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.
Cyril was seated in the window nook, reading the newspaper, and as she entered he looked up in surprise.
“Donalda, what gets you up so early?”
“I was awake and decided that I was getting tired of seeing only the four walls of my bedroom. It is much more pleasant down here.”
“There is no reason you shouldn’t take your breakfast here all the time.”
“You’re quite right. After all, I could eat alone in either place, couldn’t I?”
“Please, l-let’s not start a quarrel. You’re quite aware of my habits. You have chosen not to accommodate yourself to them.”
She moved restlessly over to the sideboard. She didn’t want to argue with him this morning. She tugged at the bellpull. She could sense Cyril observing her warily and tried to be more pleasant.
“Has anyone come forward with information about Theresa?”
“There is no more m-mention. Shepcote is offering a reward, so that might d-do it.”
“Cyril, I–”
There was a tap at the door and John Foy came in.
“I’d like my breakfast served here this morning, Foy.”
“Yes, madam. Mrs. Foy was just preparing it. It won’t be a moment.”
Donalda thought the butler looked as grey as old dishwater and wondered if he was sick.
“May I pour your tea, madam?”
She nodded. Foy went to the sideboard, removed the cozy from the teapot and poured the strong amber tea into a fresh cup. As he handed it to her, she could see his unsteadiness.
“Are you ill, Foy?”
“Thank you, no, madam. Just a touch of my stomach again.”
His eyes met hers and for a moment there was no gulf between mistress and servant. She saw the fear reflected in his liverish eyes but, a second before that, utter dislike. Then he blinked and the expression disappeared as if the aperture of a camera had closed. Her butler stood before her, steady and impassive.
“I’ll bring some more hot water and some toast, madam,” he said and left, carrying the jug.
Donalda took her teacup to the table. She wondered if she should mention Foy to Cyril, but she was overwhelmed with inertia. She felt almost as if she were still in her dream, trying to move underwater. She sipped at the hot, sweet tea and regarded her husband. The bright light was not kind. It accentuated the greyness of his beard and the thinning hair at his temples. He looked drawn and tired. She realized he wasn’t reading but had gone into a reverie.
“A penny for your thoughts, Cyril.”
“What?”
“You were lost in thought. I offered you a penny.”
For once, he didn’t respond with irritation. He smiled slightly. “I’m afraid even a farthing would be overvalue.”
“Do you realize we have hardly set eyes on each other since Monday evening?”
“That so? Hmm, I s-suppose you’re right. I have been devilishly busy.” He started to fold the newspaper. “And I still am. I must be off.”
If he had shown the slightest inclination to stay and talk to her, to share in any way what he was so busy with, Donalda, in her loneliness, would have remained softened towards him. However, his haste to leave stung her and determined her resolve.
“Cyril, I intend to return to England.”
He stared at her. “For a holiday?”
“No, I want to go back permanently.”
“This seems a sudden decision, Donalda.”
“Not really. I’ve been contemplating it for a long time but I haven’t had the courage to follow through.”
“I see.”
He regarded her bleakly, not making any attempt to dissuade her or question her decision. She continued, trying to hold her bitterness in check.
“Theresa’s death decided me. She was such a young girl to lose all promise of a life. She would have liked children and a family, I know that. Since it happened I have been scrutinising myself, and I don’t particularly like what I see.”
“How so, D-Donalda?”
“There is something wrong when a woman of my age takes most of her comfort from a servant.”
“You’re talking like this because you are still upset. What h-happened was dreadfully shocking to all of us–”
“Was it? Well, regardless, that event has forced my hand.”
“What about Owen?”
“I will suggest that he transfer to Guy’s Hospital. It is far superior, anyway. I am confident he and Harriet will make a match, and we could leave after the wedding. Don’t worry, we will devise some story to put abroad.”
“I am not con-con – er, concerned about that.”
“Aren’t you? You must have changed, then, in the last week. Public opinion has always seemed to matter a great deal to you.” She met his eyes. “I have kept your secret, Cyril, and because of Owen I remained, living this pretext. I can do so no longer. Oh, don’t look so alarmed, I’m not going to put a notice in the newspaper. I simply would like to return to my homeland. After a while perhaps we could divorce. I would like the opportunity to live the rest of my life with some honesty.” She paused and her voice was low. “I am not that old, after all. It is not inconceivable that I could find love again.”
To her surprise, Cyril put his head in his hands, his voice muffled so that she almost didn’t catch what he said.
“I am so sorry, Donalda.”
When Foy returned to the kitchen, his wife was busy chopping vegetables for the midday meal. Beef stew was on for today.
“She wants her toast.”
“It’s ready, just needs buttering.”
“Shall I do it?”
“I haven’t got four pair of hands, have I?”
He took the toast off the fork and slathered butter on one side.
“That’s too much,” Edith snapped. “You know she likes it spread thin.”
His head was throbbing and he was tempted to snarl back at her, but he knew that would precipitate a full-scale war and he wasn’t up to it. He scraped off some of the butter, licking at the knife. Edith was slicing at some carrots with an unpleasant vigour.
“She’s in a blue mood this morning,” he said.
“Has a right to be, if you ask me. Mind you, if I were in her shoes, I wouldn’t be blue, I’d be bloody red.”
“How’d you mean?”
“Him. Coming in at all hours of the night.”
“Dr. Rhodes?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Was he in late last night?”
Edith demolished a parsnip and dropped the slices into the pot of water on the stove. “Late! You might just as well say it was early. Two o’clock in the morning. I heard him knocking up Joe to put the carriage away.”
“I didn’t hear a thing.”
“No, you wouldn’t have, would you?”
Foy winced but didn’t pursue the matter. “I suppose he was with one of his patients, then?”
“Ha! Funny how he always has extra work to do Saturdays and Wednesdays. Very convenient.”
Her husband was befuddled but had the feeling that it was better to remain quiet. Edith put a hunk of raw meat on the cutting board and began slicing it into chunks.
“Look at the fat on this. And I asked for prime. That man is a cheat if ever I saw one.”
“The butcher?”
She gave him a withering look. “Men!”
Foy arranged the toast in the silver rack the way Donalda liked it.
Edith continued. “Good thing for Master Owen his father didn’t throw the bolt or we’d have had another incident like Saturday in reverse.”
“Was he out too?”
“Yes. Came crawling back just after the doctor.”
Foy had no real affection for Owen but he felt compelled to counter Edith. “He’s a young fellow. Probably out sowing a few wild oats while he can.”
Edith hacked the piece of meat in two.