Under the Dragon's Tail

by Maureen Jennings

  Millie swallowed a sob. “Sometimes I think you hate me.”

  Once again, Annie caught her sister by the arms and gave her a shake but this time she was softer. “Silly bint. Of course I don’t. I’m your sister, aren’t I? Haven’t I always looked out for you?” She gave her a kiss on the mouth. “Get yourself fixed up, little Sissie, we’re going to pay a call on Mr. John Merry Dick.”

  With the two boys running beside him as fast as they could, Murdoch pedalled along Wilton towards River Street, which was only three blocks away. At the corner a small crowd of the curious had already gathered. George pointed to the house on the northwest corner, a dilapidated dwelling badly in need of paint.

  “That’s us,” he panted. The short run had left both boys gasping.

  Murdoch dismounted and, blowing his claghorn, pushed his bicycle through the edge of the crowd.

  “Police! Make way! Come on, let me through.”

  The onlookers parted willingly, calling out to him.

  “What’s up, mister, what’s happening?”

  Eager faces gaped at him. It seemed he wasn’t the only one whose morning had been dull.

  “I’ll be sworn if you want, sir,” cried out one of the men.

  Murdoch nodded in acknowledgement and opened the rusty gate in the iron railing that ran around the house. George and Freddie were close on his heels and he beckoned to the older boy.

  “Hold my wheel. Don’t let anybody touch it on pain of death.”

  “Yes, sir,” said George and he looked proud. Freddie stayed right beside him.

  A woman was sitting on the steps, her face buried in her apron. She was rocking back and forth, making strange keening sounds. A thin, grey-haired man was standing beside her, his hand on her shoulder.

  “That’s our Lily,” called George. “She’s the missus’s daughter. She’s a dummy.”

  Murdoch walked closer and the grey-haired man greeted him with relief.

  “I’m Clarence Daly, a neighbour.” He waved vaguely in the direction of one of the houses. “Lily here just clapped eyes on her mother.” He patted her shoulder, kindly. “She don’t hear nothing or talk much so I can’t explain to her.”

  “I’m Acting Detective Murdoch. Where’s the woman in question?”

  “I’ll show you,” said Daly.

  At that moment the crowd stirred again as Constable Crabtree, slightly red and sweaty from his fast jog to the scene, pushed his way to the gate. Murdoch was wearing his everyday clothes, fedora, brown tweed jacket and trousers. The woman on the steps had hardly seemed to pay him any attention. Crabtree, however, was in his navy-blue police uniform. He was a formidable man, easily six foot three, and his high rounded helmet added another good eight inches. The woman looked up and saw him come through the gate. She gave a high-pitched cry, an almost doglike yelp, and scrambled to her feet. Before anyone could divine her intention, she jumped down from the steps and bolted along the side of the house. Immediately, Murdoch leaped after her and caught her as she tried to climb over the fence. He managed to grab hold of her arm but she screamed such a dreadful cry that he momentarily loosened his grip. She wrenched herself free and shoved him violently away. Off balance, he fell backwards on the ground, sprawling awkwardly. The woman half rolled, half vaulted over the low railing and ran off at full speed, disappearing almost at once into a laneway. A couple of boys started off in pursuit, but their mother yelled to them and they stopped like hungry hounds thwarted in the chase. The onlookers all stirred excitedly but nobody else followed the woman. Crabtree came over to Murdoch, who was scrambling to his feet, a touch embarrassed by his ungraceful fall.

  “Shall I go after her?” the constable asked.

  “Not now,” said Murdoch, brushing dust from his trousers. “Let’s go inside.”

  Daly hovered at the top of the steps.

  “She’s a high-strung girl that one,” he said to Murdoch, like a host apologizing for a misbehaving child. He ushered them into the hallway. Uncarpeted stairs were directly ahead. To the left was a door hung with ornate burgundy portieres.

  “In there,” said Daly.

  Murdoch pushed aside the curtains and entered the parlour. The room was small, hot, and dark. The stench was overpowering and there was the heavy drone of sated flies. He waited a moment to let his eyes get accustomed to the gloom. The body of a woman was lying on her back close to the hearth, her head resting on the brass fender.

  He turned to the man hovering behind him in the doorway.

  “Mr. Daly, I’d thank you to stand outside for the moment.”

  “Right, sir.” He happily obeyed.

  Murdoch went over to fireplace, negotiating his way through the furniture that crammed the room. It was obvious the woman had been dead for several hours. Flies were crawling over her face, in her eyes and open mouth. Her skin was grey. Gently, he tried to move the chin. It was stiff, the rigor of death firmly established. He called to the constable, who had stayed in the hall.

  “Crabtree, come in here, would you?”

  The constable entered, grimacing as the odour hit his nose. Death had loosened the woman’s bowels.

  “Help me turn her.”

  Together they rolled the rigid body on its side. The post mortem staining in both of her hands and fingers was clearly visible. Black felt slippers were half-on, half-off her feet and in the bare heels was the same purple coloration. She had died in the position they found her. She was wearing a grey flannel dressing robe and an old-fashioned white mobcap. A few strands of hair of an unnatural auburn tint had escaped and draggled about her face, looking like rivulets of bloody tears.

  “Hold her up for a minute, will you, Crabtree?”

  Near the base of the skull, the cap was marked with a rust-coloured stain. Gingerly, Murdoch lifted up the edge. The hair was matted underneath with what he assumed was blood.

  “Hard bash to the noggin by the look of it.”

  Crabtree grunted. “Seems that way, sir.”

  Murdoch looked at him. “Don’t tell me you’re having trouble with this bit of weight? You’re our Samson.”

  “It’s not the weight, sir, it’s the smell.”

  “Put her back then.”

  Crabtree started to lower the body to the ground but as he did so, Murdoch felt something in the right pocket of the woman’s robe.

  “Wait a minute.”

  He pulled out a plain envelope, unmarked and unsealed. He opened the flap and looked inside. He whistled. Stuffed in the envelope were several banknotes. Ten fifty-dollar bills to be exact.

  “That’s a nice bit of dosh. Wonder where she got it?”

  “From the look of her, sir, that money would have to be a lifetime’s earnings.”

  Murdoch tucked the money into his inner pocket out of harm’s way. He’d find out who had the right to it later.

  “All right to put her down now, sir?”

  “Fine.”

  “Can I open the windows?”

  “Break them if you have to before we choke.”

  Murdoch gazed down at the corpse, to which the flies had returned. The front placket of the nightgown was splotched with brownish stains and similar smudges were on her chin and neck. Even with all the other odours it was easy to detect the smell of beer. There was an overturned jug close beside her on the left. He picked it up and sniffed at the dregs, then he sat back on his heels and looked around. The parlour was the same size as his sitting room but contained easily twice as much furniture. The mantelpiece in front of him was black mahogany and draped with a purple satin cloth. The fender, the unwitting perpetrator of her death, was solid brass. No fire had been laid. The coating of dust was like a second skin on every surface. An oaken sideboard was against the far wall, and taking up most of the space beneath the window where Crabtree was currently breathing in fresh air was a massive rolltop desk of burled walnut. Very nobby. To the right of the door was a Turkish couch of crimson velour, partly covered with a sateen comforter. A pillow lay on the
floor. He assumed this room had served as Mrs. Shaw’s bedchamber. And dining room by the look of it. Dotted about the room were several used plates and dishes. One such was sitting on a nearby Morris chair and it was caked with a lemony residue that the flies were enjoying. Looked like pudding.

  “Shall I send somebody for the coroner now, sir?”

  “Yes, we’d better do that before she corrupts on the spot. Make sure none of those men come in until they’re sworn.”

  The constable wrinkled his nose.

  “Disgusting piece, isn’t she?”

  Murdoch had to agree. One can’t really help loose jowls or bad teeth if she hadn’t the money to fix them. Nevertheless when Crabtree had left, Murdoch made the sign of the cross over the body and said a brief prayer for the woman’s immortal soul.

  By two o’clock, thirteen men had been sworn for the coroner’s jury and they were jammed into the tiny room. Their first job was to view the body and even with the door and windows open, the heat and smell were overpowering. Arthur Johnson was the coroner and he was showing signs of impatience. Legally the jury had to be made up of a minimum of “twelve just men and true,” but as they received no remuneration most men were reluctant to serve. It meant that if they were working they would lose pay. On his first sortie into the neighbourhood Crabtree hadn’t been able to find more than ten willing to be sworn. Finally he peremptorily grabbed two passersby, two brothers who happened to be walking down River Street on their way to the market. They weren’t pleased but they had no choice.

  “Pay attention now,” said Johnson. “The sooner I get done, the sooner you can all breathe fresh air again. I’m going to point out some things to you.”

  The men, who had been grumbling among themselves, quieted down. Murdoch had positioned himself slightly behind the coroner’s back so he could see properly. It was apparent the man next to him had recently been tucking into a meal of boiled beef and cabbage. With onions on the side. Murdoch turned around. He could see the top of Crabtree’s helmet by the door. He hoped the man was all right. He still looked rather nauseous. Not that Murdoch blamed him. He, himself, was trying to breathe as shallowly as he could.

  “Right now, listen carefully.” The coroner bent over the corpse, pointing for emphasis as he talked. “The woman has been dead several hours. The rigidity of death which we call rigor mortis has set in completely. Notice that purple-coloured marking on her hands and feet. There, look! if you can’t see move forward. You ones in front, crouch down so the others can see.”

  Three or four men did so.

  One of the men muttered something about this being closer than he ever got to his old lady, but the responding titters were quickly squashed by Johnson’s frown.

  “The staining is termed lividity. It’s where it should be. The blood settles in the lowest extremities and this tells us she hasn’t been shifted from the position where she died. I can’t turn the head, she’s still too stiff. That’ll start releasing fairly soon.” He grinned at the men. “It’s after that the fun and games begin. The skin’ll turn black, maggots are everywhere, and before long not even her own child would know her.”

  The jurors with the more vivid imaginations shifted uneasily.

  “If we roll her on her side, like so, you can see some blood on the back of her cap.” He waited while they peered at the mark. “She stinks of ale. There are stains on her robe and there was a jug right next to her. I’ve put it on that table. There were beer dregs in it. As you can see she’s lying on top of the fender. There’s a tiny mark of blood there. No, it’s all right, you don’t have to all move. You can take my word for it. There are no obvious signs of violence on the body, the room is not disturbed. It’s a disgusting mess but that’s not the same thing.”

  Some of the men laughed, glad to relieve the tension.

  “I assume therefore that the woman got herself pie-eyed, fell, and connected her head with the fender in a manner so as to crack her skull.”

  “Is that what killed her, sir?” asked Clarence Daly, who was one of those subpoenaed as a juror.

  “That’s what I’m suggesting, isn’t it? Any better ideas?”

  The men variously shook their heads. More than one of them had had the experience of falling down drunk.

  “We’ll know for sure after the post mortem examination,” Johnson continued. “Now who is she? One of you must know her, surely.”

  “I do,” said another man.

  “And who are you? Speak up so the constable can write it down.”

  “My name’s Dick Meadows. I live down the street a piece. Her name was Dolly Shaw.”

  “Do you know her to be a heavy drinker?” asked Johnson.

  “Worse than any judge if you ask me, sir.”

  There was a chuckle at his little joke, but the coroner glared. “I don’t want to hear any impertinence from you men. This is a serious matter.”

  “Sorry, sir.” Meadows tugged at the brim of his hat in deference.

  “Detective Murdoch here has found some money on the woman’s person. Anybody know anything about that? What did she do for a living? Daly, do you know?”

  “I don’t think she did anything, sir,” answered Daly. “Leastwise not that I saw. She has a grown daughter and she takes in washing. There are two nippers live with her but they’re too young to bring in much.”

  An older man with a long unkempt beard spoke up. “I’ve lived on this street for ten years, sir. Dolly Shaw came here three years ago. There’s never been a whisper that she had muck. She was always begging and borrowing from the neighbours as I heard.”

  There was a murmur of assent.

  Johnson shrugged. “She most likely didn’t want it known she had any savings. Why you people don’t put money in the banks where it belongs, I’ll never understand. Any questions so far?”

  There weren’t.

  “I’ll fix the inquest for Monday morning at ten o’clock. We might as well hold it at Humphrey’s. That’s the undertaker on Yonge Street for those of you who don’t know. Just north of Wilton Street on the west side. The doctors usually like to do the post mortem examination there.”

  “Excuse me, sir.” A broad-shouldered man with a wide, red-veined face put up his hand. “I’m on the night shift at the Dominion Brewery. I have to get my kip in or I’m a goner.”

  Johnson called over to Crabtree.

  “Constable, how many jurors did you say we have?”

  “Thirteen, sir.”

  “All right then, you’re lucky, young fellow. Seeing as we’re only required to have twelve you’re excused. Everybody else, I will see you at ten o’clock. Sharp, do you hear! We’ll have the doctor’s report by then and anything else Detective Murdoch digs up.”

  The men began to shuffle out, a burst of chatter released among them. One of them accidentally trod on a plate that was on the floor. Irritably, he wiped his boot clean on the carpet. Whatever the food had been, it wasn’t identifiable. Maybe mashed potatoes.

  “Do you have an ambulance outside?” the coroner asked Murdoch.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Take the body over to Humphrey’s. Let’s get on promptly.” He waved his hand. “This weather, the sooner we put her under the better.”

  Murdoch heartily agreed.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  They had only enough money for two streetcar tickets, so after some wrangling they agreed to ride to the house and walk back. As Annie pointed out, they would be hot and dusty and less presentable if they walked first. Privately, she hoped they might get some money out of Meredith but she didn’t say that.

  The streetcar let them off at the corner of Wilton and Church and they proceeded over to Jarvis, a wide, gracious street dappled with shade from the broad-leaved hawthorn trees that overhung the sides. They didn’t talk to each other, and Millie dragged a pace or two behind like a sulky child. She hated being anywhere in public with her sister. Annie was wearing her best linen suit of blue-and-white check. It was sedate enough in its
elf but the hemline was a few inches too high and the jacket too tight. As well, the straw hat perched on her head was bedecked with dancing blue ostrich feathers and a cascade of mauve taffeta ribbons. She was carrying a red parasol.

  “I do wish you wouldn’t walk like that. It isn’t becoming,” Millie muttered at her sister’s back.

  It was a foolhardy thing to say because Annie stopped immediately and turned with a ferocious glare.

  “Like what? How am I walking?”

  Millie winced but went on. “You’re swinging your parasol as if you were…well you’d think you were leading a parade.”

  “I’d rather walk like that than creep along like a mouse that’s expecting the cat to pounce.”

  The contempt in Annie’s tone brought tears of humiliation to Millie’s eyes. But there was an awful truth in the remark and she knew it. She was wearing her good navy serge jacket and grey skirt but the clothes were out of fashion and dowdy. Her black felt hat was trimmed only with a strip of brown silk and she carried her head bent into her hollow chest.

  “Why any man would want to have a bit off with you, I don’t know,” added Annie. At that moment, she meant what she said. Millie’s unhappiness was making her look worn and frowsy.

  She set off again, swinging her parasol even more jauntily. She was actually glad for the little tiff, happy to be distracted, even momentarily, from her thoughts.

  However, her mind kept returning there, the way one probes at an aching tooth. It didn’t help, probably made things worse, but it was impossible to stop.

  The Brogan family had not even been settled in Toronto a month when an outbreak of diphtheria snatched away both parents and two younger brothers. Annie and Millie had been taken in by a Mr. and Mrs. Reilly who were fellow emigrants. Although there were already five children in the family, the Reillys didn’t hesitate. “We’re poor but we’ll share what we have and bring them up in the knowledge of their Faith.” These proclamations were said to any who would listen and had garnered much praise and some money from the parish. In practice, it meant that the girls quickly became the household skivvies, expected to earn their keep by doing as many menial chores as Mrs. Reilly needed. Annie was seven, Millie five.