Except the Dying

Murdoch knew the body was not that of Simon Poyner’s wife, who’d never returned from a visit to her aunt in Detroit and who’d now be about forty. When shown the photograph, however, Mr. Poyner had been caught in a timeless world and said it certainly could be Agnes with some meat on her. Likewise the girl was not Martha Stone, daughter of Ezekiel, who’d walked away from the household ten years ago. She would be fifty-five if she was living. One old woman, all agog with excitement, swore the portrait was that of a schoolteacher from Kingston who’d boarded with her last year. “Lovely young woman, lovely. So tragic.” Unfortunately, the old lady’s testimony kept changing according to what she thought he wanted to hear. One moment the schoolteacher had brown eyes, the next blue, yes, blue, of course. The age didn’t fit here either but he decided to send a wire to the Kingston police anyway. You never knew. There was an outside chance the dead girl might be related to the “lovely schoolteacher.”

He was considering going to make some more tea when there was a knock on the wall in the hallway. The office was too small to permit a regular door and Murdoch had to make do with a reed curtain. It was Constable Crabtree who pushed through. The curtain clacked and snapped behind him.

“There’s a gentleman out front, sir. Come about the notice in the newspaper. He claims the girl was his housemaid. Says she disappeared on Saturday night. The description does fit.”

“Who is he?”

“Quite a swell. Dr. Cyril Rhodes. Lives up on Lowther Avenue.”

“Bring him in. I’ve not had much luck so far. How many more now?”

“A good dozen, I’d say. Constable Graham and me are sorting out the wheat from the chaff for you.”

The constable left, the reed strips swaying in his wake. Murdoch turned to a fresh leaf in his notebook and placed his pen at the ready.

In a minute there was another tap and Crabtree pulled aside the curtain.

“Dr. Rhodes, sir.”

Behind him hovered a short, middle-aged man. Murdoch stood up and reached across the desk.

“Detective William Murdoch here.”

They shook hands. The doctor’s grip was light. Murdoch indicated the chair and Rhodes sat in it quickly. He pulled off his gloves, removed his silk top hat and fumbled with his silver-headed walking stick as he tried to find somewhere to lean it. He obviously wasn’t accustomed to being interviewed by policemen in dingy cubicles where the sour smell of vomit wafted over from the holding cell, courtesy of last night’s resident. The stables adjoined and they added their own contribution.

“Can I get you a cup of tea, sir?” asked Murdoch.

The doctor shook his head and reached inside his coat, which was of fine sheared lamb.

“My card.”

Murdoch studied the piece of cardboard. Substantial, glossy white, plain black script.