Under the Dragon’s Tail

He was just about to give another tug on the bellpull when the door opened. The young footman stared at him and assumed a faintly supercilious expression.

Murdoch presented his card.

“I wish to speak to Mrs. Pedlow, if you please.”

The footman read the card. “Acting Detective, number-four station” was printed neatly beneath Murdoch’s name. The servant’s superior air dropped away like a thin man’s drawers. His alarm was palpable.

“Madam is not at home.”

“Is that ‘not at home’ as in out, or ‘not at home’ as in doesn’t want visitors?”

By the question, Murdoch had violated an unspoken rule of etiquette, but he was in no mood for niceties. The footman was completely flustered.

“She’s in but not receiving calls today.”

“Maybe she’ll make an exception in my case. Will you tell her I’m investigating a very serious police matter and I would appreciate the opportunity to speak to her.”

The footman stared at him. Murdoch thought his behaviour was odd but people often reacted like that when they knew who he was. A spotless conscience seemed a rarity.

“Will you step inside, Mr., er, Murdoch? I will see if Mrs. Pedlow is available.”

“And what’s your name, young man? I might need to talk to you as well.”

Murdoch was only partly bluffing. He might indeed have to question the servants. It depended on what Mrs. Pedlow had to say for herself. The footman looked even more ill at ease.

“I’m John Meredith. But what would you want to talk to me about?”

“I don’t exactly know until I’ve had my chat with Mrs. Pedlow.”

Suddenly the footman’s face brightened with relief, like a condemned man who’d got a pardon. “I’ll go fetch her.”

Forgetting all his training, he backed away awkwardly, leaving Murdoch to enter and close the doors behind him.

The entrance hall where he stood was sumptuous and felt vaguely ecclesiastical. A mahogany staircase, the balustrade elaborately carved, swept off to the side. A crystal chandelier, with what looked like electric light, tinkled softly in the sweep of air. Glancing around, he saw why he had been put in mind of a church. To his right was a tall stained-glass window depicting St. George slaying the dragon. The saint was young and muscular in his white armour with the red cross, the dragon green and ferocious. In front of the window was a three-legged table on top of which was an embossed silver salver for visitor’s cards. Curious, Murdoch stirred them with his finger. What was it again? When he was a young man he had studied all the etiquette books he could find, conscious of his own ignorant beginnings. However, maturity and Liza had tempered that anxiety. She had known much more about how to apply the necessary oils to the wheels of polite society. Not that their calls and visits to friends were formal. The opposite really. More likely to be outings to the lake or a ferry ride to the island than a stiff conversation in the drawing room.

He picked up one of the cards. He remembered now. Mrs. Simon Curzon had turned down the right end of her card, which meant she had come in person. He’d seen her name often in the newspaper, organizing some event or other for the Women’s Historical Society. Mrs. Laura Spurr and her daughter Miss Georgiana Spurr had both left cards, folded in the middle to indicate they were calling on all the family. Miss Spurr was an artist. Portraits of Toronto society, if he remembered correctly. Perhaps Mrs. Pedlow was a customer.

His boots had rung out on the hard surface of the hall floor and looking down he saw it was of pink and grey Italian marble. Perfect for dancing. He almost felt like doing a quick jig right on the spot.

However, Meredith came down the stairs and forestalled him. “Mrs. Pedlow will be most happy to receive you,” said the footman. “Please to wait in here and she will be with you right away.”

He ushered the detective through the tapestry portieres into the drawing room.

Murdoch removed his hat but didn’t sit down. He’d started to perspire, partly from a nervousness he despised in himself, and partly because the room was uncomfortably warm. A completely unnecessary fire had been lit in the hearth.

Consistent with the grand entrance hall, this room was spacious and luxurious. The walls were panelled in white wood with an ebony trim, and above the wainscot was flowered paper of crimson flock. More flowers, yellow and red roses, patterned the hunter green carpet, which was thick enough for a dog to bury a bone in. Or a pauper his pittance.

He walked over to the fireplace, which dominated the far wall. An oil painting in a massive gilt-edged oak frame was hung above the mantel. Murdoch recognized the portrait of Judge Pedlow in his robe of office. It must have been painted fairly recently, because his honour looked older than Murdoch remembered. However, the artist, either through inadequate skills or fundamental honesty, had not softened the harsh line of the jaw or the tightness of the mouth. Pedlow looked just as mean-spirited and severe as he remembered.