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.
In the far corner of the box, tucked beneath the jersey, was a twist of newspaper which he unfolded. Inside was his hoard of treasures, a gold cufflink, part of a broken onyx earbob, some coins, including two shilling pieces he’d once found on a London street, and a small wooden crucifix. He removed this reverently.
When he first knew that Therese was a Roman Catholic he was afraid. At the Home the word “Romanist” always sat in the same sentence as “wicked” or, at best, “misguided.” Once one of the bigger youths had discovered a new boy clutching a rosary, and a group of residents soon gathered, whispering together, solemn and afraid as if they had found the Devil himself in the cupboard. They informed the warden and the poor newcomer was sent away. “To his own kind,” said the supervisor. But the incident had shaken everyone and special prayers were offered for the soul of the depraved departed.
Therese was always unobtrusive in her observance, but he’d seen her touching the glass beads on her rosary, muttering in a strange language. Then she’d kiss the little wooden cross that hung from the necklace. She’d shown it to him, the seminaked body of Jesus Christ, arms outstretched, head drooping. The agony of that tiny figure had fascinated Joe.
He propped the crucifix against the candlestick, then dropped to his knees on the hard floor. He’d seen Therese cross herself and he imitated her as best he could, fluttering his hand across his chest. He bent his head in prayer, saying out loud the only Latin he had gleaned.
There was no one to hear and make a mockery of him, and he repeated these words over and over.
It was in early December that he’d first crept into her room. There was a severe frost that night and the cold had bitten through his blanket until he woke shivering, unable to sleep. Normally he would have gone down to the stable and burrowed into the pile of straw beside Silver, but he was afraid to. He’d seen two large brown rats vanishing down the drain in the centre of the stable, and them he truly hated. He knew what they were capable of. This particular evening he and Therese were seated at the kitchen table, snug against the wind soughing at the windows. The Foys were on a rare evening out and Joe had basked in the warmth and peace of their absence, and talking what was, for him, “a blue streak,” as Tess put it. She soon pried out of him what sort of conditions he was living in.
“You can come to sleep in my bed, if it pleases you,” she whispered. “But we mustn’t let anyone know.”
She hadn’t needed to say that. He was quite aware what would happen if they were discovered. So beginning then, on the coldest nights, he climbed through the back window of the house and tiptoed up the back stairs to her room. Infrequently at first, not trusting, only when the cold was unbearable. But always she welcomed him. Always until a week ago. When he came this night she pushed him away like an unwelcome dog and he fell to the floor. Seeing his face, she jumped down and knelt beside him, kissing his cheeks and hands.
“Forgive me, mon ami. I regret.”
She got back into bed, lifted the counterpane and let him climb into the warm cocoon.
“You can place your head here if you wish,” she said and guided him to the soft pillow of her young breasts. The feeling was so sweet it made him dizzy and he swelled into uncomfortable manhood, his groin throbbing. Memories of the coarse jokes he’d heard at the Home came to his mind but he pushed them away. He could not bear anything to sully the purity of his love.
“You cannot come any more,” she whispered, her breath warm on his face. But she would not say why, and when he crept away early that morning before it was light, his body hurt as if he had been beaten.
If he had been the one to find her lying in the snow, he would have lain beside her and brought her back to life with his own heat.
He shifted. His knees were aching and his fingers had gone numb with cold. The little room was silent. No voice of God had spoken. No Devil either, for that matter. He thought the Christ stretched out on the cross looked at him with pity, but there was no miracle forthcoming. Stiffly, he got to his feet. He had no idea how long he had been on his knees, but he knew it must be time to prepare the horse and carriage for Dr. Rhodes.
Next to the trapdoor was a washstand where his pitcher and bowl stood. There was a bar of soap in a dish and a razor. Soon after he had arrived, Foy made a scornful remark about the downy hair on his lip and chin, and Joe had immediately purchased a razor and tried to make sure he would never offend again.
He rolled up the sleeve of his jersey, exposing his forearm. A round white scar by the base of his thumb was testimony to his first placement in Elmvale. He’d tried to defend himself against the farmer’s belt and the buckle had ripped out a piece of flesh on his wrist.
He picked up the razor in his right hand and drew it firmly down his arm.
A red mark, thin as a pencil stroke, appeared instantly. He clenched his teeth but tears sprang involuntarily to his eyes. He waited a moment, then cut himself again, deeper this time. Then he dropped the bloody razor into the bowl of water, breaking the skin of ice into delicate shards. The water turned pink.
He pulled down his sleeve. Beads of sweat had broken out on his temples and he felt faint. However, the burning pain in his arm was a relief, as if he had transposed the grief that threatened to drive him mad.
Dark plumes of smoke, slow and lazy in the cold air, hung over the tall stacks at the distillery. The old lunatic who lived at the edge of the lake to the east used the smoke as a barometer to the mood of God. If the clouds were white and scattered it meant God was happy, and out-of-doors would be pleasant. If the smoke was dark and still, as it was this morning against the flesh-coloured dawn, God was angry and His breath would burn on your face. It was a time to be careful not to offend Him.
So it was with uneasiness he set out to forage for firewood and debris along the shore.
He saw what looked like a bundle of clothes some yards out on the frozen lake. When he went to investigate, he discovered the body.
He circled her once, twice, then poked her gingerly with his stick. In the night, snow had drifted across her body, and beneath that cold blanket she lay with her arms outstretched, legs bent beneath her. Even the confused mind of the lunatic registered that something was terribly wrong, and with a moan of fear he stumbled back over the frozen, rutted ground to the hut of his nearest neighbour. The widow, Maria Jenkins, was deaf and suspicious and he had difficulty rousing her. When she finally opened her door, he was gesticulating wildly, swaying from one foot to the other like a frightened pigeon. She understood him to say that an angel had fallen from the sky.
Later, when Murdoch saw Alice’s face, he found it hard to fathom why the old man would have said such a thing.
Donalda had been awake for almost an hour but she lay in her warm bed, not wanting to get up. She had slept badly again, with a terrifying dream of drowning that woke her over and over as if she were rising and falling to the surface of the sea. Finally she willed herself to stay awake. She heard Cyril’s door open and close and she slowly got out of bed. She couldn’t bear the thought of having breakfast alone, and even her husband’s company was preferable. Owen, she knew, wouldn’t be up until nine at least, and she never liked to wake him unnecessarily. She slipped on her satin wrapper and went downstairs.
The breakfast room was filled with sun and she could see that the sky was a brilliant, cloudless blue. In the warm room it was as if this were summer and not another cold February morning.