Except the Dying

Joe lowered his head again and his expression returned to dullness.

“Joe?”

The boy shrank back as if he would climb into the fire itself.

“Well? Who had taken the carriage? Was it Dr. Rhodes?”

Donalda interrupted. “My husband never uses the carriage at night, Mr. Murdoch. His office hours are too unpredictable. Joe takes him in the morning and he comes back by hired cab when he has finished.”

Edith shifted her position. Her voice was polite but Murdoch saw malice cross her face. “I have to say, Sergeant – knowing as how this is a police investigation – I have to say I overheard Mr. Owen leaving in the carriage. ’Bout ten o’clock it was. I was on the point of retiring for the night.”

Donalda glanced over at her son. “Is that so, Owen?”

“Yes, I was about to fess up when Edith beat me to the punch.”

“You were out on Wednesday night, then, sir?”

“I was. I had some tests to catch up on. I went down to the laboratory to burn the midnight oil. My examinations are coming up before too long.”

“Was anybody else with you?”

“Yes, a couple of the fellows.”

“Who were they, these friends? May I have their names?”

Owen was looking most uncomfortable. “Good Lord, no. I mean, what am I saying? I was by myself. I’m getting mixed up with other evenings. Yes, that’s it. Sorry, no friends.”

“So there’s nobody who can confirm your statement. A night porter, for instance.”

“Er, I doubt it. Old Grant is just that, old. He was asleep, as I recall.” He gave an embarrassingly false laugh. “Ha, a whole contingent of thieves could have got in and they wouldn’t have woken him. Not that there’s anything to steal there. Who wants pickled embryos?”

You’re one of the worst liars I’ve come across, thought Murdoch, but at the moment I haven’t the sod of a notion what you’re lying about.

“What time did you get back to Birchlea, sir?”

“Oh, I don’t know. One o’clock maybe.”

Murdoch looked at Donalda. “You, ma’am, were you at home?”

“Yes.”

“And Dr. Rhodes?”

“I cannot answer for my husband, Mr. Murdoch. After dinner I spent the evening in my room. I don’t know whether he was in or not.”

“He was not, madam,” said Edith. “The doctor left the house sometime after Master Rhodes. I believe he didn’t return until this morning.”

“Father likes to spend the odd night at his club,” interjected Owen.

“I’m aware of that, Master Rhodes. I am merely trying to give the officer the correct information.”

Murdoch abruptly changed tack, see if they ducked the yardarm.

“What colour is your carriage and horse, Mrs. Rhodes?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“We have evidence that Therese got into a carriage shortly before she died. It was described as burgundy or dark brown in colour and the horse light.”

Donalda met his eyes without flinching. “Our carriage is walnut and the horse is a grey.”

He continued. “Have any of you ever seen a man with a snake tattoo on his right hand? Stocky build, fair short hair, rough sort of face? Says he is a sailor.”

Blank faces stared at him, and he thought the bewilderment was genuine. He closed his notebook.

“Is that everything, Mr. Murdoch?”

“Not exactly, ma’am. There’s still the matter of Therese Laporte’s condition. It might further our solving both cases if we had that mystery nailed down.”

“I cannot tell you anything more than I’ve already said. Theresa had no suitors and frankly no time that I can see when she would have been with anyone.”

“If that is the case, then her seducer must be closer to home, wouldn’t you agree, ma’am?”

Donalda straightened her back even more. “Let me say I can understand your considering it so.”

Edith Foy made a peculiar sound that was a cross between a snort and a cough.

“Is there something you wish to say, Edith?”

“There is, madam.”

“For goodness’ sake, speak out, then,” Donalda said with irritation.

Edith’s lips drew tighter together. “You don’t have to go far to find the culprit. He’s right there.” She pointed at Joe Seaton, who had been sitting on the edge of the fender while they were all talking. “He’s the one got the girl in trouble, mark my words.”

Joe shrank away and covered his head with his arms as if to ward off blows.

“These are serious accusations, Mrs. Foy,” said Murdoch. “Can you prove them?”

“He’s a guttersnipe and they never change no matter what good is shown them. Besides, he’s backward. Can’t tell the difference between Christian right and wrong any more than a dog can.”

Murdoch found it hard not to snap back at the woman. His younger brother had been backward, and until the boy died Murdoch had spent a large part of their childhood defending him against similar ignorance. He moved over to Joe and tried to pull down his arm so he could see his face. The boy yelped in pain.

“What is it, Joe? Have you hurt your arm?”