Under the Dragon's Tail

by Maureen Jennings

  Suddenly the door to the adjoining room opened and Betsy came in.

  “Oh I beg pardon, madam, I…is there anything wrong?”

  Maud stepped back and whispered angrily, “The child is too hot, give her a cool sponge-down as soon as she wakes.”

  The maid knew better than to protest. It was not the first time Maud had come into the nursery at the oddest hours, and Betsy was well aware she was one of a long line of servants who had proved unsuitable to take care of the little girl.

  Maud hesitated, not wanting to wake Sarah at this early hour but wanting her to be up, hungry for her welcoming smile. But the maid was watching her and she left the nursery, her need squeezing at her chest.

  The church bells were ringing through the city, peal after peal until only the deaf or the incorrigibly slothful could lie abed. Episcopalian were more prevalent, closely followed by the Methodist chimes and trailed by the Roman Catholic. Sinners from all denominations stirred as they were called to prayer.

  William Murdoch had been up for over an hour doing his exercises. On Sundays he didn’t ride, but before Mass he stripped to his singlet and drawers, pushed back the drugget on the floor of his sitting room, and did knee bends and push-ups until his muscles screamed for a respite.

  Hands behind his head, he did four more squats, grunting with the effort. “Seventy-seven, seventy-eight, seventy-nine, eighty.” With a gasp he collapsed on the floor. Done.

  From the next room he heard Enid singing a Welsh tune that was rousing and vigorous, like a gospel hymn. He paused for a minute to listen to her but the thought of how different their beliefs actually were depressed him and he jumped up. He had ten minutes more of exercise to do before he had to wash and change into his Sunday clothes. Mrs. Jones was now singing a rather plaintive tune in English about being in the hands of Jesus. Murdoch started to run vigorously on the spot until the noise of his own breathing drowned out the song.

  The leaves of the willow tree danced in the breeze, and the movement of light and shadow across her face woke Lily. She shivered. The cave where she had slept was dank, and the night had been uncomfortably cold. She didn’t have enough room to stretch her legs out straight and they felt cramped and stiff. She sat up as well as she could and eased herself cautiously to the opening of her hiding place in the riverbank. She had no way of knowing if people were close by and she moved carefully until she peeked through the curtain of willow branches. The sun had disappeared behind clouds but there was enough warmth to feel good on her cold face and hands. There was nobody on the opposite bank and on this side of the river there was no path at all so she didn’t fear anybody coming that way. She, herself, entered the hide-away by edging sideways close to the riverbank. She’d found the hiding place last summer when, after another beating by Dolly, she’d run off. An old willow tree had fallen into the river, and where the roots pulled out of the ground there was a hollow. The branches hid it from view and when she had crawled into the cool gloom, like a she-fox coming home, she felt safe.

  She bent down and splashed water over her face and neck. Hunger had kept her awake at first, but this morning that had gone and she felt nothing except thirst. She cupped her hand and lapped the river water. For two days she had sat by the opening, crouched within the leaves, watchful. The birds were her warning, whether they suddenly took flight or continued their usual coming and going around her. Yesterday she had felt bolder and ventured out looking for wild berries. She tried not to think, but suddenly the memory would lump into her mind. Not just of the big policeman in his helmet whom she’d seen coming up the path of her mother’s house but the other men in uniform from before. Their faces red and angry, shaking their fists at her when she wouldn’t walk down the cold corridor to her cell. She tried frantically to make them understand, she wasn’t being bad, wasn’t defiant, but her sounds only seemed to anger them the more. Her mother had made it clear with gestures and a crude drawing that Lily was going to be hanged. That the gallows was in that room at the end of the corridor. But before she died, Lily would be tortured, hot pokers would be thrust in her eyes and she’d be put on a rack and stretched until all her bones were broken. Her mother had shown her a drawing in an old book. “Just like this,” she thumped the page with her finger.

  First women, stiff and forbidding in their dark dresses and aprons, came to take her but she fought so fiercely, they sent for the men. Two big guards roughly subdued her and dragged her into the cell. They didn’t know, because she couldn’t tell them, why she struggled so desperately. Finally, they tied her into a chair and put a cloth tight about her mouth to silence the screaming. After a while the matron sent for Dolly. She was shamed into soothing her daughter, and although she managed to pinch her when the matron wasn’t looking, she did communicate to Lily that she wasn’t going to be tortured and hanged. Yet! That if she was very, very good and did everything she was told she would be let out. And just possibly, her mother, whom she had disgraced, would take her back.

  These were the memories that Lily tried to keep away. Now, her mother was dead. It was her fault and if the men came again and the judge with his white hair, she would be forced back to that place and Dolly would not save her this time. She trembled and moaned as she wiped her eyes with her wet hands.

  The waiter had knocked two or three times before Henry heard him.

  “Your breakfast, sir.”

  Henry looked at his watch, which he’d placed on the bedside table. It was almost noon. He had slept a deep, drugged sleep that left him feeling thick-tongued and sluggish. The waiter called again and he forced himself to sit up.

  “Leave it outside,” he shouted with a rush of anger.

  He wasn’t hungry, rarely was these days, just perpetually thirsty, his throat always burning. He reached over to light the lamp on the bedside table. He kept the curtains closed. He didn’t want the sunlight, didn’t want a reminder that life was going on outside his room, that people with futures to think of were walking on the street, talking, laughing with each other.

  He got out of bed slowly and went over to the washstand. He tilted the mirror so he could get a better view, tugged off his blood-spotted nightshirt, and contemplated his naked body. For a long time now, this had become his morning ritual. It was foolish, morbid really, because what he saw was the inexorable progress of his disease. Abruptly he dropped to his knees and clasped his hands together in prayer. He went to church on a regular basis but it was perfunctory, polite behaviour and he knew it. However, this morning he longed to reach a God who had long seemed indifferent.

  “Our Father which art in Heaven, forgive me for what I have done. I am a sinner. You have punished me, Lord, and I will try to accept Your punishment as it is just. I repent. You who see into my heart, forgive me I beg, but as it be Your will and not mine. Amen.”

  He repeated the Lord’s Prayer over and over until finally his knees ached and he was forced to get to his feet. He had achieved no peace of mind. His prayers were barren.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The twelve jurors, together with family and friends eager to witness the proceedings, were jammed into the reception room of Humphrey’s. Only Tim Pritchard was impassive. He sat back, drawing on his pipe, ignoring everybody else and irritating the shirt off all of them by his air of superiority. He had served on a coroner’s jury last January when a prostitute had been found strangled on the frozen lake. He considered himself an old hand at the inquest business.

  Murdoch was a bit late and he slipped into the back of the room. There were no more chairs to be had, so he stood and leaned against the wall. Crabtree was serving as constable of the court, and when he entered, like schoolchildren when the teacher comes in, the spectators fell silent immediately.

  The constable went over to a lectern provided for the purpose, cleared his throat, and in a booming voice, made his announcement.

  “Listen here, everybody. I have a message from the coroner, Mr. Johnson. To wit.” He unfolded a piece of paper and read.<
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  “Gentlemen, the court doth dismiss you for this time but requires you severally to appear here again Friday, on the twenty-sixth day of July instant at the seventh hour of the clock in the evening precisely, upon pain of forty dollars a man on the condition contained in your recognizance entered into.”

  There was a silence as the spectators tried to sort their way through the thicket of legal language.

  “What’s all that mean, Constable?” called out Dick Meadows.

  “It means the inquest is adjourned,” answered Pritchard, who was sitting in the row in front. A murmur of disappointment rippled through the crowd. “And if you don’t come back you have to cough up forty bills,” he added.

  “Hey, sod that,” said a man in front who had the muscles and language of a labourer. “I’m off on a frigging run next Friday. I don’t do it, I don’t get no sodding wages.”

  “Too bad. Then you’ll have to pay the forfeit.”

  “Is that true, Constable?” the man asked.

  “Yes, he’s right,” said Crabtree. “You’ll have to change your shift. You’ve been sworn. And you there. You watch your language or you’ll get a charge. There are ladies present.”

  The man didn’t take the reprimand well. “Why’s the shicey thing being postponed?”

  “Because Mr. Johnson has been taken poorly, that’s why. And you’re in the queen’s court, don’t forget. I don’t want to hear one more word out of your mouth. Of any kind.”

  “If he leaves Dolly Shaw much longer she’ll be turning all of our stomachs,” called out another man.

  “That’s no concern of yours. You’re here to do your duty no matter what.”

  “And who’ll put bread in my kid’s stomach while her pa is adoing his duty? Will you?”

  Crabtree bristled. “You’ve had your warning, Charles Piersol. One more word and you’ll be held in contempt. And that surely won’t feed your child.”

  Piersol subsided with bad grace. Crabtree picked up a second sheet of paper from the table in front of him.

  “Oyez, oyez. All manner of persons who have anything more to do with this court may depart home at this time and give their attendance here again on Friday next being the twenty-sixth day of July instant at the seventh hour of the clock in the evening precisely.”

  The assembly began to stir, murmuring among themselves in disappointment.

  “Come on then. No loitering. And don’t forget, any one of you not appearing will pay for it. Got that, Piersol?”

  As they all began to disperse, Murdoch went over to Crabtree.

  “What’s wrong with the coroner?”

  “Poor man’s got the mumps. His valet came round just now. Said he looks like a chipmunk. Very painful.”

  “It is. I had them when I was a lad. Anyway it’s just as well he postponed. I’m not getting too far with this investigation. Can’t find the daughter. She’s turned into a mermaid and is still swimming down to the lake. A bit more time will give me a chance to wrap this up.” Murdoch regarded his constable. “You still look queasy, George. How’re you feeling?”

  “About the same to tell the truth, sir. Not myself at all. My belly’s cramping something fierce.”

  “Got the trots?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I’ll ask my landlady what she recommends. She knows a lot about medicines.”

  The big constable did not look well. His face was yellowish and his eyes were cloudy.

  “Just try to stay out of Brackenreid’s way. You know how he is. He’ll be having you cupped and leeched before you can blink.”

  Crabtree sighed. “I’m sorry this inquest was cancelled. It was giving me a chance to stay out of the station.”

  Murdoch laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Cheer up. I’ll come back with something from Mrs. K. and you’ll be a new man.”

  “I don’t know about new, sir. The old one’d do for me.”

  Murdoch left him to gather up the papers.

  “I’ll see you at the station.”

  It was true what George said. Getting out of Inspector Brackenreid’s sphere was a relief.

  Murdoch was eating his lunch in the stuffy room the constables used for their meals. He spat out one of the many gristly bits from the pork pie he was munching, which tasted stale. His mug of tea was bitter, the last of the common pot, and after two sips he tipped it into the slop bucket. He felt distinctly bad-tempered. The incessant flies were maddening, his celluloid collar was chafing his neck, and he’d got some grease from the pie on his almost-new Windsor tie, blue Pongee silk and a Sears catalogue special. He undid the button on his collar and loosened the tie. To hell with it. If Brackenreid came in and slapped a fine on him, he’d tell him where he could stuff it. He debated whether or not to go to the trouble of making some more tea. The water was steaming in the smoke-blackened kettle on the hob, but he’d have to get up and he didn’t feel like it. He’d overdone the knee bends yesterday.

  The problem was he hadn’t slept well again. He’d gone to confession on Sunday, and when the priest heard about all his lustful thoughts, he’d handed out a long penance. Good thing Murdoch wasn’t telling him everything.

  The door opened and Constable Crabtree came in.

  “There’s a package for you, sir. Got the coroner’s seal. Shall I put it on your desk?”

  “No. Let’s see. Have a seat for a minute.”

  “I’ll stand if you don’t mind, sir.”

  There was a curious tone to the constable’s voice and Murdoch looked up at him.

  “You should book off early if you have to. Get a rest.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As nobody got paid for time off, most of the men struggled into work no matter what their ailments. However, they both knew Crabtree would be excused with pay if it meant he remained fit for the tournament.

  Murdoch opened the envelope. There was a note from Johnson.

  Murdoch. I’ve come down with the mumps, which means I have to postpone the inquest. Given what Dr. Ogden has to say, it’s probably just as well. You’ve got some work to do. I’ve reset the inquest for this coming Friday. Should be right as rain by then. Damned painful.

  Your servant, Arthur Johnson.

  Curiously, Murdoch turned to the handwritten sheet which was enclosed.

  This is to certify that I, Julia Ogden, a legally qualified physician in the city of Toronto, did this day make a post mortem examination upon the body of a woman identified as Dolly Shaw with the following result.

  The body is that of a well-nourished woman about fifty or sixty years of age. Rigor mortis and staining well marked.

  General condition. Adiposity well developed.

  Heart in good condition.

  Liver, soft and pale, markedly fatty.

  Abdominal organs, kidneys normal in size and odour.

  The woman showed signs of having borne a child.

  There is a one-inch contusion on the occiput but it is relatively small, the dura mater beneath is not depressed or the brain ruptured. It is highly unlikely this would have been the cause of death. There was recent bruising on the shinbone of the left leg three inches below the patella. There was also a large bruise on the right forearm, five and one half inches from the wrist. This contusion had an odd criss-cross pattern, which having examined the dead woman’s outer garment, to wit a flannel robe, I decided this bruise had been incurred by pressure on the arm. Considering the discovery I made on further examination, I would now posit that this bruise was the result of some person pinning down the dead woman, probably by kneeling on her arm.

  Murdoch read that bit again. The doctor was sounding unnecessarily dramatic to him. However the next sentence said otherwise.

  I discovered traces of foreign material lodged in the nasal passages, although some had been ingested deep into the lungs. These traces were green in colour and under the glass seemed in my opinion consistent with a material such as cotton or wool. Perhaps more likely wool. Given the position of th
e body, the woman could not have smothered by accident. I have to conclude therefore that she died from forceful suffocation, likely from a person holding a cloth or pillow over her face. I am yours truly,

  An illegible signature followed.

  “Damnation! I missed it, Crabtree.”

  “Sir?”

  “I was only too ready to assume she was some old sot who’d conked her head.”

  He told him what the doctor had written and Crabtree shrugged sympathetically.

  “Don’t blame yourself too much, Mr. Murdoch. That’s what we all thought. Including the coroner.”

  “I should have been more thorough.”

  “Don’t know what you would have found. You couldn’t look in her throat,” said Crabtree reasonably.

  “Johnson wants a report by Friday. Let’s hope those two boys haven’t turned the place upside down and there’s still something to investigate.”

  “Do you think somebody knew about her money and was intending to rob her? They might have got panicky when they realized she was done for and scarpered off?”

  “Pretty thick-headed robber if that’s the case, but it’s not out of the question.”

  He stuffed his remaining piece of pie into a tin kept for the purpose so it would be safe from the mice. He was angry with himself. Brackenreid would love the opportunity to find fault, he always did. He’d never been happy with having Murdoch foisted on him. One of Stark’s new men and a Papist to boot. More than that, however, Murdoch was dismayed at his own complacency.

  “Let me talk to this doctor, then we’ll go over there.”