Except the Dying (18 page)

Murdoch got up, went over to her and grasped her by the shoulder, forcing her to face him. He could feel the bone beneath the thin cloth of her wrapper.

“Ettie, listen to me. Alice has been murdered. Brutally. Therese Laporte died in a strange, unnatural way. It is possible the two deaths are connected.”

She moved away from his touch as if his hand was hot. “How could they be?”

“You tell me. A strange man shows up at the hotel. He takes off with Alice and next thing, she’s dead. Maybe the man knew Therese. She was expecting, after all. Maybe it was him as got her that way and he didn’t want anyone to know. Maybe Alice saw something when she was coming home on Saturday night.”

She winced again, almost imperceptibly. “Of course she didn’t.”

“Maybe she found something incriminating on the body when she stripped it –”

“Oh God, stuff it, will ya.”

“Come on, Ettie, this rosary belonged to Therese Laporte and it ended up around Alice Black’s neck. Just like those clothes ended up in your outhouse. Tell me the truth, for God’s sake.”

He was shouting at her in his frustration, but she became stubborn and sullen.

“How many times have I got to sodding well say it? Are you deaf or just plain stupid? Alice found the bloody necklace.”

He took a deep breath, trying to calm down. Yelling at her wasn’t helping. “There is a crucifix that hangs from a rosary. Do you know what that is?”

“No.”

“It’s a cross with the figure of Jesus Christ on it. This one might have been done in silver or brass. Did you see it?”

She shook her head emphatically. “No.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m telling you, the necklace was just like it is now. No Jesus.”

“Could Alice have removed the crucifix and put it somewhere else?”

“No.”

“How can you be so certain? Could be that she just didn’t tell you. She might have thought you would want to take it.”

“Sod off. We were like sisters. I wouldn’t take anything of hers. Nor her either. I tell you there weren’t no bloody cross on that thing.”

He tried an abrupt shift. “Did Alice mention to you that she had seen Therese before she died?”

There was a quick flicker of doubt across her face. “What are you getting at?”

“The girl died so close to here. Alice said she was coming home about ten o’clock Saturday night. Perhaps she saw her? Maybe even talked to her? Did she?”

Ettie shook her head.

“Look, Ettie, I am giving you fair warning. If I’m thinking that you and Alice were thick as thieves, the murderer is probably doing the same. You could be in danger.”

“Go on,” she scoffed. “I can look after myself.”

“That’s what you said about Alice, and –”

At that moment the curtain to the kitchen was pulled back and Samuel Quinn came in, all bundled up in greatcoat and cloth cap, a long muffler wrapped around his neck. Princess was close at his heels, and on a thick leather leash was another dog. It was a big heavy creature, white with brown patches. The skull was wide, set off with long floppy ears, and the eyes were doleful. Princess launched into a few yelps of pleasure at the sight of Ettie, while the other dog gave one deep-throated bark and sat down, drooling copiously. Quinn saw Murdoch and stopped abruptly in the doorway.

“Er, sorry. Didn’t know you … er …”

Ettie bent down, allowing the bitch to cover her face with enthusiastic licks. “Good girl. Did you miss me?”

Murdoch raised his voice. “Can you stay a minute, Mr. Quinn?”

Quinn looked uneasy. “I’m just off to work, Sergeant, er …?”

Ettie silenced Princess by putting down some crusts of bread and patted the second dog on its wide forehead.

“Big old bastard, aren’t you? Where’d you come from?”

“My pal’s,” said Quinn to Murdoch. “Taking care of him for a couple of days.”

“Another friend on his honeymoon?”

“What?”

“You said the last dog you were taking care of, the man was on his wedding trip.”

“Oh, right. Just forgot for a minute.”

Quinn began to twist both ends of his full moustache.

“What’s this one’s name?” asked Murdoch.

“Titch. His name’s Titch.”

The enormous dog licked its lips, scattering saliva on the floor.

“What’s up?” Quinn asked.

Still stroking the dog, Ettie said, “Alice has been murdered, Sam.”

“What!”

“That’s why he’s here.”

“When? Murdered …?”

“Her body was found this morning,” Murdoch said. “Over by the Gooderham Distillery.”

“What was she doing down there?”

“We don’t know as yet. Any ideas?”

“What? No, er, no. Tarnation, I’m sorry, Ettie. The Lord love me, I don’t know what to say.”

“Were you at the John O’Neil last evening?” Murdoch asked him.

“I was that.”

“Did you know the man who Alice left with? The sailor? He was calling himself Jack.”

“Not me. Never seen him before. Why d’you ask? Was he the one did her in?”

“Let’s say he must have been one of the last people to see her alive. Ettie says she didn’t like the look of him. Was that your opinion?”

“Can’t say as I had an opinion to speak of. He seemed a quiet sort of bloke, really. He was only at the table for a short bit, then they left.”

“Can you give me a description of the man?”

“Sure. He was fairish, short hair, a beat-up sort of face like you’d expect for an outdoor fellow.”

“He was ugly as the Devil’s arse, if you ask me,” interrupted Ettie. “Eyes like dead fish.”

“One thing I can tell you, Mr. Murdoch,” added Quinn, “he had some nobby togs. Best worsted, I’d say, wouldn’t you, Ettie?”

She nodded. “Another reason to believe he weren’t no Tar. Where’d he get the darby to buy clothes like that?”

Murdoch turned to Quinn. “Where were you last night? After you left the O’Neil?”

“Me? The usual.” His fingers kept going at the moustache. “I was working all last night. I went in at eleven. Just got off this morning. You can ask them.”

“Sod it, the tea will be like mud,” said Ettie. She brought the teapot to the table and plonked down three
chipped mugs. Unasked, she poured the strong black brew for Quinn as well. She sat down and he came over and placed his hand on her arm.

“I’m terrible sorry, Ettie,” he said again. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

She shrugged. “Nothing to be done, is there? She’s gone.” Suddenly she slammed down her mug, splashing hot tea on her hand. She put her scalded fingers to her mouth. “Sod it, sod it,” she said. With her unburnt fist she started to pound on the table. “Sod it, sod it,” she kept repeating.

Mrs. Kitchen added a spoonful of sugar to the tea and handed Murdoch the cup and saucer. He took a cautious sip. “Wonderful, Mrs. K. As usual.” She beamed. Making his tea exactly how he liked it was a source of delight for her.

“Ready for your tonic, Arthur?” she asked her husband.

“Now?”

“You’ve only had seven. We should try to get in at least two more tonight.”

There was a jug on the sideboard and beside it a bowl of eggs. She poured thick cream from the jug into a glass, cracked one of the eggs into it and gave them a thorough stir. She brought the yellowish mixture to her husband, who downed it in a couple of gulps and wiped his lips with gusto on the back of his sleeve.

“Arthur,” she protested, “use your handkerchief. Where were you brought up?”

Murdoch grinned. “I’m tempted to make up a few of those myself.”

“You should. Good for you. I tell you I can feel the difference. In two days.”

The cheery tone sounded false, not quite masking the underlying desperation. Arthur Kitchen had lived for a long time now with ever increasing debility and the certainty of a painful death. Murdoch fervently hoped this new treatment would work.

As usual they were sitting underneath their quilts and he was relating the events of the day. Beatrice had lit the fire for his benefit but he’d insisted on leaving the window open as Arthur’s fever was high tonight.

Beatrice sat down again. She had begun to decorate another box and the smell of glue and lacquer was thick and sweet in the air.

“What’s that you’re doing, Mrs. K.?”

She daubed some black lacquer onto one of her shells and surveyed it critically. “Mrs. Lewis said there was a call for mourning boxes, so I’m doing a black one for her. I’ll see if this works. The lacquer doesn’t stick too well … Go on, Mr. Murdoch.”

“Not much more to say, really. Nobody seems to have known the man Alice left the hotel with.” He pulled up the sleeve of his cardigan to demonstrate. “He has a tattoo around his wrist and forearm. A snake. Not
hard to recognize, but every last man of them says they never saw him before.”

“They that put their hands in evil will perish by evil.” Beatrice’s metaphor was a little confused, but her expression wasn’t. Murdoch drank some more tea. He knew how kindhearted a woman Mrs. K. actually was, but when it came to certain kinds of immorality she knew no compromise. She hadn’t evinced any pity for Alice Black.

“We also questioned everybody within a mile radius of the beach, but same story. Nobody saw anything.”

“Are they to be believed?” asked Arthur.

Murdoch nodded. “I’d say yes. Her friend, Ettie, swears Alice didn’t know anybody in that neighbourhood and had never been there. It’s more likely she was taken to the beach in a carriage. Her jacket was partially unbuttoned and Ettie says she was wearing a shawl, but that’s nowhere to be found and neither are her boots.”

Murdoch stared into the fire. The dancing flames were making no headway against the cold coming in from the window, but they were soothing to watch. Tomorrow he was going to go to the Rhodeses’ house and show them the rosary. There’d been too much to do today.

“How was himself?” asked Arthur.

“A real Cossack. He kept going on about shirking. I wanted to tell him to feel my frozen feet.”

Arthur laughed. “In a tender spot, I hope?”

“Arthur!” exclaimed his wife, but she smiled too.

“Exactly. He’s pushing me to arrest the lunatic but we’ve got nothing whatever to go on except the fact that the old man found the body. Unfortunately he doesn’t help matters by not answering questions. He just keeps yelling Scripture.”

Beatrice paused for a moment in her arranging of the shells. “My mother’s cousin’s son used to do that. Not Scripture but nursery rhymes. Poor fellow got knocked down by a runaway horse when he was a boy, and it damaged his mind. He was never the same after that. No matter what you said to him, he’d rattle off a nursery rhyme. Nobody could make it out at first, but his mother was good with him and she finally figured he was speaking in riddles. The dear child didn’t live long. God in His mercy saw fit to take him to Heaven when he was only twelve.”

“What do you mean he was speaking in riddles?”

“Well, for instance, if she said, ‘Henry, what do you want for your tea?’ he’d answer, ‘Georgie porgie.’ What he meant was that he’d like some pudding. Or if he’d say, ‘Mittens,’ it meant bread and jam.”

Arthur snorted. “Good thing his mother understood him. If it were up to me the fellow would’ve starved to death.”

“If the old man is speaking in code, I don’t have the foggiest notion what it is,” said Murdoch. “He’s telling me we’re all damned and will get our punishment, and
that seems pretty straightforward to me.” He yawned. “Well, it’s up the wooden hill for me. I have an early start again.”

Arthur said, “I almost forgot, Will. Do you remember you was asking about a little dog, a Pekingese –”

“Or a King Charles,” interrupted Beatrice.

“It was a Peke, Mother. Something rang a bell so I looked at some of the back issues of the
News.
Listen to this. It was in Saturday’s paper.” He opened one of the newspapers that was beside him and read.

“I’ll make a note of that. By the way, what kind of dog is large as a pony, white and brown with long droopy ears and eyes like this?” He pulled down the lower lids of his eyes, exposing the red.

“Oh, that’s a Newfoundland, for sure. Lovely dogs they are, but they drool a lot.”

“That sounds right. If you come across any other notice in the paper concerning a dog like that, let me know.”

Arthur grinned in pleasure. “I certainly will. They’re valuable dogs, they are.”

“I don’t understand,” said Beatrice.

“I have a suspicion Mr. Quinn is up to no good when it comes to canines,” said Murdoch.

“He has a dog of his own, didn’t you say?” remarked Arthur.

“That’s right, a noisy hound. Makes a heck of a row all the time.”

“Must be a female.”

“Arthur! What a thing to say.”

“No, no, Mother, what I mean is the fellow’s probably using the old trick.”

“What’s that?” asked Beatrice.

“You want to pinch a dog and hold it for the reward, all you have to do is wait until it’s let off its leash, then parade your bitch in front of it. At certain times, she’s, er, irresistible. Off runs dog with only one thing on his mind, and the owner is left wringing his hands, ready to pay up to the kind rescuer of dear Marmalade or whatever he’s called.”

Murdoch laughed. “You’ve got it, Arthur. On the other hand, we police can suspect our own mothers if we’re not careful. He just might have friends who trust him with their expensive dogs.”

“Still, I’ll keep my eyes open for other notices.”

Murdoch pushed off his quilt and stood up. “I’m off. Good night to both.”

He shook hands and went up to his room. He considered having a pipe but he was too tired, so he
undressed quickly and got into bed, shivering as his body touched the cold sheets. Blast, he had forgotten to practise his dance steps, and he’d missed his lesson this week. He’d better do an hour tomorrow or else he’d be a disgrace to the professor at the salon.

The thought of holding a young woman in his arms made him restless again and he thumped his feather pillow into a hollow. Unbidden to his mind came the memory of a thin shoulder beneath his hand, shockingly warm to the touch. He turned over and gave his pillow another punch. Thoughts like that would get him exactly nowhere.