Except the Dying
- Автор: Jennings Maureen
- Серия: The Murdoch Mysteries #1
- Год: 1997
- Язык: английский
- Год: McClelland & Stewart
- ISBN: 9780771043208
- Жанр: Полицейские детективы
Электронная книга - «Except the Dying». Краткое содержание книги:
In the cold Toronto winter of 1895, the unclad body of a servant girl is found frozen in a deserted laneway. Detective William Murdoch quickly finds out that more than one person connected with the girl's simple life has something to hide. From the Paperback edition.
Murdoch hovered awkwardly in the narrow hall, pinned by his landlady’s excitement.
“Not that I would tell May anything that I shouldn’t, as you know. Oh, dear, look at you shivering here. All in good time … Come on down to the kitchen and get yourself warm. I made you a nice bit of liver.”
Murdoch rubbed his hands together to restore the circulation. “Thank you, Mrs. K. Right now I could eat moss off a rock.” He nodded in the direction of the parlour. “How’s himself?”
“Not so good today. But he’ll cheer up when he knows you’re home. He was very interested in the story of the dead girl. He’s got all sorts of ideas already. You know what he’s like.”
“I’ll be glad to hear them. We’ve got nowhere so far.”
Murdoch meant what he said. He’d come to value Arthur Kitchen’s shrewdness, and talking over the incidents of his day had become a routine they both looked forward to.
Last winter Arthur Kitchen had developed a hacking cough, and it soon became apparent he had the consumption. Until then he’d had a good job as a railway clerk, but when his condition was known, he was fired with some paltry excuse. A tiny pension from an insurance company was all he had to live on. Over the last six months his health had deteriorated to the point where he no longer left the house, spending his time confined to the small front parlour. Murdoch was the only lodger now; others had moved out when they realized what the sickness was.
Murdoch followed his landlady to the kitchen and as they passed the parlour, he could hear the bubbling cough.
“I’ll just say hello,” he said. With a knock, he opened the parlour door.
The room was icy cold. Mrs. Kitchen had heard that fresh air was good for tubercular patients, and she kept the window open day and night. Murdoch wasn’t convinced the sooty blasts that came in from the Toronto streets were equivalent to fresh Muskoka breezes, but Arthur found the cold air relieved the discomfort of his constant fever. When he saw who it was, his gaunt face lit up.
“Evening, Bill. Late tonight.”
He was seated in a wicker Bath chair, wrapped in a quilt. Handy beside him was a spittoon. The room was thick with the rotten odour of consumptive lungs.
“Evening yourself, Arthur. You’ve heard about the case, I understand–”
Beatrice interrupted. “That’ll keep ’til you’ve had your tea. Come on now.”
Murdoch grinned. “All right. Be back shortly.”
He followed her down to the kitchen, which was blessedly warm and filled with the delicious smell of fried onions. A place was set at the small pine table and he sat down obediently while Beatrice took his plate out of the warming oven. The Kitchens and he had become good friends but he was still the boarder and, as such, certain formalities were observed. He was served separately from the two of them and always got the best cuts of meat and the choicest vegetables. He’d given up protesting. Arthur seemed to subsist on broth and junkets but Murdoch worried that Beatrice didn’t eat enough herself. Even birds couldn’t subsist on air.
“The water’s boiling when you want it and there’s a lemon pudding for your sweet. Join us when you’re done.”
She left him to eat alone.
He eased his chilled feet out of his boots into the slippers she had warmed for him and tackled his meal. The liver had dried out to the consistency of guttapercha but he was too hungry to be fussy. He sliced off a piece, loaded onions on top of it and shovelled it into his mouth. He demolished the meal in no time at all, then sawed off a thick hunk of bread from the loaf beside his plate and mopped up the grease from his dish. The kettle was whistling shrilly and he got up to make a pot of tea. The sweet was lumpy but he wolfed that down too, then sat back to drink his tea. Usually he read the newspapers while he ate but there were none today. Instead he propped up the book he’d taken out of the library the week before. It was a biography of the explorer Henry Stanley.
He turned the page but realized he hadn’t really taken in the words. He was finding it hard to concentrate. Images of a young naked body kept intruding. Images of raw flesh where the skin had torn from the knees and elbows as they pulled her from the winter’s deadly embrace.
The three of them were seated in the parlour. The window was closed and Beatrice had lit the fire but it hadn’t yet touched the chill air. Arthur, the lines on his face as dark as scars, was wearing a woollen nightcap and mittens, and Murdoch was huddled under a blanket. The single oil lamp hardly made a dint on the gloom. For the past hour, they had been discussing the day. Murdoch had no worries about them being indiscreet. Arthur didn’t go out and although Beatrice enjoyed hearing gossip, it was from an avid interest in humanity, not to revel in another’s misfortune. He knew she had never repeated any information that she’d gleaned from their chats together. He also knew that her friends and neighbours often pressed her to be forthcoming but she wouldn’t.
“What’s your next step, then?” asked Beatrice.
“Wait and see, really. Cavendish did a good likeness and I sent the drawings over to all the newspapers. The Herald and the News should be able to print it in the morning editions. If we’re lucky we’ll get a response soon.”
“What’s himself have to say about it?”
“He hasn’t had a chance to say anything yet. He wasn’t in. Bad stomach again.”
Thomas Brackenreid was the inspector of Murdoch’s division, and there was no love lost between them. Many an evening Murdoch had poured out his anger and frustration to his sympathetic friends.
Mrs. Kitchen moved her worktable closer to the lamp and spread out a box of shells on the surface. She picked up a small wooden box and arranged the shells on the lid. She added to their tiny income by making craft items and selling them to the fancy goods stores on King Street.
“What do you think?” she asked the two men.
“Very artistic,” said Murdoch.
“The scallop would look better in the centre,” said Arthur.
“I think you’re right.” She dipped the brush into the glue pot.
“Best thing is if you find her clothes,” said Arthur.
“Might be best but he doesn’t know what to look for, does he?” his wife said.
“You’re right there, Mother. I wasn’t thinking.”
He coughed violently, then spat into the spittoon. There was a fleck of blood on his lower lip and his wife reached over and wiped it away as calmly as if he were a child with a crumb on his face.
“Well, whoever or whatever she was, I’m sorry for her,” Beatrice continued. “So young. Somebody somewhere will be worrying.”
She added a brown auger shell to the rim of the box.
“Not necessarily at this moment, Mother,” said Arthur. “She could have come from the country. Her family might not be expecting to hear from her for a month or more.”
“You could be right, Father. God rest her soul,” said Beatrice, and she blessed herself.
“Amen to that,” said Murdoch, and he did likewise. There was silence in the room except for the soft hiss of the coals burning and the quiet tick of the mantel clock. Murdoch glanced over at Arthur, who was staring into the fire.
“I almost forgot. There was something I wanted to ask you. What kind of dog is about this big?” He indicated with his hands. “Long-haired. Caramel-coloured with pop eyes and a squashed-in nose. Long ears.”
Before he got sick, Kitchen had been quite a dog fancier. He considered for a minute. “Sounds like a Pekingese. Wouldn’t you say, Mother?”