Except the Dying

She paused and it was clear the real dirt was about to be dished. “Doris said she’d run into that wicked Edith Foy last week who’s been saying all manner of dreadful things about the family. A case of the pot calling the kettle black, if you ask me, after what her own husband done, but there you go. Fortunately she’s got her head on her shoulders, has Doris Winn, and she took it all with a pinch of salt.” She stopped to savour the moment. “I’m referring to young Rhodes.”

“What do you mean, Mother?”

“Mrs. Foy claims he’s not quite, er, natural. There was some scandal to do with a stableboy last summer. It was all hushed up but apparently his mother found them … together. There are whispers he associates with known – what is the word, Arthur? Miss What’s-it?”

“You’re thinking of Miss Mollys, I believe, Mother.”

“Yes, that’s it. However, the young fellow is going to marry Miss Shepcote, who by all accounts adores him. That’s sure to set him to rights. After all, boys do odd things sometimes, don’t they?”

Murdoch liked young Rhodes for his kindness to Joe Seaton, and he too hoped his marriage would straighten him out.

Arthur changed the subject. “How’s Mr. Quinn doing?”

“Almost recovered. I dropped in to see him yesterday, as a matter of fact. He’s eating solid foods now.”

“No more dognapping, I hope.”

“No, he’s sworn off it. He knows what would happen if he tried that again. I can’t ignore it next time.”

“Thank the Lord for those dogs. You might have been killed and we wouldn’t have liked that, would we, Mother?”

“Not at all.” She made the sign of the cross over her neat bosom. “Every time I think of you and that Antichrist my blood runs cold.”

“He’ll hang, won’t he, Will?”

“If I have anything to do with it.”

“At least he’s confessed to doing for Shepcote. Miss Harriet won’t have to think her father committed a mortal sin,” said Beatrice.

Murdoch thought privately that given everything else Shepcote had been guilty of, that might not be high on Harriet’s list of problems. According to Canning, it had been Shepcote who forced opium on Therese. She had managed to run off from the Yeoman Club, where they’d taken her, but the drug and the bitter winter night had overwhelmed her.

“Such a tragedy. And what a dreadful hypocrite that man was,” said Beatrice.

“Yes, indeed.”

Murdoch thought of the sordid pictures he’d found in Shepcote’s desk. He hadn’t told the Kitchens.

Suddenly Beatrice clapped her hands together like a child.

“Mr. Murdoch, I almost forgot to tell you. We are getting a new boarder. She’s a niece of Doris’s. A widow with a seven-year-old boy and she desperately needs a nice lodging. I offered our place. Now that Arthur is getting better there will be no danger, I’m sure. She can have the backroom. Her name is Enid – strange name, it’s Welsh, I believe. She is still a young woman, a looker, according to her aunt.” Beatrice smiled slyly at Murdoch. “She’s probably been lonely without a husband. Perhaps you could interest her in dancing lessons.”

“Mother,” protested Arthur, “you’re not trying to do a bit of matchmaking, are you? Will isn’t interested in that sort of thing, are you?”

Murdoch chuckled. “I’d be glad to have a partner at my dance class. Let’s hope she’s got iron toes.”

What he couldn’t say was that he had a sudden hope that a suitable woman would obliterate the memory of a scrawny, not too clean prostitute, whose tears had wet his cheek as he held her close in his arms.