Under the Dragon's Tail (14 page)

“Tappedy, tappedy, tap, tap…”

He again managed the waltz perfectly and it was only as he progressed around the circle to meet his next partner that he became aware a man had entered the room and was standing by the door. A lanky man in a
policeman’s uniform. Startled, Murdoch did the unforgivable and trod on the heels of the person in front of him, who bellowed and started to hop on one foot. The couple who were following behind collided as well.

But even in the general confusion and rush of apologies, Murdoch saw the constable had beckoned to him.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

M
urdoch regretted he’d left his wheel at home as he and Constable Wiggin jog-trotted up from King Street. In his hurry he’d forgotten to change out of his dancing slippers and by the time they reached the Shaw house, his feet felt bruised from contact with the macadam pavement. It was almost dark by now and the streetlamps struggled feebly to overcome the dusk that had crept across the city. Once again a crowd of curious onlookers was gathered on the sidewalk outside the house.

“What’s going on, Officer?” called out one of the men, seeing them approach. Murdoch recognized him. He’d been in exactly the same spot before.

“It’s not the poor bairns, is it?” a woman asked.

“Don’t know anything yet,” said Murdoch. “Now let me through.”

They did at once, then closed ranks behind him like the sea.

There were no lights showing inside, but the constable on guard at the doorstep had lit his dark lantern and he held it aloft, waving it like a beacon. Murdoch went up the steps.

“Wiggin, stay out here, please. Burney, show me where.” The constable stepped back into the hall.

“In the kitchen, sir.” The door was ajar.

“Let’s have some more light,” said Murdoch and waited while Burney fumbled for a match and lit the candle in the wall sconce. His hands were trembling. Murdoch drew a deep breath. He wasn’t exactly calm himself.

“Give me your lantern, Dick.”

He did and Murdoch entered the kitchen, holding the light up high.

The beam illuminated the body of George Tucker.

He was lying on his stomach next to the stove. His face was turned towards the door and a knife protruded from the junction of his neck and shoulder. His eyes were open and blood had gushed from his mouth so that there was a dark pool, thick with flies, all around his head. He was dressed only in a nightshirt, which had been soaked with blood.

Murdoch flashed the light around the room. It appeared undisturbed. He shouted to the constable.

“Burney, find me some more frigging candles, it’s dark as the Devil’s asshole in here.”

The constable came in, avoiding looking at the dead boy.

“There’s one on the table,” said Murdoch. He waited until Burney had lit the stub, then he went over to the body, knelt down, and touched the boy’s cheek lightly with the back of his hand. The skin was cold and clammy. Burney edged closer.

“He’s just a lad, isn’t he, sir? Who would do such a thing?”

Murdoch stood up. “Up to us to find out, isn’t it?”

He was being snappy but he couldn’t help it. Protruding from the skimpy nightshirt, George’s legs were scrawny, virtually hairless. He looked like a little child.

“There’s another candlestick on that sideboard. Bring it over here and hold both of them close.”

Murdoch placed the lantern on the table and together with the two candles, he had sufficient light for a cursory examination of the body. The skin was already blackening and the blood had congealed on the nightshirt.

Tenderly, as if it mattered, Murdoch moved the boy’s head. It turned freely enough. He tested the arms and legs which had now lost the stiffness of death.

“Shine the lantern here a minute.”

Burney, still shaky, brought the light closer to George’s back. Murdoch could see a narrow puncture just between the shoulder blades. From the amount of blood that
had flowed from the wound, he assumed the knife had pierced a lung. There didn’t seem to be another wound except the final deadly blow to the neck. He examined both hands but there were no signs of cuts on the palms or fingers. No evidence of a struggle.

“See if there’s a match to this knife in any of the drawers,” he told Burney. He stood up. The kitchen was tidy enough except for a half-eaten loaf of bread and a rind of cheese on the table.

Burney was investigating the sideboard, and he held up a knife with a yellowish bone handle. It was identical to the murder weapon.

“There’s two more in here, sir.”

“Keep it out. We’ll show it to the coroner. God, I need some air. Let’s go into the hall. Leave the candles.”

Burney followed him.

“You got some blood on your trousers, sir.”

Murdoch looked down at his knee, which was stained.

“Damn it.”

“Sorry we had to spoil your dance, Mr. Murdoch. The sergeant thought as it was your case, you should be gotten.”

Murdoch moistened his handkerchief and wiped off the mark as best he could.

“I don’t suppose you’ve checked the rest of the house, have you?” he asked the constable.

“No, sir.”

“Come on then, there’s two other people who live here normally. A boy and a woman. Let’s see if they’re with the quick or the dead.”

He went to the centre of the hall and called.

“Hulloo? Anybody here? Freddie, it’s Detective Murdoch…are you here? Don’t be afraid.”

The house was silent as only a place of death can be silent.

Murdoch approached the closed parlour door. Fear of what he might find made his stomach shrink but he had no choice. He thrust it open. Empty. It didn’t look changed from when he’d last seen it.

“Let’s go upstairs. Take that candle.”

He led the way up to the narrow landing.

“Hello! Freddie, are you up here?” He paused, his voice sinking into the silence like ink on blotting paper. He nodded at Burney.

“I’ll do it.”

The door to the boy’s room was partially open. He pushed it all the way, waited, then stepped inside. It was empty. He crouched down and shone the light underneath the bed. Nothing except for two pairs of worn boots and a full slop pail.

On the chair was a small pile of clothes, a pair of brown plaid trousers, and a holland shirt, shabby and torn. There was another bundle on the floor. Black serge trousers and a blue, well-patched shirt.

“Looks like Freddie ran off without his clothes,” he said to Burney who was standing at the threshold.

“D’you think he’s the one done it, sir? They might have had a row, lad snatches up the carving knife. Then nub nux. Didn’t mean to do it, but too late now, isn’t it?”

Murdoch shrugged. He didn’t think so. For one thing, Freddie was smaller than George and he’d seemed a timid lad. On the other hand, sometimes the worm will turn. Perhaps the boy had been provoked beyond endurance. He hoped that wasn’t what had happened.

“Looks bad on him if he has done a bunk. He’d be here if he’s innocent,” added the constable.

“Or he could be dead too.”

“Maybe it was a kelp as did the lad in, then. Maybe the old lady had a stash hidden somewhere. Same person as did for her, came back to bird the loot. The boy surprised him. Slam. He’s done for.”

“If he came upon a burglar why was he stabbed in the back?”

“Maybe he was trying to get away?”

“He’s not facing the door. He must have been going towards the cupboard.”

“Could have been terrified into next year. Ran blindly.”

“I don’t think he’d be that confused in his own house.” Murdoch stepped back. “All right. There’s nothing else to get here. We’ll take a better gander in the daylight. Let’s see the other room.”

They went across the landing. Once again Murdoch pushed open the door and shone in the lantern before entering. The room was just as he’d left it. Tidy. Empty.

He turned back to the constable. “Get off to the station and tell Sergeant Seymour to call up the coroner. Johnson has the mumps so it’ll have to be Mr. Vaux.
We’ll need the police ambulance. I’ll check out the backyard and the privy.”

“Do you think we’re looking for soul cases or live folks?”

“I don’t know, Dick. I wish I did.”

Murdoch put his glass on the table. The Goldings’ neighbour Mrs. Daly had come to be with Mrs. Golding and had brought over a jug of homemade raspberry vinegar, which she claimed was the best thing for fright. Murdoch was handed a glass as soon as he came in. It was certainly reviving, and Mrs. Golding was looking better by the minute. He could detect generous amounts of brandy but if Mrs. Golding was aware this was in the recipe, she didn’t protest.

“Some more, Mr. Murdoch?” Mrs. Daly asked, picking up the jug.

“No, thank you, ma’am, that was plenty for me. And delicious if I may say so.”

The neighbour looked pleased. She turned to Mrs. Golding who was getting quite flushed. “Mary?”

“I don’t think so, thank you, Philomena.”

“Nonsense. You’ve had the most dreadful fright. One more will put you right.” She poured another large glassful and Mary took a gulp.

When Murdoch first arrived, she had indeed been in a state of nervous prostration. Mrs. Daly was waving a bottle of salvolatile under her nose, causing Mary to cough and choke alarmingly. When she was sufficiently
recovered, however, she had managed to give her story coherently enough. She hadn’t seen either of the boys since the previous evening when she’d noticed both of them walking along Wilton Street towards the house. She hadn’t heard any sound at all from them after that. She knew definitely it was six o’clock when she’d gone over, because she wanted to make sure she was back in plenty of time to serve Mr. Golding’s tea at half-past six.

“They seemed such little orphans,” she repeated. She’d already said that but it was as if the observation was fresh each time.

“Ragamuffins, if you ask me,” said Mrs. Daly. “They weren’t Dolly’s own children, that was clear. Heathens more than likely, with no conscience. That’s what comes of being brought up with no Christian guidance.”

Mary Golding wiped away more tears that kept spilling from her eyes. Her words were slightly slurred. “The older boy, the one who is dead, he could be quite savage to the other child. Just yesterday, I saw him hit him so hard the poor little mite almost fell over.”

“Poor little mite indeed! That same mite is likely to grow up a candidate for the old nevergreen.”

Murdoch looked at the three people in front of him. John Golding was across the road with the coroner. He’d been sworn as a juror and was presently viewing the body. Clarence Daly was sitting in the corner. So far he’d said nothing and his wife acted as if he weren’t there at all.

“You are all certain that you heard nothing in the Shaw house, around eleven or twelve last night?” Murdoch asked them.

He’d already had their answers but sometimes it was worth another prod. Mrs. Daly looked as if she would have manufactured something if she could but she shook her head reluctantly.

“No, Mr. Daly and me were in our Christian beds at ten o’clock on the dot and slept as sound as planks, didn’t we, Clarence?”

Her husband hesitated. “Well, I could have heard somebody crying out.”

“What do you mean crying out? You were fast asleep like me. How could you?”

Mr. Daly shuffled his feet, torn between the fear of displeasing his wife and being important in the eyes of the police.

“I had to get up, see…” More shuffle. “Excuse me, Mary. I had to use the commode. Our bedroom window was open and I thought I heard a cry. Didn’t know if it was a cat or what. There’s one that keeps coming around and smelling up our front porch.”

He had everybody’s attention now and it gave him confidence.

“Why didn’t you say this before?” said Murdoch.

“I’ve been sitting here a thinking when it was I got up, and it probably was close to midnight. But like I says, I thought it was a tom.”

“Don’t dither, Clarence Daly, was it a cat or a human soul?” His wife spoke with asperity.

“I’d say now as I’ve considered the matter, it was a human cry.”

“Male or female?” Murdoch asked.

“Not sure, sir. But perhaps more likely the weaker vessel.”

“Can you describe the sound more exactly?” asked Murdoch.

Daly put back his head and to everybody’s astonishment let out a strange howling.

“Clarence!” exclaimed his wife, as if he’d done something as shameful as pull down his trousers in public.

“That’s the kind of cries the dummy would make,” said Mrs. Golding.

Philomena nodded. “You’re right about that, Mary. It is like.”

Pleased with himself, Clarence bayed again. It was a similar sound to the cry that had come from Lily when Murdoch and Crabtree appeared at the house last Thursday.

“Did you see Mrs. Shaw’s daughter?”

“No. Didn’t look out or anything. Could have been her. Could have been that cat that’s been prowling around, stinking up the porch.”

“Must have been Lily,” said his wife. “Another heathen.”

“Have you seen anything at all of Miss Shaw?” Murdoch asked Mrs. Golding.

“Not since her mother passed on.”

“Seems to me Lily did in her own flesh and blood and then murdered the foster child. I always knew she was a madwoman,” said Mrs. Daly.

“I didn’t,” interjected Clarence, emboldened. “Just seemed like a poor afflicted soul to me.”

Murdoch jumped in before a quarrel could start. “She’s disappeared. If it was her that you heard, we’d like to talk to her. Do you have any idea where she might be hiding? And the other boy? Any relatives or particular friends that you know of who might take him in?”

“Not a one,” answered Mrs. Daly. “They had hardly any company. She wasn’t the sort of woman we wanted to associate with. When she first came here to live we did, of course, make overtures, didn’t we, Mary?”