The store adjoining the tailor’s was vacant. Next to it was St. Paul’s churchyard, where the snow was slowly creeping up the old tombstones.
“Stay there a minute,” the man said. With a quick glance at the empty street he took a knife out of his pocket, opened one of the blades and inserted it between the lock and the doorframe. One quick thrust and the door jumped open.
“What’re you doing that for?” Ettie asked.
“Let’s see if he’s left any money. He owes you.”
Ettie hung back. “I’ll get in trouble. He’ll know it’s me.”
“No he won’t. There’s nobody to see. Come on, Ellie. I bet you’d like a bit of best satin for the funeral, wouldn’t you?”
He half pushed her into the dark front room of the shop, which was where Webster received his customers. There were two or three tailor’s dummies standing by the window, shrouded for the night in white sheets.
“Oi, they’re like bloody ghosts,” she said.
“You don’t have to be scared of the dead, Ellie, only the living. Now let’s have a look-see. Where’s the cloth kept?”
“Upstairs.”
“Let’s go, then.” He placed his finger on her breast. “I want to see you just the way your own mother did.”
It was then that Ettie knew he meant to kill her.
Joe pulled up in front ofthe lodging house and Murdoch jumped down.
“Get to the station fast as you can. Tell them to send an ambulance to Shepcote’s house right away, and have the officer get two constables over here on the run. Speak to Sergeant Seymour.”
Joe whipped up the panting horse and galloped off.
Inside the dark hall Murdoch paused, listening. He didn’t know if Canning was in here and he was afraid to jeopardize Ettie’s life by acting too impulsively. The house was silent as the grave. Hoping against hope he wasn’t too late, he crept down the hall. At Ettie’s room he halted again. Nothing. With his lantern held high, he opened the door, almost afraid of what he might find. The room was empty, the bed tidy. A candle stub was on the shelf and he touched the wax. It was soft. She hadn’t left that long ago.
At that moment he heard footsteps, and Quinn with Princess at his heel appeared in the doorway.
“Hey, what’s going on here?” The baker looked alarmed. “Oh, Detective, it’s you.”
“Have you seen Ettie?” Murdoch demanded.
“No, I haven’t. I just got back in myself. What’s up?”
“I’ve good reason to think she’s in serious danger.”
“Lordy! How?”
“The same man who killed Alice wants to shut up Ettie –”
“The sailor?”
“He’s not a sailor, he’s a coachman by the name of Canning.”
“The hell –”
“D’you think she’s at the O’Neil?”
Quinn glanced around the room. “The bag’s gone. She was sewing gloves for Webster, the tailor. She’s probably gone to his shop.”
“Where?”
“Queen Street, right beside St. Paul’s Church.”
“Come with me. We’ve got to hurry. Back door. She didn’t go out the front.”
They set off back down the hall, but suddenly Quinn stopped.
“Just a minute. Hold Princess, will you.”
He thrust the twine into Murdoch’s hand and dived into his own room, emerging immediately with another dog on a thick leather leash.
“Good Lord, what’s that?” asked Murdoch.
“He’s an English bulldog. I thought he might come in useful. He’s a mild-tempered fellow but he doesn’t look it.”
The dog stared up at Murdoch. There was a long stream of saliva dripping from his mouth, his prominent eyes were red-rimmed and the lower fangs protruded outside slobbery lips. His face looked as if he’d run into a door.
“You’re right about that,” said Murdoch. “He’d give Cerberus a fright. Belong to a friend, does he?”
“Er … yes, as a matter of fact. His name’s Tsar.”
“Come on, then.”
In the snow-filled yard, Ettie’s footprints were clearly visible. The two men and the dogs hurried down to the laneway. Here another set of prints appeared, larger and wider. Murdoch retraced them a few paces. Canning had been standing behind the shed waiting.
They went on again. The dogs had picked up the sense of urgency and they trotted alongside obediently. Tsar sounded asthmatic but managed to keep up a brisk pace.
At the entrance to Sackville Street Murdoch stopped again.
“Canning caught up with her here.” He pointed to the prints still visible. “They stood and talked. You can see the snow has melted farther down. There wasn’t a fight. They set off again together.”
“Would she have gone willingly?”
“The footsteps don’t seem to waver at all, so I doubt she was being coerced at this point, anyway. We’re right at Sackville Street and there’s too much chance of him being seen.”
They were jog-trotting down the street now and the few passersby regarded them curiously. In a few minutes the trail crossed to the south side of Queen Street.
“I was right. She’s heading for Webster’s shop,” panted Quinn.
As they approached the graveyard, Quinn tapped Murdoch on the arm.
“That’s the shop. Next one.”
Murdoch slowed down to get his breath. The tailor’s was the middle one of three, but the nearest was vacant and boarded up and the far one, a fancy goods shop, was in complete darkness.
“I think I saw a wink of light on the second floor,” whispered Quinn. Murdoch stared upwards but saw nothing. However, the footprints they had been following led right into the doorway. None came out. Ettie was in there.
Two of his side teeth on the upper gum were heavy with gold fillings and she noticed that from time to time he tapped them with an air of satisfaction at his own prosperity. She wondered how he could afford gold teeth. His clothes were of good cloth too. It was the snake tattoo that spoiled the effect, peeking out from the cuff on his shirt, purple and malevolent.
Ettie wasn’t aware of being afraid. Her mind had gone into a kind of detached clarity, working independently as if she were watching herself from afar. There was an inner voice commenting. If she screams now, he will cut her throat right here … Nobody is close enough to hear and it don’t matter to him anyways. He’d do it and run off. Better to keep talking, distract him as longas possible. She’s done that lots of times when she wanted the jigger to fall asleep before he docked inside her … He don’t seem in a hurry. He’s excited, though, she can smell it … but she can fool him. If he thinks she’s just another nocky piece of cattle, he might let down his guard.
The second floor of the shop was used for storage, and along the far wall were deep shelves stacked with rolls of fabric. There were two long tables in the centre where the tailors did their cutting and at the end of each table was a large oil lamp. Canning lit one of them.
Somebody will see the light, said Ettie’s inner voice. The copper on his beat will investigate. She’ll be safe soon. Sleeping in her own bed before she knows it.
But Canning immediately pulled down the window blind and fastened it tight.
He walked over to the shelves and was fingering the different bolts of cloth.
“What’s your real name?” she asked.
“You don’t need to know, Ellie. Jack’ll do.”
“You’re not a sailor, are you?”
He scowled. “Are we playing ‘Forfeit’ all of a sudden?”
She shrugged. Careful, don’t crack the egg, her voice warned. “You seem too nobby for a sailor is all.”
That seemed to please him. “I was one once. Not now. Now I’m a gentleman … or as near as makes no difference.”
So far he hadn’t removed his coat or hat, which she took comfort from, but now he unwound his muffler. He looked different but she couldn’t at first identify why. Then he removed his wide felt hat. Instead
of the close-cropped pate she’d seen at the O’Neil, he sported a head of dark, smooth hair.
“Sod me, you’ve got hair.”
“Sod me, but I haven’t,” he mocked. He tugged off the wig and tossed it to the floor, where it lay like a strange species of animal.
“Frigging thing’s hot,” he said. Next he removed his greatcoat and placed it on the workbench. “Why don’t you get more cozy. I’ve never taken a flyer before and I don’t fancy it now.”
“I’m cold.”
“I’ll warm you up … I said to take your jacket off.”
The tone of his voice made Ettie’s knees quiver. She licked her lips; her mouth was as dry as sand. “Don’t happen to have a spot of soother with you, I suppose?”
“As a matter of fact I do.” He took a silver flask from his pocket and handed it to her. “You are cold, Ellie.”
“Ettie! I keep telling you my name’s Ettie, from Bernadette.”
“What’s the difference?” he said.
She unscrewed the top from the flask and took a deep gulp of the liquor. It wasn’t gin but something that burned her throat.
“Hey, leave some for me. That’s expensive scotch you’re swallowing like it was water.”
The drink was a fire in her stomach, but every other part seemed to grow colder. In the distance she thought she heard a dog bark but in the room the silence grew deeper, as if her ears were stopping up. He stood, legs apart, contemplating the rows of fabrics. Then he suddenly and violently hauled out a big bolt of crimson satin. In the faint light of the lamp, the cloth was as dark as spilled blood.
“This’ll do.” He turned back to where Ettie was sitting on one of the wooden chairs at the table. “Didn’t I say to take off your clothes? I can’t stand gits who won’t listen.”
She flinched and with shaking fingers began to unbutton her jacket. In the meantime he rolled out the satin, making a pool of crimson on the grimy floor. Then without another word he walked over to her, gripped the back of her neck with one hand and with the other pulled at the collar of her blouse. A button tore off.
“Oi, what are you doing? This is my good waist.” But her voice lacked conviction. Her beautiful detachment vanished and she was back in the stuffy room, the smell of new fabric intermingling with the stink of their sweat. Her arms ached as if she had been holding a heavy weight, and her legs had lost all strength. His face was very close to hers, his breath was foul, and she could see a small deep scar by his nostril as if a knife point had been driven in. His chin was rough with reddish hairs. His pale blue eyes looked at her but did not see. He grinned again and the gold tooth gleamed.
“I’ve made you a bed fit for a queen. Come on and try it.”
She knew she’d lost.
—
Murdoch extinguished his lantern, relying on the jumping light of the nearest gas lamp. He couldn’t risk being detected.
“Go around to the back and wait there,” he said to Quinn.
“No, let me come. Ettie may need me.”
Murdoch shook his head. The man was distraught and in that state might prove to be more hindrance than help.
“I need you to guard that door.” He bent down and picked up a half-brick that was lying against the wall. “If he comes out, hit him.”
“My pleasure.”
Murdoch slipped off his seal coat and hat and placed it in the doorway, hoping they’d still be there afterwards.
“You take Princess and keep her quiet. Give me Tsar.”
Quinn did as he was told. With the bulldog’s leash in his hand, Murdoch entered the front room. There was a thin rush covering on the floor which effectively deadened the sound of his boots, but he wished he had some weapon. Then he heard a thump from above and the sound of heavy footsteps across the floor. They were up there.
He held Tsar’s jaws closed so he could hear better. He made out two voices, one male, the other female. Relief swept through him as he realized she was alive. Quickly, he crossed to the rear door and as lightly and as fast as he could mounted the stairs, the dog beside him.
“You’re going to crash me, aren’t you?”
The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. She felt dizzy but it was a relief to tell the truth. It gave her a strange kind of strength. He stared at her, then stepped away as if she’d violated an unspoken taboo.
“What a fly mort you really are, Ellie. I was wondering when that would occur to you.”
This time a wave of anger shot through her body, burning hot but as brief and ineffective as the striking of a match.
“You did for Alice too, didn’t you?”
“That’s right. She was too leaky for her own good. She told you she saw us pick up the girl, didn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“So there we are, then, Ellie. Too bad for you.”
He yawned like a nervous dog and for the first time she realized he was afraid too.
At that moment, she heard a sound from the landing, a creak.
He also heard it.
At the top of the stairs, Murdoch hesitated. The voices had ceased and everything was completely quiet. Slowly, he turned the doorknob. The door wasn’t locked and yielded easily.
With a fervent prayer he flung it open and jumped into the room, dropping at once into a crouch.
Canning was waiting for him.
His left hand was covering Ettie’s mouth and at her throat he was holding a short sailor’s knife. He had pricked her skin and a trickle of bright blood was running down her neck. She was not struggling, but her eyes as they saw Murdoch were wide with terror and pleading.
“Let her go.”
Canning scowled. “nothin’ doing. She’s my ticket of leave. Now get out of the way. I’m coming down those stairs.”
Tsar licked his lips and whined softly, sensing the emotion.
“And don’t think of letting that brute go ’cause I’ll slit its throat right after I slit hers.”
“Turn yourself in, man. You can’t get away.”
“Wrong. I was a sailor, don’t forget. I’ve got escape hatches you’ll never know about. Now move away. Over there! Now!”
Ettie flinched at his voice in her ear.
“Please,” she whispered.
Slowly Murdoch obeyed, trying to sense the moment of weakness, the moment when Canning would give him an opportunity to act. He regretted bringing the dog, who had suddenly sat down, panting. Mild-mannered fellow indeed. Unobtrusively he dropped the leash.
“Let go of the girl and I’ll give you time to get away.”
“The fig you would. Come on. Get over to the corner. If you don’t hurry up, I’ll start on her now.”
The blade dug deeper. Ettie gasped.
Suddenly from the stairs came a deep-throated baying. The door banged against the wall and Quinn burst into the room. Princess was at his heel, howling. Canning turned, momentarily distracted. At the same time, Ettie twisted out of his arm and dropped to all fours, scrambling away. Quinn ran over to help her but as he bent down Canning’s boot connected with his jaw, felling him instantly. With a howl, Princess went for the offending leg but Canning landed a blow on her side that flung her in the air. Murdoch lunged forward to grab him but he wasn’t fast enough. Canning jumped backwards behind a sewing machine, waving his knife in front of him. Ettie was screaming obscenities at the top of her voice as, still on her hands and knees, she crawled to the injured dog.
It was then that Tsar woke up. He growled deep in his throat, then hurled himself past Murdoch and went full-speed at Canning. The sailor tried to kick at him but the blow glanced off the dog’s shoulder. Tsar leapt on Canning’s right arm, clamping his jaws around the wrist. With a scream of pain, the man tried to punch the dog in the head with his other hand. He might as well have thumped a pillow for all the impact it had, but it gave Murdoch the chance he needed. He caught hold of Canning’s left arm and twisted it backwards, at the same time bearing down with all his weight.
They fell to the ground, the two men and the dog tumbling and rolling among the tables of the sewing room. Neither Tsar nor Murdoch would let go. Dimly he was aware of savage bumps as his spine and shins connected with the iron legs of the sewing tables. Canning was not a big man, but he was strong. Murdoch could not hold him down, and Canning managed to butt him so hard under the chin that Murdoch almost lost his grip. The din was horrific – Tsar was snarling ferociously non-stop, Ettie was screaming and Canning was yelling. Then Princess ran back into the fray, but she didn’t distinguish between friend or foe and gave Murdoch a nasty bite on the calf. He tried to protect himself at the same time that he attempted to get his arm around Canning’s neck. Then, with a Herculean heave, his assailant staggered to his feet. The bulldog hung on, his stubby paws waving in the air. Blood was streaming from Canning’s arm.
“Get him off!” he screamed.
He swung around and Murdoch, who was still behind him, was almost crushed against the shelves. It was only the softness of the cloth bolts that saved him. Canning might have escaped, but at that moment the little hound moved in for another attack and got Canning right above his heel, severing the Achilles tendon. He fell to his knees and Murdoch rolled off to the side. The breath had been knocked out of him and he was gasping for air.
Canning was closer to Ettie and, seeing what was happening, she aimed a savage kick at his ribs, the pointed toe of her boot catching him in the solar plexus. He went white and fell flat on his stomach like a marionette whose strings were cut.
She would have gone on kicking but, panting, Murdoch managed to pull her off.
“Ettie, stop. Stop. Leave him to me.”
She struggled for a minute but Princess ran to her aid and she was forced to hold the dog off Murdoch. Canning was retching and gasping on the floor. Murdoch left Ettie, dragged out his handcuffs and snapped them around the fallen man’s wrists.
The crimson satin cloth had got wrapped around Canning’s legs, and his own blood was making ribbons on the floor.
Epilogue
SUNDAY, MARCH 17
EVEN AFTER A MONTH, the parlour still reeked of kerosene. When Murdoch had finally limped home, a shocked Beatrice Kitchen had soaked pieces of flannel in kerosene oil and applied them to the multitude of bruises on his arms and legs. The dog bite she had bathed in a solution of carbolic acid, and the initial pain was worth it because no infection had developed. Canning had not been so fortunate.
Except the Dying Page 23
