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.
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“I’m William Murdoch, acting detective at number-four station. Wonder if I could ask you a couple of questions?”
Mr. Bright’s smile dimmed slightly. Not a paying customer then. However, curiosity made him cheer up.
“Ask away. Only too glad to be of service.”
Murdoch took out the envelope from his pocket and gave it to the druggist.
“I wonder if you can tell me what this is?”
Mr. Bright shook out some of the mixture into his hand. He sniffed carefully, turned his head away to breathe, then smelled the substance again. Delicately, he took a pinch, rubbed it between his fingers, and tasted it. Repeated that. Finally he took a magnifying glass out of the drawer and examined the herbs. He frowned.
“Am I allowed to ask why you want to know?”
“I’m investigating a serious criminal case.”
Bright nodded solemnly. “I can imagine what.” He dusted off his palm. “There’s a hint of liquorice smell, which means the herb pennyroyal. The woody bits are cottonwood bark by the look of it, and the green slivers are tansy. I’d have to do some proper tests if you want me to swear on oath, but I’d say that’s what we’ve got.”
Murdoch had suspected as much. They were abortifacients.
“Would these herbs be easy to come by?”
“Easy as roses. You can order a mixture like this from the Sears catalogue or you can grow them yourself. You have to know the right proportions, mind you, but there’s lots who’ll tell you for a bit of Judas money.”
Murdoch wondered if the herbs were the reason for Dolly’s late-night visitor. And if they had anything to do with the money on her person or her death.
“Thank you, Mr. Bright. You’ve been a great help.”
For a moment, the druggist looked sorrowful.
“It’s a tragic thing that young women are driven to such measures.”
“Indeed.”
He left the man to his ruminations and set off for the Derby.
The tavern was a narrow three-storey building sitting at the corner of King Street and Parliament, just far enough away from the grand shops not to contaminate them. There was a foundry to the left on King Street whose tall chimneys were puffing out dark, acrid columns of smoke, like a warning of hellfire. The imbibers in the tavern seemed oblivious to any such message, and as Murdoch approached he could hear the noise of raucous singing.
All of the tavern windows were up and smudges of tobacco smoke drifted out towards the street. He propped his wheel against the curb, watched idly by a small knot of men who had spilled outside and were clustered around the doorway. They yielded reluctantly as he pushed his way through and went into the tavern. The thick fug that assailed him made his eyes sting and he coughed. The room was jammed, mostly with working men. A line of choristers was standing on the benches, arms linked, pints in one hand, pipes in the other. They were swaying back and forth and singing their lungs raw.
The mob was so dense he couldn’t get any further into the room, but he could see a stage at the far end with two limelights illuminating a young woman perched atop a stepladder. A board to the right of the stage announced that she was Miss Annie Brogan: Internationally Acclaimed Chanteuse. If she was a good singer Murdoch couldn’t tell at this point because her voice was totally drowned out by her audience.
Miss Brogan descended step by step from her ladder, her skirt hitched sufficiently to show off a dainty white boot and the edge of lace drawers. She came to the front of the stage and leaned forward, revealing a generous amount of naked, rounded flesh flowing over the top of her well-cinched bodice. Her bare arms gleamed in the white light.
“Keep going,” she called out.
Murdoch began to shoulder his way through the crowd so he could get closer.
“Hey you, where’s your ticket?”
A burly man in shirtsleeves who was stationed near the door grabbed him by the arm.
“I don’t have one,” said Murdoch.
“Thirty-five cents.”
He could have fished out his identification card but he decided not to. He would rather get the lay of the land first. Knowing he was a detective had a way of changing people’s normal behaviour.
He managed to get some money out of his pocket and handed it to the doorkeeper. They were standing so close their noses were only a few inches apart.
“Here. Hold on to it. No spitting and no climbing on the stage unless you’re asked.”
Nobody else seemed to have paid attention to either rule. The straw-strewn floor was sticky with spilled beer and expectorations of tobacco juice, and Murdoch noticed two young mashers in striped blazers were trying to get on the stage. The doorkeeper also saw them and he let out a shout of anger and began to shove his way forward. He was big and strong and pushed the customers aside ruthlessly. Murdoch followed in his wake feeling like a dinghy behind a trawler. When they reached the stage the man grabbed one of the young fellows by the leg and jerked him back to the ground. He gave a yell of pain but was good-naturedly helped to his feet by some of the audience. The second young man, who had the pale skin of a bank clerk, was standing unsteadily in front of the stepladder looking up yearningly at Annie Brogan, who had quickly retreated to her perch. She smiled sweetly and wagged her finger in admonishment, at the same time moving up a rung. Then the manager clambered on the stage, lifted the fellow bodily, and dumped him into the crowd like a sack of coal.
Another round of “Daisy” was in full blast, but Annie held up her hand for silence. The piano player stopped in midchord, and there was a gradual quietening as the men blearily started to hush everybody up. When it was quiet enough to make herself heard, she said, “That Daisy could go on forever. She’s never spent, is she?”
The innuendo created another wave of laughter. A short sprat of a man in an old-fashioned stovepipe hat called out shrilly, “Hey, Annie, I seen your picture in the News. You’re famous.”
She made a big show of hanging her head. “Reverend Whittaker accused me of indecency. Me of all people…he must not be seeing so good – I wonder why that is?” She waited a moment for them to recover from that one. “All right, you men, here’s a riddle for you. I just want to know if you’re up tonight. Are you?”
Deafening shouts reverberated through the room and there were a few obscene gestures.
“Ready? What do an American, a rooster, and an old maid have in common?”
“What, Annie, what?” called various of the men.
She looked pert. “An American says, ‘Yankee, doodle do.’ A rooster says, ‘Doodle, doodle do,’ and an old maid says, ‘Any cock’ll do.’ No, wait. Wait! I got that wrong, I mean – ‘any dude will do.’” Her correction was lost in the laughter. Once again she requested silence.