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.
Wrapped in her shawl and in the darkness of the laneway, she hadn’t seen the man following her. He was wearing a long greatcoat and wide hat and it was only when he was close and pulled the muffler from his face that she recognized him.
“You’re a bloody racehorse,” he said, panting a little. “Where’s the fire?”
“You! Get away from me.”
She went to run but he grabbed her by the arm. “Hold on. What’s up with you?”
“You know sodding well. You done in Alice.”
“What you talking about?”
She struggled to get free but he held on.
“Let go of me. I’ll start yelling in a minute.”
“Come on, woman. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Alice left with you that night and got herself strangled.”
He gave her a hard shake. “Ellie. Listen to me. I didn’t do anything.”
“Why should I believe you?”
She couldn’t move out of his grip. “Because it’s the truth, you dumb git.”
“Don’t call me that. And me name’s Ettie. Bernadette to you.”
“Beg pardon!” He set her free but stood close. “Listen, Miss Trim and Topper, your chum did leave with me and we were all set to go off and have a good bit of jig. Then some swell went past in his carriage. He stopped and without so much as a wink or a wave, she jumped in and off they went.”
Ettie stared at him, trying to determine if he was lying or not, but his pugilist’s face was impossible to read in the shadows.
“What sort of carriage was it?”
“Nobby, reddish colour.”
“Was the horse light?”
“I think so, a bay maybe or a grey. Why? D’you know him?”
Ettie bit on her lip. That was the description that Alice had given of the carriage she’d seen on Saturday. It made sense that it was the same one. Sod it. Had Alice been so stupid as to get in? She probably thought she could put the squeeze on the man. Angry tears sprang to her eyes. What a foolish ignorant tart she was.
“D’you know the toff?” the sailor repeated.
Ettie shook her head.
“Listen, even the police believed me,” he continued. “I got a visit from them yesterday. Every dick at the tavern must have given them a description of me going off with Alice–”
“What did the coppers look like?”
“One was a Goliath, seven feet at least. The detective was tall too, dark moustache. Fancied himself.”
“No he don’t. He’s a good sort for a frog.”
“Ha! Perhaps I should have said he fancies you. His eyes lit up like a gas lamp when he mentioned your name.”
“Go on, that’s horseshit if ever I smelled it.”
“It’s the truth, Ellie. He’s quite cracked about you.”
She shrugged, but she was pleased. “My God, what am I doing here dithering with you? I’ve got to deliver these gloves.”
She set off again, heading for Queen Street, and the man kept pace.
“I was real sorry to hear about Alice. Here’s something for the funeral.” He pushed a folded five-dollar bill into her hand.
Ettie put it into her pocket. “Thanks.”
“Can I stand you a pail and bin at the tavern when you’ve done your errand?”
“What?”
“An ale and gin.”
“Throwing it around like a lord, aren’t we?”
“There’s only one better place I know of to put my money.”
“And where’s that?”
He touched her on the crotch. “Right in your duck hunt.”
“Cheeky.”
In fact, she didn’t fancy him at all, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Maybe she could toss back enough gin to stomach him.
They were hurrying west along Queen Street to the tailor’s shop. Like Alice, Ettie was afraid of the churchyard, but she didn’t want the man to know that so she pulled her shawl like a blinker in front of her face and walked faster. She stopped in front of the shop, which was in total darkness.
“Sod it, he’s gone. You’ve made me miss him.” She banged hard on the door. “Mr. Webster? Mr. Webster? Bugger, now I won’t get my money.”
“Maybe he’s upstairs.”
“Not him. That’s the workroom. He lives like a swell over on Jarvis Street.”
The store adjoining the tailor’s was vacant. Next to it was St. Paul’s churchyard, where the snow was slowly creeping up the old tombstones.
“Stay there a minute,” the man said. With a quick glance at the empty street he took a knife out of his pocket, opened one of the blades and inserted it between the lock and the doorframe. One quick thrust and the door jumped open.
“What’re you doing that for?” Ettie asked.
“Let’s see if he’s left any money. He owes you.”
Ettie hung back. “I’ll get in trouble. He’ll know it’s me.”
“No he won’t. There’s nobody to see. Come on, Ellie. I bet you’d like a bit of best satin for the funeral, wouldn’t you?”
He half pushed her into the dark front room of the shop, which was where Webster received his customers. There were two or three tailor’s dummies standing by the window, shrouded for the night in white sheets.
“Oi, they’re like bloody ghosts,” she said.
“You don’t have to be scared of the dead, Ellie, only the living. Now let’s have a look-see. Where’s the cloth kept?”
“Upstairs.”
“Let’s go, then.” He placed his finger on her breast. “I want to see you just the way your own mother did.”
It was then that Ettie knew he meant to kill her.
Joe pulled up in front of the lodging house and Murdoch jumped down.
“Get to the station fast as you can. Tell them to send an ambulance to Shepcote’s house right away, and have the officer get two constables over here on the run. Speak to Sergeant Seymour.”
Joe whipped up the panting horse and galloped off.
Inside the dark hall Murdoch paused, listening. He didn’t know if Canning was in here and he was afraid to jeopardize Ettie’s life by acting too impulsively. The house was silent as the grave. Hoping against hope he wasn’t too late, he crept down the hall. At Ettie’s room he halted again. Nothing. With his lantern held high, he opened the door, almost afraid of what he might find. The room was empty, the bed tidy. A candle stub was on the shelf and he touched the wax. It was soft. She hadn’t left that long ago.
At that moment he heard footsteps, and Quinn with Princess at his heel appeared in the doorway.
“Hey, what’s going on here?” The baker looked alarmed. “Oh, Detective, it’s you.”
“Have you seen Ettie?” Murdoch demanded.
“No, I haven’t. I just got back in myself. What’s up?”
“I’ve good reason to think she’s in serious danger.”
“Lordy! How?”
“The same man who killed Alice wants to shut up Ettie–”
“The sailor?”
“He’s not a sailor, he’s a coachman by the name of Canning.”
“The hell–”
“D’you think she’s at the O’Neil?”
Quinn glanced around the room. “The bag’s gone. She was sewing gloves for Webster, the tailor. She’s probably gone to his shop.”
“Where?”
“Queen Street, right beside St. Paul’s Church.”
“Come with me. We’ve got to hurry. Back door. She didn’t go out the front.”
They set off back down the hall, but suddenly Quinn stopped.
“Just a minute. Hold Princess, will you.”
He thrust the twine into Murdoch’s hand and dived into his own room, emerging immediately with another dog on a thick leather leash.
“Good Lord, what’s that?” asked Murdoch.
“He’s an English bulldog. I thought he might come in useful. He’s a mild-tempered fellow but he doesn’t look it.”
The dog stared up at Murdoch. There was a long stream of saliva dripping from his mouth, his prominent eyes were red-rimmed and the lower fangs protruded outside slobbery lips. His face looked as if he’d run into a door.