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.
Marianne wrapped her thumb and they entered into the game, Marianne waving around her bandage with great gusto.
When they returned to the house in the early evening, however, she complained of pain. Her thumb was throbbing and had become red and swollen. Donalda was not overly sympathetic, as her friend exaggerated everything.
The next morning she came to visit and Marianne showed her the angry red streaks running down her forearm. “Betsy says if they travel above the elbow, I’m done for,” she said.
“That’s a stupid old wives’ tale,” Donalda scoffed.
But Betsy was right, and neither contempt nor reason could protect her beloved friend. The infection raced through the young girl’s body, the doctor could do nothing to stop it, and within the week she was dead.
Donalda stood up, reached behind the picture and picked up the tiny glass bottle, beautifully coloured, that was behind it.
“What’s that?” asked Owen.
“For my tears. We used to catch our tears and keep them as mementos.”
“Let me see.” He held the bottle to the light of the fire. “I do believe there is still a tiny drop of liquid in the bottom. How wonderful.”
He gave the vial back to his mother and she touched it to her lips. Then she pressed her fingers into the back of her neck.
“Do you need your medicine? I can soon fetch it.”
“No, thank you.”
“Perhaps you should lie down for a little while. All those questions this afternoon, what happened … it’s been terribly upsetting.”
“Owen, please stop addressing me as if I were an elderly invalid.”
“That’s not fair, Mother–”
She cut him short with a frown. “I hope you are intending to wear something other than that suit.”
“What? Oh, yes, yes, I will, of course. I haven’t had an opportunity to change.”
She herself was wearing a plain, charcoal-coloured gown that emphasized her pallor. The shadowy room also intensified the lines of fatigue on her face. He regarded her anxiously.
“Such a shock. You could have knocked me down with a goose feather when the detective – what’s his name?”
“Murdoch.”
“Yes, Murdoch, when he said she was, er, she was in the, er, family way. I had no idea.”
“I sincerely hope not, Owen,” his mother said dryly.
“Beg pardon? Oh, I see … right. Who do you suppose is the guilty party?”
“I don’t care to know. It is irrelevant now.”
The silence fell heavily, and Owen shifted his position on the sofa. He wanted desperately to check his watch but he didn’t dare. Donalda was contemplating the fire.
“There is so much I don’t understand. Why was she going home? She told me there was nobody there for her except an elderly father, and she was quite forthcoming about how strained their relationship was. He was terribly strict.”
“It must have been because of her condition. An unmarried young girl and all that shame. Where else would she have gone?”
“She could have stayed here.”
“Mother, that wouldn’t have been right.”
“I don’t see why not.” Again she rubbed at her neck. “And the opium! It is unbearable to think what happened to her.”
“I, er, I hate to say, but is it possible she wasn’t quite as innocent as you have thought–”
“No! I know what kind of girl Theresa was. Something dreadful happened to her that she could do nothing about.”
“If you say so, Mother.”
Donalda looked over at him. “You seemed quite nervous while Mr. Murdoch was questioning us.”
“Did I? Well, I’m not exactly used to having police officers perched on our best chairs demanding to know one’s every movement. It’s unnerving.”
Donalda sighed and sat back in her chair. “I’d have thought Harriet was too ill to stay up so long chatting.”
“She felt better when she was home.”
Donalda stared into his eyes, grey-blue, so like her own.
“Is that the truth, Owen?”
“Of course it is. Stop worrying. You can ask her yourself.” He patted the seat beside him. “Come sit down, there’s a dear.”
She joined him on the sofa and he leaned his head in the hollow of her shoulder.
She stroked his hair, then pushed him away, shaking her fingers. “Ugh, Owen. You really do use far too much pomade.”
He smiled up at her, glad that the danger had passed. “I’m sorry. I promise I will abstain completely if you don’t like it, and my locks will stand up on end like the wild man from Borneo.”
She studied him for a moment. His skin felt rough at the jaw where he hadn’t shaved yet and there were delicate tracings of lines at the corner of his eyes. She felt a sudden pang of longing for the boy who was no more.
He pretended to pout at her. “Do I deserve a kiss at least?”
She laughed at that and, drawing him closer, kissed him. “I’m sorry, dearest.”
At that moment, the door opened and Cyril came in. He stiffened immediately when he saw them.
“Shouldn’t you be at your l-lecture?” he asked his son.
“Not at this hour, Father. Just talking with Mother a bit.”
“Y-yes. Of course. Yes. That’s why I came down myself. How are you, Donalda?”
The expression of love she had shown her son disappeared at once. She had caught the look of jealousy on Cyril’s face, and it ignited an old anger.
“How do you expect?” she snapped.
“Beg pardon?”
“How do you expect me to be, Cyril? I am extremely distressed.”
He indicated the signs of mourning in the room. “But she was merely our ser-servant, Donalda. Don’t you think this is a bit excessive?”
Owen groaned to himself. He knew what sort of response his mother would give to that. She placed her hands in her lap and laced the fingers tightly together. “Theresa was an exceptional young girl, and I had become very fond of her. I cannot brush off her death as if she were a failed kitten. ‘Oh dear, what a pity. Well, let’s get another.’”
“Please, D-Donalda, such hyperbole is unwarranted. I am a-attempting to show you some sympathy. One would think I were responsible for the girl’s death the way you are carrying on.”
There was a light of anger in her eyes but her voice was still controlled, the sharp edge of the knife only hinted at. “How could you be? You were safely ensconced at your office, weren’t you? Where we can always be sure to find you.”
Owen got to his feet abruptly. “I’m off. I promised Hugh I’d go over some cribs with him before tomorrow’s class.”
“Surely you’re not go-going in that outfit?” asked Cyril.
Owen was dressed in a light check suit with slim-fitting trousers and a high stiff collar with a gold-striped silk four-in-hand. He smoothed the cravat nervously.
“All the fellows are wearing these, Father.”
“You look b-bloody ridiculous.”
“He’s going to change,” intervened Donalda. “Considering what has happened.”
Owen bent over and gave her a quick peck on the cheek, which felt fiery beneath his touch.
“I won’t be late, I promise. And I’ll come and say good night. Good evening, Father.”
He nodded at Cyril and left. Donalda waited until the door closed behind him, then turned angrily towards her husband.
“Must you always address him as if he were a misbehaving child?”
“It is not I who maintain our son in perpetual puerility.”
“Stop it, Cyril, please.”
He was not to be gainsaid. “You know what I–I say is true, Donalda. He is most immature for his age.”
“He is not. You have sung that tune ever since he was born. ‘You are nursing him far too long, Donalda. Why isn’t he walking yet, Donalda? What? Can’t he read yet?’ If you had your way, he would have been at his desk doing sums when he was six months old.”