Under the Dragon's Tail (6 page)

He repeated the Lord’s Prayer over and over until finally his knees ached and he was forced to get to his feet. He had achieved no peace of mind. His prayers were barren.

CHAPTER EIGHT

T
he twelve jurors, together with family and friends eager to witness the proceedings, were jammed into the reception room of Humphrey’s. Only Tim Pritchard was impassive. He sat back, drawing on his pipe, ignoring everybody else and irritating the shirt off all of them by his air of superiority. He had served on a coroner’s jury last January when a prostitute had been found strangled on the frozen lake. He considered himself an old hand at the inquest business.

Murdoch was a bit late and he slipped into the back of the room. There were no more chairs to be had, so he stood and leaned against the wall. Crabtree was serving as constable of the court, and when he entered, like
schoolchildren when the teacher comes in, the spectators fell silent immediately.

The constable went over to a lectern provided for the purpose, cleared his throat, and in a booming voice, made his announcement.

“Listen here, everybody. I have a message from the coroner, Mr. Johnson. To wit.” He unfolded a piece of paper and read.

“Gentlemen, the court doth dismiss you for this time but requires you severally to appear here again Friday, on the twenty-sixth day of July instant at the seventh hour of the clock in the evening precisely, upon pain of forty dollars a man on the condition contained in your recognizance entered into.”

There was a silence as the spectators tried to sort their way through the thicket of legal language.

“What’s all that mean, Constable?” called out Dick Meadows.

“It means the inquest is adjourned,” answered Pritchard, who was sitting in the row in front. A murmur of disappointment rippled through the crowd. “And if you don’t come back you have to cough up forty bills,” he added.

“Hey, sod that,” said a man in front who had the muscles and language of a labourer. “I’m off on a frigging
run next Friday. I don’t do it, I don’t get no sodding wages.”

“Too bad. Then you’ll have to pay the forfeit.”

“Is that true, Constable?” the man asked.

“Yes, he’s right,” said Crabtree. “You’ll have to change your shift. You’ve been sworn. And you there. You watch your language or you’ll get a charge. There are ladies present.”

The man didn’t take the reprimand well. “Why’s the shicey thing being postponed?”

“Because Mr. Johnson has been taken poorly, that’s why. And you’re in the queen’s court, don’t forget. I don’t want to hear one more word out of your mouth. Of any kind.”

“If he leaves Dolly Shaw much longer she’ll be turning all of our stomachs,” called out another man.

“That’s no concern of yours. You’re here to do your duty no matter what.”

“And who’ll put bread in my kid’s stomach while her pa is adoing his duty? Will you?”

Crabtree bristled. “You’ve had your warning, Charles Piersol. One more word and you’ll be held in contempt. And that surely won’t feed your child.”

Piersol subsided with bad grace. Crabtree picked up a second sheet of paper from the table in front of him.

“Oyez, oyez. All manner of persons who have anything more to do with this court may depart home at this time and give their attendance here again
on Friday next being the twenty-sixth day of July instant at the seventh hour of the clock in the evening precisely.”

The assembly began to stir, murmuring among themselves in disappointment.

“Come on then. No loitering. And don’t forget, any one of you not appearing will pay for it. Got that, Piersol?”

As they all began to disperse, Murdoch went over to Crabtree.

“What’s wrong with the coroner?”

“Poor man’s got the mumps. His valet came round just now. Said he looks like a chipmunk. Very painful.”

“It is. I had them when I was a lad. Anyway it’s just as well he postponed. I’m not getting too far with this investigation. Can’t find the daughter. She’s turned into a mermaid and is still swimming down to the lake. A bit more time will give me a chance to wrap this up.” Murdoch regarded his constable. “You still look queasy, George. How’re you feeling?”

“About the same to tell the truth, sir. Not myself at all. My belly’s cramping something fierce.”

“Got the trots?”

“No, sir.”

“I’ll ask my landlady what she recommends. She knows a lot about medicines.”

The big constable did not look well. His face was yellowish and his eyes were cloudy.

“Just try to stay out of Brackenreid’s way. You know how he is. He’ll be having you cupped and leeched before you can blink.”

Crabtree sighed. “I’m sorry this inquest was cancelled. It was giving me a chance to stay out of the station.”

Murdoch laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Cheer up. I’ll come back with something from Mrs. K. and you’ll be a new man.”

“I don’t know about new, sir. The old one’d do for me.”

Murdoch left him to gather up the papers.

“I’ll see you at the station.”

It was true what George said. Getting out of Inspector Brackenreid’s sphere was a relief.

Murdoch was eating his lunch in the stuffy room the constables used for their meals. He spat out one of the many gristly bits from the pork pie he was munching, which tasted stale. His mug of tea was bitter, the last of the common pot, and after two sips he tipped it into the slop bucket. He felt distinctly bad-tempered. The incessant flies were maddening, his celluloid collar was chafing his neck, and he’d got some grease from the pie on his almost-new Windsor tie, blue Pongee silk and a Sears catalogue special. He undid the button on his collar and loosened the tie. To hell with it. If Brackenreid came in and slapped a fine on him, he’d tell him where he could stuff it. He debated whether or not to go to the trouble of making some more tea. The water was steaming in the smoke-blackened kettle on the hob, but he’d
have to get up and he didn’t feel like it. He’d overdone the knee bends yesterday.

The problem was he hadn’t slept well again. He’d gone to confession on Sunday, and when the priest heard about all his lustful thoughts, he’d handed out a long penance. Good thing Murdoch wasn’t telling him everything.

The door opened and Constable Crabtree came in.

“There’s a package for you, sir. Got the coroner’s seal. Shall I put it on your desk?”

“No. Let’s see. Have a seat for a minute.”

“I’ll stand if you don’t mind, sir.”

There was a curious tone to the constable’s voice and Murdoch looked up at him.

“You should book off early if you have to. Get a rest.”

“Yes, sir.”

As nobody got paid for time off, most of the men struggled into work no matter what their ailments. However, they both knew Crabtree would be excused with pay if it meant he remained fit for the tournament.

Murdoch opened the envelope. There was a note from Johnson.

Murdoch. I’ve come down with the mumps, which means I have to postpone the inquest. Given what Dr. Ogden has to say, it’s probably just as well. You’ve got some work to do. I’ve reset the inquest for this coming Friday. Should be right as rain by then. Damned painful.

Your servant, Arthur Johnson.

Curiously, Murdoch turned to the handwritten sheet which was enclosed.

This is to certify that I, Julia Ogden, a legally qualified physician in the city of Toronto, did this day make a post mortem examination upon the body of a woman identified as Dolly Shaw with the following result.

The body is that of a well-nourished woman about fifty or sixty years of age. Rigor mortis and staining well marked.

General condition. Adiposity well developed.

Heart in good condition.

Liver, soft and pale, markedly fatty.

Abdominal organs, kidneys normal in size and odour.

The woman showed signs of having borne a child.

There is a one-inch contusion on the occiput but it is relatively small, the dura mater beneath is not depressed or the brain ruptured. It is highly unlikely this would have been the cause of death. There was recent bruising on the shinbone of the left leg three inches below the patella. There was also a large bruise on the right forearm, five and one half inches from the wrist. This contusion had an odd criss-cross pattern, which having examined the dead woman’s outer garment, to wit a flannel robe, I decided this bruise had been
incurred by pressure on the arm. Considering the discovery I made on further examination, I would now posit that this bruise was the result of some person pinning down the dead woman, probably by kneeling on her arm.

Murdoch read that bit again. The doctor was sounding unnecessarily dramatic to him. However the next sentence said otherwise.

I discovered traces of foreign material lodged in the nasal passages, although some had been ingested deep into the lungs. These traces were green in colour and under the glass seemed in my opinion consistent with a material such as cotton or wool. Perhaps more likely wool. Given the position of the body, the woman could not have smothered by accident. I have to conclude therefore that she died from forceful suffocation, likely from a person holding a cloth or pillow over her face. I am yours truly,

An illegible signature followed.

“Damnation! I missed it, Crabtree.”

“Sir?”

“I was only too ready to assume she was some old sot who’d conked her head.”

He told him what the doctor had written and Crabtree shrugged sympathetically.

“Don’t blame yourself too much, Mr. Murdoch. That’s what we all thought. Including the coroner.”

“I should have been more thorough.”

“Don’t know what you would have found. You couldn’t look in her throat,” said Crabtree reasonably.

“Johnson wants a report by Friday. Let’s hope those two boys haven’t turned the place upside down and there’s still something to investigate.”

“Do you think somebody knew about her money and was intending to rob her? They might have got panicky when they realized she was done for and scarpered off?”

“Pretty thick-headed robber if that’s the case, but it’s not out of the question.”

He stuffed his remaining piece of pie into a tin kept for the purpose so it would be safe from the mice. He was angry with himself. Brackenreid would love the opportunity to find fault, he always did. He’d never been happy with having Murdoch foisted on him. One of Stark’s new men and a Papist to boot. More than that, however, Murdoch was dismayed at his own complacency.

“Let me talk to this doctor, then we’ll go over there.”

The constable shifted his feet and winced.

“You all right?” Murdoch asked him. For answer Crabtree’s eyes rolled back in his head and with one smooth, unbroken motion he fell backwards. Murdoch was irrepressibly reminded of a Douglas fir crashing to the ground in the forest.

The constable had come around quickly, refused to go home, but agreed to stay in the off-duty room for a little while longer. Fortunately, Brackenreid was out at a fire-hall inspection and couldn’t make a fuss. Murdoch left Crabtree perched on a chair sipping fresh tea and went into the outer office. A young constable, second class, was manning the telephone and telegraph.

“Call up one-three-seven-eight for me, will you, Phillips.”

The constable plugged in his wire and dialled the number. The call was obviously answered immediately.

“Just a minute please, a caller for you from number-four station.” He indicated the telephone to Murdoch, who put the receiver to his ear and bent down to speak.

“Hello?”

“Yes,” said a female voice. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to speak to Dr. Ogden.”

“This is she.”

Murdoch felt a flash of impatience.

“Nurse, please put me through to the doctor. I’m in a hurry.”

“And so am I, sir. Will you state your business? This
is
Dr. Ogden to whom you are speaking.”

Murdoch shot a quick glance at the sheet of paper in his hand. He’d not paid attention to the preamble. The physician’s name was Julia.

“I, er, beg your pardon, madam, er, doctor–”

She cut him short but there was amusement in her
voice. “That’s quite all right. I’m used to it. Dr. Stowe and I are a minority of two in this city. We are constantly being mistaken for our nurses. However, I assume you have not called to discuss the challenges I face being a lady doctor.”

“Not today, ma’am, although I’m sure it is a fascinating tale. My name is Murdoch, William Murdoch, and I’m acting detective at number-four station. I just received your report on the post mortem examination of Dolly Shaw.”

“Yes?” The doctor’s voice was wary, expecting criticism.

“You mention a small contusion at the back of the head. Do you think it happened before or after she was smothered?”

There was a pause at the other end of the line, then she said, “What is your point, Mr. Murdoch?”

“If Mrs. Shaw fell, hit her head on the fender, and then was suffocated, it wouldn’t be that hard to do. But she was a heavy woman. If she was overpowered, suffocated, then dragged to the fender in an attempt to disguise the murder, her assailant would have to be strong.”