Under the Dragon’s Tail
- Автор: Jennings Maureen
- Серия: The Murdoch Mysteries #2
- Год: 2008
- Язык: английский
- Год: McClelland & Stewart
- ISBN: 9781551992815
- Жанр: Исторические детективы
Электронная книга - «Under the Dragon’s Tail». Краткое содержание книги:
Women rich and poor come to her, desperate and in dire need of help – and discretion. Dolly Merishaw is a midwife and an abortionist in Victorian Toronto, but although she keeps quiet about her clients' condition, her contempt for them and her greed leaves every one of them resentful and angry. So it comes as no surprise to Detective William Murdoch when this malicious woman is murdered. What is a shock, though, is that a week later a young boy is found dead in Dolly's squalid kitchen. Now, Murdoch isn't sure if he's hunting one murderer – or two. From the Paperback edition.
When he was about George’s age he’d started to steal tobacco plugs from his father. His father hadn’t seemed to notice and young Murdoch chawed away, savouring not the bitter taste but the defiance, the secret victory. He kept the stash under his mattress and was never found out.
Murdoch went over to the bed and with a heave turned over the mattress. It was filthy but intact, and nothing lay underneath it on the iron bedsprings. However, the one pillow fell to the floor and he could see wool stuffing dribbling out of one end. He picked it up and patted it. There was something firm in the middle. Too small to be the album, but something hidden. He fished inside and his fingers came in contact with what felt like a roll of paper. He pulled it out in a flurry of wool bits which stuck to his fingers like Golding’s tubercles. He shook them off and unwrapped the bundle, which was in a piece of the Globe. Inside was a wad of bills, mostly one dollar in denomination. He counted them. Forty-three dollars. He couldn’t believe the money was George’s or Freddie’s. They would be lucky to have twenty-five cents to their name. He probed the pillow’s innards again and this time plucked out a leather cord at the end of which dangled a small brass key. Looked like the missing desk key.
He riffled the notes. Forty-three dollars wasn’t a lot of money but perhaps enough to kill for if you were as destitute as these boys were. He folded the wad and put it in one of his envelopes. He would have discarded the newspaper, but suddenly a photograph caught his eye. A group of people on a lawn. In the centre was his honour, Walter Pedlow, seated with a rug over his legs. A younger man was to his right. Murdoch peered closer. The picture was fuzzy but he recognized this fellow. He was the one who had partnered Annie Brogan at the Derby. The too-long hair and thick moustache were unmistakable. He read the caption. “His honour, Walter Pedlow, at the reception of his nephew, Henry, recently returned from India. Mrs. Walter Pedlow is to the left of her husband and their ward, Miss Sarah Carswell, is directly in front of her.”
Maud had her head turned away from the camera. Somebody had circled the child’s face.
Murdoch felt a flush of excitement. Don’t tell me there’s no connection between Dolly Shaw and the Pedlows. Never heard of the woman, my eye! And why is Henry Pedlow hanging around Annie Brogan if they’re all such total strangers? The date of the paper was at the top, Wednesday, July 17, and there was a brownish stain across the side that looked like blood. He placed it in the envelope with the money.
There was nothing else in the room, just the fetid stink of misery.
It was approaching noon when he got back to the station. As he entered, the duty sergeant, Seymour of the sour puss, called him over.
“Package for you, Will, just arrived.”
He handed him a large brown envelope. It had the coroner’s seal on the back and Murdoch took it with him to his cubicle at the rear. He felt as if the smell of death clung to his clothes and he removed his jacket, putting it on the peg by the door. Her Majesty watched him benignly.
Vaux, the coroner, had sent on a copy of the doctor’s post mortem examination.
This is to certify that I, Robert Joseph Grieg, a legally qualified physician of the city of Toronto, did this day make a post mortem examination upon the body of a person identified as George Tucker, with the following result.
The body is that of a youth of about thirteen years of age, undernourished. Genitalia is mature. Rigor mortis was resolving with some remaining rigidity in the feet. Abdominal organs, kidneys, normal in size. There were signs of worm infestation in the lower bowel. Both legs were curved concavely. In my opinion evidence of childhood rickets. The entire chest cavity and pleura were filled with blood, the result of two stab wounds to the back, one close to the left scapula, and approximately seven and one half inches below the occiput, the other slightly higher, that is six inches from the occiput but the same distance from the scapula. Both wounds punctured the left lung. The third wound was at the junction of the left clavicle and the thoracic vertebrae. This wound severed the aorta. The knife had penetrated to a depth of four inches. Most of the body’s blood had drained from these wounds. The murder weapon is an ordinary kitchen knife with a saw-tooth edge and a bone handle. In my opinion all blows were administered with great force from above by a person who is right-handed. Respectfully submitted, Robert Grieg M. D.
The language was cool and clinical, as it should be, but Murdoch felt troubled by what it meant in human terms. Dr. Grieg had written, “genitalia mature,” but George Tucker was far from adulthood in size and strength. He’d had so little comfort in his short life and the brutality of his death was surely undeserved.
Murdoch returned the report to the envelope and stood up. He needed to be active. He left his cubicle and went to the off-duty room to see who was there. Crabtree was sitting at the table and he was about to take a big swallow from a bottle of stout.
“Wait!”
Startled, Crabtree halted, the bottle held in midair.
“Let me have a sip, I’m parched.”
Surprised, Crabtree handed over the bottle. Murdoch paused. He thought Brackenreid was as full of wind as a barber’s cat but…he sniffled at the bottle, the rich smell of stout wafting up to him. What now? If he himself dropped dead in violent spasms it wouldn’t necessarily help Crabtree. The constable was watching him curiously.
“Something wrong, sir?”
“Did you open this yourself?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What are you eating?”
“Some bread and ham that my wife put up.” He looked uneasy. “You’ve been talking to the inspector, haven’t you? He keeps dropping these peculiar hints that somebody is trying to poison me.”
“It’s not out of the question,” Murdoch said reluctantly. “How’s your stomach?”
“Not too good, sir. Bit of the cramps.”
While he was speaking, he took out a small pillbox and shook four green-coloured tablets into his palm.
“What’s that?”
“Strengthening pills the inspector gave me. He got them from the Sears catalogue. Special order.”
“Can I have a look?”
Crabtree gave him the pillbox and Murdoch sniffled at it.
“Smells like almonds.”
“That’s the flavouring.”
“Hey, hold on, Crabtree, it says here to take four a day. At intervals. Why are you taking them all at once?”
“I’m not exactly. The inspector recommended that I increase the dosage seeing as I’m big. I’m taking four pills six times a day.”
“Maybe you should cut it back. They may be upsetting your stomach.”
Crabtree looked dubious. “The inspector was insistent, Mr. Murdoch. You know how he is.”
“I certainly do. Look, lend me the box for a couple of hours. I’ll do a bit of research.”
“I don’t think–”
“I’ll take full responsibility.”
“All right. But I wouldn’t take too long if I were you, sir.”
Murdoch put the pillbox in his pocket.
“I’m off to see the Brogan woman. See what she has to say for herself this time.”
“Dreadful to think of that poor lad being done in like he was.”
“I want to make sure the other young titch isn’t going to be sent off either. If he’s still alive that is. Crabtree, don’t buy any apples from ugly old women.”
“Sir?”
“Never mind, just joking you.”
Murdoch left, realizing he hadn’t tasted the stout and feeling like a yellow coward as a result. Mr. Bright the druggist was standing in exactly the same place behind the counter as when Murdoch had seen him previously. He beamed a smile of recognition as the detective entered the shop.