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.
“You said it was concerning one of the students. What have they been up to now?” Grant asked.
“What d’you think?” asked Murdoch, genuinely curious.
“Pranks, no doubt. Don’t tell me they’ve gone and built another snowman?”
“Is that so bad?”
“The last one was. Just afore Christmas some of them sneaked over to the Baptist Seminary on Jarvis Street there. Built a ten-foot-high snowman that looked just like the minister. I have to say it was right clever. He’s got red whiskers and they dyed some sheep’s wool, stuck a pair of spectacles on his nose, the whole bit.”
“That seems innocent enough.”
The porter snickered. “Oh, yes, that was, but then they added a large pink rubber hose. Put it you know where. Shocking it was. I mean young ladies were walking by every day.”
Murdoch tut-tutted in sympathy.
“This student you’re enquiring about, broke the law, has he?”
Murdoch knew how destructive rumour could be, and he wanted to be fair to Owen Rhodes.
“Let’s just say I need to verify his whereabouts at a certain time.”
Grant looked uneasy, and Murdoch remembered what Owen had said about his being unreliable.
“Are the students allowed to use the laboratories after class hours?” he asked.
“They are, but not a lot avail themselves. Unfortunately, some of the young gentlemen see their education as a lark. Pity their poor patients, I say. But then that’s youth for you. No harm, really. High spirits is all.”
Murdoch guessed that the young gentlemen in question made Grant’s life miserable. There were at least six bells on the wall and he could imagine the man answering summons after trivial summons.
“You know most of them, do you?”
“Oh yes. See them coming in and out all year.”
“But they don’t have to sign in after hours.”
“They’re supposed to, but lookit, they’re young. Lot on the mind, as it were. If you gave me a nickel for every Tom and Dick that didn’t, I’d be a rich man.”
“Can I see the register?”
“Certainly.”
He pulled a ledger out of the drawer and opened it, turning it towards Murdoch. Grant was right about the diligence of the medical students. There were no more than four entries on Thursday night and only two on Wednesday. Neither name was Owen’s.
“Do you know Mr. Owen Rhodes?”
“Ah yes, sir. I do.”
“He says he was here in the laboratory all Wednesday night. Is that so?”
“Certainly is. He’s a study, that one. He’s here now, as a matter of fact. Came this morning. Been here all day.”
“I see. What’s he look like?”
“Short, stout fellow, black hair and whiskers. Wears spectacles.”
“You’re sure that’s Mr. Rhodes?”
“Positive. Know him like my own son. That’s my job, to know them all. What’s he done? Seems like a good sort to me. Doesn’t tease like some of the young fellows. But then they’re young and–”
Murdoch cut him off. “The Owen Rhodes I’m concerned with is of medium height, slim with copper-coloured hair, no sidewhiskers, small moustache. Favours gaudy waistcoats.”
“Ha, don’t they all. Quite the fashion these days with the young gentlemen. Those that have the balsam, that is. And most of them do, of course, here.” He tapped the bridge of his nose. “Doting fathers. Or mothers, more like. But anyway you was saying this fellow is a carrot-top. Maybe you’re thinking of Mr. Beresford. He’s a redhead. Quite tall, though, and beefy. Likes his grub.”
“Mr. Grant, tell me the truth. I wager these young colts lead you a merry chase when they’re in the mood.”
“That they do.”
“You see a lot of them going back and forth. Must be hard to tell one from the other at times?”
Grant looked as ambivalent as a mouse contemplating the piece of cheese in the trap.
“Oh, no, sir. I’m supposed to know who they are. Keep track and so on. I might make the occasional mistake but no, sir, I know them all.”
“And you’re sure that the raven-haired Mr. Rhodes who is in the college now was here all Wednesday night?”
“Absolutely.”
“Do you mind if I look around?”
“Not at all, Sergeant. The place is deserted, anyway, except for Mr. Rhodes. They all went home early on account of the weather. Any excuse if you’re young and carefree.”
“I’ve heard stories about the escapades these students get up to. Didn’t some of them start experimenting with laughing gas not too long ago? One took too much, I heard, ending up in the asylum for a week or two.”
Grant smiled with the true malevolence of the victimized. “That’s right. Last November it was. They were supposed to be learning the effects of ether. Always try it out on themselves. Good thing too. They’ll know what it’s like when they’re doctors, won’t they? Should do a bit of amputation, if you ask me.” He chortled at his own joke. “But no harm intended, Sergeant. We’ve all been young, haven’t we?”
“Do any of them use opium that you know of?”
“Wouldn’t be surprised. They’ve got all sorts of drugs lying around. They make a lot of them theirselves.”
More probing didn’t elicit further information. Grant was an irritating witness, constantly vacillating between fear of jeopardising his job and the malicious desire to create trouble for the students. Finally Murdoch prevailed on him to show the main building. It took almost an hour to complete the tour. The porter was right about the lone student. He was dark-haired and industrious but his name was Llewellyn and he was of Welsh extraction, with a lilt to his voice. Murdoch hoped he would do well at his studies.
When he finally left and set off again into the blustery winds, Murdoch was sure of one thing. If Owen Rhodes had gone to the college on Wednesday night, he could easily have done so without Grant knowing or anyone else seeing him. His alibi was neither proven nor disproven.
Chapter Eighteen
Friday, February 15
DONALDA PACED RESTLESSLY IN HER BEDROOM, her whole being so charged with Murdoch’s visit she couldn’t sit still. Over and over in her mind she replayed what had happened. The Foys were packing to leave and she was glad. She was sure John Foy had forced himself on Theresa, and as far as she was concerned he was culpable in the girl’s death. She’d run away and perished.
“If only you’d told me,” she burst out loud, but she knew that Theresa had been too frightened to do so.
She poked hard at the fire, breaking the lumps of coal into flame. She couldn’t imagine Foy administering opium to the girl, however. So who had? That was the most frightening notion of all.