A First Look

A rookie detective, new in town, inherits a high-profile murder case.

Barrachois overlooks the cold, dark edge of the world. It’s a city that’s a little crooked by necessity, but it’s an oddly safe place – joyous, even. Until two little kids witness the death of the limping man.


© D.E. Ring 2021. All rights reserved. Not to be copied without written permission.

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Death of the Limping Man

Chapter 1

It was only two days after Christmas, and Ice Cream Mary was already regarding the tree with suspicion. The boy insisted on the lights, and she hated leaving the room with the electric lights plugged in, but she was itching for some rum-and-raisin.

    Alec was playing with his new train set. It was electric, too, so Mary was convinced he would be electrocuted — as if the brace on his leg wasn’t enough. She got up, pulled her robe tighter, and automatically picked up her cigarettes. ‘I’m just getting some rum-and-raisin. You watch that tree. And don’t touch the track.’

    ‘Yes, Momma,’ said Alec, turning the dial so that the engine sped around the oval as fast as possible. Mary didn’t trust the electrical smell of the transformer either, but she left anyway for the freezer compartment of her new fridge. She was rightly nicknamed.

    She was hardly down the hall when Alec heard the slam of a car door. From the window, he could see a big lime-green Pontiac station wagon at the top of the street, gleaming wet in the lamplight. A man stood beside the car. It was Cramish Wilmot. He waved his thanks to the driver. With a goodbye honk-honk, the car drove off. Alec saw the flare of a match and watched     Cramish smoke his cigarette.

Cramish worked at City Hall on something. Alec didn’t know quite what, because he was seven years old and didn’t really care. Cramish was his friend, and he wore a brace like Alec did — he’d had the polio, too. Cramish lived just around the corner, and the two were buddies. The street was steep but not especially narrow, and it ran almost down to the harbour. It was paved with cobblestones, but the rain made them treacherous for Cramish, who always took his time.

    Mary was just coming back into the living room as Cramish looked up from the lane and waved to Alec. ‘Come away from there. Open the window. The smell of that thing,’ she said, pointing to the train’s transformer.

    Alec waved back at Cramish and opened the window a crack.

    ‘Who you wavin’ at?’ asked his mother, setting down her bowl of ice cream.

   ‘Cramish,’ said Alec, settling back down.

    ‘Mr. Wilmot to you,’ she corrected. ‘Roarin’ Moses. My smokes.’ She left for the kitchen again, quickly this time, fearing for the integrity of her rum-and-raisin.

    Alec had just put his engine in reverse when he heard a car accelerating and someone swearing fiercely. Alec froze, hearing ‘No, Donnie, for the love of God, no! No! No, Donnie, no!’ A scream, lower-pitched, wild and animal, rose from somewhere long hidden. It was a moment before Alec could reach the window.

    He saw a black sedan reversing up the hill. Cramish was lying in the street, his pale coat dark. Alec left his train and the tree and the living room, tore the door wide, and thumped down the stairs.

   ‘Where do you think you’re goin’?’ demanded his mother, torn between following and the danger of leaving the lights on. She ran to the living room, unplugged the tree and the train, and then ran down into the street.

    Alec was standing in the rain over the crushed body of Cramish Wilmot. The pool of blood was prodigious and telling. Beside Alec was Lana from across the street. Lana was five.

    ‘A car,’ said Alec, pointing up the street.

    ‘A black car,’ said Lana, firmly, intent on the corpse. Lana’s mother Ronalda Beckwith emerged from their door with a barking Dalmatian at her heels.

    ‘Sweet Jesus,’ said Ice Cream Mary.

    ‘Holy Mother of God,’ said Ronalda.

    ‘Get back in,’ said Mary, shoving Alec through the open door.

    ‘Poor man probably just couldn’t get out of the way,’ said Ronalda. She grabbed the dog by the collar. ‘I’ll go back and phone the police. One of us should stay. Don’t touch that, Lana.’



Inspector James Urquhart was watching The Secret Life of Walter Mitty from the second-last row of the Chelsea movie theatre. It was a Saturday night, and he was out on his very first date with Sandy MacDonald.     To differentiate her from the ten or twelve other Sandy MacDonalds in Barrachois, she was known as Notepad Sandy, since she was a reporter on The Expositor.

    Barrachois was a small city, only about 30,000 people or so, with many Scots and Irish but not so many surnames. Nicknames had become a necessity in everyday conversation.     Some were occupational, like Notepad’s. Some were historical, like Billy Wireless, who had the first store-bought radio in town. Others were descriptive, like Alistair Mor and Alistair Beag — Big Alistair and Little Alistair, respectively. The Gaelic was often used.

    Urquhart sneaked a look at Notepad MacDonald in the dark: a perfectly beautiful profile, lit by flashes from the screen. Her hand fished in the popcorn beside his leg, and he was happy. He caught her glancing sideways at him periodically. She was always smiling, and he thought that was a good sign. As if in proof, her upper arm moved into warm contact with his.

    Things were just getting tense between Danny Kaye and Boris Karloff when a man shone a flashlight on Jimmy and Sandy. The Chelsea had usherettes, so a man with a flashlight meant business. They got up without a word and followed the manager to the lobby.

    ‘You’re Inspector Urquhart, right?’ he asked. Jimmy nodded, and the manager took him to the phone in his office.

    Jimmy listened, spoke little, and then put down the phone. He took a deep breath and decided, in that moment, to be collected and authoritative. He had been put in charge while the chief was away. It didn’t matter that he was a new cop. It didn’t matter. Everyone would be looking to him for direction. He had felt the same impossible, numbing responsibility as a junior officer in the war. He had managed then. He’d manage now. Evidence. Delegate. Double-check. Just keep a poker face and look like you know something, he said to himself and opened the door out into the lobby.

    ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go. I’m the senior man,’ he explained. Jimmy put his hat on his head and put on his coat as he left the theatre. Sandy followed, trying to keep up. ‘Where’re we going?’

    ‘Hit-and-run. In the alley below Petrie’s Autos,’ he said. ‘Sorry about this.’

    ‘Don’t worry. I would’ve been sent there anyway,’ she replied to his back.

    Jimmy loped along, mind racing: procedure, reports, use your eyes. He pulled his hat down against the rain. Sandy put up her umbrella. Main Street was decorated by the city with scores of white angels blowing golden trumpets. The angels floated overhead, facing each other, dripping. Below, the street was muddy and piled with bricks and yellow barriers against pedestrian dangers. The old street railway was being dug up all over town. Cars were the future.

    They got to the top of the alley. Clarion Lane announced the sign. The alley was roped off, but Jimmy lifted the rope and walked under. The rain had changed to snow.

    ‘Can I come down?’ asked Sandy.

    ‘In a minute,’ said Urquhart, leaving her to watch from the top of the little street. He left her, thinking about the advisability of a date with someone who worked for a newspaper.

    Urquhart walked down the cobbles toward a small group: police, a doctor, and a photographer. Good, he thought, they’re on top of it. A constable with a flashlight scoured the lane. Police photographer George Pauley was taking pictures with a Speed Graphic.  The flash froze the snow in its flight and set buildings at wrong angles to each other.

    ‘Who is it?’ asked Urquhart.

    ‘Duncan Wilmot, sir,’ replied Jimmy’s sergeant.

    ‘Cramish Wilmot? The city clerk?’ demanded Urquhart. While Urquhart was new to Barrachois, he had learned a few nicknames, especially those in the news.

    ‘Yes.’ As luck would have it, his sergeant was also one of the ten or twelve Sandy MacDonalds in Barrachois — and cruelly known as Pretty Sandy. ‘Pauley knew him.’

    ‘George?’ said Urquhart, approaching the photographer. ‘Pretty says you knew the victim.’

    ‘I did. Cramish Wilmot. He lived just there.’ He pointed to the house on the corner.

    ‘Cramish. Forgive an Upper Canadian, but…?’ asked Urquhart.

    ‘Scots word. Like “crunch,” I think,’ said Pauley.

    ‘Jesus,’ said Jimmy, regarding the corpse.

    ‘Anyhow,’ continued Pauley, ‘I knew him from the Veterans Guards. He was commander of the Barrachois company.

    ‘He lived here?’ asked Urquhart.

    ‘He did. Sorry, I’ve just got a couple more shots to take. The snow’s coming down, so I best get cracking,’ said Pauley.

    ‘Of course,’ said Urquhart. He looked up the lane toward the car dealership. He’d been with the artillery and automatically estimated the distance to the street above and the incline of the hill. One hundred sixty feet the former, fifteen per cent slope the latter. Short and steep.

    He turned back to Sergeant MacDonald. ‘What do we know?’

Pretty was efficient. ‘Around nine o’clock, the deceased got out of a car at the top of the lane. A bright green Pontiac station wagon.’

    ‘The mayor.’ Everybody knew Billy Gillis’s new car.

    ‘That’s what the boy reported.’

    ‘The boy?’

    ‘The only eyewitness is seven years old. Alec Petrie. He heard a car’s horn toot goodbye, saw the victim wave, light a cigarette, and start down the street. Young Alec went back to playing with his Christmas toys, then heard someone swear and “No, Donnie, no. For God’s sake. No!” When he got to the window, he saw a black sedan backing up over the body. Alec and his mother went down into the street from their apartment.’

    ‘He didn’t see Mr. Wilmot get hit?’

    ‘No. But his story is largely confirmed by Lana Beckwith, who also heard the screams. But she says Wilmot shouted, “No, Ronnie, no. For God’s sake, no.” Ronnie, not Donnie.’

    ‘Ronnie, not Donnie. She’s sure?’

    Pretty Sandy brushed snow off his pad. ‘Positive.’

    ‘Well, I’m glad. I can’t hang a case on a seven-year-old’s word.’ Urquhart had earned a law degree, although he’d never practised. He knew it was highly unlikely a child would be allowed to testify in court.

    ‘As you say, sir,’ said the sergeant, not looking up.

    ‘What is it, Pretty?’

    ‘Lana is five years old, sir. But is very sure of herself.’

    ‘Five. For the love of Jesus, Pretty,’ said Urquhart.

    ‘A five-year-old and a seven-year-old?’ came a voice from a doorway. Urquhart turned to see Notepad Sandy with pad and pencil in hand.

    ‘I said to wait,’ he said with a little sigh.

    ‘You said “In a minute.” It’s been almost five,’ she replied. She waved at George Pauley. ‘Hey, George. Any chance of getting copies? I left my Brownie at home.’

    ‘Ask the boss,’ George replied.

‘Not a game. How long have you been there?’ asked Urquhart.

    ‘Long enough.’

    ‘The ages of the witnesses are not for the public. For their safety,’ he warned.

    ‘Not an accident, then?’ she asked.      ‘Who’s the body?’

    ‘Pretty?’ said Urquhart, turning to his sergeant.

    ‘Right, miss. You’ll have to move back now while we do our work. The inspector will have more to say in the morning,’ said Sergeant MacDonald.

    ‘The morning? It’s cold out here. And it’s snowing and I don’t have boots and you were supposed to be taking me home.’

    ‘I’m sorry,’ said Inspector Urquhart.     ‘But please … oh, cripes. Pretty, where’s your car?’

    ‘There,’ he said, pointing to a car blocking the bottom of Clarion Lane. ‘You can wait inside there, if you like, miss.’

    ‘What do you know? A gentleman.’ She peered at the body as they passed. ‘That’s Cramish Wilmot. Jeepers.’

    ‘This way, miss,’ said Pretty, guiding her.

    ‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ she said, stepping carefully down the snowy cobbles. She sat behind the wheel — and then rolled down the window to listen.

    Urquhart walked around the corpse to where Doctor Grandage was kneeling. ‘Well, Doc?’

    Al Grandage stood, a little stiff from the cold. Like George Pauley, Grandage was Black but originally from the Caribbean. He now had a thriving practice, but when he arrived in Barrachois twenty years before, he earned much of his bread as the city’s medical examiner. He felt a duty to stay on.

    ‘Well, Jimmy, I’ll know more after the autopsy. Victim is a well-nourished male, late thirties, steel brace on one leg — likely polio as an adult. Smell of beer.’

    ‘Drunk?’ asked Urquhart.

    ‘I’ll do a blood alcohol content.’

    ‘Anything else?’ asked Pretty Sandy.

    ‘He was already on the ground when he was run over, I can tell you that.’

    ‘How do you know?’

    ‘If he had been hit while standing, his legs would’ve been broken just below the knees. And he would have been thrown. Probably tried to get out of the way, slipped in the wet. There is no blood anywhere else but here,’ Grandage said, pointing to the body. ‘Which means this is where he was run over. Pelvis smashed. Given the amount of blood, probably an abdominal aortic dissection. Dead in seconds,’ said Grandage, who paused, then continued. ‘He’s on this side of the lane — not out of the way enough, or the driver aimed for him. If the driver was coming down the hill, he was on the wrong side of the road. He was run over a second time — probably the driver reversing. Dragged some, first this way, then back,’ he concluded.

    ‘Anything else?’

    ‘Mud on his coat. Tire tracks — might be able to give you something there,’ he said, pulling on his gloves. ‘My hat?’ A constable stepped forward with a black homburg. ‘Let’s get him to the morgue.’

    ‘Thanks, Doctor. How’s the lodge going?’ asked Urquhart conversationally. Grandage was building a hotel up the coast, a place for golf and swimming.

    ‘Open this spring. Might have a trial run at Eastertime. Interested?

    ‘When’s Easter this year?’

    ‘End of March,’ replied the doctor.

    ‘If the weather’s okay, that’d be great. Thanks!’ said Urquhart.

    ‘Good,’ said Grandage, walking to his car.

    Urquhart turned to the young constable. ‘Hoegy? Get the ambulance boys going.’

    Hoegy waved his flashlight at the ambulance waiting on King’s Quay and then twisted back to Urquhart and Pretty.

    ‘Yes?’ asked Urquhart.

    ‘Tire marks. The only ones. Down there at the corner. Looks like he laid rubber backing up,’ said the Hoegy.  ‘Nothing else. No broken car parts. Nothing.’

    ‘Photos and measurements,’ said Pretty.

    ‘Done, sir,’ replied Hoegy. He was young and shambling, but he was alert.

    ‘Good man,’ said the sergeant. ‘Get a tarp and cover up everything pertinent. We’ll look again in the light. And keep someone here overnight — just residents allowed in. Got that?’

It was wise direction. Urquhart made a thankful mental note.

    Hoegy nodded. ‘Sir.’

    ‘Well, Pretty, I guess it’s kindergarten time. Which is which?’ asked Urquhart.

Pretty pointed to the Petries then the Beckwiths. As Urquhart and Pretty knocked the snow off their shoes and went in the Petrie doorway, Notepad Sandy stepped out of Pretty’s car and went straight for the phone booth opposite.