Under the Dragon's Tail

by Maureen Jennings

  “Ragamuffins, if you ask me,” said Mrs. Daly. “They weren’t Dolly’s own children, that was clear. Heathens more than likely, with no conscience. That’s what comes of being brought up with no Christian guidance.”

  Mary Golding wiped away more tears that kept spilling from her eyes. Her words were slightly slurred. “The older boy, the one who is dead, he could be quite savage to the other child. Just yesterday, I saw him hit him so hard the poor little mite almost fell over.”

  “Poor little mite indeed! That same mite is likely to grow up a candidate for the old nevergreen.”

  Murdoch looked at the three people in front of him. John Golding was across the road with the coroner. He’d been sworn as a juror and was presently viewing the body. Clarence Daly was sitting in the corner. So far he’d said nothing and his wife acted as if he weren’t there at all.

  “You are all certain that you heard nothing in the Shaw house, around eleven or twelve last night?” Murdoch asked them.

  He’d already had their answers but sometimes it was worth another prod. Mrs. Daly looked as if she would have manufactured something if she could but she shook her head reluctantly.

  “No, Mr. Daly and me were in our Christian beds at ten o’clock on the dot and slept as sound as planks, didn’t we, Clarence?”

  Her husband hesitated. “Well, I could have heard somebody crying out.”

  “What do you mean crying out? You were fast asleep like me. How could you?”

  Mr. Daly shuffled his feet, torn between the fear of displeasing his wife and being important in the eyes of the police.

  “I had to get up, see…” More shuffle. “Excuse me, Mary. I had to use the commode. Our bedroom window was open and I thought I heard a cry. Didn’t know if it was a cat or what. There’s one that keeps coming around and smelling up our front porch.”

  He had everybody’s attention now and it gave him confidence.

  “Why didn’t you say this before?” said Murdoch.

  “I’ve been sitting here a thinking when it was I got up, and it probably was close to midnight. But like I says, I thought it was a tom.”

  “Don’t dither, Clarence Daly, was it a cat or a human soul?” His wife spoke with asperity.

  “I’d say now as I’ve considered the matter, it was a human cry.”

  “Male or female?” Murdoch asked.

  “Not sure, sir. But perhaps more likely the weaker vessel.”

  “Can you describe the sound more exactly?” asked Murdoch.

  Daly put back his head and to everybody’s astonishment let out a strange howling.

  “Clarence!” exclaimed his wife, as if he’d done something as shameful as pull down his trousers in public.

  “That’s the kind of cries the dummy would make,” said Mrs. Golding.

  Philomena nodded. “You’re right about that, Mary. It is like.”

  Pleased with himself, Clarence bayed again. It was a similar sound to the cry that had come from Lily when Murdoch and Crabtree appeared at the house last Thursday.

  “Did you see Mrs. Shaw’s daughter?”

  “No. Didn’t look out or anything. Could have been her. Could have been that cat that’s been prowling around, stinking up the porch.”

  “Must have been Lily,” said his wife. “Another heathen.”

  “Have you seen anything at all of Miss Shaw?” Murdoch asked Mrs. Golding.

  “Not since her mother passed on.”

  “Seems to me Lily did in her own flesh and blood and then murdered the foster child. I always knew she was a madwoman,” said Mrs. Daly.

  “I didn’t,” interjected Clarence, emboldened. “Just seemed like a poor afflicted soul to me.”

  Murdoch jumped in before a quarrel could start. “She’s disappeared. If it was her that you heard, we’d like to talk to her. Do you have any idea where she might be hiding? And the other boy? Any relatives or particular friends that you know of who might take him in?”

  “Not a one,” answered Mrs. Daly. “They had hardly any company. She wasn’t the sort of woman we wanted to associate with. When she first came here to live we did, of course, make overtures, didn’t we, Mary?”

  Mrs. Golding nodded and Mrs. Daly went on.

  “We called on her.” She tightened her mouth at the memory. “First off, she seemed to be thoroughly intoxicated even though it was only two o’clock in the afternoon; secondly–”

  “She took us into her parlour.” Mary Golding joined in eagerly now. “She didn’t offer us any refreshment or make any enquiries but right away she began to talk about the furniture and how grand it was.”

  “That was the drink–”

  “She said she used to be grand herself, a professional woman, she said, but she had fallen on hard times through no fault of her own.”

  “What had happened?” asked Murdoch.

  “She didn’t say.” Mrs. Daly took back the narrative, firmly. “Just made all sorts of hints that her own daughter had brought about her ruin. Mary and me didn’t know what to think–”

  “Poor unfortunate girl.”

  “Then she began to brag on and on about the people she knew. Society people she said. Well, I am a charitable person, Mr. Murdoch, but frankly I didn’t believe a word of it.”

  “Neither did I.” Mrs. Golding tried to insert herself back in the conversation, with no success.

  “She must have sensed our reservations,” added Philomena. “The next thing we knew she had gone to a big desk that was under the window. She had the key on a cord around her neck.” Mrs. Daly pursed her lips again. “She brought out an autograph album. The way she handled it, you’d think she had signatures from the royal family–”

  “She said it was her record book–” piped Mary, very flushed now.

  “That’s right. I asked her, ‘A record of what?’ ‘Of the signs of the world,’ she said and gave the most unpleasant sort of laugh–”

  “Gave me the shivers. I mentioned it to John when I came home–”

  Philomena interrupted. “At that moment, the poor dummy came in with some tea and Mrs. Shaw screamed at her. I’ve never seen such appalling behaviour.”

  Mrs. Golding nodded vigorously. “She said Lily had brought in the wrong cups.”

  “No, it was on the wrong tray. Regardless, it was quite unreasonable. Absolutely nothing would please her. The dummy, of course, couldn’t say anything. It was like seeing somebody beat a dog in public. Mary and I left as soon as we could.”

  Mrs. Golding agreed. Mrs. Daly rumbled on.

  “After that we wouldn’t subject any other Christian women to that treatment. We warned all the other ladies in the neighbourhood. Virtually no one else called on her. She made herself half-decent for a while but only when she wanted to borrow something.”

  “Money?” Murdoch asked.

  “Yes, and household goods. I lent her one of my frying pans and I’ve yet to see it. Any money you might as well consider a charity gift.”

  “What did the record book look like?”

  “It was yellow,” said Mrs. Golding.

  “No, dear. Forgive me but that is not correct. The book was green, Mr. Murdoch. Covered with silk moire I’d say.”

  “Leather,” muttered Mary.

  “The boys liked to play by the river,” said Mr. Daly suddenly. “I’ve seen them coming back with fish. The darkie might have run off there to hide.”

  Mrs. Golding looked up out of her handkerchief where she had taken temporary respite. “Do you think something has happened to him, Mr. Murdoch? Something bad?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am. It’s possible he witnessed the murder and ran off in fear of his life or–”

  Daly said, “He could have killed George himself and done a bunk.”

  “I can’t believe that. He is just a child…” Mary’s voice trailed off.

  “She’s very soft-hearted, Mr. Murdoch. Weeps if a bird dies. But we can’t deceive ourselves, Mary. The boy might be dead too, buried somewhere�
�”

  “Mr. Murdoch, is that so?”

  “I’m afraid it’s not out of the question, Mrs. Golding.”

  “I tell you, Officer,” interjected Mrs. Daly. “Me and Clarence are strong churchgoers, Methodist. I never saw Dolly Shaw step foot on even so much as the threshold of any church that I know of. None of them did. I hate to say it, but no doubt justice was done. The wicked shall get their due.”

  That didn’t sound quite right to Murdoch but maybe it was a Methodist saying.

  Freddie had run to the empty house next to them, squeezing between the planks that boarded up the door. He cowered in the corner of the kitchen for hours, expecting to be discovered at any moment. No one came, and after a long time he almost wished they would.

  He was so hungry he was sucking on his knuckles as if he were a baby. His stomach hurt. There was a pile of old potato sacks against the wall and he slept on those even though they smelled of mice droppings and sour food. He dared not go outside in case someone saw him, so he had relieved himself in the farthest corner, covering it as best he could with some straw that was scattered about the floor. He moaned constantly, almost unaware that he was doing so. He had no plan, could think of nothing except how to survive the next moment and then the next.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Murdoch returned to the Shaw house first thing the next morning. George’s body had been moved to the undertakers on Yonge Street, but where he had lain was demarcated by the stencil of congealed blood on the oilcloth. Murdoch went over to the place, standing in the clean area as much as possible. He was near the large pine cupboard. One of the doors was unfastened and he opened it. Inside were a few plates and bowls, some chipped mugs. He pretended to reach for something. One blow from behind, he staggered forward; another blow to the neck and he crumbled to the floor, falling sideward. His position fitted exactly with the angle of George’s body and suggested his assailant had come from around the table. Was that who was eating the bread and cheese? It didn’t make sense that George had surprised a stranger, some thief breaking in for a bit of supper. He would not have advanced into the room if he perceived he was in danger.

  Murdoch sat down at the table, taking the chair that faced the door. The used plate was directly in front of him, the loaf of bread at his right hand. The murder weapon was a bread knife. What seemed likely was that George entered the kitchen, saw the person, but wasn’t perturbed enough to turn and run. In fact, at some point he went toward the cupboard. Was there a quarrel? Some provocation so severe that the other person snatched the bread knife, ran at George from behind and delivered two powerful blows. The first wound punctured the lung and a fine spray of blood had covered the corner of the table. There were several sheets hanging on a rack between the windows. The ones closest to the cupboard looked as if they had been dyed pink. Murdoch rubbed one of them between his fingers. It was good quality linen. Somebody was going to be missing their laundry soon.

  Given that the murder looked like an unpremeditated act, Murdoch expected that the killer panicked and ran out, most likely by the shortest route to the door. That would take them right across the path of the body and the blood. He crouched down and moved slowly forward. Nothing that he could see, just some scuff marks and bits of mud which were probably left by the jurors who had viewed the body.

  He spent the next half hour examining the kitchen, but could find nothing else that seemed relevant to the murder. He was glad to move on to the rest of the house. Reenacting the attack had brought back disturbing memories. He knew the shock and pain of an unexpected blow. His father had landed many of them. Worse had been the sight of his young brother, Albert, knocked senseless for some misdemeanour he had no awareness of. Murdoch’s own rage churned biliously in his stomach. It had not diminished after all these years. Murderous anger was an emotion he could understand.

  He went into the parlour, opening the curtains this time and thrusting up all the window sashes. Mrs. Daly had spoken about an album. An important book by the sound of it. He hadn’t seen it the first time he examined the room but he had more idea now of what he was looking for.

  For the next hour he searched thoroughly, taking up the carpet, a once-luxurious Axminster, moving aside all the grand furniture. Nothing. He wondered if he’d misinterpreted the money in Dolly’s pocket. Perhaps she herself intended to pay somebody. According to the neighbours she owed money. Maybe one of her creditors got fed up with waiting. Lost his temper and sent her off. That possibility didn’t sit right though and he felt frustrated. Once again there were too many paths to go down. He left and went upstairs.

  Lily’s room was untouched as far as he could see but he sieved through it again just in case. It yielded nothing.

  The boys’ room was also the same as he’d seen it last. He’d done no more than a perfunctory search before. The room was so bare and, at that point, he didn’t suspect either of the two boys. Perhaps he was wrong. He remembered the whispers while he was in Lily’s room. Were they hiding evidence? If so, what?

  When he was about George’s age he’d started to steal tobacco plugs from his father. His father hadn’t seemed to notice and young Murdoch chawed away, savouring not the bitter taste but the defiance, the secret victory. He kept the stash under his mattress and was never found out.

  Murdoch went over to the bed and with a heave turned over the mattress. It was filthy but intact, and nothing lay underneath it on the iron bedsprings. However, the one pillow fell to the floor and he could see wool stuffing dribbling out of one end. He picked it up and patted it. There was something firm in the middle. Too small to be the album, but something hidden. He fished inside and his fingers came in contact with what felt like a roll of paper. He pulled it out in a flurry of wool bits which stuck to his fingers like Golding’s tubercles. He shook them off and unwrapped the bundle, which was in a piece of the Globe. Inside was a wad of bills, mostly one dollar in denomination. He counted them. Forty-three dollars. He couldn’t believe the money was George’s or Freddie’s. They would be lucky to have twenty-five cents to their name. He probed the pillow’s innards again and this time plucked out a leather cord at the end of which dangled a small brass key. Looked like the missing desk key.

  He riffled the notes. Forty-three dollars wasn’t a lot of money but perhaps enough to kill for if you were as destitute as these boys were. He folded the wad and put it in one of his envelopes. He would have discarded the newspaper, but suddenly a photograph caught his eye. A group of people on a lawn. In the centre was his honour, Walter Pedlow, seated with a rug over his legs. A younger man was to his right. Murdoch peered closer. The picture was fuzzy but he recognized this fellow. He was the one who had partnered Annie Brogan at the Derby. The too-long hair and thick moustache were unmistakable. He read the caption. “His honour, Walter Pedlow, at the reception of his nephew, Henry, recently returned from India. Mrs. Walter Pedlow is to the left of her husband and their ward, Miss Sarah Carswell, is directly in front of her.”

  Maud had her head turned away from the camera. Somebody had circled the child’s face.

  Murdoch felt a flush of excitement. Don’t tell me there’s no connection between Dolly Shaw and the Pedlows. Never heard of the woman, my eye! And why is Henry Pedlow hanging around Annie Brogan if they’re all such total strangers? The date of the paper was at the top, Wednesday, July 17, and there was a brownish stain across the side that looked like blood. He placed it in the envelope with the money.

  There was nothing else in the room, just the fetid stink of misery.

  It was approaching noon when he got back to the station. As he entered, the duty sergeant, Seymour of the sour puss, called him over.

  “Package for you, Will, just arrived.”

  He handed him a large brown envelope. It had the coroner’s seal on the back and Murdoch took it with him to his cubicle at the rear. He felt as if the smell of death clung to his clothes and he removed his jacket, putting it on the peg by the door. Her Majesty watched him benignly.


  Vaux, the coroner, had sent on a copy of the doctor’s post mortem examination.

  This is to certify that I, Robert Joseph Grieg, a legally qualified physician of the city of Toronto, did this day make a post mortem examination upon the body of a person identified as George Tucker, with the following result.

  The body is that of a youth of about thirteen years of age, undernourished. Genitalia is mature. Rigor mortis was resolving with some remaining rigidity in the feet. Abdominal organs, kidneys, normal in size. There were signs of worm infestation in the lower bowel. Both legs were curved concavely. In my opinion evidence of childhood rickets. The entire chest cavity and pleura were filled with blood, the result of two stab wounds to the back, one close to the left scapula, and approximately seven and one half inches below the occiput, the other slightly higher, that is six inches from the occiput but the same distance from the scapula. Both wounds punctured the left lung. The third wound was at the junction of the left clavicle and the thoracic vertebrae. This wound severed the aorta. The knife had penetrated to a depth of four inches. Most of the body’s blood had drained from these wounds. The murder weapon is an ordinary kitchen knife with a saw-tooth edge and a bone handle. In my opinion all blows were administered with great force from above by a person who is right-handed. Respectfully submitted, Robert Grieg M. D.

  The language was cool and clinical, as it should be, but Murdoch felt troubled by what it meant in human terms. Dr. Grieg had written, “genitalia mature,” but George Tucker was far from adulthood in size and strength. He’d had so little comfort in his short life and the brutality of his death was surely undeserved.

  Murdoch returned the report to the envelope and stood up. He needed to be active. He left his cubicle and went to the off-duty room to see who was there. Crabtree was sitting at the table and he was about to take a big swallow from a bottle of stout.