Читать книгу The Barkerville Mysteries 3-Book Bundle - Ann Walsh - Страница 6

The Theatre Royal, where the inquest was being held, was packed. I took a quick look, but thankfully didn’t see Jenny in the crowd. I was relieved. I knew I would have to meet her and be properly introduced sooner or later, but I preferred that it be later. Much later.

In the theatre the curtains were open and a table had been set up on the stage. Dr. Bell sat behind the table, and there was a row of chairs, filled with men, to his left.

Chief Constable Lindsay led me to the front of the theatre. Sing Kee and two other Chinese were there as well as a few other men whose names I didn’t know. “Sit down,” the chief constable said. “We kept these seats for the witnesses. My, there’s quite a crowd. Sit, Ted. You’ll have a good view of the proceedings from here.”

I sat beside Sing Kee, who nodded at me. “So. You will be a witness. That is good.”

This was an excellent seat for watching musical performances, but it wasn’t so good when every person behind you was staring at the back of your neck, wondering what you were doing there. At least that was what it felt like to me—as if a thousand pairs of eyes were boring into my neck. I could feel myself, neck and all, growing red.

Mr. Tremblay and another man sat on chairs on the other side of Dr. Bell, and a constable stood behind them. The Frenchman wasn’t handcuffed, as far as I could tell, but he didn’t look happy. His frown drew his face into deep creases and narrowed his eyes.

“Ah, the helpful boy,” Henri Tremblay said when he saw me. “The one who is almost docteur.” He laughed briefly, then fell silent when the man beside him put a hand on his shoulder.

“This coroner’s court is now in session,” Dr. Bell said. “The jury has been selected.” He motioned to the men sitting on chairs. “The Honourable Mr. Walkem, a fine solicitor, is here to watch the interests of the accused, Mr. Henri Tremblay. Let us begin. Mr. Walkem, I understand you wish to address this inquest.”

The man beside Henri Tremblay rose and bowed. “If it please the court, sir,” he said, “Mr. Tremblay is well-known in Cariboo as a proprietor of a farm near Quesnel Mouth, the owner of a store in Mosquito Creek, and a dealer in agricultural products. He bears an excellent character and is much respected by the entire community. It is impossible that such a man would commit murder. Arresting him has been a terrible mistake.”

“I agree,” said Dr. Bell. “It is unfortunate. But as you well know, Mr. Walkem, this is not the time for such remarks. First, we must proceed with the inquest, after which Mr. Tremblay will appear before a magistrate and at that time you may present all the testimony you wish about your client’s upstanding character.”

Mr. Walkem thanked the doctor and sat again.

I stared at the floor. My stomach felt peculiar, but whether it was from hunger or something else, I didn’t know.

A Chinese man was led to the stage, and the jury foreman asked him his name. He was Ah Ohn, he replied, and was on the street when Ah Mow died.

“Are—were—you and Mr. Mow related?” asked the foreman.

“No.”

“Then why do you have the same name—Ah?”

“It means like ‘mister.’ Not real name.”

“Oh, now I understand,” the foreman said. “So tell us, Mr. Ohn, what did you see?” The audience was completely still; it almost seemed as if no one breathed.

Ah Ohn looked directly at the foreman as he answered. “I see murder. I see white man kill Ah Mow.” He pointed at Henri Tremblay.

There was a gasp from the people in the audience. It appeared they found the proceedings just as entertaining as the last performance at the Theatre Royal, a melodrama with an evil, bearded villain and a vain but beautiful heroine.

The coroner waited until everyone was quiet again before he asked, “So you claim you saw murder done, Mr. Ohn? Could you be more specific, please?”

The witness looked at him, not understanding the question.

“More details. Details of what you claim to have seen.”

“Details? What is details?”

“Explain what you saw,” said the coroner. “Tell us exactly what happened.”

“What happen, yes. First I hear, then I see. They shout, the white man and Ah Mow. I hear noise, so I come out to street. I see white man has knife.”

Mr. Walkem rose. “Excuse me, but would it be possible to have this witness identify the type of knife? I have a few examples here, if the witness wouldn’t mind taking a look.” He gestured at a table where a white cloth covered some objects.

“Of course,” answered Dr. Bell. “An excellent idea of yours, Walkem.”

The lawyer whisked the cloth away and motioned for the witness to move closer, while the audience members craned their necks to see what was on the table. Some even stood, hoping for a better view. Mr. Walkem picked up a pocketknife, lifting it so that the audience and the witness could see it clearly. “Was the knife you say Mr. Tremblay was holding like this one?”

Ah Ohn shook his head. “Too small.”

“Like this one?” the lawyer asked, brandishing a large carving knife with a bone handle. That knife looked very much like the one my father used to carve a roast. I shuddered.

“No, no, too big” was the reply.

“Perhaps more like this,” Mr. Walkem said, picking up a third knife. This one was smaller, about eight inches long, and the blade glittered. It must have been newly sharpened. It could have been a hunting knife, but one with a longer blade than most.

“Yes, like that,” Ah Ohn said.

“Are you sure it wasn’t a clasp knife like this one?” Mr. Walkem reached across the table and picked up a pocketknife.

“I say already that knife too small,” the witness answered.

“But this isn’t the knife I showed you earlier,” Mr. Walkem said. “This knife, this ‘too small’ knife, is the one Chief Constable Lindsay found in the coat pocket of my client when he arrested him.”

This time the audience’s reaction was loud, and the coroner glared as he said, “In spite of Mr. Walkem’s theatrics, this is a coroner’s inquiry, not a dramatic performance. Those in attendance will kindly keep that fact in mind.”

Mr. Walkem sat down beside Henri Tremblay. The two men exchanged glances; both looked pleased. But it was the jury foreman who asked the next question. “Where exactly was Mr. Tremblay when you saw him?”

“Beside Ah Mow. He kneels in snow beside Ah Mow. Ah Mow on ground. Ah Mow dead.”

“You knew for sure that he was dead?”

“Yes. Much blood.”

There had been much blood. I, too, had seen it.

“And how do you believe Ah Mow was killed?”

“With a knife,” Ah Ohn said. “That man, he kill Ah Mow with knife. Ah Mow holler loud. Ah Mow holler, ‘Murder!’”

As if they were one person, everyone in the audience gasped. Then the room grew quiet once again, so silent that it almost seemed as if we could hear the words Henri Tremblay spoke when he leaned toward his lawyer and whispered something in the man’s ear.

Mr. Walkem listened for a moment, then stood again. “Did Mr. Mow speak English?”

“Some words,” Ah Ohn said. “Not much.”

“So how is it that a man who speaks very little English has the presence of mind to shout ‘Murder’ in a language that isn’t his own tongue?”

Ah Ohn looked confused once again.

“Why did Mr. Mow shout in English?” Mr. Walkem repeated.

“To make white men hear,” Ah Ohn said, finally understanding. “Ah Mow want help from constable. So he use English word.”

“Oh,” Mr. Walkem said, looking disappointed. “Where were you when you say you saw Mr. Tremblay kneeling beside Mr. Mow?”

“Two, maybe three doors away. Nine, ten feet. I see clearly.”

“Did you?” said Mr. Walkem. “You saw clearly? Are you sure about that?” But before Ah Ohn could answer, the lawyer turned away. “No further questions for this witness.”

Another Chinese man was called to testify. He didn’t speak English, so Sing Kee translated for him. His story was much the same as Ah Ohn’s. He had heard men shouting and had come out of his house to see what was happening. He had heard Ah Mow cry out. He had seen Mr. Tremblay kneeling beside the murdered man.

The doctor who examined the body was summoned next, and he gave his report. It was long, and I couldn’t concentrate on what was being said. A shuffling and restlessness in the audience made me take notice just as a sentence describing the injury, “a wound at the scapular end of the clavicle dividing the subclavicle artery,” was read. I realized that not many in the audience understood the medical words. Most of the terms the doctor was using I knew from my days as Dr. Wilkinson’s apprentice, but even I was mystified by scapular and clavicle until Dr. Bell pointed to his own chest, showing everyone the exact spot of the injury.

“The wound was severe,” the doctor explained. “Severe enough to probably cause instantaneous death.”

Then Dr. Bell called my name. “Theodore Macintosh, are you in attendance?”

Swallowing hard, I said, “Here, sir,” and stood.

“Young man, your name has been presented by Mr. Sing Kee as a possible witness, though Mr. Walkem, appearing for the defence, informs me you’ll have nothing to add to these proceedings. Were you, in fact, present when this murder took place?”

“No, sir.” I swallowed again. “I came later, after—”

“I understand that you stayed with the body until Chief Constable Lindsay arrived. Is that correct?” Mr. Walkem asked, coming to the edge of the stage and peering down at me as he asked the question. In his black robes he looked like a large raven inspecting the ground, searching for something to eat.

I tried hard not to feel like a plump and nourishing worm as I answered, “Yes, sir.”

“And you saw my client there?” “Yes, sir.”

“Was he near the body?”

“No, sir. The body—uh, Mr. Mow—was on the steps in front of his restaurant. Mr. Tremblay was in the middle of the road.”

“Were you close enough to him to see Mr. Tremblay’s face?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And was there blood on his face? On his coat? Or perhaps on his hands?”

“No, sir. I saw no blood.”

“Do you not find it odd that a man who has been accused of murder had not a speck of blood on him only moments after the deed was committed? How do you suppose that was possible?”

“I don’t know—” I began.

“Mr. Walkem,” Dr. Bell said, “I understand that you have only the best interests of your client at heart, but this is not a trial. This is merely, as I am sure you know well, a coroner’s inquest where a jury will determine the cause of death. Please save your arguments and any further questions until the trial—if, in fact, one becomes necessary.” He then turned back to me. “Unless you saw the murder happen, Theodore Macintosh, you are of no use in this inquiry. You may leave, if you wish.”

I did wish. I wanted desperately to get back to Pa’s shop, to get away from all these gawking people. As I made my way out of the theatre, I once more felt their stares on my back.

Just as I pushed through the big front doors I heard the coroner say, “We will now hear the testimony of Chief Constable Lindsay.”

But I wasn’t hearing Dr. Bell’s voice. I was hearing once again the cry that had reached out to me through the cold air as, early this morning, I had made my way down the Richfield road.

Murder! Murder!’