Under the Dragon’s Tail
- Автор: Jennings Maureen
- Серия: The Murdoch Mysteries #2
- Год: 2008
- Язык: английский
- Год: McClelland & Stewart
- ISBN: 9781551992815
- Жанр: Исторические детективы
Электронная книга - «Under the Dragon’s Tail». Краткое содержание книги:
Women rich and poor come to her, desperate and in dire need of help – and discretion. Dolly Merishaw is a midwife and an abortionist in Victorian Toronto, but although she keeps quiet about her clients' condition, her contempt for them and her greed leaves every one of them resentful and angry. So it comes as no surprise to Detective William Murdoch when this malicious woman is murdered. What is a shock, though, is that a week later a young boy is found dead in Dolly's squalid kitchen. Now, Murdoch isn't sure if he's hunting one murderer – or two. From the Paperback edition.
As they all began to disperse, Murdoch went over to Crabtree.
“What’s wrong with the coroner?”
“Poor man’s got the mumps. His valet came round just now. Said he looks like a chipmunk. Very painful.”
“It is. I had them when I was a lad. Anyway it’s just as well he postponed. I’m not getting too far with this investigation. Can’t find the daughter. She’s turned into a mermaid and is still swimming down to the lake. A bit more time will give me a chance to wrap this up.” Murdoch regarded his constable. “You still look queasy, George. How’re you feeling?”
“About the same to tell the truth, sir. Not myself at all. My belly’s cramping something fierce.”
“Got the trots?”
“No, sir.”
“I’ll ask my landlady what she recommends. She knows a lot about medicines.”
The big constable did not look well. His face was yellowish and his eyes were cloudy.
“Just try to stay out of Brackenreid’s way. You know how he is. He’ll be having you cupped and leeched before you can blink.”
Crabtree sighed. “I’m sorry this inquest was cancelled. It was giving me a chance to stay out of the station.”
Murdoch laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Cheer up. I’ll come back with something from Mrs. K. and you’ll be a new man.”
“I don’t know about new, sir. The old one’d do for me.”
Murdoch left him to gather up the papers.
“I’ll see you at the station.”
It was true what George said. Getting out of Inspector Brackenreid’s sphere was a relief.
Murdoch was eating his lunch in the stuffy room the constables used for their meals. He spat out one of the many gristly bits from the pork pie he was munching, which tasted stale. His mug of tea was bitter, the last of the common pot, and after two sips he tipped it into the slop bucket. He felt distinctly bad-tempered. The incessant flies were maddening, his celluloid collar was chafing his neck, and he’d got some grease from the pie on his almost-new Windsor tie, blue Pongee silk and a Sears catalogue special. He undid the button on his collar and loosened the tie. To hell with it. If Brackenreid came in and slapped a fine on him, he’d tell him where he could stuff it. He debated whether or not to go to the trouble of making some more tea. The water was steaming in the smoke-blackened kettle on the hob, but he’d have to get up and he didn’t feel like it. He’d overdone the knee bends yesterday.
The problem was he hadn’t slept well again. He’d gone to confession on Sunday, and when the priest heard about all his lustful thoughts, he’d handed out a long penance. Good thing Murdoch wasn’t telling him everything.
The door opened and Constable Crabtree came in.
“There’s a package for you, sir. Got the coroner’s seal. Shall I put it on your desk?”
“No. Let’s see. Have a seat for a minute.”
“I’ll stand if you don’t mind, sir.”
There was a curious tone to the constable’s voice and Murdoch looked up at him.
“You should book off early if you have to. Get a rest.”
“Yes, sir.”
As nobody got paid for time off, most of the men struggled into work no matter what their ailments. However, they both knew Crabtree would be excused with pay if it meant he remained fit for the tournament.
Murdoch opened the envelope. There was a note from Johnson.
Murdoch. I’ve come down with the mumps, which means I have to postpone the inquest. Given what Dr. Ogden has to say, it’s probably just as well. You’ve got some work to do. I’ve reset the inquest for this coming Friday. Should be right as rain by then. Damned painful.
Your servant, Arthur Johnson.
Curiously, Murdoch turned to the handwritten sheet which was enclosed.
This is to certify that I, Julia Ogden, a legally qualified physician in the city of Toronto, did this day make a post mortem examination upon the body of a woman identified as Dolly Shaw with the following result.
The body is that of a well-nourished woman about fifty or sixty years of age. Rigor mortis and staining well marked.
General condition. Adiposity well developed.
Heart in good condition.
Liver, soft and pale, markedly fatty.
Abdominal organs, kidneys normal in size and odour.
The woman showed signs of having borne a child.
There is a one-inch contusion on the occiput but it is relatively small, the dura mater beneath is not depressed or the brain ruptured. It is highly unlikely this would have been the cause of death. There was recent bruising on the shinbone of the left leg three inches below the patella. There was also a large bruise on the right forearm, five and one half inches from the wrist. This contusion had an odd criss-cross pattern, which having examined the dead woman’s outer garment, to wit a flannel robe, I decided this bruise had been incurred by pressure on the arm. Considering the discovery I made on further examination, I would now posit that this bruise was the result of some person pinning down the dead woman, probably by kneeling on her arm.
Murdoch read that bit again. The doctor was sounding unnecessarily dramatic to him. However the next sentence said otherwise.
I discovered traces of foreign material lodged in the nasal passages, although some had been ingested deep into the lungs. These traces were green in colour and under the glass seemed in my opinion consistent with a material such as cotton or wool. Perhaps more likely wool. Given the position of the body, the woman could not have smothered by accident. I have to conclude therefore that she died from forceful suffocation, likely from a person holding a cloth or pillow over her face. I am yours truly,
An illegible signature followed.
“Damnation! I missed it, Crabtree.”
“Sir?”
“I was only too ready to assume she was some old sot who’d conked her head.”
He told him what the doctor had written and Crabtree shrugged sympathetically.
“Don’t blame yourself too much, Mr. Murdoch. That’s what we all thought. Including the coroner.”
“I should have been more thorough.”
“Don’t know what you would have found. You couldn’t look in her throat,” said Crabtree reasonably.
“Johnson wants a report by Friday. Let’s hope those two boys haven’t turned the place upside down and there’s still something to investigate.”
“Do you think somebody knew about her money and was intending to rob her? They might have got panicky when they realized she was done for and scarpered off?”
“Pretty thick-headed robber if that’s the case, but it’s not out of the question.”
He stuffed his remaining piece of pie into a tin kept for the purpose so it would be safe from the mice. He was angry with himself. Brackenreid would love the opportunity to find fault, he always did. He’d never been happy with having Murdoch foisted on him. One of Stark’s new men and a Papist to boot. More than that, however, Murdoch was dismayed at his own complacency.
“Let me talk to this doctor, then we’ll go over there.”
The constable shifted his feet and winced.
“You all right?” Murdoch asked him. For answer Crabtree’s eyes rolled back in his head and with one smooth, unbroken motion he fell backwards. Murdoch was irrepressibly reminded of a Douglas fir crashing to the ground in the forest.
The constable had come around quickly, refused to go home, but agreed to stay in the off-duty room for a little while longer. Fortunately, Brackenreid was out at a fire-hall inspection and couldn’t make a fuss. Murdoch left Crabtree perched on a chair sipping fresh tea and went into the outer office. A young constable, second class, was manning the telephone and telegraph.