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.
Friday, February 15
THE YEOMAN CLUB WAS NOT OSTENTATIOUS or well situated like some of the clubs and lodges in the city. The Oddfellows owned a huge chateau of a building on Carlton Street, which was a boast to the world about their wealth. The National Club had a good address on Bay Street. The Yeoman had neither of these. It had been founded fifteen years earlier by a rich brewer who acquired a cheap piece of land at the south end of River Street. In spite of the location, he enticed a significant membership by donating his superb wine cellar, sparing no expense in the decor and, above all, affording complete privacy.
The three-storey building itself was plain, with a flat facade of red brick, the only ornamentation some yellow medallions beneath the cornice and two columns of expensive Italian marble that flanked the door.
By the time he reached the club, Murdoch was footsore and his face was burning with the cold. The wind was fierce and the snow was building up on the sidewalks, making walking difficult. River Street was a working-class area not fully populated, and there were only a few lights dotting the darkness. At the Yeoman Club a low gas lamp shone outside but the windows were curtained and unwelcoming. Only those in the know would seek out the place.
He tugged on the bellpull and the door was opened at once by a liveried footman. He hesitated, trying to assess the detective’s status. Not a tradesman, but not a guest nor likely to be. Murdoch was used to this attitude but never reconciled. He stared back at the footman and coolly presented his card.
“I’d like to have a word with the steward, if you please.”
“That’ll be Mr. Keene. He’s in his office.”
“I’ll wait inside, then, while you fetch him. It’s maundy cold out here.”
Reluctantly, the footman stepped aside to let him in. Then, the card held in his fingertips as if it were dipped in shit, he went off.
Murdoch gazed around curiously at the spacious vestibule. There was a log fire blazing in the big fireplace, two fine brocade armchairs facing it and at their feet a tiger-skin rug, fierce head intact, the long teeth bared, ready to bite the unwary. The carpet was a thick Persian, the wallpaper red and green flock, and soft light filtered through porcelain sconces. Murdoch walked cautiously around the tiger’s head to warm his hands at the fire. Above the mantel were two framed pictures. One was of Her Majesty holding her orb and sceptre, the other a daguerreotype of a stout man with abundant white whiskers and small eyes. The brass plate declared this was Mr. Lothar Reinhardt, the generous founder and benefactor of the Yeoman Club. Beneath his portrait was a printed declaration of the aims and purpose of the club:
… to defend and protect our native land against the encroachment of undue influence from our southern neighbours, to wit the United States of America. To sustain and support our undying loyalty to the throne of England, Her Majesty Queen Victoria and her descendants.
He turned his back to the fire, lifting his coat to get some heat to his cold buttocks. In the centre of the vestibule was a white marble sculpture on an ebony pedestal. It depicted Diana, breasts naked, half woman, half deer, fleeing from her own hounds. The terror carved on the goddess’s face made him think of Alice fleeing across the frozen lake.
“Mr. Murdoch. What can I do for you?”
The footman had reappeared, and behind him was a tall man, with grizzled hair cut short. He was dressed in cutaway black jacket and grey trousers, and an immaculate white cravat was at his throat. He had the stiff bearing of a soldier, accentuated by the empty left sleeve of his jacket, which was pinned to his broad chest. Murdoch gaped, recognizing him immediately, but the steward spoke first.
“My name is Keene. Perhaps we should talk in my office. Forsyth, see we are not disturbed.”
“Yes, sir.” The footman’s face was as expressionless as a dummy’s. Only the bright curiosity in his eyes gave him away. He stepped back into immobility beside the entrance.
“This way,” said the steward. Murdoch followed him into a wide passageway with closed, leather-covered doors along either side. All of them sported mahogany plaques which stated, variously, LIBRARY, SMOKING ROOM, BILLIARD ROOM. The man opened the door labelled STEWARD’S OFFICE and ushered Murdoch inside.
It was actually a sitting room, luxuriously appointed, with a Turkish couch in plush velour and two brown leather chairs. The draperies were chenille and the Axminster carpet thick enough to go to bed on. A massive walnut desk against one wall was the only visible concession to business. There was a blazing fire in the hearth here as well.
The steward closed the door and the two men faced each other. Both broke into broad smiles of delight.
“Willie, my boyo, it’s so good to see you again.”
Murdoch pulled him into a hug, thumping him hard on the back. “It didn’t seem like it back there. What’s this ‘My name is Keene’ stuff?”
“I apologize, Will. I for sure didn’t mean to slight you. Gave me quite a shock to receive your card, I can tell you.” His Irish brogue was thicker with his excitement. “Truth is I changed my name for practical reasons. I wanted this crib and I suspected that a man named John Keene, Methodist, rather than Sean Kelly, hardened Papist, would be more acceptable to the fat culls.”
Murdoch grimaced. “From what I’ve seen so far, you were probably right.”
Kelly stepped back and gave Murdoch an affectionate punch in the arm. “You’re fit as a fiddle, I see. Here, now. Let me take your coat and hat. Thank you kindly for being so quick on the uptake and not letting on. Forsyth’s a toad-eater if ever there was one. He’d have tattled on me for sure.”
Murdoch regarded him, smiling. “Now let me have a gander at you.”
Kelly’s features were broad and flat, and childhood smallpox had made him cribbage-faced. The general effect was rather sinister. But Murdoch knew, in spite of his appearance, he was a decent man of fierce loyalty and honour. They’d known each other at the lumber camp twelve years before, where Kelly was the manager and Murdoch a young chopper.
“You’ve not changed a speck.”
The steward chuckled. “If you think that, it’s sure your own eyesight in what’s changed.” He patted his stomach. “Fifteen more pounds. I married a widow lady last year and she’s been doing her best to fatten me up like I was a prize steer worth more by the pound. Lots of bread and potatoes in there.”