Under the Dragon's Tail (8 page)

He pulled open the top drawer of the dresser. It contained a plain flannel nightgown, a woollen undervest, and two pairs of black knitted stockings, neatly rolled up. He felt around the edges of the drawer. There was something underneath the clothes. He lifted out the nightgown, and lying underneath it was a black leather-covered book. The pages were edged in gilt and the lettering was red and gold.
The Royal Path of Life
, illustrated by the Reverend Potts. A serious and portentous tome, “Designed to elevate the tone, purify the heart, and strengthen the character of all who accept its teachings.” The book was pristine, but he didn’t know if it was buried beneath Lily’s nightgown because she considered it precious or useless. He turned to the frontispiece, which was protected by tissue paper. There was a stamp below the title: Awarded to Lily Merishaw for perfect attendance at Markham Village Sunday School,
December 1864. That was thirty-one years ago. He could hear the two boys whispering together outside. He opened the door. They were sitting on the floor.

“Did your foster mother ever use another name that you know of?”

“Like what, sir? What sort of name?”

“Merishaw. Did she ever call herself Dolly Merishaw?”

George shook his head. “Don’t remember that, sir.”

“Freddie? Do you?”

“No, sir.”

“What about Lily? Did she ever refer to herself as Lily Merishaw?”

George grinned. “She don’t talk, sir. Only grunt like the pigs. She don’t read nor write neither.”

“All right. You two can go back downstairs. I’m almost done here.”

Murdoch returned to the dresser and replaced the book where he’d found it. The second drawer held only a clean pair of undergarments and a cotton corset cover. What other clothes Lily had, she must have been wearing. The pitcher on the washstand was filled, the chamber underneath the bed was empty. It was highly likely that the woman was the perpetrator of a violent crime against her own mother, but standing here in this neat room Murdoch felt more compassion than disgust. He had the sense of a person striving for some betterment. The contrast with the refuse pile that her mother had lived in was striking.

As he went downstairs to join George and Freddie, Constable Wiggin entered.

“I’ve searched the yards, sir. Can’t say I found anything special except this cigar snip.”

He handed his prize to Murdoch.

“Where was it?”

“Near the gate. Seems quite fresh.”

Murdoch placed it in his remaining envelope. Given the crowd of onlookers who’d been hanging around the house, the snip probably came from one of them, but he wanted to be thorough.

“I’m almost done here. Just got to have a look around the kitchen. Why don’t you start talking to the neighbours. Go down River Street. I’ll go across the road.”

“Yes, sir. Anything in particular I should ask them?”

“Nothing in particular. Just if they are the one who smothered Dolly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Wiggin, wait. That was a joke. An attempt at humour.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Ask them if they heard anything on Thursday night. Find out what they were doing, what they felt about the dead woman. That sort of thing.”

The constable left and Murdoch wondered again why the man had chosen a career in the police force. His kind gave everybody a bad name.

CHAPTER TEN

N
either the kitchen nor the cellar had given out any new information, and Murdoch walked across the road to start his questioning with the neighbours directly opposite. The ones who had shown interest in what he was doing earlier.

The trim on the house opposite was freshly painted in a popular dark green, and there were lace curtains at the windows. Both the brass door knocker and boot scraper showed evidence of diligent polishing. A house-proud woman lived here. It was she who opened the door, a plump, short woman, plain and neat in brown taffeta. He explained who he was and with a flurry of excitement, she showed him into the front parlour and
went to fetch her husband. He was John Golding and she was his wife, Mary, she said breathlessly.

Mr. Golding was stocky, of middle age, and like his wife neatly and soberly dressed. The startling thing about him, however, was that his face and neck were covered with white, funguslike tubercles. Murdoch couldn’t help his own reflexive reaction to look away.

“I was just about to make a pot of tea, Mr. Murdoch. Can I bring you one? Or would you prefer coffee?” said Mrs. Golding, providing a distraction while her husband seated himself.

“Tea would be splendid,” replied Murdoch, also welcoming the diversion.

Mary Golding had shown him into their parlour, as neat and sober as the couple themselves. Murdoch had the impression of brown everywhere. The lace curtains cut down on the light, and given Mr. Golding’s appearance, he wondered how much that was deliberate. Golding spoke first. His voice was hearty and resonant.

“No need to be embarrassed, Detective Murdoch. I’m used to people shying away. I’ve had these growths for going on five years. God in His wisdom has seen fit to try me.”

“Is there anything can be done?”

“I stopped going to doctors years ago. They all wanted to have sketches made of me for one of their textbooks. That or get me to come down to the medical school as an exhibit for the young men. No thank you.
This affliction came and it’ll go when God wants it to.”

Murdoch’s gaze was steadier now, and he could see weariness and pain in Golding’s eyes in spite of his pious words. He wondered how his wife tolerated God’s affliction. At that point, she came back into the room. If the dreadful growths bothered her she gave no sign.

“Here you are, Mr. Murdoch.”

She must have quickly taken out the best china because his cup and saucer were of a fine pattern and light as an eggshell. The tea was strong and rich, much more palatable than the brew at the station. He took some sips and waited to allow Mrs. Golding to settle like a timid bird back into her nest.

“The reason I’m here is to ask you both a few questions about Mrs. Shaw, your neighbour. As I’m sure you know, she was found dead on Thursday last.”

They nodded. Mr. Golding’s tuberous growths actually swayed. Murdoch was reminded of sea anemones.

“I regret to say that according to the doctor who conducted the post mortem examination, Mrs. Shaw didn’t die from natural causes. She met with foul play.”

Golding clicked his tongue. “Doesn’t surprise me.”

“Why is that?”

He leaned forward and Murdoch tried not to flinch. “Me and Mrs. Golding here are strong churchgoers, Baptist. Dolly Shaw never set foot in any church that I know of.” He paused and glanced over to his wife. “Mary, perhaps you could warm up the pot for us.”

“But John–”

“Mary, if you please,” he said, and with a little sigh of resignation she left the room.

When the door had closed behind her, Golding continued with lowered voice.

“Lots of times my whole body aches something fierce and it keeps me awake. Many a night I’ve just sat in Mary’s rocker there and watched the sun come up.” Another pause. Murdoch noticed that Golding’s hands were afflicted with the growths as well.

“I’ve seen people coming and going over at Dolly Shaw’s house when all law-abiding Christians should be home in their bed. And I tell you, Officer Murdoch, those people are all of the female kind. All women and none of them Christian, believe me.”

Murdoch wasn’t completely sure what he was getting at. Golding saw his frown.

“To put a blunt tongue on it, Mr. Murdoch, that woman used to be a midwife, and she no doubt knows all sorts of ways to help those godforsaken women out of their trouble. That’s what they go to her for, you mark my words. And if there’s one kind of murder going on, you’re paving the way for another. That’s why I said I wasn’t surprised.”

He tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger. “The woman also drank like a guardsman. Every day, the daughter, poor woman, or one of those benighted boys would bring her jugs of beer. They’d get it cheap from the Dominion Brewery on Queen Street there. Must have been stale as a beggar’s crust.”

He eyed Murdoch speculatively. “Mrs. Golding and me are Temperance.” For a minute Murdoch thought he was going to demand to know if he’d taken the pledge, but he forestalled the question with one of his own.

“Did you happen to see anybody coming or going last Thursday night?”

“Certainly did. That night was a bad one. I was burning like I’d been dipped in acid. I was seated right here in the rocker, trying to get some peace, when I seen a young woman come. About midnight, I’d say. Maybe just after. She started pounding on the door over there without any care that law-abiding folks was in their beds.”

Quickly Murdoch took out his notebook and pencil.

“What did this woman look like?”

“She was wearing one of those waterproof cloaks, although there was not the smidge sign of rain. Trying to disguise herself she was. Didn’t fool me. I saw her face when she passed under the light. I recognized her at once. She’s a singer down at the Derby on Queen Street.”

“How’d you know?”

“Tuesday last I was at that tavern.” He smiled. “Don’t misunderstand me, Mr. Murdoch, I was doing a bit of preaching. Outside. They won’t let us in, of course. Me and a couple of fellows and ladies from the league go out regularly to the taverns.”

“Have any luck?” Murdoch couldn’t help interjecting.

“Oh, yes. Why just two weeks ago I had this young fellow on his knees praying with me. He signed the pledge there and then. Said he was a married man and
a father and the demon drink was destroying him. As it does, officer, as it does.”

He looked as if he was about to launch into a speech.

“Could you continue with what you were saying about the woman?”

“Yes, well, me and Miss Yielding were working that night. She’s a mighty fine speaker when she gets going, can reel ’em in like sprats on spawning day. Turned out the young woman in question was performing at the Derby.” He snorted. “I dignify it by saying performing. All she does is wear skimpy clothes and sing suggestive songs. Don’t take much talent to do that, does it?”

“I suppose not.”

“Anyways, just as we got there and was handing out our leaflets at the door this one waltzes by. Big hat with red feathers and a red striped dress revealing as much as Mother Nature ever gave her if you ask me. Miss Yielding stepped forward to give her a leaflet. She took it, glanced at it, then laughed out loud and tossed it to the ground. Rude as you like. Well, my companion was a bit affronted by this, and so she should have been. She came at that daughter of Eve again but she shoved her aside. I mean shoved, like she was some kind of ruffian. Poor Miss Yielding fell down. Wet it was that night, and she fair ruined her skirt.”

“You’re sure it was the same woman who came to see Dolly?”

“Sure as a judge. I told you, I saw her clearly when she passed under the streetlamp.”

“Did she go in the house?”

“She did. I watched. I must confess to being a bit curious as our paths had already crossed as it were.”

“Did you see her leave?”

Golding paused. “To be God honest, I did not actually see her. I had taken a sleeping draught, and wouldn’t you know, it sent me off soon after that Jezebel arrived. But I did wake up about two by the clock there. I heard footsteps skittering down the street as if the Devil himself was snapping at her heels. Which he probably was, given what she’d done.”

“We don’t know that for certain, Mr. Golding,” protested Murdoch. “What direction did the steps go in?”

“She headed off westerly along Wilton.”

“Same way as she came?”

Golding hesitated. “Couldn’t swear on the Holy Book about that. She might have, might not. But it isn’t important, surely? If she came one route and went back another, she’s still one of the damned.”

“Do you know her name?”

“I do indeed. After she had treated Miss Yielding so badly we asked one of the customers going into the Derby. Annie Brogan is who she is.”

There was a tap on the door and his wife poked her head in.

“Can I come in now?”

“Yes, we’re all done, my dear.”

Murdoch wasn’t quite sure why Mrs. Golding had been banished, whether it was from delicacy given what
her husband had told him or whether Golding was the kind of man who didn’t believe in the woman participating in manly talk.

He stood up. “Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Golding. It hit the spot.”

“Are you off to speak to that young woman?”

“I am.”

He gathered freshening up the teapot wasn’t all she’d been doing.

“Mr. Murdoch, is there anything I can do for those two boys?”

“The house is in sore need of a cleanup, but we’re sort of stymied until Mrs. Shaw’s daughter returns. There can be a funeral as soon as she claims the body. In the meantime…” He shrugged.

“I’ll just keep an eye on them for now. I believe Lily has vanished like this before. She just seems to wander back eventually.”

Golding shook his head. “What’s the world coming to? By the way, Mr. Murdoch, I assume you yourself have taken the pledge.”

“Won’t touch a drop when I’m on duty,” replied Murdoch ambiguously, and he picked up his hat and left quickly.