Except the Dying

by Maureen Jennings

  Murdoch understood perfectly. Donalda wanted to be fully prepared if scandal was going to burst over their heads. “The girl would make a pact with the Devil if Owen asked her to,” were the words Edith Foy had used.

  Donalda stood up. “May I offer you the use of my carriage, Mr. Murdoch? It is waiting outside. I’m sure there is some urgency to speak to Miss Shepcote.”

  She was right. “Thank you, ma’am. That will be most helpful.”

  “I will accompany you. No, please, Mr. Murdoch, my presence could be an asset.”

  She was right about that too. He didn’t want to be in the position of dealing with an unchaperoned young woman, especially if he was going to arrest her.

  Behind Donalda, Kelly beckoned. “Can I have a word?”

  Murdoch went closer.

  “Willie, let me come too. You might need some help.”

  “Sean, I can’t do that. This is police business.”

  “You don’t have time to get more officers and you’ve no idea what you’re likely to encounter. You don’t want the culprit to slip through your fingers, do ye now?”

  “What about the club?”

  “It’s practically my teatime. I can leave for a while.”

  Kelly’s scarred face was as eager as a boy’s. Murdoch smiled.

  “All right. Do you have any objection to Mr. Keene accompanying us, Mrs. Rhodes?”

  “Not at all, but please, let’s hurry.”

  The Rhodes carriage was waiting at the entrance to the club, and Joe Seaton was huddled into a rug on the driver’s seat. He was already dusted with snow, which increased his look of pale wretchedness. While Donalda got inside with Kelly, Murdoch climbed up next to the boy.

  “Do you know where the Shepcote house is?”

  He nodded.

  “Off as fast as you can, then. Go along Queen Street. It’s been cleared.”

  Joe cracked his whip and the grey horse set off at a smart canter.

  They reached Berkeley Street in ten minutes flat. The house was at the end of a row of four, all trimly gabled with deep bay front windows. The other three houses were warm with lamplight, but the Shepcote house was completely dark. Murdoch was about to jump down when Joe caught him by the arm.

  “I want to do something for Tess.”

  “I’m sure you do, lad –”

  Joe interrupted him. “I’ll fight anybody if I have to.”

  Murdoch patted his hand. “The best thing you can do at the moment is stay here with the carriage. We’re going inside. If you see anybody leave, man or woman, run in and tell me.”

  “Y-yes, sir.”

  The other two were already on the sidewalk, and as Murdoch joined them, Donalda pointed. “The door is open.”

  “Please wait here, ma’am.”

  She shook her head. Murdoch didn’t want to waste time arguing, but Kelly touched her on the arm.

  “Stand behind me, then, if you please.”

  Because of his disability, he wore a long cape, a dramatic affair of black wool, and he had shrugged both edges over his shoulder, freeing his arm. Murdoch saw that he had also unpinned his left sleeve, which hung down at his side. He was ready for action.

  At the threshold Murdoch tugged on the bell, and they could hear the clang in the silent house. At the same time he pushed the door open further. It led into a wide hall, which was in darkness. They waited a moment but there was no response in the house.

  Murdoch took a box of lucifers from his pocket and lit the candle in the wall sconce. It gave off sufficient light to reveal velvet portieres on the right and a staircase directly in front. A closed door at the far end no doubt led to the kitchen.

  “What’s wrong?” whispered Donalda at his elbow. “Why is no one here?”

  “Please stay here, Mrs. Rhodes. Kelly, come with me.”

  This time she obeyed. She looked frightened.

  There was an oil lamp on one of the hall tables and Murdoch lit that as well, holding it aloft.

  At the drawing room, he pulled back the drawn portieres.

  The light shone on the prone figure of Harriet Shepcote, who was lying on the sofa, facing the back. Murdoch went over to the girl. To his relief she wasn’t dead as it had first appeared, only very still. Her breathing seemed shallow but not laboured, and when he touched her face the skin temperature felt normal. This close the smell of liquor was strong. Gently, he started to shake her by the shoulder.

  “Miss Shepcote. Miss Shepcote … it’s Detective Murdoch.”

  She didn’t move, but he saw her eyes flutter slightly.

  “Sean, help me sit her up.”

  He slipped his arm beneath the girl and at that moment Donalda entered.

  “I couldn’t just … What’s wrong?”

  “I think she’s intoxicated. Perhaps you could call to her.”

  They got her upright, but her head lolled back against the couch. Donalda knelt down beside her.

  “Harriet. Harriet, wake up.”

  The girl moved slightly but didn’t open her eyes. Donalda took a quick breath, then with one swift movement slapped her hard across the cheek. Harriet gasped in shock and her eyes opened.

  “Harriet, look at me.”

  The young woman’s eyelids fluttered, but her head started to droop again. Another slap.

  “Wake up, Harriet. You must wake up!”

  This time she took in the three of them, and suddenly her face crumpled and she started to cry, a soft mewling sort of sound like a baby’s. She tried to shrink away from the encircling arm of Sean Kelly.

  “I’ll hold her,” said Donalda. She eased herself onto the sofa and put her arms around the girl. Harriet was trembling and moaning and her voice was barely audible.

  “Let me go to sleep. I’m tired. Please let me go to sleep.”

  Murdoch spoke. “Miss Shepcote. Don’t be afraid. You’re safe now. What has happened? Where is your father?”

  The question seemed to frighten her even more, and she huddled into the older woman’s bosom, burying her face as if she were a babe in arms. Donalda stroked her hair, trying to soothe her. Murdoch was glad she had insisted on coming. Whatever had happened to Harriet Shepcote, he didn’t think drunkenness was familiar to her. He indicated to Donalda to ask the question again.

  “Harriet, try to tell us what is wrong.”

  “Don’t let him marry me, Mrs. Rhodes. Please, I can’t …” Her voice started to rise.

  Donalda looked afraid but she said kindly, “Of course you don’t have to marry anybody if you don’t want to, my dear.”

  Harriet shuddered and gulped back a sob. “He forced me to drink … to celebrate our wedding. He told me … he told me.”

  She couldn’t continue. Donalda’s face was grim.

  “Where is Owen now?”

  Harriet looked up at her, bewildered. “Owen? I don’t know … Oh, Mrs. Rhodes, I don’t mean Owen.”

  “Who, then, Harriet? Who are you talking about?”

  It was hard to hear what she said, but Murdoch could just make it out.

  “Canning …”

  “Your coachman?” Donalda asked in astonishment.

  Harriet could only nod.

  Murdoch leaned closer, speaking as gently as he could. “Miss Shepcote, where is your father?”

  “In the … dining room … Oh, Mrs. Rhodes, what am I going to do?” Her voice began to rise again.

  Donalda held her closer, rocking her. Even through her concern, her relief was palpable. “It’s all right, my dear child. He won’t have you. We won’t let him. Hush now.”

  Murdoch signalled to Kelly. “We’re going to find Mr. Shepcote, Mrs. Rhodes.”

  There was an archway from the drawing room to the dining room and the chenille curtains were closed. They went through.

  The dining room was lit dimly by a single guttering candle on the table, and the embers from a dying fire threw a reddish glow over everything. They saw a man slumped in the armchair close to the hearth. It was Shep
cote.

  He was breathing noisily and his arms hung limply beside the chair. Closer, in his lamplight, Murdoch could see his colour was bad, a bluish tinge around his lips.

  “What is it, Willie? Is he drunk?” asked Kelly.

  Murdoch indicated the empty vial on the nearby table and the open syringe box.

  “Not drunk.”

  “He doesn’t look so good.”

  Murdoch held the lamp close to Shepcote’s face. He pulled up the lid of the right eye. The pupil was hugely dilated.

  “Damnation. Sean, get to the kitchen and make up an emetic. Fast as you can.”

  Murdoch quickly extinguished the candle that was on the table and held the wick close to Shepcote’s nostrils. The acrid smell filled the air but the man didn’t stir. Murdoch slapped him hard back and forth across his cheeks and shook him. Nothing. A dribble of saliva was running from the corner of his mouth.

  Donalda came through the portieres. Her voice was tight with urgency.

  “Mr. Murdoch, I managed to get some story out of Harriet. She says she overheard her father and Canning talking together. Canning murdered that woman you found on the lake. Shepcote was a complicitor.”

  Kelly came back with a glass of mustard water in his hand.

  Murdoch pulled back Shepcote’s head and opened his mouth so that Kelly could pour some of the emetic down the man’s throat. Shepcote gulped involuntarily but most of the liquid ran out the sides of his mouth. Donalda watched, her body tense and angry.

  “Canning told Harriet her father was responsible for Theresa’s death.” She stared at Shepcote. “I want to hurt him. I want him to suffer likewise.”

  Suddenly she seized his shoulders and shook him hard. His head lolled to one side. Murdoch was about to restrain her, but she stopped herself.

  “It won’t do any good, though, will it? It won’t bring her back.”

  “The law will deal with him … if he survives that long.”

  Suddenly Donalda caught Murdoch by the sleeve. “Harriet said something about Canning going after another woman – a friend of that dead girl’s –”

  “Ettie!”

  “Can you stop him?”

  “I’ll try. Will you help Mr. Keene? Try to get Shepcote conscious. Do whatever it takes.”

  She shook her head. “I have to tend to Harriet first.”

  It was her punishment.

  “Go, Will. I’ll be all right,” said Kelly. He started to administer more mustard water.

  Murdoch left them to it and ran outside to the carriage. He jumped up beside Joe.

  “Fast as you can, Joe. St. Luke’s Street. SCORCH.”

  The boy cracked his whip over the horse and they plunged into a full gallop. Murdoch held on with one hand and with the other unhooked the side lantern and began to swing it.

  “I wish I had a bell, but this’ll have to do,” he yelled at Joe. He stood up in the swaying driver’s seat and, waving his lantern, bellowed at the top of his lungs.

  “Out of the way! Police! Out of the way!”

  Silver stretched out his neck and galloped like he’d never run before, Murdoch saying a Hail Mary under his breath that the horse wouldn’t falter and that they’d get to Ettie in time.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 15

  BERNADETTE WESTON YAWNED AND STRETCHED. Her shoulders were stiff and her eyes were tired. Trying to do fine sewing in candlelight wasn’t easy, but she’d begged extra work from Mr. Webster so she could pay for Alice’s funeral. Alice would be buried in style. Black horses to pull the hearse, a proper coffin, black crepe for the house, food after for the mourners. Some of the regulars at the O’Neil had passed the hat but they were such a bunch of piss-makers all she’d got out of it was two dollars and ten cents. Perhaps she should move away from here? Start afresh somewhere else? Who knew, maybe she could get out of the game and join a troupe or something. Everybody said she had a great voice.

  She sewed the final stitch and broke off the thread with her teeth. She’d managed to repair half a dozen gloves in the last two days. Mr. Webster was a sour old macaroni, but he might advance her another couple of dollars on the next consignment. Bullocks had agreed to let her pay for the funeral in installments. And so they should, considering what they were charging. She and Alice had talked about belonging to the burial club but, more’s the pity, they’d never got around to it. There was a pain in Ettie’s throat. She missed Alice something sore. Who’d she have to joke with now? To chin over a pot of chatter broth? She clenched her teeth tight against the sob that was threatening to come up. After dropping off the gloves, she’d go over to the O’Neil for a gin and some company, try to forget for a while.

  She tugged the glove off the wooden form and dropped it in the bag with the others. Then she stood up, yawning again. She’d better hurry. Mr. Webster said he’d wait until eight o’clock for the gloves and he’d never stay a minute longer. Bugger, it was a quarter to, now. She grabbed her jacket and shawl off the peg, blew out the candle and tucked the bag under her arm.

  At Quinn’s room she paused for a second, but there was no light under the door and no sound from Princess. They must be out.

  Outside, a light, steady snow was falling and the backyard was clean and white. Ettie wrapped her shawl tightly around her head and shoulders as she trudged down the path and into the laneway. Opposite the house, the police rope blew in the wind, still marking off the spot where Therese Laporte had died. That seemed so long ago now. What she and Alice done was wrong, and look where it had got them. They didn’t have the clothes and Alice was dead. Perhaps there really was an angry God up there punishing them like the preachers shouted on the street corner.

  She was walking as quickly as she could, but the snow was untouched and slowed her down. Sod it! Webster never waited. She turned out onto Sackville Street.

  “Ellie, Ellie, hold on a minute.”

  Wrapped in her shawl and in the darkness of the laneway, she hadn’t seen the man following her. He was wearing a long greatcoat and wide hat and it was only when he was close and pulled the muffler from his face that she recognized him.

  “You’re a bloody racehorse,” he said, panting a little. “Where’s the fire?”

  “You! Get away from me.”

  She went to run but he grabbed her by the arm. “Hold on. What’s up with you?”

  “You know sodding well. You done in Alice.”

  “What you talking about?”

  She struggled to get free but he held on.

  “Let go of me. I’ll start yelling in a minute.”

  “Come on, woman. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Alice left with you that night and got herself strangled.”

  He gave her a hard shake. “Ellie. Listen to me. I didn’t do anything.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  She couldn’t move out of his grip. “Because it’s the truth, you dumb git.”

  “Don’t call me that. And me name’s Ettie. Bernadette to you.”

  “Beg pardon!” He set her free but stood close. “Listen, Miss Trim and Topper, your chum did leave with me and we were all set to go off and have a good bit of jig. Then some swell went past in his carriage. He stopped and without so much as a wink or a wave, she jumped in and off they went.”

  Ettie stared at him, trying to determine if he was lying or not, but his pugilist’s face was impossible to read in the shadows.

  “What sort of carriage was it?”

  “Nobby, reddish colour.”

  “Was the horse light?”

  “I think so, a bay maybe or a grey. Why? D’you know him?”

  Ettie bit on her lip. That was the description that Alice had given of the carriage she’d seen on Saturday. It made sense that it was the same one. Sod it. Had Alice been so stupid as to get in? She probably thought she could put the squeeze on the man. Angry tears sprang to her eyes. What a foolish ignorant tart she was.

  “D’you know
the toff?” the sailor repeated.

  Ettie shook her head.

  “Listen, even the police believed me,” he continued. “I got a visit from them yesterday. Every dick at the tavern must have given them a description of me going off with Alice –”

  “What did the coppers look like?”

  “One was a Goliath, seven feet at least. The detective was tall too, dark moustache. Fancied himself.”

  “No he don’t. He’s a good sort for a frog.”

  “Ha! Perhaps I should have said he fancies you. His eyes lit up like a gas lamp when he mentioned your name.”

  “Go on, that’s horseshit if ever I smelled it.”

  “It’s the truth, Ellie. He’s quite cracked about you.”

  She shrugged, but she was pleased. “My God, what am I doing here dithering with you? I’ve got to deliver these gloves.”

  She set off again, heading for Queen Street, and the man kept pace.

  “I was real sorry to hear about Alice. Here’s something for the funeral.” He pushed a folded five-dollar bill into her hand.

  Ettie put it into her pocket. “Thanks.”

  “Can I stand you a pail and bin at the tavern when you’ve done your errand?”

  “What?”

  “An ale and gin.”

  “Throwing it around like a lord, aren’t we?”

  “There’s only one better place I know of to put my money.”

  “And where’s that?”

  He touched her on the crotch. “Right in your duck hunt.”

  “Cheeky.”

  In fact, she didn’t fancy him at all, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Maybe she could toss back enough gin to stomach him.

  They were hurrying west along Queen Street to the tailor’s shop. Like Alice, Ettie was afraid of the churchyard, but she didn’t want the man to know that so she pulled her shawl like a blinker in front of her face and walked faster. She stopped in front of the shop, which was in total darkness.

  “Sod it, he’s gone. You’ve made me miss him.” She banged hard on the door. “Mr. Webster? Mr. Webster? Bugger, now I won’t get my money.”

  “Maybe he’s upstairs.”

  “Not him. That’s the workroom. He lives like a swell over on Jarvis Street.”