Under the Dragon's Tail (13 page)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

L
ily lay watching the sky through the trees. She had been lying like this for a long time, until the stars disappeared and the branches came into relief against the coming dawn. When she was in jail, she had spent most of her time watching the window. All she could see was a patch of sky, all that happened was the changing of the light. She concentrated on that until she fell into a trancelike state that was warm and safe. She would go there and not stir until the matron shook her roughly awake and indicated it was time for the next meal. Everybody treated her as if she were simple, even the other inmates. Some of them truly were simple and others were insane. Most of them, however, were poor women who committed crimes out of desperate need.
A few of these had made a living as prostitutes and they were treated the worst.

Lily knew what she had done was so bad even these outcasts shunned her, and in the lonely five years of her imprisonment she made friends with no one.

Stiffly, she crawled out of the den. Her side ached from the hard ground and as best as she could she stretched underneath the branches of the willow. The river was fretting against the fallen tree as if it wanted to move it out of the way. Lily reached over, scooped up some water, and poured it over her forehead. And again, and once again. When she was a young girl, she had watched a christening in the village church. The priest had made those gestures over the newborn infant. The baby hadn’t cried at all, a good sign, and the parents and grandparents gathered around the font seemed joyous. The baby was bathed in their delight and welcome.

When Lily had taken the other baby, she had baptized it with water in the same way, needing to participate in such a ritual.

One of the girls in her mother’s care had given birth to a deformed child. It had a gaping maw where a mouth should be and the tiny fingers were webbed together. The girl, horrified, had thrust it away from her, refused to tend to it, and Lily understood that the child would be left to die. The next night, driven to desperation by the infant’s weakening cries, she took the poor creature out of its cradle and escaped to the woods. She knew of a crude shelter, and after placing the baby on a bed of
moss and grass, she went in search of food. She managed to get milk from the Parkers’ cow, which was standing in a nearby field, and painstakingly she dribbled the rich cream into the infant’s mouth. At first the baby, a girl child, seemed happier, nestling into her bosom, sucking as best as she could at the twist of clean linen that Lily had fashioned for a teat. However, she soon became weaker and weaker and was unable to retain the smallest amount of nourishment, finally not even water from the stream. She didn’t cry or fuss, simply lay quietly in Lily’s arms. She died there on the fourth day. Lily saw the moment of death, saw the frail breath stop, but she held the tiny body close until the child was grey and cold.

That is how the policeman and the searchers found her. In the doorway of a falling-down hut in the middle of the woods. She refused to give up the dead infant until, in exasperation, the officer clouted her across the head and she had to let go.

The father of the young woman who had given birth was a prosperous merchant and he was only too happy to divert his wrath from his daughter to Lily. The coroner later said that the baby had been born with incomplete digestive organs and would not have lived. Perhaps Lily even prolonged its life. Nevertheless the law, urged on by the righteous anger of the man of commerce, would not tolerate what was essentially kidnapping. Lily was summarily charged and sentenced to five years’ imprisonment. “You are lucky to get such a lenient sentence,” said her mother and Lily understood her.

The scandal eventually drove them out of the village. Dolly drew fewer and fewer clients and, embittered, made matters worse by drinking too much. She finally moved to Toronto and changed her name. Lily left prison after four years and six months but she was no longer so pliable as she had been. When Dolly’s brutality got too much, she fought back like a baited bear until even Dolly kept a wide berth.

Millie Brogan slipped out of bed, rushed into the adjoining kitchen, and vomited yellow bile into the slop pail. And again. There was nothing in her stomach and the vomiting gave no relief. Trying not to groan as she didn’t want to wake Annie, she got to her feet. She ladled some water into the bowl and rinsed out her mouth. As she did so, she caught sight of her own reflection in the fly-speckled mirror over the sink. Millie was not vain. You couldn’t grow up with a sister like Annie and consider yourself pretty. But she was only twenty-three years old and she looked forty. Her eyes were dark and hollowed and her hair was stringy and dull about her face. She could have wept at the sight. Annie’s cruel words had stuck in her head. “Why any man would want to have a bit off with you, I don’t know.”

Is that all it had been? A bit on the side? When she had first seen John at the church meeting, he’d seemed so handsome with his brown eyes that bespoke intelligence and energy, his mouth that seemed to want to turn up at the corners in merriment. He wasn’t tall, but
straight-backed and smart in his black serge suit and dashing striped four-in-hand. She was sitting across the aisle from him, and catching her eye, he’d smiled with frank appreciation. That Sunday she was wearing the new fur-felt hat that Annie had given her at Christmas. She’d been doubtful about the blue satin bow but she was glad now she’d given in to Annie’s scolding and worn it. She could feel that the cold winter wind had whipped a tint into her normally pale face. She hoped it hadn’t done the same to her nose.

In the other room, Annie stirred, muttering unintelligibly to herself, but she didn’t wake. Millie wet the edge of the towel and rubbed hard at her cheeks and neck. She had to try to get into work today. She’d been forced to take two days off already this month because she felt so ill. One more and she’d lose the job. But the smell of the fermenting malt made her ill and faint. At first she hadn’t eaten anything, hoping that would help. Then one morning, the woman who sat beside her at the long table leaned over and without preamble, but kindly, said, “You should eat something, dear, a crust of dry bread is the best. It always helped me.” Milly had blushed, terrified at being found out.

She went over to the cupboard and took down the tin where she’d stashed the heels of bread. She forced herself to nibble on one of them. What was going to become of her? John had been so cold, so angry, when she and Annie had gone to the house. Because Mrs. Pedlow had told him to, he’d brought them into the
kitchen and given them each a glass of lemonade. But ungraciously, wanting them gone. They hadn’t stayed long. Just time enough for Annie to give him a piece of her mind.

“We’ll see you on Sunday,” Annie said. “And I expect you to have the banns called right away.” Her voice was harsh and contemptuous, which had turned John even more sullen. Seeing that, Millie cringed. She herself wanted only to appease him.

She sat down at the table. Annie’s supper plate wasn’t washed, and the sight of the caked egg made saliva fill her mouth. She waited, sweating, until the nausea passed. The brown paper bag was still sitting where Annie had left it. What if she took the herbs? Tentatively, she ran her hands over her own breasts. Already they were swollen considerably, and the nipples were tender and sore. She remembered vividly Mrs. Reilly’s pregnancies, the discomfort, the constant complaining. Both Millie and Annie had looked after the youngest ones as they came along, but the truth was Millie had often left them to cry untended in the soiled cradle. Annie had been better, almost always, tender and loving.

Millie felt a rush of tears. She knew that without this one under her apron there was no reason for John to marry her and that thought was unbearable. She shifted restlessly in the chair. He’d seemed so much in love at first, showering her with dizzying attention. For a few weeks, he had been content to escort her home after church but then he began to hint this was not enough.
One Sunday, she invited him in for tea, knowing Annie was not at home. They were sitting on the rickety couch that was jammed against the wall in the kitchen and he had slid to the floor, buried his face in her lap and with muffled voice had professed his love. He was beside himself with desire, he said. Did she love him in the same way? He thought she did, hoped beyond hope that she did. She couldn’t speak, only touch his head as tentatively as if it were a burning coal. He kissed her then, so ardently she felt faint. And filled with joy she had never before known.

The next week, however, he avoided her eye and even though he walked her home, he was remote and unsmiling. She begged him to tell her what was wrong, to forgive her if she had offended him. Reluctantly, he told her. He was going mad with desire. He could neither eat nor sleep. If she loved him, she would show her love and give herself to him as a wife, in God’s eyes if not the world’s. Otherwise, he said with a sigh, he could not bear the pain a moment longer and he would be forced to break off their friendship. Sick with fear, she had agreed and, that very day, invited him into the shabby bedroom. Once there, she succumbed and was overcome with shame as her own ardour and yearning swept away through her body. He had liked that, he said, liked her passion. However, after they’d had connections four or five times, he confessed he was promised to someone else. He didn’t love the other woman, a family promise, but he had to honour it. He had wept, caressing her
until she was on fire and again and again she capitulated.

“Changed your mind?”

Annie had got out of bed and was standing in the doorway. Her face was puffy, her hair dishevelled, and even from here Millie could smell the reek of wine on her breath. But for once Annie’s expression was soft and loving. Millie reached up her arms as if she were a child.

“Oh, Annie, I’m so afraid.”

Her sister came over to her and pulled her close.

“Hush now. Don’t cry any more, little Sissie. I’ll take care of things.”

“How can you?” Millie sobbed.

“Shh. Shh. It will be all right, I promise. I haven’t failed you yet, have I?”

Millie pressed against the soft, familiar breasts. She didn’t want to acknowledge the strain and worry in Annie’s face. She just wanted to feel safe again.

Freddie was trying not to touch George’s body. The older boy had threatened him with dreadful retribution if he did. Or if he pissed in the bed. Freddie couldn’t help that when it happened in the night, and he was afraid to go to sleep. For the past three days, George had been in a dreadful bad skin. He had bought a jug of hard beer every day and by nighttime he was full. Like Mrs. Mother his mood worsened the more he drank, and Freddie was an easy target for his wrath.

Curled up as tightly as he could be, Freddie was listening. The night was full of sounds; the tapping of the
trees against the window, mice scrabbling in the wainscot, footsteps in the street. They all frightened him. He would like to have wakened George but he dared not. He wished Lily would come back. He was hungry. George had bought cream cakes and fat, sticky buns but after a while even they were not satisfying.

Not for the first time, Freddie wondered what was going to become of him.

It was after midnight when he finally dropped into sleep. He didn’t hear the creaking of the back door nor the cautious steps as somebody moved across the kitchen.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

C
onstable Crabtree tapped on the wall outside Murdoch’s cubicle, then popped his head through the reed curtain.

“Inspector would like to see you in his office, sir.”

“This minute?” Murdoch was writing out his notes on what had happened so far with the Shaw case, and he was irritated at being interrupted.

“Yes, sir.”

“What’s he want?”

“He didn’t say, sir.” The constable answered the unspoken question. “He’s a bit liverish this morning.”

With a sigh, Murdoch got up and went upstairs to the inspector’s office.

Brackenreid was standing at his window looking into the street below. He didn’t turn around.

“I swear that was Colonel Grasett’s carriage going by. He told me he’d just bought a pair of fine greys.”

“Really, sir? How splendid.”

Brackenreid swung around, trying to see if he could pin down the offence he sensed in Murdoch’s tone but not quite able to. Seeing his bewilderment, Murdoch felt a twinge of shame that he was baiting the man. Even though Brackenreid’s snobbery galled him, it was like teasing a simpleton.

“You wanted to see me?” He forced himself to speak in a neutral voice.

The inspector sat down behind his desk. He’d removed his serge jacket and was wearing a short-sleeved fishnet undershirt. The thick hair on his chest poked through the holes. Murdoch thought he resembled a worn-down scrub brush. Omnipresent flies buzzed around the window and crawled across the big wooden desk. Murdoch was tempted to grab the swatter and send off a couple but he resisted. Why should he do Brackenreid’s work? Last summer the inspector had assigned two of the youngest constables in the station to killing off all the flies. He’d fined them one cent for every fly he found alive.

Brackenreid squinted his eyes in a strange, leering way, and leaning forward in his seat, he said, “We have a spy and a saboteur in our midst and we must root him out at once.”

Murdoch was taken aback.

“Sir?”

“Have you been paying attention to Crabtree’s condition lately?”

“I beg your pardon, sir–”

“He doesn’t look good. He’s pasty, sluggish. When I asked him if anything was the matter, he said he’s been having a touch of gastritis. Like hell he is.”

He was trying so hard not to be overheard his voice was garbled and Murdoch could barely understand a word he said.

“Somebody is trying to poison him. Queer our chances in the pull. I’m convinced of it.”

Murdoch stared at him. “Maybe he just has an upset stomach. Ate something that didn’t agree with him.”

“No. We went over everything that’s gone into his mouth. Good wholesome food that his wife prepares. What he’s always had.”

“Why do you suspect poison?”

“Because a big, healthy man like him shouldn’t be having bellyaches every day. Not like that. Somebody has made a wager against him and they want to make sure they win.”

Brackenreid pulled at his moustache, putting the end in his mouth and sucking on it. “What’s your opinion of Seymour? He’s a sour puss. I’ve never trusted the man.”

“I can’t imagine it, sir. Sergeant Seymour is a thoroughly decent man.”

“Even the best can be tempted, Murdoch. Even the best.”

“If I may say, Inspector, the evidence is not conclusive that Crabtree is being administered poison. Perhaps we should determine that before we look for a culprit.”

Surprisingly, Brackenreid didn’t lose his temper. “That’s what I’m talking about, Murdoch. I want you to keep a close eye on him. I’ve instructed him not to eat or drink anything that his wife or you and me don’t see first.”

“All right.”

“And I want you to taste everything before it goes into his mouth while he’s here on duty.”

“Sir?”

“Like Roman times. The emperors always had some slave sample their food first in case of poison.”

“A slave!”

“Nothing wrong with that. They got to eat better than they would have normally.”

“Unless they died first.”

Brackenreid chuckled. “You’ll be all right, Murdoch. You’re clearly skeptical of the idea anyway. This’ll put it to the test.”

“I suppose it will.”

“There’s not a lot of time ’til the tournament. He’s got to be in top shape.”

Murdoch knew it was useless to try to reason with him. Once he had a bee in his bonnet, it would stay and buzz around there until it died of exhaustion.

“Is there anything else, sir?”

“No. You’re proceeding with the River Street case, I presume?”

“Yes, sir.”

Murdoch had not yet told Brackenreid about his interview with Mrs. Walter Pedlow. The inspector was jittery where Toronto’s best society were concerned. If anything significant happened, Murdoch would tell him later.

“Have you nabbed the culprit yet?”

“Not yet, sir. The inquest was postponed until Friday because Mr. Johnson has the mumps.”

“Does he? Poor fellow. That can do your member in forever. You can’t get it up.”

Murdoch thought he was wrong about that. He’d heard mumps could make you sterile but not impotent. However he let it go. Brackenreid didn’t like to stand corrected about anything.

“Find the daughter,” the inspector continued. “She’s the guilty party. Those cripples are like savages. No morals at all.”

“She’s not a cripple, sir. Just deaf.”

“Same thing. Anyway, Murdoch, don’t dawdle. Get to it. And by the by, don’t mention a word to Crabtree. Don’t want to make him jumpy. Just watch him the way a tigress watches her cub.”

“Yes, sir. Like a tigress.” He stood up. “Do you mind?”

He picked up the flyswatter and before the inspector could reply, smacked two or three flies in quick succession. He laid the swatter down on the desk.

“Thank you, sir. The bloody things are enough to drive a man to drink.”

He left.

Mary Golding hadn’t seen George or Fred since yesterday morning, but she’d fried some chicken patties for herself and John to have at tea and she decided to take some over to the two boys. Poor mites, as she constantly referred to them. She put the food into a dish with some boiled potatoes, pinned on her shawl, and walked across the road to Dolly’s house. All the curtains were drawn, of course. She was glad she’d persuaded John to tack a black paper bow to the front door. Out of respect for Death, if not for Dolly Shaw.

She went up the steps, knocked on the door, and entered.

“Helloo! George! Freddie! It’s Mrs. Golding.”

There was no response at all. She called again, sniffing. There was a foul odour in the house. A smell she recognized from the time three years ago when she’d laid out her own mother. She assumed the rank stench lingered from Dolly. She really must help the boys clean up the place.

“Boys? Are you here? It’s Mrs. Golding. I’ve brought you something for your tea.”

The kitchen door was open. She was apprehensive now without quite knowing why. Cautiously, she entered the kitchen.

She was wrong about the origin of Death’s stink. It wasn’t from Dolly Shaw’s corpse. The new source was the body which lay in a pool of blood in the middle of the kitchen floor.

Murdoch combed some brilliantine into his hair, smoothing out the waves at the sides. He also dabbed some on his moustache so that the hair shone sleek and dark. His cheeks and jaw were as smooth as soap and sharp razor could make them. He tilted the mirror on the dresser and took another anxious scrutiny, holding up two of his silk four-in-hands. For the past ten minutes, he’d been vacillating between the brown check, which was conservative, and the olive with the Persian design, which was more flamboyant. He’d scattered all his ties on the bed and he dropped the two current favourites and picked up a black one with a yellow-and-red floral pattern. This was better, suggesting a man of basically sober character but not averse to adventure. Hurriedly, before he was again afflicted with indecision, he knotted the necktie around his high celluloid collar. He was going to be devilishly hot but it was worth it. Tonight he was off to attend Professor Otranto’s salon. Permitted for the first time to join in with the other students at a real dance. He would be holding a real woman in his arms instead of his portly teacher.

With a final glance in the mirror, he slipped on his jacket. In anticipation of this event he’d splurged on a
new cotton jacket with black and white stripes. He’d also bought a boater with a black band. He paused, not sure if the flowers in the tie went with the stripes. Too late now. It was already a quarter to eight and he’d better hurry. He planned to walk there as he didn’t want to risk getting any bicycle grease on his white duck trousers. Also at the back of his mind, barely acknowledged, was the thought that he might escort one of the women students to her home afterwards. Easier to do that without a wheel.

He stuffed his patent leather dancing shoes into a brown paper bag and smoothed his hair one last time. That was a mistake because he now had grease on his fingers. He wiped them off on his handkerchief.

Outside in the hall, he paused at Enid’s open door. She was clacking away at the typewriting machine and the little boy was lying on the bed. At first he seemed asleep but he lifted his head and coughed hard. He had been feverish for the past two days and now the cough. Everybody was worried, especially Mrs. Kitchen, frightened lest the consumption be passed on.

Murdoch tapped gently on the door and Enid turned around, smiling with pleasure when she saw him.

“Mr. Murdoch. What a swell you look then.”

He felt a rush of warmth himself. And a twinge of guilt.

“Thank you. I’m off to my dancing class. It’s a special evening. All the pupils get to dance together.”

“I see.”

Was it his imagination or did she look a bit dashed?

“The professor has said we can bring a guest when we’re more practised. Perhaps you would join me?”

“Thank you, Mr. Murdoch, but I don’t dance.”

He felt foolish. Of course she didn’t dance. She was a staunch Baptist.

Then the boy coughed again, distracting them.

“How is he?” Murdoch asked.

“A little better. He hasn’t wanted to eat anything at all, but Mrs. Kitchen made some toast water and he liked that.”

“Good…well I’d better be off, I’m late as it is.”

She turned back to her work. “Good evening then.”

“Good evening.
Nois da.
”

That netted him such a lovely smile he hurried off, all aglow, down the stairs. Neither of the Kitchens was abroad and he was glad, too self-conscious about his nobby appearance to want comment.

Professor Otranto finished sorting out the music and clapped his hands. He was short and round, with soft cheeks that folded over his collar. His wife on the other hand was a good eight inches taller with a strong beaky nose and chin. Murdoch often speculated that the dance teacher took the woman’s part in more than just the waltz.

“Now then, ladies and gentlemen, we are about to begin. Our first dance will be a two-step. Not too difficult for all of you, I’m sure. Mr. Cockbourne, would you be
so good as to escort Miss Dickenson to the floor. She is the charming young lady at the far end of the row.”

With alacrity Cockbourne went to claim his partner, who blushed as pink as the muslin carnations she’d fastened to her dress.

“Mr. Murdoch, your partner is Miss Kirkpatrick. She is seated next to Miss Dickenson.”

Murdoch walked across the slick dance floor toward the young woman, who was beaming at him happily, her head slightly cocked to one side. She was wearing a black taffeta skirt with a high-necked silk blouse of magenta and green stripes, and he was put to mind of a little parrot he’d seen once on a sailor’s shoulder. He offered her his arm.

“Miss Kirkpatrick, may I have the honour?”

She jumped up and he led her to the floor, where the others were getting in place.

“Isn’t this jolly?” she said, and Murdoch smiled in agreement.

She smelled overpoweringly of lavender and seemed to be caught in a fit of the giggles but he was charmed by her unaffected delight.

“Ladies and gentleman, are you ready?” Otranto called out to them. The students quieted down at once.

Madame Otranto, who was to play the piano for them, struck a couple of chords, glanced around, then plunged into a vigorous two-step. The professor started the call.

“Dud-duh, duh, duh, dud-duh, duh, duh; dud-duh, dud-duh, duh, duh. Kick. And
slide, slide
. Mr. Walker, lightly please! And back,
slide, slide
.”

Miss Kirkpatrick’s round cheeks were soon red with the exertion.

“Oh it’s so jolly.” She laughed. “My name’s Clarice, what’s yours?”

“Will,” he managed to gasp out.

“Waltz coming up,” shouted the professor. “And…one, two, three; one, two, three.”

Murdoch remembered to hold his partner in correct dance position, his right hand in the centre of her back. She was very pliable. Otranto continued to count out the beat, and the dancers whirled. He hadn’t made any mistakes so far, his partner’s slippers were pristine.

“Advance,” shouted Otranto, and while the women stayed in place, gracefully swaying with slightly lifted skirts, the men moved on around the circle. Murdoch executed that safely enough and skipped on to his next partner. She was short with abundant hair and for a moment made him think of Enid. She was too intent on dancing to smile, but he slipped his arm around her waist and went into the step.