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.
OWEN RHODES FINISHED FASTENING the skate blade to Harriet’s boot.
“There you go. Ready?”
He pulled her arm through his and they glided off onto the ice. The rink was a cleared patch of the frozen river Don. Later it would get crowded, young men and women meeting after working hours to skate in the torchlight, but now in the morning the other skaters were mostly boys playing truant from school. A ragged bunch nearby had one pair of skate blades among them, and a fierce quarrel erupted as they tried to determine whose turn it was next. Some other boys were sliding on pieces of cardboard and shouting with delight.
Owen and Harriet skated past them.
“Your cold seems better,” said Owen.
“It is. Sometimes I think it’s better to ignore colds, don’t you?”
“Absolutely.”
In fact, when he had come to call on her late this morning, Harriet had been feeling wretched, but she wouldn’t dream of forgoing the chance to be with him and had quickly agreed to spend a couple of hours skating on the river.
“You’re an excellent skater, Harriet.”
“Oh, I’m not. You lead so well.” The exercise had whipped colour into her cheeks and her eyes glowed with pleasure. Owen felt a rush of affection for her. He squeezed her arm.
“Shall we waltz?”
“I’m a bit shaky still on the turns.”
“Don’t worry, I’m a master.”
It was true. His hold on her was firm and confident and his strokes effortless. She gazed up at him. Even though the closeness of his body made her almost breathless, she liked it. He made an easy half-turn and smiled at her.
“There, well done … Harriet, dear, I have a small favour to ask you. You must say at once if you can’t do it because it might mean telling a little fib.”
“Yes?”
She was thrilled that he wanted something from her. That she had something to offer.
“I’ve mentioned my friends Sprague and McDonough to you before. They are fine chappies. The best. And, well, you see, we’ve all developed quite the passion for billiards. A fellow needs some pleasure once in a while, don’t you think? Whoops!”
She almost stumbled but he pulled her around easily into a glide.
“I think billiards is a fine sport.”
“So do I. Anyway, what I wanted to ask you is this. After I left you on Saturday night I dropped in at Hugh’s house and we got into a few rounds. He gave me no quarter, nor I him. Before I knew it the clock was striking twelve. And like Cinderella I knew I had better be getting home … If anyone were to ask, could you bring yourself to say that you and I were together, chatting?”
Harriet looked bewildered. “Who would ask?”
“To tell you the truth, Mother entirely disapproves. She’s afraid I’ll be distracted from my studies, that sort of thing … Shall we have a breather?” He manoeuvred her towards a bench. “Would you do that for me, Harriet? Say I didn’t leave your house until midnight?”
“That would be very late, wouldn’t it?”
“We were in the parlour the entire time.”
She sat down on the bench, and a boy appeared at once at her elbow. His clothes were dirty and too big for him and he was shaking with cold. He had a bundle of newspapers under his arm.
“Latest news, miss. One cent.”
“No, no, she doesn’t want one. Shoo.”
“Exciting stories today … The Gascoyne’s come in to New York all safe–”
“No.”
“A lady’s been found dead as a doornail. Nobody knows who she is. There’s a big reward for news…”
“The young lady doesn’t want to hear any of that sordid nonsense. Go away.”
The newsboy kept his eyes fixed on Harriet.
“If I don’t sell nothin’ I won’t eat nothin’, kind missus.”
“What a story. You look well-fed to me,” jeered Owen.
That wasn’t true. The boy’s face was thin and pasty. Not even the wind could bring colour to his cheeks.
“Please, mister…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I heard as the girl was naked as a jaybird–”
“Get out of here. We don’t want to hear about it.” Owen handed the boy a five-cent piece. “No, keep the newspaper. Sell it to somebody else.”
The boy grinned in delight. “Thanks, mister.” He trotted off to where the boys were skating, dropped his bag of papers and started to beg for a skate.
Harriet looked at Owen. “I wonder what that was about, the dead girl, I mean?”
“Some sensationalism, as usual. Those boys are clever little beggars when they want to pump up a story.”
He sat down close beside her on the bench and took her hand in his. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked what I did just now. It’s too–”
“No, it’s not at all. I quite understand. Father can be quite severe when he wants to. What you’re asking is such a small fib. It doesn’t matter at all.” She lowered her head and he could see the blush flood her neck and cheeks. “Besides, we were together in my thoughts.”
He leaned over and gave her a quick kiss on her cold cheek.
“And mine. Bless you. The subject mightn’t come up but if it does, don’t forget, Mother can winkle the truth out of an oyster if she sets her mind to it.”
She smiled. “I can actually be quite good at dissembling … I simply become very vague.”
She wrinkled her forehead and pursed her lips to show him and he burst out laughing. “That answer deserves a bag of chestnuts. Don’t move.”
On the other bank a man had set up his brazier and was calling his wares. “’Taties, chestnuts, get them hot.”
Harriet watched Owen as he skated off. He was wearing dark brown knickerbockers, a brown ribbed sailor’s jersey and a matching cap, and she thought he was easily the best-dressed and handsomest man on the rink. And by far the most accomplished skater. Of course she could tell a small lie for him. There was no question.
At four o’clock, Murdoch and Constable Crabtree were seated in Brackenreid’s office. The inspector claimed to have dragged himself in from his sickbed to attend to the matter at hand. True, his hands shook and there was a yellowish cast to his eyes, but Murdoch doubted his motives were so noble. He sensed the inspector was torn between ambition and nervousness about a case that touched so closely on a well-to-do family like the Rhodeses. Not unlike Murdoch himself.
Thomas Brackenreid’s father had emigrated from County Cork during the potato famine of ′51 and by luck and ruthlessness carved himself a living as a dry goods merchant. Young Thomas had known hardship from an early age and was determined to hoist himself up the social ladder, not much caring what heads he used as struts. He joined the police force as a young man and rose steadily up the ranks. Late in life he married the indulged daughter of a local lawyer, and gleeful gossip around the station claimed she led him a merry dance. Before his demons overtook him, he had been a shrewd, hard-working man with a certain meticulousness about detail that served him well. Now, those qualities were more and more obscured.
As inspector, Brackenreid wore a fine wool jacket with brocade epaulettes and frogs down the front. Murdoch could see stains on the brocade and even across the table he could smell the beery stink of the man’s breath.
There was a blazing fire in the hearth and the small room was uncomfortably hot. Brackenreid, however, hadn’t given the other men permission to undo their jackets. Sweat was running down Crabtree’s forehead and he had to keep wiping at his face, and Murdoch was feeling unpleasantly sticky. His stiff celluloid collar had started to chafe his neck. The inspector was also buttoned up but he seemed impervious. He took a noisy sip from the mug he was holding. His face relaxed a bit and Murdoch wondered what else was in there besides tea.