Except the Dying

by Maureen Jennings

  “And you’re sure that the raven-haired Mr. Rhodes who is in the college now was here all Wednesday night?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Do you mind if I look around?”

  “Not at all, Sergeant. The place is deserted, anyway, except for Mr. Rhodes. They all went home early on account of the weather. Any excuse if you’re young and carefree.”

  “I’ve heard stories about the escapades these students get up to. Didn’t some of them start experimenting with laughing gas not too long ago? One took too much, I heard, ending up in the asylum for a week or two.”

  Grant smiled with the true malevolence of the victimized. “That’s right. Last November it was. They were supposed to be learning the effects of ether. Always try it out on themselves. Good thing too. They’ll know what it’s like when they’re doctors, won’t they? Should do a bit of amputation, if you ask me.” He chortled at his own joke. “But no harm intended, Sergeant. We’ve all been young, haven’t we?”

  “Do any of them use opium that you know of?”

  “Wouldn’t be surprised. They’ve got all sorts of drugs lying around. They make a lot of them theirselves.”

  More probing didn’t elicit further information. Grant was an irritating witness, constantly vacillating between fear of jeopardising his job and the malicious desire to create trouble for the students. Finally Murdoch prevailed on him to show the main building. It took almost an hour to complete the tour. The porter was right about the lone student. He was dark-haired and industrious but his name was Llewellyn and he was of Welsh extraction, with a lilt to his voice. Murdoch hoped he would do well at his studies.

  When he finally left and set off again into the blustery winds, Murdoch was sure of one thing. If Owen Rhodes had gone to the college on Wednesday night, he could easily have done so without Grant knowing or anyone else seeing him. His alibi was neither proven nor disproven.

  Chapter Eighteen

  She rarely went into his study, and even if she did, would have seen nothing untoward. He was careful about that. Except this morning he wasn’t. He put the photographs back in his desk but not in the secret drawer. He also neglected to close the lid, so that was the first thing she noticed. She went to close it. There on the blotting pad were the pictures. Four of them, two of women on their own, one of a man and a woman and the fourth, three people. At first she didn’t realize what they were, had never in her life seen such a thing, but when she identified what it was, her legs wouldn’t hold her and she sat down. She felt a rush of bile to her mouth and had to spit out into her handkerchief. That was why she didn’t hear the door open, didn’t know she was not alone until he was beside her. He leaned over and put his finger under her chin, forcing her to look up at him. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbow and she stared at the garish green and red tattoo that curled down his forearm. There was a naked and bleeding girl in the flat-headed snake’s mouth. He whispered in her ear. “Curiosity killed the cat, you know.”

  FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 15

  DONALDA PACED RESTLESSLY IN HER BEDROOM, her whole being so charged with Murdoch’s visit she couldn’t sit still. Over and over in her mind she replayed what had happened. The Foys were packing to leave and she was glad. She was sure John Foy had forced himself on Theresa, and as far as she was concerned he was culpable in the girl’s death. She’d run away and perished.

  “If only you’d told me,” she burst out loud, but she knew that Theresa had been too frightened to do so.

  She poked hard at the fire, breaking the lumps of coal into flame. She couldn’t imagine Foy administering opium to the girl, however. So who had? That was the most frightening notion of all.

  “Damnation!” she said out loud again. She regretted her angry remarks in front of the detective. There was no point in shaming the family. He, of course, had pounced on what she said but for once both she and Cyril were united. She insisted she had spoken carelessly, meant nothing, and Cyril denied any association at all with what he called “women of the night.”

  Was it true? Even thinking that now made her throat burn, remembering the time so many years ago when he had wept in her lap.

  “It will never happen again,” he’d said, sobbing like a boy. But she was unrelenting. Her love for him had died with the unborn child, the tiny lump of flesh that she had insisted the midwife show her. It was the same midwife who, nervously, had hinted at the real reason for the miscarriage. Dr. Pollard reluctantly confirmed the truth, and after a stormy confrontation Cyril broke down and confessed. Consorting with prostitutes was a habit he’d picked up in medical school, and it had continued throughout their marriage until the second pregnancy. She was four months expecting and full of joy at the thought of another child. But he’d come straight to her bed from a whorehouse and infected her with gonorrhea. The foetus died and she was ill for weeks, rendered infertile.

  He begged for forgiveness but she had none, the rift between them was too immense to repair.

  Donalda stood up and clasped her hands together tightly in an unconscious gesture of prayer. Last summer Owen had cried too, his face streaked with tears, his nose running with snot as if he were five years old again. He’d used the same words – “It will never happen again” – but she knew it had. She wanted to deny the truth, to pretend that a marriage to Harriet Shepcote would make all the difference, but after today she knew it would not.

  Suddenly she felt in need of comfort so intensely it was a pain in her chest. Owen had left the house at the same time as the detective, using Murdoch as a screen against her anger. Cyril had gone somewhere too, walking out into the winter night as if the darkness could bring him solace. The pale face of her stableboy came to her mind, and with a blind instinct to ease her own pain in the worse anguish of another, she decided to go to him.

  A shawl clutched tightly around her head against the bitter cold, she hurried across the snow-covered yard. She hadn’t been able to set foot in the stable since the summer but as she entered, the smell of horse and straw thrust the memory upwards.

  At first she had not been able to see clearly, coming into the stable from the sunlit yard. Then she saw the two of them. They were lying in the fresh hay, their naked bodies glowing white in the gloom. Initially she’d mistaken the sounds for moans of pain. Then Owen became aware of her and looked over his shoulder, horror on his face.

  She lifted her lantern high and as the light struck the horse’s head, his eyes gleamed golden. He was placidly chewing his hay but he stamped with his rear leg and shifted. She hesitated, then called out.

  “Joe? Joe, are you in here? It’s Mrs. Rhodes.”

  There was a thump overhead, the sound of footsteps, and Joe’s face appeared in the opening at the top of the ladder. He looked so frightened Donalda’s heart went out to him, and she spoke kindly.

  “Joe, I’d like to talk to you. I’ve come to see how you are.”

  He turned in order to come down the ladder but Donalda stopped him.

  “Wait. I’ll come up.”

  He shook his head.

  “Why not?”

  He started to gesture with his hands.

  “You can speak, Joe. You have already.”

  He gulped, then spoke so softly she could hardly hear him.

  “’Tisn’t tidied up or anything.”

  “Don’t be foolish, I’m not the house matron.”

  Joe flinched.

  “Come and hold the lantern for me,” she said more gently.

  He clambered down a few rungs and she handed him the light. Then, gathering up her skirt, she climbed awkwardly up to the loft and stood on the upper rung of the ladder, her head thrust through the opening. Joe moved backwards to the wall, the lantern waving in his hand. He had to bend his head to stand upright because it wasn’t a room really, just a space under the eaves. There was a narrow bed made up neatly, with a small wooden crate beside it and a wicker chair. It could have been a passageway in somebody’s house. Donalda gazed around in dismay. How cou
ld she not know he lived like this?

  “You keep it very tidy, Joe.”

  “I do it like we was taught, ma’am.”

  The lantern was throwing up long shadows against the walls and his face was in darkness, but his fear was rank in the confined area.

  “Help me up, Joe.”

  “Not much room.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll sit.”

  “Better I come down, missus.”

  He flapped his hand at her the way you do to shoo away chickens.

  “What are you hiding?”

  “Nothing, missus.”

  “Come over here.” She was perched uncomfortably at the edge of the trapdoor. Slowly he moved towards her, revealing a metal-bound square box behind him. A tiny cross as if on an altar was balanced against the wall.

  “What is that?” she pointed.

  “Nothing, missus.”

  “Shine the light there.”

  “It ain’t nothing.”

  “Do as I say, Joe.”

  Reluctantly he obeyed, lowering the lantern.

  “Give it to me.”

  He did so, his hand shaking.

  “Did this belong to Theresa?”

  “Yes, missus.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  Wordlessly, he pointed downwards.

  “Use words, Joe.”

  He hung his head and muttered, “Can’t say.”

  “Look at me. Come on, raise your head. That’s better. Now listen. I promise you will not be punished. I know you haven’t done anything bad.”

  She spoke confidently but she felt ill. The crucifix lay cool and heavy in her hand. The Christ figure was made of silver, the cross ebony wood. Joe saw her distress and became even more afraid. She tried to smile to reassure him.

  “You must tell me, Joe. Where did you find this?”

  Again he pointed down below and whispered.

  “In the carriage.”

  “What? I don’t understand.”

  “Things fall out, money and bits, so I always checks out the seats. I’m sorry, missus, I should’ve –”

  “Never mind that now. What carriage? Who does it belong to? Whose is it, Joe?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Neither of them were aware of her. There was a peephole in the door between the butler’s pantry and the dining room so the servants could determine the progress of the meal. The door was solid oak covered with baize and intended to block out sound, so she could barely hear what they were saying. What she saw sickened her and filled her with such fear she could not move, held in place like a rabbit facing a ferret.

  His shirtsleeve was rolled up and he had twisted a garter tight around his upper arm. The other man had his back to her but she knew who it was. He was holding a syringe aloft, checking the level of the brownish liquid it contained. He bent over and plunged the needle into the bulging vein in the crook of the other’s elbow, and grinned as he winced.

  When the syringe was empty he withdrew the needle, and the other man loosed the tight armband and rolled down his sleeve.

  “Do you think that doxy told anybody else that she’d seen us pick up the girl?” he asked, flexing his arm to speed the drug’s action.

  “Course she did. The only thing looser than a whore’s cunt is her tongue. If I know gits, she leaked everything to her chum.”

  “What shall we do, then?”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  The other man was already having trouble concentrating as the opium took effect.

  “W-what are you going to do?” he asked again, his tongue thick.

  The second one didn’t answer but busied himself replacing the syringe in a blue velvet box.

  “Enjoy yourself,” he said.

  “Where are you … going?”

  “To take care of the tell-me-when.”

  “No … wait … you mustn’t …”

  “No? Are my lugs hearing right? Does my squab have a conscience?” He looked down at the man, whose head was now lolling on his chest. “Don’t worry, you and her will soon meet in Paradise. Just what you’ve always wanted.”

  He grinned at his own joke. Even as the drug pulled him into the Shadow, the man understood. He raised his hand feebly but could do nothing. It was too late.

  The man turned to leave, faster than she could move, faster than she expected, so that the door actually banged into her as he pushed it open.

  He caught her by the arm before she could run.

  “Didn’t I tell you, curiosity killed the cat,” he spat at her, pinching her arm so viciously she cried out.

  “Well, my little pullet, you’ve really gerried yourself this time, haven’t you?” he said.

  FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 15

  THE YEOMAN CLUB WAS NOT OSTENTATIOUS or well situated like some of the clubs and lodges in the city. The Oddfellows owned a huge chateau of a building on Carlton Street, which was a boast to the world about their wealth. The National Club had a good address on Bay Street. The Yeoman had neither of these. It had been founded fifteen years earlier by a rich brewer who acquired a cheap piece of land at the south end of River Street. In spite of the location, he enticed a significant membership by donating his superb wine cellar, sparing no expense in the decor and, above all, affording complete privacy.

  The three-storey building itself was plain, with a flat facade of red brick, the only ornamentation some yellow medallions beneath the cornice and two columns of expensive Italian marble that flanked the door.

  By the time he reached the club, Murdoch was footsore and his face was burning with the cold. The wind was fierce and the snow was building up on the sidewalks, making walking difficult. River Street was a working-class area not fully populated, and there were only a few lights dotting the darkness. At the Yeoman Club a low gas lamp shone outside but the windows were curtained and unwelcoming. Only those in the know would seek out the place.

  He tugged on the bellpull and the door was opened at once by a liveried footman. He hesitated, trying to assess the detective’s status. Not a tradesman, but not a guest nor likely to be. Murdoch was used to this attitude but never reconciled. He stared back at the footman and coolly presented his card.

  “I’d like to have a word with the steward, if you please.”

  “That’ll be Mr. Keene. He’s in his office.”

  “I’ll wait inside, then, while you fetch him. It’s maundy cold out here.”

  Reluctantly, the footman stepped aside to let him in. Then, the card held in his fingertips as if it were dipped in shit, he went off.

  Murdoch gazed around curiously at the spacious vestibule. There was a log fire blazing in the big fireplace, two fine brocade armchairs facing it and at their feet a tiger-skin rug, fierce head intact, the long teeth bared, ready to bite the unwary. The carpet was a thick Persian, the wallpaper red and green flock, and soft light filtered through porcelain sconces. Murdoch walked cautiously around the tiger’s head to warm his hands at the fire. Above the mantel were two framed pictures. One was of Her Majesty holding her orb and sceptre, the other a daguerreotype of a stout man with abundant white whiskers and small eyes. The brass plate declared this was Mr. Lothar Reinhardt, the generous founder and benefactor of the Yeoman Club. Beneath his portrait was a printed declaration of the aims and purpose of the club:

  … to defend and protect our native land against the encroachment of undue influence from our southern neighbours, to wit the United States of America. To sustain and support our undying loyalty to the throne of England, Her Majesty Queen Victoria and her descendants.

  He turned his back to the fire, lifting his coat to get some heat to his cold buttocks. In the centre of the vestibule was a white marble sculpture on an ebony pedestal. It depicted Diana, breasts naked, half woman, half deer, fleeing from her own hounds. The terror carved on the goddess’s face made him think of Alice fleeing across the frozen lake.

  “Mr. Murdoch. What can I do for you?”

  The footman had reappea
red, and behind him was a tall man, with grizzled hair cut short. He was dressed in cutaway black jacket and grey trousers, and an immaculate white cravat was at his throat. He had the stiff bearing of a soldier, accentuated by the empty left sleeve of his jacket, which was pinned to his broad chest. Murdoch gaped, recognizing him immediately, but the steward spoke first.

  “My name is Keene. Perhaps we should talk in my office. Forsyth, see we are not disturbed.”

  “Yes, sir.” The footman’s face was as expressionless as a dummy’s. Only the bright curiosity in his eyes gave him away. He stepped back into immobility beside the entrance.

  “This way,” said the steward. Murdoch followed him into a wide passageway with closed, leather-covered doors along either side. All of them sported mahogany plaques which stated, variously, LIBRARY, SMOKING ROOM, BILLIARD ROOM. The man opened the door labelled STEWARD’S OFFICE and ushered Murdoch inside.

  It was actually a sitting room, luxuriously appointed, with a Turkish couch in plush velour and two brown leather chairs. The draperies were chenille and the Axminster carpet thick enough to go to bed on. A massive walnut desk against one wall was the only visible concession to business. There was a blazing fire in the hearth here as well.

  The steward closed the door and the two men faced each other. Both broke into broad smiles of delight.

  “Willie, my boyo, it’s so good to see you again.”

  Murdoch pulled him into a hug, thumping him hard on the back. “It didn’t seem like it back there. What’s this ‘My name is Keene’ stuff?”

  “I apologize, Will. I for sure didn’t mean to slight you. Gave me quite a shock to receive your card, I can tell you.” His Irish brogue was thicker with his excitement. “Truth is I changed my name for practical reasons. I wanted this crib and I suspected that a man named John Keene, Methodist, rather than Sean Kelly, hardened Papist, would be more acceptable to the fat culls.”

  Murdoch grimaced. “From what I’ve seen so far, you were probably right.”

  Kelly stepped back and gave Murdoch an affectionate punch in the arm. “You’re fit as a fiddle, I see. Here, now. Let me take your coat and hat. Thank you kindly for being so quick on the uptake and not letting on. Forsyth’s a toad-eater if ever there was one. He’d have tattled on me for sure.”