Under the Dragon's Tail (19 page)

Annie stared into her tea cup as if she could read her own fortune in the dregs. “I mentioned this to Dolly and asked her if I could have the name of the family that took him. She sneered at me. ‘Oh dear,’ said she. ‘Didn’t I tell you? He’s dead and gone to heaven. Sickly little thing he was, didn’t live out the winter.’ Well that was a shocker, I tell you. ‘What about the money?’ I said. ‘What money? You haven’t been sending any money.’ ‘Yes, I have.’ ‘Prove it,’ she said. ‘There’s no record.’ I knew she wrote everything down in that album because I’d seen her do it when I was at the farm. She took it out of the
desk and waved it under my nose. ‘I owe you four dollars,’ she said. ‘I’ll take it off your bill.’

“I was in a rage, Mr. Murdoch. That she’d cheated me for all these years. Once she’d even asked for extra because she said the boy had the measles and needed to see a doctor. I went without and sent the money. Always thinking I was helping. You see, I hoped one day he’d know that his…that his mother had cared. That I’d done my best. Dolly was chortling away. I screamed at her and snatched up the bloody album. I dunno, I wanted to see for myself if it was true. I wanted names.” She twisted the handkerchief into a knot. “When I got home I was like a frigging green girl. I got all trembly, couldn’t bear to open the shicey thing. I stuffed it in the drawer…and now I’ll never know for sure if my boy is alive.”

Murdoch felt compassion for her but he had to tighten the line, bring her in. He opened his file and showed her the calling card and the piece of newspaper.

“Tell me the truth, Annie. Was Mrs. Pedlow a customer of Dolly’s?”

She took the card, staring at it. At the neat black script. The respectable name.

“That wasn’t what she called herself then. She was known as Mrs. Brown. But she was there at the same time as me. She delivered two weeks before I did.”

“What happened to her baby? Was it adopted?”

“Not as far as I know. But everything to do with Mrs. Brown was so hush-hush. There was a wet-nurse came
in from the village for a few days and Missus left soon after with her infant. A girl it was.”

“There’s a child living with her now but she’s supposedly the Pedlows’ ward.”

Annie nodded. “I know. When I went up there, I asked her and she told me the first infant died.”

“Do you believe her?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s true.”

“She was a respectable married woman, why would she have to hide her pregnancy?”

“Come on, Mr. Murdoch. Don’t be nocky. People can count, you know. Maybe her husband was away at an inconvenient time. Or maybe he couldn’t get his pecker up. He’d know whether he was the baker or not.”

“If he wasn’t the father she’d have to make up some story as to why she had an infant in tow.”

“That’s it.”

“Did Maud Pedlow know you’d been to see Dolly?”

“Yes, I told her.”

Agitated, Annie stood up although there was nowhere to pace in the tiny office. “I told her everything. Not about taking the album but what Dolly had said about my boy being dead. I needed to tell somebody. There wasn’t anybody else to talk to. Even Millie doesn’t know.”

Murdoch hesitated, almost afraid of what he had to say.

“Annie, when I went to interview Mrs. Pedlow yesterday, I told her that Dolly’s record book was missing. Her husband and her nephew were both present.”

“I see.” Unexpectedly, she touched his arm. “Wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know. But it must have been one of them, or a messenger for one of them.”

“Looks that way.”

She slammed her fist on his desk.

“This cull, the nephew? The one who’s been licking his chops around my diddies–is he the one who came after Millie?”

“It’s possible.”

“That’s a big favour to do for your auntie. Almost murder somebody so she can sleep at night. You know what I think, Mr. Murdoch? I’m thinking the frigging nephew is the real baker. The one who stuck my lady high and mighty. She wouldn’t want that little secret in the papers, would she?”

Murdoch remembered the scene at the Pedlows’. The intensity of Henry’s response. He had the feeling Annie was right. And if Henry had chloroformed Millie, he might have gone for Dolly. Same reason.

“If it’s true, would Dolly have known it?”

“She knew everything. Most of the girls lied, about being married mostly. Whenever one of them went into the village, she’d go through their belongings. I caught her red-handed one day. She didn’t care. ‘I have to protect myself,’ she said. I’d bet my life she did the same for Missus.”

Again Murdoch hesitated. She was eyeing him curiously.

“What’s up?” she asked.

“Why did you say the child you bore was hard to place?”

“What?”

He repeated the question.

She looked defiant. “He wasn’t deformed or sick or anything like that. I was clean.”

“Why then?”

“Dolly hammered it home to me. Nobody’s going to want this by-blow unless you pay. Then they might.”

She raised her head and smiled. There was fondness in the smile. “His father was strong and handsome as ever you saw, but he was a coloured man.”

Before he could continue, they heard Crabtree hurrying down the hall. He parted the reed strips.

“There’s a lad out here, sir. Says he saw young Freddie going into the Shaw house.”

“When?”

“Just now. He knew as we were looking for the laddie and he ran right here.”

Murdoch pushed back his chair. “I’ve got to leave. Crabtree, go make sure the messenger doesn’t escape.”

Murdoch waited until the constable was out of earshot.

“Miss Brogan, I’d like you to come with me.”

“Me? Why?”

“I don’t want to raise false hopes but I believe Dolly was lying to you.”

“How d’you mean?”

“There’s a foster son who’s been living with her. He’s about eight years of age and he’s part coloured.”

She gasped and a look of such joy came into her face that he could have wept.

“Do you want to come with me? If he is your son, he needs your help bad.”

All she could do was to nod her agreement.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

A
gangly youth was out in the public area. He was wearing a tight navy sweater and check bicycle trousers, nipped at the knee. A scorcher if ever there was one. His face was streaked with rain, and he smelled of damp wool.

“You told the constable you’ve seen the boy we’re looking for. Tell me,” said Murdoch but Annie Brogan was at his elbow and, seeing her, the young man looked as if he wasn’t going to utter words again.

“What’s your name, son?” Murdoch asked him.

“Jim McEvoy, Junior, sir. I live at number one-twenty-eight, just down the road from Mrs. Shaw.” He paused. “Er, the late Mrs. Shaw that is–you know the one who–”

“Yes, I know. Pay attention to the business at hand, Mr. McEvoy. Where did you see him?”

“He was sneaking into his house. I was out on my wheel. I deliver things about town, you see, sir. They’ve got a bit of a garden out back. For a minute I thought it was a lost dog or something like that, ’cos he was creeping close to the fence. I took a study because if it was there, might be a reward involved–”

“Get on with it, lad, you’re trying my patience.”

The youth flushed and Murdoch felt sorry he’d been so abrupt with him.

“When I realized it was Fred I just jumped on my wheel and came here as fast as I could.”

Murdoch turned to the constable.

“Crabtree, I’m going right over there. I’ll use my bicycle. Miss Brogan is coming too. Bring her along with you.”

Annie caught hold of Murdoch’s sleeve. “Please! I must get there as fast as I can. Let me come with you.”

Her boots were of soft kid with a needle toe and higher heel. They didn’t look the best footwear for a hurried walk but he understood her urgency.

“Can you ride a bicycle?” he asked.

“Yes. I’ve used one in my act.”

Murdoch turned to the youth. “McEvoy, I’ve just requisitioned your wheel in the service of the police.”

The boy blushed with delight. “My pleasure, sir, er, madam.”

“You can come with the constable. Miss Brogan, let’s scorch.”

Annie, not caring, folded her skirts up and tucked them into her belt. She handled the wheel like a professional, and they got to the Shaw house in minutes. Fortunately, no curiosity had yet been excited and the street was deserted. Murdoch was praying that Freddie hadn’t been alarmed and fled again. He signalled to Annie to dismount at the opposite corner. The rain was glistening on the macadam, sleeting through the drooping leaves of the trees.

“Do you mind the wet?”

She shook her head. She would have stood in fire and brimstone if necessary.

“It’d be better if you wait here, then. I’m going in the back way and you’ll be able to see if he shoots out the front. If he does, grab him and yell for me. He’s a little titch. You can hold on to him if you have to.”

She nodded and he knew that she would risk her life at this point if she had to.

He crossed the road and walked casually in front of the house. There was no sign of anyone stirring, the curtains in the front parlour were still drawn tight. He went through the gate and walked around to the rear garden. The plot was given over to vegetables and well tended. Tomatoes were ripening on the vine, and there were several rows of potatoes and turnips. In the sunlight, the garden would have appeared lush and fertile, now
it seemed desolate, the colour washed out by the rain.

When he had finished searching the house previously, he’d barred the back door from the inside and locked the front. Freddie had been forced to climb through the kitchen window. He’d trampled in the earth. The sash was pushed up and the sill muddy.

Murdoch leaned his head in first, cautiously. The window opened directly into the kitchen, where George had died. Murdoch stood still, trying to determine if he could detect the boy’s presence, but the house remained quiet, as if it were holding its breath. He put his leg over the sill, scrunched his body, and slithered with some difficulty into the kitchen. Here he waited again. Nothing, except now he could hear the tick of a clock on the mantel. The heel of the loaf of bread was green with mould, and on the floor was a half-eaten unripe tomato. The cupboard door had swung wide open and he wondered if Freddie had come here in search of food.

He walked through into the hall.

“Hello! Anybody here? Freddie? It’s Detective Murdoch. I’m not going to hurt you. Just come out. We’ve got to have a talk.”

Silence.

He could see the door to the parlour was open. He went to investigate but that room was also empty.

He returned to the hall, which was uncarpeted, and thumped his feet a couple of times as if he were walking. He closed the creaky door to the kitchen with a bang. Then he lowered himself to the floor and leaned against
the wall. When he’d gone into the fields as a boy, he’d found the best way to see the wild deer or rabbits was to sit still and wait. He hoped Crabtree hadn’t arrived yet and that Annie could hold out.

He’d been sitting for almost ten minutes when he was rewarded by a tiny sound, just the merest scrabble. Murdoch didn’t stir. The noise had come from down the hall and he saw there was a cupboard underneath the stairs, the door open the slightest crack. He heard the scratching sound again but it lasted longer this time. The cupboard door shifted an inch wider and Freddie’s dirty face appeared.

At first he didn’t see Murdoch because of the gloom in the hall and he came out, crawling on all fours. At that instant the front door opened and Annie Brogan entered. Murdoch could see Crabtree standing behind her.

Freddie saw them all, whimpered, and made a dash for the stairs. Murdoch jumped up.

“Freddie, stop! Freddie!”

He charged after the boy and got to the top of the stairs as the boy raced into the bedroom on the left, slamming the door behind him. Annie also ran up the stairs. She halted on the landing. “I had to come in,” she gasped. “I couldn’t bear the wait any longer.”

“Stay there,” he said and slowly opened the door. For a moment it seemed as if the boy had vanished into thin air. The tiny bare room seemed completely empty. Murdoch held his breath to listen, but Freddie was unable to control his own panting. He was under the
bed. Murdoch crouched down and found himself staring into one of the most terrified faces he had ever seen.

He got low to the floor and lay on his side, propped on his elbow, the way he had when he’d watched a fox’s den.

“Don’t be afraid, lad. I’m here to help you.”

Freddie shrank back further against the wall. Suddenly there was a scuffling sound and Annie plunged to the floor as well, not caring about dirtying her dress or the inelegance of her position. She peered at the boy, winced, and said softly, very softly, “My God, it is him. He’s the spitting image.” She almost broke into a sob but she held it back. “Freddie, please come out. I’m Annie Brogan and I do believe we’ve met before, a long time ago.”

Murdoch was sitting on the chair by the door, while Annie, lying on her side, talked to Freddie. Her tone was as casual as if they were across a tablecloth at a picnic, although the boy was clad in only his nightshirt. Annie’s dress was dark from the rain and her hair was bedraggled and falling down at her neck.

“You must be starving,” she said. “I know what that’s like. I used to be hungry a lot when I was a nipper. Do you want to come out and we’ll get some good grub?” No answer. “I wouldn’t mind some sausages and mash. I know a nice eating house just down on Queen Street. Not too far away. What d’you say?” Silence. Murdoch began to wonder if they were going to have to drag him out. Then he remembered the Cupid’s Whispers he’d
bought from Mr. Bright. He fished the tin out of his inside pocket, removed the lid, crouched down, and held them out to Annie. They were dipped in powdered sugar and smelled pleasantly fruity.

“Want one?”

She glanced at him in surprise, realized what he was doing, and smiled in delight.

“Sure would.” She popped one in her mouth and made a great show of enjoying it, licking her lips. Murdoch took one himself, got down to floor level and held out the tin to Freddie.

“Would you like one?”

Annie made more tasting sounds. “Can I have another?”

She took one. Murdoch waited. Then he put the tin on the floor and pushed it towards Freddie. He could see the boy’s wide staring eyes, how thin his face had become. Suddenly, Freddie grabbed a handful of the lozenges and stuffed them in his mouth. There wasn’t going to be a problem with unpleasant breath among any of them. The air beneath the bed was fragrant with the smell of raspberries.

“I know you’re frightened, lad,” said Murdoch. “But I promise we’ll listen to your story fair and square. If you haven’t done anything bad you won’t be punished.”

He saw the boy blink away a rush of tears. Then Freddie looked at Annie and said in a whisper, “What you mean you met me before?”

Annie slid further along the floor and stretched herself out. “I’m getting such a crick in my neck. Tell you what. If you come out from under there and sit on a chair beside me, I’ll explain. And it’s absolutely true what I said, on my honour. You look just like your father. And him and me knew each other well.”

It was clear that Freddie was figuring it out. “Mrs. Mother said my real ma died from drink. She was a tart.”

Annie swallowed hard. “She was lying, Freddie. On both counts. Listen, do you want to put your trousers on?”

He nodded and she got stiffly to her feet, grabbed the trousers, and pushed them towards the boy.

“I’m going to sit in this chair.”

Murdoch stood up too and leaned against the door frame, ready to catch Freddie if he bolted. He sucked loudly on his lozenge. There was a scrambling sound from underneath the bed as Freddie struggled to dress. Then there was a tentative scratching noise and the boy’s head emerged. He looked so worn and afraid that Murdoch wanted nothing more than to scoop him up and embrace him. However, he didn’t move and neither did Annie. The boy squeezed himself out from under the bed but remained on all fours ready to scurry back at the first sign of trouble.

“Let’s go down to the kitchen,” said Murdoch. “I’ll send Constable Crabtree off for some of those sausages and we can all have a talk.”

Mutely, Freddie shook his head and looked as if he was about to retreat again. Quickly, Murdoch moved over, squatted down, and grasped hold of the boy’s shoulder.

“You don’t have any choice, lad.”

Again Freddie shook his head. Annie spoke up.

“What I’m thinking, Mr. Murdoch, is that this house is a bad place to ask questions in. Is there anywhere else we can go to?”

Murdoch winced. Of course she was right. How could Freddie possibly sit in the kitchen where in all likelihood he’d last seen George bleeding away his life’s blood.

“I think that’s an excellent suggestion, Miss Brogan. Let’s go across the road to that nice neighbour lady. See if she’d let us use her front parlour. Does that suit you, Freddie?”

He nodded. Murdoch hoped Mrs. Golding was still willing to be a Good Samaritan.

Annie held out her hand, and hesitantly Freddie took it. His head was lowered, every muscle poised ready to flee. Murdoch led the way out of the bedroom and into the landing. Crabtree was standing at the bottom of the stairs but he didn’t speak. Freddie stopped in his tracks when he saw the uniform but Murdoch didn’t give him a chance to run away. Calmly, he said to Crabtree, “Just go across to Mrs. Golding’s, will you, Constable. Tell her we’re coming over. There’s three of us.”

“Yes, sir.”

At the bottom of the stairs they had to go past the kitchen, but Annie made sure she was between Freddie and the door and she kept on walking, holding his hand firmly in hers.

Three things stood out for Murdoch about the next hour. First was how politely Mrs. Golding hid her astonishment at the sight of Annie Brogan. Second was watching Freddie gulp down the cold roast beef and bread like a starving dog. Almost immediately, he vomited it back all over the Goldings’ best parlour rug. Mrs. Golding didn’t make a murmur of reproach and on Annie’s recommendation went to warm up some milk. The third memorable thing was Freddie’s reaction to Murdoch’s question.

“What happened, young lad? Who was it did in George? Can you tell me?”

Freddie was sitting close to Annie and he shuddered, put his head back, and wailed.