Except the Dying (30 page)

“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.

First, I wish to thank Eric Wright, who has been with me on this long journey and helped me more than I can ever say. Also, great thanks to Robert Wright of Robert Wright Books, who kept me supplied with countless treasures of authentic material. The archivists at the Ontario Archives, the most fascinating place in the city, were always courteous and helpful, especially Leon, and I thank them. Finally, my eternal gratitude to my agent, Teresa Chris, and to Ruth Cavin, my editor, for believing in me.