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.
“Damnation!” she said out loud again. She regretted her angry remarks in front of the detective. There was no point in shaming the family. He, of course, had pounced on what she said but for once both she and Cyril were united. She insisted she had spoken carelessly, meant nothing, and Cyril denied any association at all with what he called “women of the night.”
Was it true? Even thinking that now made her throat burn, remembering the time so many years ago when he had wept in her lap.
“It will never happen again,” he’d said, sobbing like a boy. But she was unrelenting. Her love for him had died with the unborn child, the tiny lump of flesh that she had insisted the midwife show her. It was the same midwife who, nervously, had hinted at the real reason for the miscarriage. Dr. Pollard reluctantly confirmed the truth, and after a stormy confrontation Cyril broke down and confessed. Consorting with prostitutes was a habit he’d picked up in medical school, and it had continued throughout their marriage until the second pregnancy. She was four months expecting and full of joy at the thought of another child. But he’d come straight to her bed from a whorehouse and infected her with gonorrhea. The foetus died and she was ill for weeks, rendered infertile.
He begged for forgiveness but she had none, the rift between them was too immense to repair.
Donalda stood up and clasped her hands together tightly in an unconscious gesture of prayer. Last summer Owen had cried too, his face streaked with tears, his nose running with snot as if he were five years old again. He’d used the same words – “It will never happen again” – but she knew it had. She wanted to deny the truth, to pretend that a marriage to Harriet Shepcote would make all the difference, but after today she knew it would not.
Suddenly she felt in need of comfort so intensely it was a pain in her chest. Owen had left the house at the same time as the detective, using Murdoch as a screen against her anger. Cyril had gone somewhere too, walking out into the winter night as if the darkness could bring him solace. The pale face of her stableboy came to her mind, and with a blind instinct to ease her own pain in the worse anguish of another, she decided to go to him.
A shawl clutched tightly around her head against the bitter cold, she hurried across the snow-covered yard. She hadn’t been able to set foot in the stable since the summer but as she entered, the smell of horse and straw thrust the memory upwards.
She lifted her lantern high and as the light struck the horse’s head, his eyes gleamed golden. He was placidly chewing his hay but he stamped with his rear leg and shifted. She hesitated, then called out.
“Joe? Joe, are you in here? It’s Mrs. Rhodes.”
There was a thump overhead, the sound of footsteps, and Joe’s face appeared in the opening at the top of the ladder. He looked so frightened Donalda’s heart went out to him, and she spoke kindly.
“Joe, I’d like to talk to you. I’ve come to see how you are.”
He turned in order to come down the ladder but Donalda stopped him.
“Wait. I’ll come up.”
He shook his head.
“Why not?”
He started to gesture with his hands.
“You can speak, Joe. You have already.”
He gulped, then spoke so softly she could hardly hear him.
“’Tisn’t tidied up or anything.”
“Don’t be foolish, I’m not the house matron.”
Joe flinched.
“Come and hold the lantern for me,” she said more gently.
He clambered down a few rungs and she handed him the light. Then, gathering up her skirt, she climbed awkwardly up to the loft and stood on the upper rung of the ladder, her head thrust through the opening. Joe moved backwards to the wall, the lantern waving in his hand. He had to bend his head to stand upright because it wasn’t a room really, just a space under the eaves. There was a narrow bed made up neatly, with a small wooden crate beside it and a wicker chair. It could have been a passageway in somebody’s house. Donalda gazed around in dismay. How could she not know he lived like this?
“You keep it very tidy, Joe.”
“I do it like we was taught, ma’am.”
The lantern was throwing up long shadows against the walls and his face was in darkness, but his fear was rank in the confined area.
“Help me up, Joe.”
“Not much room.”
“That’s all right. I’ll sit.”
“Better I come down, missus.”
He flapped his hand at her the way you do to shoo away chickens.
“What are you hiding?”
“Nothing, missus.”
“Come over here.” She was perched uncomfortably at the edge of the trapdoor. Slowly he moved towards her, revealing a metal-bound square box behind him. A tiny cross as if on an altar was balanced against the wall.
“What is that?” she pointed.
“Nothing, missus.”
“Shine the light there.”
“It ain’t nothing.”
“Do as I say, Joe.”
Reluctantly he obeyed, lowering the lantern.
“Give it to me.”
He did so, his hand shaking.
“Did this belong to Theresa?”
“Yes, missus.”
“Where did you get it?”
Wordlessly, he pointed downwards.
“Use words, Joe.”
He hung his head and muttered, “Can’t say.”
“Look at me. Come on, raise your head. That’s better. Now listen. I promise you will not be punished. I know you haven’t done anything bad.”
She spoke confidently but she felt ill. The crucifix lay cool and heavy in her hand. The Christ figure was made of silver, the cross ebony wood. Joe saw her distress and became even more afraid. She tried to smile to reassure him.
“You must tell me, Joe. Where did you find this?”
Again he pointed down below and whispered.
“In the carriage.”
“What? I don’t understand.”
“Things fall out, money and bits, so I always checks out the seats. I’m sorry, missus, I should’ve–”
“Never mind that now. What carriage? Who does it belong to? Whose is it, Joe?”
Chapter Nineteen