Chapter 4
Chapter 4
Murdoch and Watts found themselves walking through the crowded back alleys towards the New Salem Society.
“What do you make of this, Detective?” asked Watts to Murdoch, “New Salem? Salem for Peace from the Hebrew Shalom or Arabic Salim? Or perhaps the Biblical town of which Melchizedek was king?”
“I suppose we’ll soon find out.”
They had arrived at a bleak looking structure. It appeared to have once been a small wooden stable or barn. It had been converted at some point to a chapel of sorts. Now it was desperately in need of repair.
A weathered banner over the door read “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live! - Exodus 22:18 ” On the door a flier for a soup kitchen invited hungry children to practice “missionary work” in exchange for food. Gaping cracks ran against the walls of the chapel where wooden planks had rotten away. Watts imagined it would be bitterly cold in the winter. It was a depressing place.
Watts cocked his head and raised his eyebrows and hummed. “Ah, so Salem, as in the town in America, in which innocents were executed as witches three hundred or so years ago. Got it.”
He scratched the back of his neck uncomfortably.
Murdoch grimaced and knocked on the door. It was opened a moment later by possibly the saddest looking child they’d ever seen. She looked to be about seven years old, and was all skin and bone - her skin sallow, her brown eyes dull and hollow, blond hair hanging limply around her face. She was dressed in an unseasonably heavy, shapeless gray gown, messily tailored down from an adult garment to fit her tiny frame. Still, the sleeves were too long, and the hem draped the floor, her scuffed brown shoes barely poking through.
“Hello, Miss! What’s your name?” asked Watts gently. The girl just stared at him.
Watts felt his heart grow heavy for the unfortunate child. He squatted down to eye level with the girl to appear less intimidating.
She stared at him unblinkingly. It was quite unsettling.
Undeterred, he spoke, “My name is Detective Watts, this is my colleague, Detective Murdoch. We are here on important police business. Is there an adult present we can speak-”
“Modesty! What are you doing at the door?!” came a screeching shout from inside.
Watts stood abruptly. A woman appeared in the doorway roughly yanking the girl -Modesty- away into the dark room and shouted at them, “You’ve missed lunch, and dinner starts promptly at six…” catching sight of them, her eyes narrowed “and it’s only for children!”
“Ma’am, I’m Detective William Murdoch of the Toronto Constabulary,” said Murdoch quickly. He flicked open his jacket to reveal the badge pinned to his waistcoat. “This is Detective Watts,” he nodded his head. “We are here on police business, I’m afraid. Is there someplace we can speak...Mrs....?”
“Miss. Barebone, Mary Lou Barebone,” she eyed them suspiciously, folding her arms across her chest. Despite the heat, she was dressed in a puritanical, high-collared long back dress with long sleeves. Her brown hair was chopped in a severe bob. She appeared to be in her late thirties or early forties. Her face gave the impression of one that had probably never smiled.
“Come in, then,” she said finally. Pulling the door further open. The sunlight barely touched the dreary room. A dozen or so poor children were lined up collecting what appeared to be stacks of pamphlets from a frightfully thin girl. Her severe dark dress made her almost disappear into the gloom if not for her sickly skin and red-blond hair.
Mary Lou Barebone led them through the room, handing off a stack of pamphlets to a sallow-skinned boy with hunched shoulders and stringy black hair. Watts paused to take one, tucking it into his jacket before following her past the pulpit to a small door in the far back.
The door led to a small office room, lit by a single naked lightbulb. A desk was covered in more of the pamphlets and stacks of paper. There was only one chair, a spindly high-backed wooden chair that looked incredibly uncomfortable.
Watts and Murdoch exchanged a look. Watts hung back, leaning against the wall, awkwardly fidgeting with his hat in his hands.
Murdoch approached the chair, pulling it out slightly.
“Perhaps you should sit down, Miss Barebone,” said Murdoch kindly, nodding at the seat. She remained standing with a glare.
Putting her hands on her hips, she snapped, “I’m very busy, Detective. We’re just about to leave on important missionary work, preaching to the good people of Toronto.”
“We understand, Miss Barebone, we wouldn’t dream of taking up your time if it were not of the greatest importance,” said Watts from the corner, his tone somewhere between sincere and sarcastic.
“Miss Barebone, do you know Reverend Ebenezer Winters?” asked Murdoch, pulling a photograph out of his breast pocket.
“Yes, the good Reverend is my cousin. Together he and I lead the New Salem Society, he is active in our missionary work, and he preaches here, trying to educate these children about the wickedness of the world.”
“When did you last see him?” asked Murdoch.
“I saw him here last night at evening prayer, before we all retired for the night. We got back around nine; we’d been out preaching...”
“We?”
“Ebenezer, myself, and the children.”
“Do you all live here?” asked Watts.
“Ebenezer has a room down here at the back of the chapel. I have a room upstairs, and three of the orphans that I’ve adopted - Credence, Chastity and Modesty, share a room upstairs as well.”
“The last you saw him was nine last night?”
“Yes!”
Watts looked at her suspiciously. “You all live together here. Did you not think it odd that you haven’t seen him since last night?”
“My cousin spends a great deal of time in his room in prayer and reflection, and doing the Lord’s work around the city. What are all these questions pertaining to?”
Murdoch looked at Watts carefully. Watts was normally an unorthodox character, but he was a very good Detective. Was Watts being so abrupt with Miss Barebone in the hopes it would goad her into speaking? Or did he suspect her of something untoward? Was this to be good-constable-bad-constable?
Murdoch turned to Miss Barebone and replied gently, “This may come as a bit of a shock, Miss Barebone, I’m sorry to have to tell you, but Reverend Ebenezer Winters was found dead this morning, not far from here.”
“No!”
“We believe him to have died under suspicious circumstances.” Murdoch handed her the photograph.
“NO!”
Mary Lou paled with shock the photograph fell from her hand, and she covered her mouth, trembling with emotion. She sat forcefully in her chair.
“We need to know if there is anyone who had a quarrel with your cousin, anyone who wished to do him harm, and we very much would like to trace his movements last night…”
“This has to do with them, I’m sure of it.”
“Who is them, Miss Barebone?”
“The Witches!” she snapped, her eyes narrowed.
“Witches” repeated Watts, eyebrows raised.
She looked slightly deranged. “Ebenezer and I have devoted our lives to fighting witches...they live among us, they try to destroy good, God-fearing folk with their wicked, devil-worshipping ways. They’re the scourge that is destroying our civilisation!”
Mary Lou handed them each a pamphlet. This time Watts flipped through it carefully. Images of fire and women dancing with the devil in a forest, snippets of scripture...dire warnings in bold...it looked like the ravings of a madman.
“You might laugh at us...they all do. No one wants to believe that Evil walks amongst us, least of all you men of the Law - you think you have power in maintaining order, but you are WRONG. Witches are real, and they are trying to kill us all! We must eradicate them before they destroy everything we hold dear.”
“We’re not laughing, Miss Barebone,” said Watts carefully, “We’re trying to find the person or persons responsible for your cousin’s death, and we will bring them to justice.”
“Do you have any idea what your cousin might have been doing out at two in the morning?” asked Murdoch.
“He would never be out and about at such an ungodly hour!”
“Except he was. He was killed where he was found: in the alley behind the distillery, and we are certain it happened around 2 in the morning,” retorted Watts.
“My cousin never drank, he never went out at night...those witches must have stolen him away! They got to him, my poor, poor cousin!”
“We have found two other victims in the past few weeks, we believe their deaths are related -” Murdoch tried to hand her photographs, “Have you ever seen either of these men?”
But Miss Barebone appeared to be beyond reason. She ignored Murdoch and began to rock herself in the chair muttering, “My poor cousin, what have they done to you, my poor good cousin, those Witches have taken you too soon.”
“Or perhaps, you could give us a list of people who might have wished him harm?” asked Watts, trying to keep his tone even.
At that, Miss Barebone glared at him, “I’ve already told you-”
“Yes,” said Watts, frustration seeping into his voice despite his best efforts, “But anything more specific? Do you have the names of any of these witches? Where can we find them?”
“They’re everywhere!” said Miss Barebone, standing up quickly. “They walk among us. My cousin is dead, and they live on, gloating, and all you do is stand there and ask questions, when we should be fighting! We are at WAR! I have to go, I - we have to preach! It’s what Ebenezer would have wanted!” She brushed past them shouting, “We shall not suffer a witch to live!!”
She flung open the door to the chapel and called for the children to fall in line.
Murdoch and Watts ran out after her. “Miss Barebone, a moment please...we would like to check the Reverend’s room for any clues, and we will need to speak with you further - we will also need you to come down to the Stationhouse, to give a statement and formally identify the victim...this is a murder investigation...” called Murdoch.
“We have too much to do right now. This scourge must not be allowed to continue. We must fight fire with fire!” She ushered them out along with the small army of street urchins. “Come along, children, towards City Hall!”
She led the way, the group of hungry destitute children following behind her, looking warily at the pamphlets in their hands. The three Barebone children hung towards the back of the party. The older girl, Chastity, was walking with her eyes straight ahead, her arms full of leaflets. The boy, Credence was staring at the ground, one arm holding a stack as well and holding Modesty’s left hand in his right. Modesty hopped along, surprisingly animated, chanting softly to herself.
“My momma, your momma, gonna catch a witch. My momma, your momma, flying on a switch. My momma, your momma, witches never cry. My momma, your momma, witches gonna die! Witch number one, drown in a river! Witch number two, gotta noose to give ‘er! Witch number three, gonna watch her burn. Witch number four, flogging take a turn…”
Watts felt his stomach turn with dread at the girl’s words. Credence glanced desperately at the Detectives as he walked past, his pale cheeks burning in shame. Watts smiled sadly. Credence averted his glance immediately.
Once they were out of earshot, Watts muttered, “I’m starting to agree with Constable Crabtree - perhaps Smoke Monsters are the least mad of all... witches ?” He scoffed.
He stopped to pick up one of the pamphlets that Miss Barebone had dropped, careful to use his handkerchief and avoid touching it. He wrapped it before slipping it into his jacket pocket. He tapped his coat pocket, “I figured we could try to pull fingermarks...just in case.”
“Ah, good thinking Watts...you suspect Miss Barebone?”
Watts huffed in frustration, “She seems very suspicious. I perceived her to be a rather cruel woman and at least half mad, I'd say. She’s connected with Winters - but we have yet to find if she has any correlation with the other two victims. We have precious little information in this case... It may amount to nothing.”
He sighed. “Then again, who is to know whether or not in the near future we will be arresting her on suspicion of murder of an “witch.” ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live…’ ” he shook his head.
“You seemed particularly mistrustful of her…” continued Murdoch.
“I know her type,” said Watts abruptly before changing the subject, “What next, Detective? Should we search Mr. Winters’s room now, or come back later when the Barebone brood has returned so we can conduct those interviews as well?”
Murdoch blinked at the abrupt change of topic, but if Watts was unwilling to speak about it, he wouldn’t push him. Instead he said, “We might as well search the room now. Perhaps it’s for the best that Miss Barebone and the children be otherwise occupied. I would dearly like to further interview Miss Barebone - as well as the children.”
“Hmmm, the boy in particular seemed uncomfortable about this entire situation, perhaps he witnessed something?” asked Watts.
“Perhaps. There was a police phone box at the corner, start with Mr. Winters’s room, I’ll call the station and get some of the lads to keep an eye on their ‘missionary work’ at City Hall, I’ll join you shortly,” replied Murdoch.
* * * * * * *
Inspector Brackenreid put down the receiver with a sigh. He poured himself a few fingers of whisky before making his way over to his office door and opened it roughly. He glanced out and saw Crabtree sitting at his desk with his chin rested in his palm, staring off into space.
“Oi, Bugalugs!”
George Crabtree came running, “Sir?”
“What is with you today? You’re being a right Happy Dafty. Your head is in the clouds...more than it usually is.”
“Sir, I-“
“Save it. I just got a call from Murdoch, Crabtree. There is some sort of rally happening near City Hall. He’s asked some of the lads to head over and keep an eye on things. One of the participants may have information on the Winters murder, Miss Barebone of The Second Salem Society or some bollocks. Apparently she's obsessed with witches - This one seems right up you alley!”
“Witches, Sir?”
“Aye...we’ve had Martians, Venutians, ghosts, werewolves, vampires, sea monsters, zombies....nothing shocks me anymore, Crabtree. I wouldn’t be surprised if these bombs and murders are the work of an abominable snowman.”
“Well, Sir...funny you should say that...I’ve been following the several witness testimonies regarding the possibility of a Smoke Monster...”
Brackenreid blinked, sighed, then took a long sip of his drink. He swallowed, savouring the burn. Finally he said, speaking into his glass, “Smoke Monster, eh? Now , I’ve heard it all.”
Looking up, he saw Crabtree still standing there uncertainly.
“Well, hop to it then, take Higgins, McNabb, Worseley and Hodge with you...off you pop.”
“Straight away, Sir.” Crabtree made his way out to grab his helmet and rally the lads.
“Oh, and Crabtree,” called Brackenreid, “If it is the work of smoke monsters or witches, or smoke monsters and witches, or bewitching smoke, or smoking witches, I couldn’t care a toss, as long as they end up locked away in my cells.”
“Right, Sir.”
* * * * * * *
Murdoch made his way to Winters’s room and paused in the doorway. The room was bare and impersonal. Watts appeared to have already looked through the little there was.
“There wasn’t much to be found here, Detective Murdoch. A pair of well-worn shoes in the closet, a winter coat, and a suit. In the drawer are some shirts, collars and undergarments. A belt. Can you imagine a human life leaving no trace but this?”
His hand brushed the well-worn bible on Winters’s bedside table. He picked it up and flipped through it - certain passages were highlighted with notes in the margins.
“Perhaps this will be of use?” he mused to himself, adding the Bible on the Reverend’s writing desk.
On the desk sat yet another stack of pamphlets and what appeared to be a number of notebooks.
“Was there anything in the journals?” asked Murdoch.
“Mostly it seemed to be notes for his sermons. Though, I imagine they, like the Reverend’s bible, are deserving of a closer look.”
“No personal correspondences, no photographs or anything of that nature,” said Murdoch as he flipped through the journals, “Just dire warnings about witchcraft.”
“The Reverend seemed to have been a man obsessed,” mused Watts, searching under the Reverend’s pillows and lifting his mattress.
“Aha!” he said, and crawled to his knees to reach under Winters’s bed. He pulled out a large wooden crate - it was stamped with the name of a printer shop in the Ward on all sides.
“I hope this doesn’t turn out to be yet more of those pamphlets,” said Watts with a wry smile, placing the box on the bed. Murdoch chuckled and made his way over. Lifting the lid, Watts whistled to himself.
Inside the box were thousands of newspaper clippings and sheets of paper covered in scrambling writing.
Murdoch pulled out a stack, flipping through, he said, “These go back at least ten years.”
Watts held up a newspaper clipping with an image of the mayor walking arm and arm with his wife. Across her face written in the Reverend’s handwriting were the words ‘Mayor bewitched!?’
He appeared to see witchcraft in everything - too much snowfall, not enough snowfall, jazz music, dancing, any injury or accident of any kind, women's suffrage, in both the passing and the repealing of the Prohibition ...it appeared that any life not devoted to stamping out witchcraft was assumed to be witchcraft.
“Well, this is...quite shocking,” said Watts softly, flipping to another newspaper article from 1921, announcing the election of Agnes Macphail to the House of Commons. Winters had crossed out her eyes and written “Exodus 22:18” across her face. In the margin: “A woman in elected office?! Witchcraft!”
“Perhaps these New Salem-ers are the terrorist organisation that Meyers mentioned?” asked Murdoch. “Perhaps in this witch hunt madness they’ve begun to kill people they perceive as threats?”
“Perhaps,” replied Watts, “Though, to my knowledge, Miss Macphail is still among the living. In any rate, why would they target one of their own? Unless a rival terrorist group killed Mr. Winters?”
“Let’s get these over to Stationhouse Four, we’ll look at them more closely. I would like to get to the rally at City Hall and keep a close eye on the New Salemers,” said Murdoch.
The chapel appeared even more dreary and claustrophobic as they walked back across it and out into the sunshine carrying the Reverend’s documents.
There was something very wrong at the New Salem Society, and Murdoch and Watts were determined to get to the bottom of it.
* * * * * * *