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.
The bundle proved to be a woollen shawl that was knotted together. He took off his gloves and undid it.
Wrapped inside were clothes: a grey serge skirt, a cotton chemise and petticoat, a black sateen waist. In the centre of the bundle, pathetically squashed, was a black felt hat appliquéd with pink silk flowers.
He replaced everything, tied the ends of the shawl again and went outside, gulping in the fresh air. Constable Crabtree loomed out of the shadows and came towards him.
“I’ve found them, Crabtree. They’re her clothes, all right.”
The light behind him suddenly winked as somebody lifted the curtain. The shape was in silhouette but he knew Bernadette Weston was standing there watching him.
Mrs. Letitia Wright and Mrs. Mathilda Kleiser placed their cards on the silver salver in the hall.
“Please give Mrs. Rhodes my condolences. I’m sorry she is indisposed,” said Mrs. Wright.
“Likewise,” said Mrs. Kleiser.
“She wished to express her appreciation to both of you for your kind sympathy,” said Foy. “She hopes to be receiving callers next week at the latest.”
He had a little trouble getting his tongue around the last few words, and the difficulty was not lost on Mrs. Wright. She knew a tippling servant when she saw one.
“My, that long? Well, Mrs. Kleiser and I will certainly return at a more convenient time. I suppose she has already had a number of callers?”
“Yes, madam. People have been most kind.”
Foy opened the door, but the woman hesitated on the threshold.
“Such a tragedy. The entire household must be in a state of shock.”
“Yes, we all are, madam.”
“Do you know what happened to the poor girl?” asked Mrs. Wright.
“No, I’m afraid not.”
Letitia would dearly have liked to winkle more information out of him, but the butler was gazing purposefully somewhere at a point over their heads. Gathering their skirts, clutching their reticules, they allowed him to usher them out. As they walked down the path another carriage was drawing up to the door. The coachman jumped down and helped out a young woman. All three women hovered for a moment, then bowed to each other.
“Good afternoon, Miss Shepcote.”
“Good afternoon,” said Harriet. She proceeded selfconsciously to the front door. The older women continued on.
“That poor motherless child is quite the most clumsy girl, although I do regret saying that. And her hat? Wherever have you seen such a fright! A greengrocer could sell it and make a fortune.”
Mathilda nodded. “To be utterly frank I cannot imagine what Owen Rhodes sees in her. Donalda has been hinting they are to be engaged in the spring. She would push for it, of course. Harriet is a malleable little thing.”
They linked arms, their wide hats almost touching.
“Shall we hire a carriage?” asked Mrs. Wright.
“No, do let’s walk a little. It’s not as bitter for once.”
“That garland on the door was somewhat excessive, wouldn’t you say? She was a servant, after all.”
“Yes and no.”
“What do you mean, Mathilda?”
“I wasn’t sure if I should repeat this … and you must swear not to tell.”
“Naturally. I never do.”
“Our nursemaid, Mabel, heard from the Felkins’ cook that the dead girl was Cyril Rhodes’s love child.”
“No!”
“That’s what I heard. How else can you explain such a fuss?”
“But surely Donalda wouldn’t have accepted her?”
“You and I wouldn’t have, but she’s an odd sort of person, don’t you find? Englishwomen often are…”
They passed by a tall, dark-haired man who raised his hat politely. He was dressed in a sealskin coat and carrying a brown paper bag under his arm. If they had known it was Acting Detective William Murdoch going to Birchlea to confirm the identification of Therese Laporte’s garments, the ladies would no doubt have devised some excuse to return.
Chapter Nine
Tuesday, February 12
AS MURDOCH ENTERED TEMPERANCE HALL, the newsboys were in the middle of singing “We Shall Gather at the River,” with gusto if not accuracy. Some of them were stamping their hobnailed boots on the wooden floor; others clapped. He squeezed himself onto one of the benches at the back. All around him were boys dressed in the most amazing motley of clothes Murdoch had ever seen in one place: oversized cloth caps with loud checks, felt crushers, fur forage hats and coats and trousers that had all known previous owners. Legally, newsboys were supposed to be at least fourteen to get a licence to sell papers, but many of them were younger. Forced by necessity to hurry through childhood, their faces revealed a premature cynicism that was softened only occasionally with childlike simplicity. The hall was hazy with smoke from their clay pipes and dense with the smell of dirty clothes and bodies.
Murdoch took out his own briar pipe and lit it. Immediately, there was a nudge in his arm.
“Got some clippings to spare, mister?”
The boy next to him on the bench was still so small and young his boots barely touched the floor. His cloth cap was too big, and stringy fair hair almost obscured his eyes. Murdoch handed him a pinch but right away two or three other grimy hands thrust out at him.
“Some for me, mister?”
“Hey, what about me?”
He distributed the last of the tobacco from his pouch and was grateful when there was a drum roll from the direction of the stage, indicating the meeting was ready to start. The boys nearby lit their pipes, first borrowing a match from him, and the row was in danger of disappearing into a fug of smoke.
“’Oo are you?” asked his neighbour as he puffed contentedly on a stubby, blackened pipe. Before Murdoch could answer, the master of ceremonies, a rotund man whose bald head shone white in the gas light, trotted onto the stage.
Murdoch had come to the newsboys’ meeting in the hope of getting their help. They were denizens of the streets, sharp and ruthless, honed to survive like cubs. If anyone would pay attention to a young girl out on the street on a winter’s night, they would. The master of ceremonies had agreed to let him talk from the platform after the guest speaker. No point in stealing his thunder with exciting talk of missing young girls. That suited Murdoch. The speaker was Godfrey Shepcote, and he wanted the chance to study him.
Shepcote was waiting in the wings. The hubbub from the boys excited him, and his round cheeks were even more flushed than usual. His valet, Canning, was beside him and he gave his master a quick brush-down across the shoulders. Shepcote had chosen his wardrobe carefully, a tweed jacket over a fawn waistcoat, beige knickerbockers, brown high boots that his servant had polished to a mirrorlike shine. The impression was of a man of affluence but insouciance. The rewards of the world sat visibly but lightly on his wide shoulders.
In fact, the annual newsboys’ meeting at Temperance Hall was one of the bright spots of Shepcote’s year. After him on the programme came a fiddler, a juggler and a mind reader, but this was his moment of glory and he knew the boys were waiting eagerly.
The master of ceremonies finally managed to get the audience sufficiently quieted down to make himself heard.
“Thank you, gentlemen, thank you. And a braver bunch of choristers I never did hear…”
This elicited cheers and ear-splitting whistles. “All right, then, I know you’re all on pins and needles waiting for our next speaker. At least I assume that’s why you’re fidgeting in your seats like that…”