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.
“Anything that don’t belong.”
Freddie looked puzzled. “Nothing belongs really, sir. Was all Mrs. Mother’s.”
George didn’t say anything. His turned-in eyes made it difficult to read his thoughts.
“All right, next room. Is that one Miss Shaw’s?”
“Do you mean Lily?” asked Freddie.
George thumped him hard on the arm. “Don’t be so nocky. ’Course that’s who he means.”
The boys behind him like an entourage, Murdoch went across the landing and opened the door to the other room. In the bright morning light the little chamber seemed almost cheery. The quilt on the bed was colourful, the edge of the huckaback towel on the washstand was crocheted in white, and another doily covered the top of the small dresser.
“Wait here, boys.”
He closed them out. It seemed more respectful to give the absent woman the dignity of a private search. He started with the dresser which, like the furniture downstairs, was good oak. The mirror was missing but otherwise it was in excellent condition. He was curious about the objects that were placed on it. In the centre was a black marble clock. Once probably beautiful, it no longer had hands and only two bits of the coloured inlay were left on the facing. Beside it was a china dog, about six inches high. The eyes were blank and most of the nose was gone as if in some fierce fight. It sat lopsidedly because it had no rear leg but there was a clean, red ribbon around its neck. He replaced it carefully. On the left side of the overbearing clock was a posy of field daisies in a cracked crystal vase. Lily had obviously collected discarded treasures, attempting to make beauty bloom in the barren desert of her life.
He pulled open the top drawer of the dresser. It contained a plain flannel nightgown, a woollen undervest, and two pairs of black knitted stockings, neatly rolled up. He felt around the edges of the drawer. There was something underneath the clothes. He lifted out the nightgown, and lying underneath it was a black leather-covered book. The pages were edged in gilt and the lettering was red and gold. The Royal Path of Life, illustrated by the Reverend Potts. A serious and portentous tome, “Designed to elevate the tone, purify the heart, and strengthen the character of all who accept its teachings.” The book was pristine, but he didn’t know if it was buried beneath Lily’s nightgown because she considered it precious or useless. He turned to the frontispiece, which was protected by tissue paper. There was a stamp below the title: Awarded to Lily Merishaw for perfect attendance at Markham Village Sunday School, December 1864. That was thirty-one years ago. He could hear the two boys whispering together outside. He opened the door. They were sitting on the floor.
“Did your foster mother ever use another name that you know of?”
“Like what, sir? What sort of name?”
“Merishaw. Did she ever call herself Dolly Merishaw?”
George shook his head. “Don’t remember that, sir.”
“Freddie? Do you?”
“No, sir.”
“What about Lily? Did she ever refer to herself as Lily Merishaw?”
George grinned. “She don’t talk, sir. Only grunt like the pigs. She don’t read nor write neither.”
“All right. You two can go back downstairs. I’m almost done here.”
Murdoch returned to the dresser and replaced the book where he’d found it. The second drawer held only a clean pair of undergarments and a cotton corset cover. What other clothes Lily had, she must have been wearing. The pitcher on the washstand was filled, the chamber underneath the bed was empty. It was highly likely that the woman was the perpetrator of a violent crime against her own mother, but standing here in this neat room Murdoch felt more compassion than disgust. He had the sense of a person striving for some betterment. The contrast with the refuse pile that her mother had lived in was striking.
As he went downstairs to join George and Freddie, Constable Wiggin entered.
“I’ve searched the yards, sir. Can’t say I found anything special except this cigar snip.”
He handed his prize to Murdoch.
“Where was it?”
“Near the gate. Seems quite fresh.”
Murdoch placed it in his remaining envelope. Given the crowd of onlookers who’d been hanging around the house, the snip probably came from one of them, but he wanted to be thorough.
“I’m almost done here. Just got to have a look around the kitchen. Why don’t you start talking to the neighbours. Go down River Street. I’ll go across the road.”
“Yes, sir. Anything in particular I should ask them?”
“Nothing in particular. Just if they are the one who smothered Dolly.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Wiggin, wait. That was a joke. An attempt at humour.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Ask them if they heard anything on Thursday night. Find out what they were doing, what they felt about the dead woman. That sort of thing.”
The constable left and Murdoch wondered again why the man had chosen a career in the police force. His kind gave everybody a bad name.
Chapter Ten
Neither the kitchen nor the cellar had given out any new information, and Murdoch walked across the road to start his questioning with the neighbours directly opposite. The ones who had shown interest in what he was doing earlier.
The trim on the house opposite was freshly painted in a popular dark green, and there were lace curtains at the windows. Both the brass door knocker and boot scraper showed evidence of diligent polishing. A house-proud woman lived here. It was she who opened the door, a plump, short woman, plain and neat in brown taffeta. He explained who he was and with a flurry of excitement, she showed him into the front parlour and went to fetch her husband. He was John Golding and she was his wife, Mary, she said breathlessly.
Mr. Golding was stocky, of middle age, and like his wife neatly and soberly dressed. The startling thing about him, however, was that his face and neck were covered with white, funguslike tubercles. Murdoch couldn’t help his own reflexive reaction to look away.
“I was just about to make a pot of tea, Mr. Murdoch. Can I bring you one? Or would you prefer coffee?” said Mrs. Golding, providing a distraction while her husband seated himself.
“Tea would be splendid,” replied Murdoch, also welcoming the diversion.
Mary Golding had shown him into their parlour, as neat and sober as the couple themselves. Murdoch had the impression of brown everywhere. The lace curtains cut down on the light, and given Mr. Golding’s appearance, he wondered how much that was deliberate. Golding spoke first. His voice was hearty and resonant.
“No need to be embarrassed, Detective Murdoch. I’m used to people shying away. I’ve had these growths for going on five years. God in His wisdom has seen fit to try me.”
“Is there anything can be done?”
“I stopped going to doctors years ago. They all wanted to have sketches made of me for one of their textbooks. That or get me to come down to the medical school as an exhibit for the young men. No thank you. This affliction came and it’ll go when God wants it to.”
Murdoch’s gaze was steadier now, and he could see weariness and pain in Golding’s eyes in spite of his pious words. He wondered how his wife tolerated God’s affliction. At that point, she came back into the room. If the dreadful growths bothered her she gave no sign.
“Here you are, Mr. Murdoch.”
She must have quickly taken out the best china because his cup and saucer were of a fine pattern and light as an eggshell. The tea was strong and rich, much more palatable than the brew at the station. He took some sips and waited to allow Mrs. Golding to settle like a timid bird back into her nest.