Under the Dragon's Tail (10 page)

“I hope you’re not here officially, Mr. Murdoch.”

“
Tweet, tweet, tweet, he went…
”

“As a matter of fact I am. I’d like to have a talk with you.”

At that point the harmony between them broke down and he tripped over her feet. She dropped her arms and cried out, making a big to-do of hobbling away.

“Get off the stage, go on, you ox.” The men were yelling at him, waving fists; some in good drunken earnest.

The thought flashed through Murdoch’s mind that he’d aroused their jealousy with his smooth reverse turn. He stood his ground, although out of the corner of his eye he could see the manager was at the steps ready to move in. He went closer to Annie.

“When?” he asked.

She pirouetted. “After closing time, in my dressing room.”

Shirtsleeves was on stage and coming fast towards him. Murdoch jumped down of his own accord.

Annie had called up another dancer, a well-dressed man with dark hair and a sun-tanned, weather-beaten skin. In time to more tweeting they waltzed around the stage and Murdoch was glad to see that the newcomer was no champion. He obviously knew the right steps but he moved so stiffly he could have been a mechanical piece. However, Annie smiled up at him and although Murdoch knew quite well it was all part of the act, he felt a twinge of jealousy.

Leaving them to it, he forced his way through the hot bodies back to the door and finally got outside. Here the air was blessedly cool and he leaned against the wall and wiped his dripping face and neck with his handkerchief. His hand smelled faintly perfumed from Annie’s glove and he shifted uncomfortably at the remembered image of all that white, bouncing flesh so close to him.

CHAPTER TWELVE

M
urdoch returned to the station to check the street directory for the Pedlow address and to see what sort of state Crabtree was in. He found the constable in the stable yard. Number-four station possessed two horses, both elderly and reliable, who were used to pull the police ambulance. At the moment, both were in harness. The traces, however, were not hitched to the wagon but to the large frame of George Crabtree. Two of the young constables, Burney and Duncan, were observing, both as alert as seconds in a prize fighter’s corner.

Crabtree was stripped down to his singlet and cotton drawers and the reins were wrapped around his thick forearms. He saw Murdoch but was too intent on his task to acknowledge him.

“Ready,” he called to Burney.

The constable grasped both bridles, clicked his tongue, and started to lead the horses forward. Crabtree dug into the dirt of the yard with his cleated boots and leaned back. The horses stopped.

“Come on, you. Thut, thut,” clucked Burney, and both horses, a bay gelding and a black mare, thrust their muscular shoulders into their collars and took a couple of steps forward. Crabtree yielded some ground but quickly braced himself again and the horses halted.

Again Burney urged them on. Crabtree’s body was sharply angled backward, his massive legs pushing into the ground as he tried to hold the pull. The veins in his forehead and neck were so prominent Murdoch was afraid they might burst open. The constable was drenched in sweat and now so low to the ground that his buttocks were inches from touching it. The horses stopped, Captain pawing the ground and tossing his head in bewilderment. For a moment they held, man and beast immobile, but at Burney’s shout, the horse moved forward and Crabtree couldn’t hold any longer. He started to slide, scrambling desperately to gain a foothold, giving little hops to try to get the dig in. Captain was not to be gainsaid, however, and dragged him on, as Crabtree’s boots scraped deep grooves in the dirt.

“Whoa! Whoa!”

Burney halted his charges and they snorted and swished their tails in triumph.

Crabtree collapsed onto his back and Duncan picked up the bucket of water that was in readiness and doused him. Spluttering and shaking his head, the big man sat up. Murdoch went over to him.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Practicing for the pull, sir,” gasped the constable.

“Hardly a fair match is it?”

“I don’t know, I suppose not.”

“For the horses, I mean. Here, let me give you a hand up. Do you want some more water?”

“Thank you, sir.”

Murdoch nodded at the other constable who came over with another bucket. Crabtree drank the water.

“Whose idea was this?” Murdoch asked, although he suspected he knew the answer.

“Inspector Brackenreid’s. He says the Greeks used to train this way.”

“But you’ve been under the weather. Maybe you’re overdoing it.”

“I’m not so bad, sir.”

He started to wipe himself down with the piece of clean sacking his assistant had handed him.

“Maybe I should be having a look at your teeth,” said Murdoch.

“Sir?”

“Never mind. Look, if you’re feeling up to it, I’d like you to get over to River Street and help Wiggin with the interviews. The man is as useless as a third tit. I’m going to Jarvis Street. I’ll tell you about it while you get dressed.”

“I’ll just congratulate my competitors,” said Crabtree and went over to pet the horses.

“You’d better not stroke the grenadiers’ noses when you’re up against them,” Murdoch called to him. “They might misunderstand.”

He was just about to give another tug on the bellpull when the door opened. The young footman stared at him and assumed a faintly supercilious expression.

Murdoch presented his card.

“I wish to speak to Mrs. Pedlow, if you please.”

The footman read the card. “Acting Detective, number-four station” was printed neatly beneath Murdoch’s name. The servant’s superior air dropped away like a thin man’s drawers. His alarm was palpable.

“Madam is not at home.”

“Is that ‘not at home’ as in out, or ‘not at home’ as in doesn’t want visitors?”

By the question, Murdoch had violated an unspoken rule of etiquette, but he was in no mood for niceties. The footman was completely flustered.

“She’s in but not receiving calls today.”

“Maybe she’ll make an exception in my case. Will you tell her I’m investigating a very serious police matter and I would appreciate the opportunity to speak to her.”

The footman stared at him. Murdoch thought his behaviour was odd but people often reacted like that when they knew who he was. A spotless conscience seemed a rarity.

“Will you step inside, Mr., er, Murdoch? I will see if Mrs. Pedlow is available.”

“And what’s your name, young man? I might need to talk to you as well.”

Murdoch was only partly bluffing. He might indeed have to question the servants. It depended on what Mrs. Pedlow had to say for herself. The footman looked even more ill at ease.

“I’m John Meredith. But what would you want to talk to me about?”

“I don’t exactly know until I’ve had my chat with Mrs. Pedlow.”

Suddenly the footman’s face brightened with relief, like a condemned man who’d got a pardon. “I’ll go fetch her.”

Forgetting all his training, he backed away awkwardly, leaving Murdoch to enter and close the doors behind him.

The entrance hall where he stood was sumptuous and felt vaguely ecclesiastical. A mahogany staircase, the balustrade elaborately carved, swept off to the side. A crystal chandelier, with what looked like electric light, tinkled softly in the sweep of air. Glancing around, he saw why he had been put in mind of a church. To his right was a tall stained-glass window depicting St. George slaying the dragon. The saint was young and muscular in his white armour with the red cross, the dragon green and ferocious. In front of the window was a three-legged table on top of which was an embossed
silver salver for visitor’s cards. Curious, Murdoch stirred them with his finger. What was it again? When he was a young man he had studied all the etiquette books he could find, conscious of his own ignorant beginnings. However, maturity and Liza had tempered that anxiety. She had known much more about how to apply the necessary oils to the wheels of polite society. Not that their calls and visits to friends were formal. The opposite really. More likely to be outings to the lake or a ferry ride to the island than a stiff conversation in the drawing room.

He picked up one of the cards. He remembered now. Mrs. Simon Curzon had turned down the right end of her card, which meant she had come in person. He’d seen her name often in the newspaper, organizing some event or other for the Women’s Historical Society. Mrs. Laura Spurr and her daughter Miss Georgiana Spurr had both left cards, folded in the middle to indicate they were calling on all the family. Miss Spurr was an artist. Portraits of Toronto society, if he remembered correctly. Perhaps Mrs. Pedlow was a customer.

His boots had rung out on the hard surface of the hall floor and looking down he saw it was of pink and grey Italian marble. Perfect for dancing. He almost felt like doing a quick jig right on the spot.

However, Meredith came down the stairs and forestalled him. “Mrs. Pedlow will be most happy to receive you,” said the footman. “Please to wait in here and she will be with you right away.”

He ushered the detective through the tapestry portieres into the drawing room.

Murdoch removed his hat but didn’t sit down. He’d started to perspire, partly from a nervousness he despised in himself, and partly because the room was uncomfortably warm. A completely unnecessary fire had been lit in the hearth.

Consistent with the grand entrance hall, this room was spacious and luxurious. The walls were panelled in white wood with an ebony trim, and above the wainscot was flowered paper of crimson flock. More flowers, yellow and red roses, patterned the hunter green carpet, which was thick enough for a dog to bury a bone in. Or a pauper his pittance.

He walked over to the fireplace, which dominated the far wall. An oil painting in a massive gilt-edged oak frame was hung above the mantel. Murdoch recognized the portrait of Judge Pedlow in his robe of office. It must have been painted fairly recently, because his honour looked older than Murdoch remembered. However, the artist, either through inadequate skills or fundamental honesty, had not softened the harsh line of the jaw or the tightness of the mouth. Pedlow looked just as mean-spirited and severe as he remembered.

Murdoch fingered the calling card he’d put in his pocket. You never knew, maybe a little dirt from this case would rub off on his lordship.

There was a large mechanical piece on a marble stand next to the hearth, and curious, he turned to have a look
at it. He’d heard about these things but had never actually seen one before. Inside a glass cover, two monkeys dressed in blue and red satin were seated at a table in a saloon surrounded by mirrors. One held a cigar, the other an ornate box. Presumably when the piece was wound up the monkeys moved and music played.

He was saved from temptation by the entrance of Mrs. Pedlow.

“Mr. Murdoch, I’m sorry if I kept you waiting.”

The woman greeting him was younger than he expected, slight of build, with light brown hair curled around her forehead and cheeks in the latest style. The startling thing about her, however, was the lumpy wine-coloured birthmark that covered her right cheek. Her voice was rather haughty, an impression heightened by the slight upward turn of the corner of her lip.

She indicated one of the chairs.

“Do sit down.”

She took a chair across from him and at an angle. He could see she was adept at seating herself in such a way the disfigurement of her right cheek was partly obscured. She was handsomely dressed in a cream-coloured satin gown trimmed at the bodice and skirt with narrow bands of purple. The sleeves were full and puffed at the top, which also masked the naevus. There was as much lace at the neck and cuffs of the sleeves as his bishop wore on holy days. If this was how she dressed when she wasn’t receiving, he wondered what her gown was like when she was “at home.”

“May I offer some refreshment?”

“No, thank you, ma’am.”

Hands clasped tightly in her lap, she waited for him to begin.

“I’m conducting a police investigation, ma’am, and I wonder if I could ask you a few questions?”

“Of course.”

“Would you happen to know, or have you ever heard of, a woman named Dolly Shaw? She lived at River Street at the corner of Wilton.”

Maud Pedlow managed to indicate slightly offended surprise.

“Not at all, Mr. Murdoch. I cannot imagine why I should.”

He took the calling card from his pocket.

“This is yours, I presume, Mrs. Pedlow?”

She took it from him as gingerly as if it would crumble at the touch. “Yes, it is mine. Why do you have it?”

“I found it in Mrs. Shaw’s desk.”

“How strange. I assure you it is not because I paid her a call.”

Mrs. Pedlow spoke as if the notion was utterly absurd, knowing Dolly Shaw to be riff-raff. However, he couldn’t make too much of that. Most people of Maud’s standing would make the same assumption. The better class of people wouldn’t be involved with the police in life or death.

“Is something the matter that you are enquiring? Does it have anything to do with Mr. Pedlow’s being a judge?”

“I don’t know about that, ma’am. But yes, I’d say there is something very much the matter. The woman was murdered.”

Maud jumped at his emphatic tone and her hand flew to her damaged cheek. He waited for questions but none came, and once again he was at a loss to know if this was typical behaviour in polite society or because she already knew the answers.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Murdoch. What you’ve told me is shocking but I don’t see I can be of any help. One of my cards must have come into her possession by chance.”

“The dead woman’s daughter takes in laundry to wash. Could there be a connection that way? Her name is Lily.”

“I don’t know her either but it sounds likely she could have picked up my card from somebody’s house. One of her customers. Perhaps she was intending to approach me for work.”

Maybe, but he wasn’t prepared to give up yet. He hesitated, searching for the appropriate words. “I have been told that Mrs. Shaw was once a midwife and that she served women in all aspects of their pregnancy.”

She stared at him. “I see. Are you suggesting one of my servants might be, er, involved?”

He shrugged.

“It is highly unlikely,” she continued quickly. “None of them have given any, er, sign. His lordship has very high standards of behaviour, thinking that any immorality in his own household would reflect adversely on his position and example.”

“And rightly so, ma’am.”

He had to admit she’d shifted the focus most adroitly but whether that was from cunning or the arrogance of her class, he couldn’t tell. He was aware this woman was uncomfortable and nervous and did not want to appear so.