Under the Dragon’s Tail

Murdoch regretted he’d left his wheel at home as he and Constable Wiggin jog-trotted up from King Street. In his hurry he’d forgotten to change out of his dancing slippers and by the time they reached the Shaw house, his feet felt bruised from contact with the macadam pavement. It was almost dark by now and the streetlamps struggled feebly to overcome the dusk that had crept across the city. Once again a crowd of curious onlookers was gathered on the sidewalk outside the house.

“What’s going on, Officer?” called out one of the men, seeing them approach. Murdoch recognized him. He’d been in exactly the same spot before.

“It’s not the poor bairns, is it?” a woman asked.

“Don’t know anything yet,” said Murdoch. “Now let me through.”

They did at once, then closed ranks behind him like the sea.

There were no lights showing inside, but the constable on guard at the doorstep had lit his dark lantern and he held it aloft, waving it like a beacon. Murdoch went up the steps.

“Wiggin, stay out here, please. Burney, show me where.” The constable stepped back into the hall.

“In the kitchen, sir.” The door was ajar.

“Let’s have some more light,” said Murdoch and waited while Burney fumbled for a match and lit the candle in the wall sconce. His hands were trembling. Murdoch drew a deep breath. He wasn’t exactly calm himself.

“Give me your lantern, Dick.”

He did and Murdoch entered the kitchen, holding the light up high.

The beam illuminated the body of George Tucker.

He was lying on his stomach next to the stove. His face was turned towards the door and a knife protruded from the junction of his neck and shoulder. His eyes were open and blood had gushed from his mouth so that there was a dark pool, thick with flies, all around his head. He was dressed only in a nightshirt, which had been soaked with blood.

Murdoch flashed the light around the room. It appeared undisturbed. He shouted to the constable.

“Burney, find me some more frigging candles, it’s dark as the Devil’s asshole in here.”

The constable came in, avoiding looking at the dead boy.

“There’s one on the table,” said Murdoch. He waited until Burney had lit the stub, then he went over to the body, knelt down, and touched the boy’s cheek lightly with the back of his hand. The skin was cold and clammy. Burney edged closer.

“He’s just a lad, isn’t he, sir? Who would do such a thing?”

Murdoch stood up. “Up to us to find out, isn’t it?”

He was being snappy but he couldn’t help it. Protruding from the skimpy nightshirt, George’s legs were scrawny, virtually hairless. He looked like a little child.

“There’s another candlestick on that sideboard. Bring it over here and hold both of them close.”

Murdoch placed the lantern on the table and together with the two candles, he had sufficient light for a cursory examination of the body. The skin was already blackening and the blood had congealed on the nightshirt.

Tenderly, as if it mattered, Murdoch moved the boy’s head. It turned freely enough. He tested the arms and legs which had now lost the stiffness of death.

“Shine the lantern here a minute.”

Burney, still shaky, brought the light closer to George’s back. Murdoch could see a narrow puncture just between the shoulder blades. From the amount of blood that had flowed from the wound, he assumed the knife had pierced a lung. There didn’t seem to be another wound except the final deadly blow to the neck. He examined both hands but there were no signs of cuts on the palms or fingers. No evidence of a struggle.

“See if there’s a match to this knife in any of the drawers,” he told Burney. He stood up. The kitchen was tidy enough except for a half-eaten loaf of bread and a rind of cheese on the table.

Burney was investigating the sideboard, and he held up a knife with a yellowish bone handle. It was identical to the murder weapon.

“There’s two more in here, sir.”

“Keep it out. We’ll show it to the coroner. God, I need some air. Let’s go into the hall. Leave the candles.”

Burney followed him.

“You got some blood on your trousers, sir.”

Murdoch looked down at his knee, which was stained.

“Damn it.”

“Sorry we had to spoil your dance, Mr. Murdoch. The sergeant thought as it was your case, you should be gotten.”

Murdoch moistened his handkerchief and wiped off the mark as best he could.

“I don’t suppose you’ve checked the rest of the house, have you?” he asked the constable.

“No, sir.”

“Come on then, there’s two other people who live here normally. A boy and a woman. Let’s see if they’re with the quick or the dead.”

He went to the centre of the hall and called.

“Hulloo? Anybody here? Freddie, it’s Detective Murdoch…are you here? Don’t be afraid.”

The house was silent as only a place of death can be silent.

Murdoch approached the closed parlour door. Fear of what he might find made his stomach shrink but he had no choice. He thrust it open. Empty. It didn’t look changed from when he’d last seen it.

“Let’s go upstairs. Take that candle.”

He led the way up to the narrow landing.

“Hello! Freddie, are you up here?” He paused, his voice sinking into the silence like ink on blotting paper. He nodded at Burney.

“I’ll do it.”

The door to the boy’s room was partially open. He pushed it all the way, waited, then stepped inside. It was empty. He crouched down and shone the light underneath the bed. Nothing except for two pairs of worn boots and a full slop pail.

On the chair was a small pile of clothes, a pair of brown plaid trousers, and a holland shirt, shabby and torn. There was another bundle on the floor. Black serge trousers and a blue, well-patched shirt.

“Looks like Freddie ran off without his clothes,” he said to Burney who was standing at the threshold.

“D’you think he’s the one done it, sir? They might have had a row, lad snatches up the carving knife. Then nub nux. Didn’t mean to do it, but too late now, isn’t it?”

Murdoch shrugged. He didn’t think so. For one thing, Freddie was smaller than George and he’d seemed a timid lad. On the other hand, sometimes the worm will turn. Perhaps the boy had been provoked beyond endurance. He hoped that wasn’t what had happened.

“Looks bad on him if he has done a bunk. He’d be here if he’s innocent,” added the constable.

“Or he could be dead too.”

“Maybe it was a kelp as did the lad in, then. Maybe the old lady had a stash hidden somewhere. Same person as did for her, came back to bird the loot. The boy surprised him. Slam. He’s done for.”

“If he came upon a burglar why was he stabbed in the back?”