CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Once again, Lily had fled to her hiding place in the riverbank. Her dress had been splattered with George’s blood. Panting, she’d pulled off the garment, tearing the shoulder seam in her haste, and immersed it in the cool water. In the darkness, the stains were difficult to see, but she rubbed at them as best she could, over and over until her knuckles were raw and skinned. Finally she draped the dress on the branches to dry and crept into the cave. She was clad only in her chemise and drawers and she couldn’t stop the violent shivering. She curled up as tightly as she could and sat at the entrance, rocking back and forth. When the sun finally rose and brought a blessed warmth to the air, she stayed there, crying, but keeping the cries close to her.
She had returned to the house, circling back to what was familiar. She had entered through the back door into the kitchen, suddenly ravenous, searching for food. Saliva had filled her mouth and dribbled down the corner of her lips. There was a bag of buns on the table and she ate two immediately, almost choking on the dry, stale pastry. She sawed off a piece of bread from the loaf that the boys had left and chewed at the end of a piece of cheese. She had moved as carefully as she could but, without knowing it, she banged the pots on the stove as she looked for more food. The boys had awakened and George, with Freddie behind him, came down to the kitchen. He laughed when he saw her and immediately started to mock her, to jeer at her hunger. “You’re going to get it,” he mimed. “They’re going to throw you in jail for killing your mother. They’re looking for you. You’re in for it this time.”
He pretended to put a rope around his neck, pull it tight, and dropped his head to one side, broken. “And your shit comes out,” he said. He lifted his nightshirt and showed her how that happened, laughing all the time. Freddie had crouched in the corner of the room and he watched, frozen in dread, unable to help.
Perhaps none of that would have provoked her to murder, although she was so frightened. She would just have run away again. However, George knew what had happened before with the kidnapped baby, and eager for more cruelty he turned to that. He stuck his fingers in his mouth, pulling back his lips so they glistened raw and red. He held up his hand, the fingers glued together. He rocked the baby in his arms, making soothing gestures, but it was done to belittle her tenderness, to mock her love for the infant girl. Delighted at the reaction he had evoked in Lily, he pointed at her, cackling, tugging again at his mouth.
Then, sated in his fun, he turned to the cupboard, intending to get himself a mug or plate.
She seized the bread knife, ran around the table, and stabbed him. Once, twice, and again, while the hot blood shot out in an arc, drenching her.
She had lost any sense of how long she had been by the river. The way she had when she was in prison, she had taken herself into a trance, not moving, taking refuge in a world where she wasn’t cold, where her mother and George were still alive, and where she was holding the baby again, caressing it, basking in the perfect smiles, the flawless hands.
She might have stayed there until she was discovered, but on the third morning a heavy rain began to fall, pocking the river, penetrating the opening of her den. Finally, not even Lily could withstand the discomfort and cold. She uncurled herself. The pain in her limbs as the blood flowed again was excruciating. She had to stand up. She eased herself out of the cave and reluctantly stretched her arms. There was no colour in the world. The sky, the trees, the river were all leached of brightness. The rain was hitting her face and bare shoulders and arms, cold and punishing. She shook her head, trying to get away but she couldn’t. Close by was her dress. It was as soaked as the ground, but it offered some comfort. She reached for it and as she did, the soft, muddy earth gave way and she slipped. Unable to gain her balance she fell into the deep pool where the river was dammed. Her wide drawers twisted around her legs. Momentarily a primitive panic seized her, an instinct for life. She gasped for air but she swallowed water instead. Choking, she drew it up her nose, down her throat, into her lungs. She thrashed frantically but to no avail. The river was overpowering her. Perhaps another person would have fought harder, been able to free herself. Lily’s struggles were soon only halfhearted. She had so little to come back to life for.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Murdoch didn’t bother with even rudimentary politeness when Burns opened the door.
“Where is Mrs. Pedlow? I have to see her immediately.”
“She’s in the drawing room, but–”
Murdoch pushed by him, leaving the butler spluttering a protest.
Maud was seated at the piano but he’d heard no music. She turned as he entered and he saw the fear jump into her eyes.
“Mr. Murdoch! I–”
“Mrs. Pedlow, I must speak to you.”
“Please sit down.”
“No, thank you, ma’am.”
She stared at him. Her gown today was a plain grey silk with silver trims. The collar was white, stiff and high as a man’s. The severity of the dress was not complimentary to her pale skin and drab hair.
“Mrs. Pedlow, you have been less than honest with me.”
She was about to object but the words wilted in the heat of his anger.
“I have spoken with Annie Brogan. She tells me you did know Dolly Shaw, or rather Dolly Merishaw–”
“That is not the–”
“Ma’am, according to Miss Brogan you were one of Dolly’s customers eight years ago. She delivered you of a female child at her farm in Markham.”
“How can you believe this woman, Mr. Murdoch? She is nothing but a common stage performer. She is trying to blacken my name.”
Maud wouldn’t have persuaded a cat.
“I have also been informed that Mrs. Shaw’s foster son Freddie delivered a letter here on Thursday afternoon.”
“I received no such letter.”
“The boy swears he handed it to you personally. You wrote a letter in reply, which he gave to Mrs. Shaw.”
She turned away from him, studying the sheet of music propped on the piano as if she were about to give a recital.
“Please answer me, ma’am.”
Murdoch felt like grabbing her by the shoulders and spinning her around to face him.
“Mrs. Pedlow, I insist on your explanation.”
At last she turned.
“Mr. Murdoch, I am certain there is not a person in the world who does not have some part of their lives they do not wish to expose to the world.”
“Ma’am?”
“It is true, I did know the woman many years ago. I apologize for prevaricating but it was a most painful time for me. I preferred not to talk about it.”
“You knew I was investigating a murder, yet you lied to me.”
So much for fine vocabulary. He had the impulse to be obscene, rough-tongued. Anything to break through the woman’s stubbornness.
“My involvement was so long ago, it seemed unimportant.”
“That was for me to decide.”
She was squeezing and rubbing at her hands as if she were warming up her fingers. She sighed ostentatiously.
“Very well. What you are so insistent on winkling out of me, Mr. Murdoch, is perhaps not such a terrible thing. It is however a delicate matter and I ask for your complete discretion.”
“We’ll see. I may have no choice in the matter.”
Her little attempt at acting, which was laughable, fell away and when she spoke again, it was with more dignity.
“The fact is that rather late in my life, I conceived a child. My husband was away from home when I realized the happy news. I–I could not bear the scrutiny of my neighbours. I knew how they would gossip about a woman of my age being enceinte. Perhaps I was too sensitive but I craved privacy. I saw Mrs. Merishaw’s advertisement and went to her for my lying in.”
“And that’s where you first met Annie Brogan?”
“I suppose it was, although to tell the truth there was more than one young woman at the farm and I did not
care to associate with them.”
“That must have been lonely for you. At such an important time?”
She shrank a little at that comment but still didn’t crack. “Not at all. I am really quite a solitary sort of person, Mr. Murdoch.”
“You told Miss Brogan your baby died shortly after birth.”
“That is what I mean by a painful time of my life that I have no wish to relive. Fortunately, if I may put it that way, my cousin had given birth at almost exactly the same time as I, and the poor woman died in the childbed. Of course I wanted to adopt that little girl. To give her a decent home. My cousin was a widow, you see, and much impoverished by the entailment of her husband’s estate. Taking on Sarah as my ward eased my terrible loss, as I am sure you can understand, Mr. Murdoch.”
Murdoch thought he had never been conned by such an expensively dressed woman before.
“Your husband must have been grieved also.”
Maud bent her head and spoke so quietly he could hardly hear her.
“My dear sir, I am in fact throwing myself on your mercy. You have asked me why I was trying to hide my acquaintance with Mrs. Merishaw. The truth is Mr. Pedlow does not know of my pregnancy. He has always longed for an heir and was dreadfully disappointed when it seemed as if God had seen fit not to so bless us. I decided to wait until the birth was assured before telling him. When the infant was taken from me, I saw no reason to inform him. I feared the sorrow would break his heart.”
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Pedlow. I find that incredible.”
His sense of Pedlow’s heart was that it would withstand the direct hit of a cannon ball.
Her eyes fastened on his as she attempted to sound convincing. “I am telling you the truth. Walter is so delighted with Sarah. I have never told him about the other child and will not do so. As I said, Mr. Murdoch, I am throwing myself on your mercy. I have entrusted you with this painful secret. My future and the future of my little family is in your hands.”
Murdoch shifted impatiently. “Does anybody else know?”
She smoothed her skirt, a gesture he had seen women use before when they were buying time.
“I confided in my nephew, Henry. Perhaps I shouldn’t have, but my secret was sometimes a burden to me. He was very kind and allowed me my little weep and that was all I needed.”
“Was Dolly Shaw aware that you had not told your husband about the child?”
“I don’t see how she could have known one way or the other. We rarely talked. I had no further correspondence with her after I left Markham.”
“There will be a record of the infant’s death in the village register I presume?”
“Mrs. Merishaw took care of all that. I was, er, too overcome.”
And I suppose you could say that about Dolly now, he thought. She won’t be able to confirm this story one way or the other.
“Do you now admit you received a letter from Mrs. Shaw which asked for money?”
“Yes, I did. I am sorry I did not tell you the truth at first. I…”
Her voice tailed off, trying to lure him into gallantry.
“Did you answer it?”
“Yes. I felt sorry for the woman. I sent a few dollars with the boy.”
Murdoch was recording all this information in his notebook. He took his time. Like Annie in the beginning, this woman was giving him only as much truth as she could get away with.
“Did your nephew know about Mrs. Shaw’s letter?”
“I believe I did mention it to him, yes.”
“What sort of person is Mr. Henry, would you say? Rash? Hot-tempered?”
“Not at all. He is most equable. Why do you ask, Mr. Murdoch?”
“I wonder if he might have taken it upon himself to seek out Mrs. Shaw. Just to make sure she was only asking for a small gratuity and not going in for a spot of blackmail. Is it likely he would have done something like that, Mrs. Pedlow?”
She was starting to look very tight about the mouth and jaw.
“I suppose it is not totally out of the question, but, Mr. Murdoch, I still don’t see why you are pursuing this line of enquiry when surely you already have your culprit.”
“Who is that, madam?”
“The unfortunate woman, Lily. Her mother treated her badly. I saw such on many an occasion. She must have finally retaliated. You said another boy was killed. It seems to me highly plausible that he was a witness to the first crime and the poor lunatic woman killed him also.”
Murdoch now knew that wasn’t what had happened, but he wasn’t going to tell her yet.
“According to Freddie, Lily ran away before Mrs. Shaw was killed and did not return until the next day. I don’t believe she murdered her own mother.”
Maud gave a small shrug. “An intruder then–”
“Unlikely. The boy says he heard two people come to the house the night of the murder. Annie Brogan admits she was the first visitor, but she swears she left Dolly quite alive.”
“Perhaps she is lying.”
Maud was fickle in her choice of suspects.
“I don’t think so. The person who came afterward is the one I’d like to talk to. Freddie couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman, but Mr. Golding heard somebody leaving the Shaw house about two o’clock in the morning. He had no doubt it was a woman he heard.”
“In spite of what you say, we’re back to the daughter then, aren’t we? She’s a husky woman.”
Maud Pedlow was exhibiting more steel at the centre than he would have expected.
“Dolly Shaw was drunk. If she had fallen and knocked herself senseless, it wouldn’t take much physical strength to hold a pillow on her head, just great emotional resolve.”
There was a long silence, more stiffening of the jaw, then Maud said, “If Dolly wrote a begging letter to me, I am sure she wrote to others. I was far from being her only client.”
“The boy swears there was only one letter. She wrote it immediately after she saw the newspaper article about your nephew’s reception.”
“Mr. Murdoch, you are hounding me. I shall be forced to discuss the matter with my husband.”
“In which case I would be forced to explain why I am asking you these questions, ma’am. You have good reason to want Dolly Shaw silenced.”
“I find that an extremely impolite remark.”
Murdoch almost laughed outright. “Politeness seems a little irrelevant in the case of murder, wouldn’t you say, ma’am?”
Maud chose not to reply but she seemed more distressed. He pressed the advantage.
“To come back to Mr. Henry Pedlow for a moment. You say he is of an equable temperament? Is he a loyal person?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“If he thought the happiness of you and your husband was at stake, might he lose that even disposition?”
“How can I answer such a question? However, I…”
“Please continue, ma’am.”
Her voice was shaky when she replied. “I have been concerned about him. It is most upsetting to contemplate the implication of your question but–”
Again she faltered. Murdoch couldn’t quite tell if he was in the presence of an actress of Sarah Bernhardt ability or if she was genuinely afraid of the possibilities.
“Why are you worried about your nephew?”
“He has shown signs of instability since returning from India, the sun–”
“Instability, ma’am?”
“Oh, I am sorry. I am not a physician. I shouldn’t have said–”
“You don’t need a medical degree to use the word. What do you mean by ‘instability’?”
“He laughs at inappropriate moments, weeps at nothing…he has flown into terrible tempers over the smallest thwarting. A cabman who is too slow, a passerby who bumps him.”
Murdoch regarded her. She was still seated at the piano and as she spoke, her shoulders drooped and her voice was flat. The arrogant veneer had disappeared.
“Do you think your loyal, unstable ne
phew is capable of murder?”
“If there is extreme provocation, who can ever know what a person is capable of, Mr. Murdoch.”
She had avoided a direct answer but Murdoch got the message. She suspected Henry had killed Dolly and she was no doubt happy about it.
“Where would I find Mr. Pedlow now?”
“He is staying at the Avonmore Hotel. He said he had an important engagement this afternoon. I am certain he will be there!”
Murdoch went towards the door. He turned to take his leave.
Mrs. Pedlow was staring straight in front of her, and the expression on her face was one of utter anguish.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Henry Pedlow had woken early but he was still sitting in his pyjamas in the armchair beside the bed. A waiter had tapped on the door to deliver his breakfast but he’d sent him away with a surly command. Food seemed irrelevant to him. He was surprised when he came out of his reverie and saw it was after eleven o’clock. He had no recollection of what he had been thinking in the past four hours. He didn’t believe he had fallen back to sleep, but the time had vanished, wiped away like a mark on the beach. Stiffly, he got to his feet. His limbs ached and his throat was on fire. The doctor had warned him, of course. It would get worse. A man of few words, he had only added, “We have morphine or opium for the pain, but in the end…” He shrugged. Henry hadn’t known this physician long, only since he had arrived back in Toronto, and he knew the man disapproved of him, despised him for the disease. Not that Henry could blame him. He himself was filled with self-contempt. What a fool he’d been. What a stupid, stupid fool.
He began to pace, swept with a surge of emotion so violent he couldn’t stand still. He slammed his fist down on the sideboard, making the ornaments bounce. Stupid! Stupid! Fool! He’d been warned as soon as he arrived in India. “Watch for the fire-ships. You can’t always tell. Even the young ones can have it.” But the soft, dark eyes, the compliance of the women proved irresistible.
As suddenly as it had come, his anger vanished. He burst into tears. He couldn’t stop. Sobs racked his chest, hurting him, burning his throat. He finally forced himself to stop crying, not because the grief was over, but because the physical pain it created was too severe.
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