paper and count the number of holes. I expect to see every bullet accounted for.”

  The motor car has stopped nearby. Doors open and then slam shut. Over the heads of the soldiers, the sergeant watches the proceedings. He seems satisfied by what he sees. He addresses the men.

  “About Turn…Present Arms…Aim…Fire.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE GREY NOVEMBER DAY had seemed endless, filled with trivial pieces of police officialdom: a variety of fines, numerous licences, several detectives’ schedules. Murdoch had to sign off on all of them. On days like this he wondered if his position as senior detective was really worth it. True, he had an extra half a day off, his own office, small as it was, and a slight increase in his wages. And he was responsible for supervising the eighteen detectives at headquarters, which he actually liked. One of the jobs he truly did not like, however, was acting as mediator between couples who had run into trouble with the law, usually for disturbing the peace. Chief Inspector Kennedy was supposed to handle these cases, but he hated this duty too and always found an opportunity to fob it off on Murdoch.

  “You’re very good at it,” he said. “You can calm them down. Me, I just get aggravated.”

  Murdoch risked a glance at the clock, which he’d deliberately positioned high on the opposite wall out of sight of his visitors—he didn’t want to give the impression that he didn’t have time for their various plights. Today, however, he could barely contain his impatience. The train bringing the returning soldiers was due to arrive at five o’clock and it was now twenty minutes to the hour. He didn’t want to be late.

  The young couple sitting in front of his desk had sunk into a sullen silence. She was staring off to one side; he was looking at the floor, twisting his cap round and round in his big hands. They’d both obviously dressed in their best for this meeting. He was wearing a smart, new-looking Ulster, and she was decked out in a navy blue serge coat and matching felt hat. However, the wide brim could not conceal a nasty bruise on her cheek. Her husband had a livid scratch running down his jawline. He said she’d started the row: one of many, as it turned out. When she flew at him, he pushed her away, and she hit herself on the dresser. She agreed to that part but said she’d only been defending herself when, quite uncalled for, he’d gone on a rampage over a comment she’d made.

  Murdoch removed his watch from his waistcoat pocket and consulted it ostentatiously.

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to draw this to a close very soon,” he said.

  The young woman looked up at him, her thin face dark with anger. “But we haven’t come to an agreement yet.”

  “I realize that, but it might be good for you both to sleep on things. Mr. Aggett, you said your tribunal isn’t until Friday. You have until then to reach a decision. We can meet again on Thursday.”

  “I don’t see what good coming back will do,” snapped Mrs. Aggett. “Arthur is obviously not going to change his mind.”

  Her husband sighed. He stopped spinning his hat.

  “Lottie’s right about that, sir. I don’t see as I will. I’ve got to apply for an exemption or else I’ll break my ma’s heart.”

  “What about me?” his wife said. “What about my heart? I can’t hold my head up anywhere. People think I’m married to a slacker. I’m beginning to think they’re right.”

  She delved into her handbag and fished out a crumpled sheet of newspaper. “Look. This was in the Evening Telegram just last week.”

  She thrust it out to Murdoch.

  TO THE WOMEN OF CANADA

  Bar those men who refuse to fight, you women. Refuse their invitations, scorn their attentions. Tell them to come in uniform, no matter how soiled or ill fitting. Bar out the able bodied man who has no obligations, show that you despise him.

  Such letters had become less frequent since reports from the battlefields had started coming through. A lot less glory than when the initial enthusiastic volunteers had marched off; a lot more tragedy. Still, these exhortations were obviously having some effect. Murdoch handed the sheet back to Lottie.

  “I mean to say, what if the Krauts invaded Canada like they did poor little Belgium? What would happen to us women then?”

  “I don’t think there’s much likelihood of the Germans invading us, Mrs. Aggett.”

  “You don’t know, though, do you? The Belgiums probably thought the same way. It’s only if our men act like men and are brave that we’ll be safe.”

  Arthur shook his head vehemently. “I ain’t a coward, sir. I’d go in a minute if I thought my mother could look after herself without me, but she can’t.” He paused. “My ma and Lottie just don’t get along, you see. If anything were to happen to me I know Lottie
wouldn’t stay around and take care of things.”

  Murdoch regarded her. “Is that true, Mrs. Aggett?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” she said with a shrug.

  “Why don’t you get along?”

  “I suppose you might say we’re like chalk and cheese. His mother was never partial to me from the start. I’ve done my best but she won’t have any of it. She’s a widow, see, and she’s always doted on him as the only child and the breadwinner. If she had any say in it, he’d be a bachelor for the rest of his life. But that’s not natural, is it?”

  Fortunately for Murdoch, she didn’t wait for an answer.

  “She just won’t accept that marriage means the wife must come first.”

  “When did you get married?” Murdoch asked.

  “Last year. We was all right until the new act came in. Now all is woe.”

  Murdoch hid his smile at her expression. “You’re referring to the conscription act, I presume?”

  “That’s the one. Like I said, she wants him to put in for an exemption, but I don’t.”

  “There are a lot of women who don’t want their sons to go to war, Mrs. Aggett.”

  “Maybe so, but Arthur’s ma isn’t acting out of loving feelings, believe you me. She’s afraid if he cops it she’ll have nobody to fetch and carry for her any more.”

  Aggett seemed about to retort but he swallowed it and ducked his head.

  Murdoch addressed him. “Any comment on that, Mr. Aggett?”

  “Ma has never been strong, and I’m the only thing she has in the world. I daren’t risk leaving her alone.”

  “When did your father die?” Murdoch asked.

  The young man shifted uncomfortably. “We don’t rightly know, sir. He left my ma when I was just a sprig. Never a word from him since.”

  “Did your mother attempt to find him?”

  “Oh, yes sir. She reported it to the police, but he’d vanished. Never found hide nor hair of him.”

  “Can’t blame him for scarpering,” muttered Lottie.

  Her husband flashed her a look of fury but he didn’t speak.