Under the Dragon’s Tail

This time Burns was much friendlier, eager for a tidbit of gossip he could pass on to the rest of the servants.

“How is the enquiry coming along…?”

He couldn’t quite get his mouth around sir, but his tone was conciliatory.

“Proceeding.”

Disappointed with his response, Burns pursed his lips.

“I’ll see if madam is at home.”

He was about to go slithering off when Murdoch stopped him.

“I wonder if you’d do me a favour and just announce me.”

The butler eyed him dubiously. “They won’t like it.”

“Tell them I insisted. You had no choice. I’ll vouch for you.”

Burns contemplated the pleasure of discomfiting his employer and the displeasure of the possible consequences. Pleasure won out.

“They’re in the sun room taking afternoon tea. I recommend you don’t linger. His honour doesn’t like to be interrupted.”

He led the way through the drawing room where Murdoch had previously met with Maud Pedlow. French doors opened onto the veranda, and here Burns gave a discreet tap and rather showily opened them.

“I beg your pardon, your honour, Mrs. Pedlow, Mr. Pedlow, but Detective Murdoch of number-four station wishes to speak to you.”

Give him his due, Burns did announcements particularly well.

Murdoch heard a querulous voice say, “Not now, Burns, what are you thinking of…” but he entered right at the butler’s shoulder.

Judge Pedlow, napkin tucked into his collar, was in the midst of stuffing a cake into his mouth. The cream had squeezed out around his lips like rabid foam. Maud Pedlow was seated beside him and across from her was Henry Pedlow. He looked at Murdoch in dismay and immediately lowered his eyes. If he could have disappeared into the fruit bowl he would have, thought Murdoch. The judge scowled.

“This is very presumptuous, sir. What is your business?”

“I wouldn’t dream of interrupting at such an important time, except that I’m investigating a serious case, your honour.”

“Yes, what is it?”

Murdoch hesitated ostentatiously. Let them sweat.

“I’m particularly here to talk to Mrs. Pedlow.”

“My wife! I don’t understand. Why would you want to talk to my wife?”

Maud had obviously not told her husband about Murdoch’s previous visit. Burns fiddled with the dishes on the sideboard, waiting to hear what was going on. Mrs. Pedlow regarded Murdoch the way Macbeth might have stared at Banquo’s ghost.

“Madam, did you not inform his honour of my interview?”

She shook her head and dabbed at her mouth with one of the damask napkins.

“No, of course not. It could have no relevance to him.”

She stood up so quickly she jolted the table. Walter’s coffee splashed out of the cup.

“Mrs. Pedlow, if you please!”

“I’m sorry, Walter. I think it would be better if Mr. Murdoch and I met in another room. We don’t want to interfere with your tea.”

The judge was not entirely a fool. He regarded her curiously. “Please sit down, my dear. If one of our police officers deems it necessary to come to my own house on official business I’d like to know what it is. Consider my position,” he added ambiguously.

Maud sank back into her seat. Henry Pedlow was sitting very still and neither he nor his aunt looked at each other. Walter wiped off most of the cream custard from his mouth and decided to be gracious.

“I can spare some time, Mr. – er – Merton. Fortunately we are having a cold meal today.”

“I’m glad of that, sir.”

Pedlow glanced up sharply but Murdoch had kept his face expressionless.

“Burns, bring Mr. Murdoch a chair,” said Maud.

The butler pulled a cane-back chair closer to the table. Murdoch placed his hat beside him on the floor and took out his notebook with some deliberation. Anything to intimidate these people.

“Bear with us, Henry, this won’t take long,” Pedlow said.

For the second time that day, Murdoch felt a surge of anger and the muscles in his neck tightened. The condescension in the judge’s voice infuriated him. Pedlow might as well have been talking about a pauper begging for alms.

“I can’t promise that, sir,” he said. “I must take all the time necessary. I am investigating two murders.”

“Two? What do you mean?” Maud gasped.

“Hold on, Mrs. Pedlow,” said her husband. “I don’t even know about one. Start at the beginning, Merton, if you please.”

He waved at him to begin as if he were a lawyer at the bench. Murdoch flipped over a few pages in his notebook, trying to get back his own control. No sense in letting a blowfly like Pedlow get under his skin. He could also feel how intently Henry Pedlow was paying attention and it aggravated him. His honour hadn’t deemed it necessary to introduce his nephew to a detective so Henry was saved the embarrassment of having to admit a prior acquaintance. Murdoch didn’t insist, deciding to keep that particular ace up his sleeve for now. Close up, the younger Pedlow wasn’t as attractive as he’d first seemed on the stage with Annie. Even the brown skin couldn’t mask the deep shadows underneath his eyes. Murdoch had an uncharitable feeling of satisfaction.

“Well? Get on with it,” said the judge.

“A few days ago, I spoke to Mrs. Pedlow concerning the unnatural death of a woman named Dolly Shaw–”

“Why would my wife know anything of such a person?”

“Her daughter takes in washing,” murmured Maud.

Murdoch saw no reason he should spare her. “I discovered Mrs. Pedlow’s card in the dead woman’s desk. There was also a copy of a letter that could be construed as a blackmail threat.”

“How so?”

“The note mentioned previous services rendered which would be revealed unless a gratuity, her word, was tendered.”

“Addressed to whom?”

“I don’t know, sir, there was no name.”

“And you say a copy. Am I to take that to mean you do not have the original?”

“That is correct, sir.”

“Therefore, not only do you not know for whom this letter was intended, you do not know if it was actually sent, or when.”

“You are right on all counts, sir.”

“Aha.” The judge sat back with the tips of his fingers forming a tent.

“I also found a large sum of money on the woman’s person.”

“How large?”

“Five hundred dollars. Ten fifty-dollar bills.”

“You are, therefore, of the opinion she may have received this monies from her intended mark.”

“It seems likely.”

“But you have no proof.”

“Not at the moment. One of the neighbours says that Mrs. Shaw used to be a midwife and she boasted about an album she had in which she kept her records. Records of sin, as she referred to them. I’m assuming, of course, she dealt with babies conceived out of wedlock. So far I have not found this book.”

“I see. You trying to make a tidy package of everything, aren’t you? Threatening letter, money, some kind of records. Your thinking is rather acute, I’ll give you that, Merton. Except I don’t know where some poor wretch of a shop clerk would get the amount of money you found.”

“Doesn’t have to be a shop girl, sir.”

The judge considered his wife. “Were you acquainted with this woman, my dear?” He was now totally in his element. He’d reverted to the kindly judge demeanour.

“Of course not.”

Henry spoke for the first time. “Really, Uncle, how could she be?”

Pedlow ignored him, but Murdoch knew that both of them, detective and judge, had registered the intensity of Henry Pedlow’s intervention.