acknowledge anyone and she seemed alone and friendless, even though there was a woman next to her who Murdoch assumed was a neighbour. She too was in black and he saw her wiping her eyes with a black-edged handkerchief. Mrs. Wicken was not weeping.
Beside the neighbour was the patrol sergeant Hales, who had to testify, and next to him was a young woman that Murdoch didn’t recognise. She was soberly dressed in a dark grey walking suit and plain black felt hat with a short veil to the chin. He wondered if this was the woman that Wicken had apparently died for. She seemed to be alone and her head was bowed in prayer. He could imagine what an ordeal the inquest was going to be for her.
The spectators were behaving with respect and there was only a subdued murmur as they waited for the proceedings to start. A table had been placed at the front of the chapel for the coroner and the constable of the court. The side door opened and Crabtree strode in, followed by Mr. Johnson.
“Oyez! Oyez! Everybody please rise.”
There was a rustling of garments and creaking of seats as the spectators obeyed.
“An inquisition is now in session, taken for Our Sovereign Lady, the Queen, at the house of Benjamin Humphrey, situate in the city of Toronto in the county of York on the thirteenth day of November in the fifty-eighth year of the reign of Our Sovereign Lady, Victoria, before Arthur Edward Johnson, Esquire, one of the coroners of our said Lady to inquire when, how, and by what means Oliver Wicken came to his death. All of the jurors here present being duly sworn and having viewed the body.”
Johnson took his seat behind the table.
“Everyone may now sit.”
Crabtree’s booming voice filled the chapel. There was an expectant silence; nevertheless, the constable picked up the rubber mallet on the desk and banged it. He addressed the jurors.
“Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! You good men of this county, answer to your names as you shall be called, every man at the first call, upon pain and peril that shall fall thereon.”
He checked off their names as they answered.
Johnson waited impassively for Crabtree to finish, staring at a spot three feet in front of him. The roll call finished, he blinked and spoke out in his raspy nasal voice.
“I shall proceed to hear and take down the evidence respecting the fact, to which I crave your particular attention.”
He nodded at Crabtree who turned slightly to face the row where the witnesses sat. Murdoch felt a slight quiver of stage fright in his stomach. Crabtree declaimed, “If anyone can give evidence on behalf of our Sovereign Lady the Queen, when, how, and by what means Oliver Wicken came to his death, let him come forth and he shall be heard.”
He beckoned to Patrol Sergeant Hales, who stood up and approached the table.
“State your name, place of abode, and occupation.”
“Edward Hales, number fifty, Sydenham Street. I am night patrol sergeant at number four police station, which is located on Wilton Street.”
“That your full name?”
“No, sir. My full name is Edward George Wilbur Hales.”
“Say so then. This is her Majesty’s court now convened.”
Johnson frowned at the rest of the witnesses as if they too had transgressed. Crabtree waited until the coroner had finished entering the information in hisledger, then picked up the Bible that was on the desk and held it out. Hales took it in his right hand.
“The evidence which you shall give to this inquest on behalf of our Sovereign Lady the Queen touching the death of Oliver Wicken shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. So help you God. Do you so swear?”
“I do.”
“Stand over there and address the coroner and make sure the jurors can hear you.”
Hales moved so that he was at an angle to the court.
“Constable, second class, Oliver Wicken went on duty at a quarter to seven on the night of Monday last, the eleventh of November …”
“Don’t gabble,” interrupted Johnson. “I have
Beside the neighbour was the patrol sergeant Hales, who had to testify, and next to him was a young woman that Murdoch didn’t recognise. She was soberly dressed in a dark grey walking suit and plain black felt hat with a short veil to the chin. He wondered if this was the woman that Wicken had apparently died for. She seemed to be alone and her head was bowed in prayer. He could imagine what an ordeal the inquest was going to be for her.
The spectators were behaving with respect and there was only a subdued murmur as they waited for the proceedings to start. A table had been placed at the front of the chapel for the coroner and the constable of the court. The side door opened and Crabtree strode in, followed by Mr. Johnson.
“Oyez! Oyez! Everybody please rise.”
There was a rustling of garments and creaking of seats as the spectators obeyed.
“An inquisition is now in session, taken for Our Sovereign Lady, the Queen, at the house of Benjamin Humphrey, situate in the city of Toronto in the county of York on the thirteenth day of November in the fifty-eighth year of the reign of Our Sovereign Lady, Victoria, before Arthur Edward Johnson, Esquire, one of the coroners of our said Lady to inquire when, how, and by what means Oliver Wicken came to his death. All of the jurors here present being duly sworn and having viewed the body.”
Johnson took his seat behind the table.
“Everyone may now sit.”
Crabtree’s booming voice filled the chapel. There was an expectant silence; nevertheless, the constable picked up the rubber mallet on the desk and banged it. He addressed the jurors.
“Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! You good men of this county, answer to your names as you shall be called, every man at the first call, upon pain and peril that shall fall thereon.”
He checked off their names as they answered.
Johnson waited impassively for Crabtree to finish, staring at a spot three feet in front of him. The roll call finished, he blinked and spoke out in his raspy nasal voice.
“I shall proceed to hear and take down the evidence respecting the fact, to which I crave your particular attention.”
He nodded at Crabtree who turned slightly to face the row where the witnesses sat. Murdoch felt a slight quiver of stage fright in his stomach. Crabtree declaimed, “If anyone can give evidence on behalf of our Sovereign Lady the Queen, when, how, and by what means Oliver Wicken came to his death, let him come forth and he shall be heard.”
He beckoned to Patrol Sergeant Hales, who stood up and approached the table.
“State your name, place of abode, and occupation.”
“Edward Hales, number fifty, Sydenham Street. I am night patrol sergeant at number four police station, which is located on Wilton Street.”
“That your full name?”
“No, sir. My full name is Edward George Wilbur Hales.”
“Say so then. This is her Majesty’s court now convened.”
Johnson frowned at the rest of the witnesses as if they too had transgressed. Crabtree waited until the coroner had finished entering the information in hisledger, then picked up the Bible that was on the desk and held it out. Hales took it in his right hand.
“The evidence which you shall give to this inquest on behalf of our Sovereign Lady the Queen touching the death of Oliver Wicken shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. So help you God. Do you so swear?”
“I do.”
“Stand over there and address the coroner and make sure the jurors can hear you.”
Hales moved so that he was at an angle to the court.
“Constable, second class, Oliver Wicken went on duty at a quarter to seven on the night of Monday last, the eleventh of November …”
“Don’t gabble,” interrupted Johnson. “I have
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