“Same thing. Anyway, Murdoch, don’t dawdle. Get to it. And by the by, don’t mention a word to Crabtree. Don’t want to make him jumpy. Just watch him the way a tigress watches her cub.”
“Yes, sir. Like a tigress.” He stood up. “Do you mind?”
He picked up the flyswatter and before the inspector could reply, smacked two or three flies in quick succession. He laid the swatter down on the desk.
“Thank you, sir. The bloody things are enough to drive a man to drink.”
He left.
Mary Golding hadn’t seen George or Fred since yesterday morning, but she’d fried some chicken patties for herself and John to have at tea and she decided to take some over to the two boys. Poor mites, as she constantly referred to them. She put the food into a dish with some boiled potatoes, pinned on her shawl, and walked across the road to Dolly’s house. All the curtains were drawn, of course. She was glad she’d persuaded John to tack a black paper bow to the front door. Out of respect for Death, if not for Dolly Shaw.
She went up the steps, knocked on the door, and entered.
“Helloo! George! Freddie! It’s Mrs. Golding.”
There was no response at all. She called again, sniffing. There was a foul odour in the house. A smell she recognized from the time three years ago when she’d laid out her own mother. She assumed the rank stench lingered from Dolly. She really must help the boys clean up the place.
“Boys? Are you here? It’s Mrs. Golding. I’ve brought you something for your tea.”
The kitchen door was open. She was apprehensive now without quite knowing why. Cautiously, she entered the kitchen.
She was wrong about the origin of Death’s stink. It wasn’t from Dolly Shaw’s corpse. The new source was the body which lay in a pool of blood in the middle of the kitchen floor.
Murdoch combed some brilliantine into his hair, smoothing out the waves at the sides. He also dabbed some on his moustache so that the hair shone sleek and dark. His cheeks and jaw were as smooth as soap and sharp razor could make them. He tilted the mirror on the dresser and took another anxious scrutiny, holding up two of his silk four-in-hands. For the past ten minutes, he’d been vacillating between the brown check, which was conservative, and the olive with the Persian design, which was more flamboyant. He’d scattered all his ties on the bed and he dropped the two current favourites and picked up a black one with a yellow-and-red floral pattern. This was better, suggesting a man of basically sober character but not averse to adventure. Hurriedly, before he was again afflicted with indecision, he knotted the necktie around his high celluloid collar. He was going to be devilishly hot but it was worth it. Tonight he was off to attend Professor Otranto’s salon. Permitted for the first time to join in with the other students at a real dance. He would be holding a real woman in his arms instead of his portly teacher.
With a final glance in the mirror, he slipped on his jacket. In anticipation of this event he’d splurged on a new cotton jacket with black and white stripes. He’d also bought a boater with a black band. He paused, not sure if the flowers in the tie went with the stripes. Too late now. It was already a quarter to eight and he’d better hurry. He planned to walk there as he didn’t want to risk getting any bicycle grease on his white duck trousers. Also at the back of his mind, barely acknowledged, was the thought that he might escort one of the women students to her home afterwards. Easier to do that without a wheel.
He stuffed his patent leather dancing shoes into a brown paper bag and smoothed his hair one last time. That was a mistake because he now had grease on his fingers. He wiped them off on his handkerchief.
Outside in the hall, he paused at Enid’s open door. She was clacking away at the typewriting machine and the little boy was lying on the bed. At first he seemed asleep but he lifted his head and coughed hard. He had been feverish for the past two days and now the cough. Everybody was worried, especially Mrs. Kitchen, frightened lest the consumption be passed on.
Murdoch tapped gently on the door and Enid turned around, smiling with pleasure when she saw him.
“Mr. Murdoch. What a swell you look then.”
He felt a rush of warmth himself. And a twinge of guilt.
“Thank you. I’m off to my dancing class. It’s a special evening. All the pupils get to dance together.”
“I see.”
Was it his imagination or did she look a bit dashed?
“The professor has said we can bring a guest when we’re more practised. Perhaps you would join me?”
“Thank you, Mr. Murdoch, but I don’t dance.”
He felt foolish. Of course she didn’t dance. She was a staunch Baptist.
Then the boy coughed again, distracting them.
“How is he?” Murdoch asked.
“A little better. He hasn’t wanted to eat anything at all, but Mrs. Kitchen made some toast water and he liked that.”
“Good…well I’d better be off, I’m late as it is.”
She turned back to her work. “Good evening then.”
“Good evening. Nois da.”
That netted him such a lovely smile he hurried off, all aglow, down the stairs. Neither of the Kitchens was abroad and he was glad, too self-conscious about his nobby appearance to want comment.
Professor Otranto finished sorting out the music and clapped his hands. He was short and round, with soft cheeks that folded over his collar. His wife on the other hand was a good eight inches taller with a strong beaky nose and chin. Murdoch often speculated that the dance teacher took the woman’s part in more than just the waltz.
“Now then, ladies and gentlemen, we are about to begin. Our first dance will be a two-step. Not too difficult for all of you, I’m sure. Mr. Cockbourne, would you be so good as to escort Miss Dickenson to the floor. She is the charming young lady at the far end of the row.”
With alacrity Cockbourne went to claim his partner, who blushed as pink as the muslin carnations she’d fastened to her dress.
“Mr. Murdoch, your partner is Miss Kirkpatrick. She is seated next to Miss Dickenson.”
Murdoch walked across the slick dance floor toward the young woman, who was beaming at him happily, her head slightly cocked to one side. She was wearing a black taffeta skirt with a high-necked silk blouse of magenta and green stripes, and he was put to mind of a little parrot he’d seen once on a sailor’s shoulder. He offered her his arm.
“Miss Kirkpatrick, may I have the honour?”
She jumped up and he led her to the floor, where the others were getting in place.
“Isn’t this jolly?” she said, and Murdoch smiled in agreement.
She smelled overpoweringly of lavender and seemed to be caught in a fit of the giggles but he was charmed by her unaffected delight.
“Ladies and gentleman, are you ready?” Otranto called out to them. The students quieted down at once.
Madame Otranto, who was to play the piano for them, struck a couple of chords, glanced around, then plunged into a vigorous two-step. The professor started the call.
“Dud-duh, duh, duh, dud-duh, duh, duh; dud-duh, dud-duh, duh, duh. Kick. And slide, slide. Mr. Walker, lightly please! And back, slide, slide.”
Miss Kirkpatrick’s round cheeks were soon red with the exertion.
“Oh it’s so jolly.” She laughed. “My name’s Clarice, what’s yours?”
“Will,” he managed to gasp out.
“Waltz coming up,” shouted the professor. “And…one, two, three; one, two, three.”
Murdoch remembered to hold his partner in correct dance position, his right hand in the centre of her back. She was very pliable. Otranto continued to count out the beat, and the dancers whirled. He hadn’t made any mistakes so far, his partner’s slippers were pristine.
“Advance,” shouted Otranto, and while the women stayed in place, gracefully swaying with slightly lifted skirts, the men moved on around the circle. Murdoch executed that safely enough and skipped on to his next partner. She was short with abundant hair a
nd for a moment made him think of Enid. She was too intent on dancing to smile, but he slipped his arm around her waist and went into the step.
“Tappedy, tappedy, tap, tap…”
He again managed the waltz perfectly and it was only as he progressed around the circle to meet his next partner that he became aware a man had entered the room and was standing by the door. A lanky man in a policeman’s uniform. Startled, Murdoch did the unforgivable and trod on the heels of the person in front of him, who bellowed and started to hop on one foot. The couple who were following behind collided as well.
But even in the general confusion and rush of apologies, Murdoch saw the constable had beckoned to him.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Murdoch regretted he’d left his wheel at home as he and Constable Wiggin jog-trotted up from King Street. In his hurry he’d forgotten to change out of his dancing slippers and by the time they reached the Shaw house, his feet felt bruised from contact with the macadam pavement. It was almost dark by now and the streetlamps struggled feebly to overcome the dusk that had crept across the city. Once again a crowd of curious onlookers was gathered on the sidewalk outside the house.
“What’s going on, Officer?” called out one of the men, seeing them approach. Murdoch recognized him. He’d been in exactly the same spot before.
“It’s not the poor bairns, is it?” a woman asked.
“Don’t know anything yet,” said Murdoch. “Now let me through.”
They did at once, then closed ranks behind him like the sea.
There were no lights showing inside, but the constable on guard at the doorstep had lit his dark lantern and he held it aloft, waving it like a beacon. Murdoch went up the steps.
“Wiggin, stay out here, please. Burney, show me where.” The constable stepped back into the hall.
“In the kitchen, sir.” The door was ajar.
“Let’s have some more light,” said Murdoch and waited while Burney fumbled for a match and lit the candle in the wall sconce. His hands were trembling. Murdoch drew a deep breath. He wasn’t exactly calm himself.
“Give me your lantern, Dick.”
He did and Murdoch entered the kitchen, holding the light up high.
The beam illuminated the body of George Tucker.
He was lying on his stomach next to the stove. His face was turned towards the door and a knife protruded from the junction of his neck and shoulder. His eyes were open and blood had gushed from his mouth so that there was a dark pool, thick with flies, all around his head. He was dressed only in a nightshirt, which had been soaked with blood.
Murdoch flashed the light around the room. It appeared undisturbed. He shouted to the constable.
“Burney, find me some more frigging candles, it’s dark as the Devil’s asshole in here.”
The constable came in, avoiding looking at the dead boy.
“There’s one on the table,” said Murdoch. He waited until Burney had lit the stub, then he went over to the body, knelt down, and touched the boy’s cheek lightly with the back of his hand. The skin was cold and clammy. Burney edged closer.
“He’s just a lad, isn’t he, sir? Who would do such a thing?”
Murdoch stood up. “Up to us to find out, isn’t it?”
He was being snappy but he couldn’t help it. Protruding from the skimpy nightshirt, George’s legs were scrawny, virtually hairless. He looked like a little child.
“There’s another candlestick on that sideboard. Bring it over here and hold both of them close.”
Murdoch placed the lantern on the table and together with the two candles, he had sufficient light for a cursory examination of the body. The skin was already blackening and the blood had congealed on the nightshirt.
Tenderly, as if it mattered, Murdoch moved the boy’s head. It turned freely enough. He tested the arms and legs which had now lost the stiffness of death.
“Shine the lantern here a minute.”
Burney, still shaky, brought the light closer to George’s back. Murdoch could see a narrow puncture just between the shoulder blades. From the amount of blood that had flowed from the wound, he assumed the knife had pierced a lung. There didn’t seem to be another wound except the final deadly blow to the neck. He examined both hands but there were no signs of cuts on the palms or fingers. No evidence of a struggle.
“See if there’s a match to this knife in any of the drawers,” he told Burney. He stood up. The kitchen was tidy enough except for a half-eaten loaf of bread and a rind of cheese on the table.
Burney was investigating the sideboard, and he held up a knife with a yellowish bone handle. It was identical to the murder weapon.
“There’s two more in here, sir.”
“Keep it out. We’ll show it to the coroner. God, I need some air. Let’s go into the hall. Leave the candles.”
Burney followed him.
“You got some blood on your trousers, sir.”
Murdoch looked down at his knee, which was stained.
“Damn it.”
“Sorry we had to spoil your dance, Mr. Murdoch. The sergeant thought as it was your case, you should be gotten.”
Murdoch moistened his handkerchief and wiped off the mark as best he could.
“I don’t suppose you’ve checked the rest of the house, have you?” he asked the constable.
“No, sir.”
“Come on then, there’s two other people who live here normally. A boy and a woman. Let’s see if they’re with the quick or the dead.”
He went to the centre of the hall and called.
“Hulloo? Anybody here? Freddie, it’s Detective Murdoch…are you here? Don’t be afraid.”
The house was silent as only a place of death can be silent.
Murdoch approached the closed parlour door. Fear of what he might find made his stomach shrink but he had no choice. He thrust it open. Empty. It didn’t look changed from when he’d last seen it.
“Let’s go upstairs. Take that candle.”
He led the way up to the narrow landing.
“Hello! Freddie, are you up here?” He paused, his voice sinking into the silence like ink on blotting paper. He nodded at Burney.
“I’ll do it.”
The door to the boy’s room was partially open. He pushed it all the way, waited, then stepped inside. It was empty. He crouched down and shone the light underneath the bed. Nothing except for two pairs of worn boots and a full slop pail.
On the chair was a small pile of clothes, a pair of brown plaid trousers, and a holland shirt, shabby and torn. There was another bundle on the floor. Black serge trousers and a blue, well-patched shirt.
“Looks like Freddie ran off without his clothes,” he said to Burney who was standing at the threshold.
“D’you think he’s the one done it, sir? They might have had a row, lad snatches up the carving knife. Then nub nux. Didn’t mean to do it, but too late now, isn’t it?”
Murdoch shrugged. He didn’t think so. For one thing, Freddie was smaller than George and he’d seemed a timid lad. On the other hand, sometimes the worm will turn. Perhaps the boy had been provoked beyond endurance. He hoped that wasn’t what had happened.
“Looks bad on him if he has done a bunk. He’d be here if he’s innocent,” added the constable.
“Or he could be dead too.”
“Maybe it was a kelp as did the lad in, then. Maybe the old lady had a stash hidden somewhere. Same person as did for her, came back to bird the loot. The boy surprised him. Slam. He’s done for.”
“If he came upon a burglar why was he stabbed in the back?”
“Maybe he was trying to get away?”
“He’s not facing the door. He must have been going towards the cupboard.”
“Could have been terrified into next year. Ran blindly.”
“I don’t think he’d be that confused in his own house.” Murdoch stepped back. “All right. There’s nothing else to get here. We’ll take a better gander in the daylight. Let’s see
the other room.”
They went across the landing. Once again Murdoch pushed open the door and shone in the lantern before entering. The room was just as he’d left it. Tidy. Empty.
He turned back to the constable. “Get off to the station and tell Sergeant Seymour to call up the coroner. Johnson has the mumps so it’ll have to be Mr. Vaux. We’ll need the police ambulance. I’ll check out the backyard and the privy.”
“Do you think we’re looking for soul cases or live folks?”
“I don’t know, Dick. I wish I did.”
Murdoch put his glass on the table. The Goldings’ neighbour Mrs. Daly had come to be with Mrs. Golding and had brought over a jug of homemade raspberry vinegar, which she claimed was the best thing for fright. Murdoch was handed a glass as soon as he came in. It was certainly reviving, and Mrs. Golding was looking better by the minute. He could detect generous amounts of brandy but if Mrs. Golding was aware this was in the recipe, she didn’t protest.
“Some more, Mr. Murdoch?” Mrs. Daly asked, picking up the jug.
“No, thank you, ma’am, that was plenty for me. And delicious if I may say so.”
The neighbour looked pleased. She turned to Mrs. Golding who was getting quite flushed. “Mary?”
“I don’t think so, thank you, Philomena.”
“Nonsense. You’ve had the most dreadful fright. One more will put you right.” She poured another large glassful and Mary took a gulp.
When Murdoch first arrived, she had indeed been in a state of nervous prostration. Mrs. Daly was waving a bottle of salvolatile under her nose, causing Mary to cough and choke alarmingly. When she was sufficiently recovered, however, she had managed to give her story coherently enough. She hadn’t seen either of the boys since the previous evening when she’d noticed both of them walking along Wilton Street towards the house. She hadn’t heard any sound at all from them after that. She knew definitely it was six o’clock when she’d gone over, because she wanted to make sure she was back in plenty of time to serve Mr. Golding’s tea at half-past six.
“They seemed such little orphans,” she repeated. She’d already said that but it was as if the observation was fresh each time.
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