Under the Dragon’s Tail

Murdoch returned to the Shaw house first thing the next morning. George’s body had been moved to the undertakers on Yonge Street, but where he had lain was demarcated by the stencil of congealed blood on the oilcloth. Murdoch went over to the place, standing in the clean area as much as possible. He was near the large pine cupboard. One of the doors was unfastened and he opened it. Inside were a few plates and bowls, some chipped mugs. He pretended to reach for something. One blow from behind, he staggered forward; another blow to the neck and he crumbled to the floor, falling sideward. His position fitted exactly with the angle of George’s body and suggested his assailant had come from around the table. Was that who was eating the bread and cheese? It didn’t make sense that George had surprised a stranger, some thief breaking in for a bit of supper. He would not have advanced into the room if he perceived he was in danger.

Murdoch sat down at the table, taking the chair that faced the door. The used plate was directly in front of him, the loaf of bread at his right hand. The murder weapon was a bread knife. What seemed likely was that George entered the kitchen, saw the person, but wasn’t perturbed enough to turn and run. In fact, at some point he went toward the cupboard. Was there a quarrel? Some provocation so severe that the other person snatched the bread knife, ran at George from behind and delivered two powerful blows. The first wound punctured the lung and a fine spray of blood had covered the corner of the table. There were several sheets hanging on a rack between the windows. The ones closest to the cupboard looked as if they had been dyed pink. Murdoch rubbed one of them between his fingers. It was good quality linen. Somebody was going to be missing their laundry soon.

Given that the murder looked like an unpremeditated act, Murdoch expected that the killer panicked and ran out, most likely by the shortest route to the door. That would take them right across the path of the body and the blood. He crouched down and moved slowly forward. Nothing that he could see, just some scuff marks and bits of mud which were probably left by the jurors who had viewed the body.

He spent the next half hour examining the kitchen, but could find nothing else that seemed relevant to the murder. He was glad to move on to the rest of the house. Reenacting the attack had brought back disturbing memories. He knew the shock and pain of an unexpected blow. His father had landed many of them. Worse had been the sight of his young brother, Albert, knocked senseless for some misdemeanour he had no awareness of. Murdoch’s own rage churned biliously in his stomach. It had not diminished after all these years. Murderous anger was an emotion he could understand.

He went into the parlour, opening the curtains this time and thrusting up all the window sashes. Mrs. Daly had spoken about an album. An important book by the sound of it. He hadn’t seen it the first time he examined the room but he had more idea now of what he was looking for.

For the next hour he searched thoroughly, taking up the carpet, a once-luxurious Axminster, moving aside all the grand furniture. Nothing. He wondered if he’d misinterpreted the money in Dolly’s pocket. Perhaps she herself intended to pay somebody. According to the neighbours she owed money. Maybe one of her creditors got fed up with waiting. Lost his temper and sent her off. That possibility didn’t sit right though and he felt frustrated. Once again there were too many paths to go down. He left and went upstairs.

Lily’s room was untouched as far as he could see but he sieved through it again just in case. It yielded nothing.

The boys’ room was also the same as he’d seen it last. He’d done no more than a perfunctory search before. The room was so bare and, at that point, he didn’t suspect either of the two boys. Perhaps he was wrong. He remembered the whispers while he was in Lily’s room. Were they hiding evidence? If so, what?