Under the Dragon's Tail

by Maureen Jennings

  They were given a tiny room at the rear of the house which they shared with the two youngest girls. It was little more than a lean-to and in the winter it was freezing. They all suffered from colds and painful chilblains. Annie could have endured the discomfort, the hard work, but there was worse. Their room was off the kitchen where the two older boys slept. No matter how she schemed to get to bed ahead of them, one or the other, Thomas or Patrick, was usually lying in wait.

  “Millie, you can go. You stink anyway. But you, pretty Miss Brogan, you we’ll keep.”

  Annie took a deep breath, feeling the bite of her stays into her ribs.

  “Annie! Annie, wait up, this is the house.”

  She stopped. Millie was pointing to a yellow brick house with dark green gables that sat back from the road in a well-tended garden.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked. “You look like a goose just walked over your grave.”

  “Never mind, just memories. They’ll do you in every time. Let’s get on with it.”

  Annie caught her by the arm and pushed open the gate. The wrought-iron fence was high and elegant, enclosing various tidy shrubs. All in their proper place.

  Together, the two sisters went up the paved path to the front door.

  “Nobby,” said Annie, indicating the glass panel. It was an ornate flower design in red and green.

  “Somebody’s been working on this,” said Annie, and she tugged at the gleaming brass bellpull with vigour.

  The door opened and a young footman in grey livery stood in front of them. His polite demeanour vanished immediately.

  “Millie! What are you doing here?”

  “We’ve come to have a chat,” Annie answered for her.

  He stepped forward, half closing the door.

  “Not here. You’ll get me sacked.”

  “Where then?”

  “Go around to the back, there by that path. I’ll run and let you into the kitchen. But I can’t stay more than a minute–”

  “That’ll probably be half a second longer than it took to put the kid in the basket.”

  He turned a shade of white-green.

  “Oh God! No!”

  “Oh God, yes.”

  Millie suddenly burst into tears, her nose and eyes running all at once. Annie almost felt sorry for Meredith, he was so terrified. He glanced agonizedly over his shoulder.

  “I daren’t talk to you anymore. Burns is a devil.”

  At that moment, they heard a child’s voice, and a young girl about seven or eight years old appeared behind him.

  “Excuse me, Meredith, we’re going out.”

  He had to step aside and she came onto the top step.

  “I beg your pardon, I didn’t know we had visitors.” Her manners were exquisite.

  “Er, these are my, er, cousins, Miss Sarah, from the country.”

  “How do you do? We’re going on the open-air streetcar to the lakeshore,” she said, needing to tell somebody in her excitement. She turned as a woman came to the door, dressed for an outing. “Here are Meredith’s cousins, Auntie. They’re from the country.”

  The woman was of middle age, elegantly dressed, and would have been considered handsome except for her disfigurement. A wine-coloured naevus covered her right cheek, pulling up her lip so she seemed to be caught in a perpetual sneer.

  At the sight of the two young women, she halted in the doorway. Her shock was palpable. Her hand flew to her face.

  Meredith mistook her reaction for disapproval.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Pedlow, they won’t stay–”

  She stared at him blankly. “I beg your pardon?”

  Annie jumped in. “Don’t worry about us, madam. We’ve just come for a quick visit.”

  The older woman suddenly pulled down her veil and started to button her gloves.

  “That’s quite all right, Miss, er?”

  “Brogan. Annie. You might have heard of me. I’m on the stage. I sing.”

  Millie gave a little moan of mortification. She hadn’t told John about her sister’s livelihood.

  Annie gestured in her direction. “This is my sister, Mildred Brogan.”

  “And you’re related to Meredith.”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  The footman was moving as if he had livestock in his breeches, and Millie was trying to bury herself in her handkerchief.

  “May I go ahead?” Sarah called.

  Both Mrs. Pedlow and Annie suddenly focused their attention on the little girl.

  “Your daughter is so like you, if I may say, madam,” said Annie.

  “I’m told there is a likeness, but Sarah is actually my first cousin once removed. Her mother died in childbirth in England. The father had passed away earlier and as there was nobody else, my husband and I became her guardians. She is my ward.”

  Annie’s gaze didn’t waver. “How good of you to do that for an orphan.”

  “She has brought great joy to my life, so it has been no hardship.”

  Sarah hovered at the gate afraid to go further.

  “Auntie, may I go on?”

  Suddenly Annie said, “Children love the theatre, don’t they? I am acquainted with the manager at the opera house. Would you like me to take her down there? He would show us around.”

  Millie stared in horror at her sister then buried her face once more in her sodden handkerchief. Meredith gaped.

  Mrs. Pedlow fidgeted with the veil on her hat. “Thank you, Miss Brogan. That is very kind.” Her voice was tight. “Perhaps we could, er, talk about it first. I wonder could you call…?”

  “Love to. Would tomorrow afternoon suit you?”

  “Perfectly. Shall we say three o’clock?”

  “Done.”

  Annie actually thrust out her hand as if they were two men sealing a contract. Awkwardly, Mrs. Pedlow touched the young woman’s fingers. Kid glove meeting kid glove.

  “Now if you will excuse me, Sarah is longing for her ride.” She paused. “Meredith, please give your cousins some refreshment. It is a warm day.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

  Mrs. Pedlow walked away down the path, her back straight and stiff. Her silk walking suit was a lilac tint with deep flounces of airy cream lace at the throat and sleeves, the hat a huge masterpiece of lilac ribbon, flowers, and lace. The outfit would have paid the sisters’ rent for several months.

  “Annie, how could you be so bold?” Millie whined at her.

  “Oh, Millie, shut your trap. You don’t know anything. Nothing at all.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Since their new lodger had arrived, Mrs. Kitchen had set up the front parlour for meals. It meant she had to bring Arthur out into the back room but she insisted. At first, Murdoch missed the coziness of the kitchen where he’d eaten before, but he now had the chance to sit down with Mrs. Jones and her son, Alwyn, and he liked that a lot.

  There was a soft tap on the door and Mrs. Kitchen came in with a tray.

  “I made you a semolina pudding for your sweet.”

  Murdoch patted his stomach. “How am I going to compete in the games if you keep feeding me like this? I’ll be having to enter the fat man’s race if I carry on.”

  She smiled, pleased. “Nonsense. A man needs his strength.” She put the tray on the sideboard. “How was the fish?”

  “Delicious.”

  Friday was a meatless day and they’d had boiled turbot for dinner.

  She placed the dish of yellow pudding in front of him and stood to watch him take his first spoonful.

  “Hmm, wonderful,” he said, lying blatantly.

  Truth was he could have lived happily the rest of his life without ever tasting semolina again, but he wouldn’t hurt her feelings by saying so.

  “The boy polished his off in no time. His mother eats like a bird though. Needs some meat on her bones.”

  Murdoch thought the young widow’s flesh was perfect for her small stature, but again he just concentrated on getting down his sweet a
nd made an agreeing noise.

  “After you’ve finished, why don’t you come sit out front with us. Arthur’s fever has gone up so a bit of night air might do him good.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. K., I’d like that.”

  She started to gather up his dishes and said artlessly, “Would you mind to run up and ask Mrs. Jones if she’d like to join us? These days the upstairs can get to be an oven. And her working away ’til all hours. It’s pleasant outside right now.”

  “All right.”

  Ever since Enid Jones had arrived, Beatrice vacillated in her opinion of the young woman. Personally, she liked her a great deal. She was sober and industrious, kept her own room spotlessly neat, took good care of her son. However, every Sunday Beatrice was forced to admit that Mrs. Jones was a Protestant. When Mrs. Kitchen set off with her rosary grasped in her hands, telling her beads on the way to St. Paul’s, Mrs. Jones and her son would head in the opposite direction towards the big Baptist church on Jarvis Street. She carried a plain black Bible. On those days, Beatrice gave up the notion of matchmaking for William. During the week, however, the idea had a way of creeping back in.

  Murdoch knew perfectly what his landlady was up to, but as he had the same feelings himself, voicing an objection seemed hypocritical. He pushed back his chair and wiped his moustache clean of any pudding that might be sticking there.

  “I’ll go this minute.”

  He put on his jacket, which he’d placed on the back of the chair, and blessed with Mrs. K.’s smile of approval he went in search of the widow Jones.

  There were three rooms upstairs. He rented one as a bedroom and one as a small sitting room. It was a tight squeeze on his wages, but he liked having the extra space and it had helped out the Kitchens. Mrs. Jones and her son shared the front room next to him at the top of the stairs.

  Her door was open to allow for a cross draft from the open window. The boy was in bed and she was sitting beside him singing softly in a lilting language Murdoch presumed was Welsh. She had lit a candle, and in the yellow light she looked softer and less worried than she did normally. Alwyn’s eyes were closed. Murdoch paused at the threshold but she turned at the sound of his step. She put a finger to her lips, gave the child a gentle kiss on the forehead, and blew out the candle.

  “Nois da.”

  As she came out to the hall, she realized she’d undone the top buttons of her collar and she started to fasten them quickly.

  Mrs. Jones worked at home. She had a typewriting machine and spent long hours at it, mostly copying lawyer’s reports and insurance claims. When she was working, she wore round steel-rimmed glasses. They had left a red mark on the bridge of her nose, and Murdoch wanted to reach out and smooth the sore place away.

  “Mrs. Kitchen has asked me to invite you down to the front porch for some cool air…it really is quite pleasant, er, have you been inside all day?”

  “Mostly.”

  She finished fumbling with her buttons, but she’d missed one and he could glimpse the soft, pale skin of her throat.

  “You’ll join us then?”

  “Thank you, but I really can’t. I have a long report to finish by the morning.”

  “Half an hour won’t hurt. If I may say so, you look tired.”

  She still hesitated, both of them standing awkwardly in the narrow, shadowy hall.

  “No, truly. I must refuse.”

  Her voice had a musical cadence to it that he found entrancing. He lingered for a moment, hoping she would change her mind but she made a movement to go back into her room.

  “Goodnight then,” he said.

  She gave him a shy smile. “Nois da. Goodnight.”

  Murdoch went to join the Kitchens on the front porch, taking the stairs faster than was really necessary.

  Dusk was settling in rapidly and the gas streetlamps were lit, drawing dozens of moths and bugs in a dance of death around the flickering lights. Many of the street’s residents were outside on their porches or steps, enjoying the summer evening. Here and there lamps glowed in the windows. Mr. Dwyer, an elderly bachelor who lived two houses up, was playing on a blow accordion and his neighbour Oakley called to him.

  “Play ‘Banks of Loch Lomond,’ will you, Tom?”

  He began, slightly off-key but not so bad as to irritate any but the purists.

  Next door to the Kitchens was the O’Brien family. Mr. O’Brien was a sailor and away for long periods of time, returning to spawn yet another child and off again. Mrs. O’Brien, with the eldest girl of her brood of eight, was sitting outside on her side of the common porch. Beatrice had wheeled out her husband in his wicker Bath chair, and she’d hooked up a hurricane lamp so she could see to work. She earned a bit of extra money by making things for a fancy goods store on Queen Street. Tonight she was crocheting a lace tidy.

  Murdoch came out and sat down on the top step. The evening was cool, the air freshened by a breeze coming up from the lake.

  “Do you mind if I have a pipe, Mrs. K.?”

  She shook her head and he lit up his Powhatten and took a deep draw.

  “Well then, Will, what’s the other half of mankind been up to today?” asked Arthur.

  Murdoch had got into the way of sharing the daily events of police life with the Kitchens, and Arthur, who was totally housebound, looked forward to these chats. It wasn’t just for Arthur’s sake that Murdoch discussed things, however, he’d come to rely on them himself.

  He took another puff, wanting to choose his words carefully out of consideration for Mrs. Kitchen. “The big happening today was the discovery of a poor dead woman.” He related briefly what had transpired at the house on River Street.

  “How’d she die?” asked Beatrice.

  “Fell and knocked her head most likely. It seemed as if she’d been drinking.”

  “We reap what we sow,” said Mrs. Kitchen unsympathetically. She wasn’t Temperance but she disliked excess of any kind.

  “We’ll know better after the post mortem examination. The inquest’s on Monday.”

  “Did she have any family?” asked Arthur.

  “A daughter. Grown woman but deaf and dumb. Might be simple as well. She ran off like a scared rabbit when we showed up.”

  Beatrice’s fingers stopped for a moment. “I know who that is. I’ve seen her when I’ve been coming up from the market. Has to be the same one. She’s a brunette, a bit on the lanky side, middle-aged?”

  “Sounds like her.”

  “She’s not that simple. In her heart maybe but not in her head. Got the manners of a heathen but she’s clever enough. She’ll wrangle with the farmer’s wives good as anybody. No mistaking what she means even though she don’t speak.” She continued with her crocheting. “Poor thing. I wonder what’s to become of her.” And she made the sign of the cross over her breast out of kindness.

  “There are two boys living there as well,” continued Murdoch. “Foster children as far as I could make out. I wanted them to go stay at the Humane Society but you’d think I was sending them to a training school for the fuss they made.”

  “Maybe they’ve already had a taste,” said Arthur.

  “Could be. They’ve grown up wild as foxes from what I can tell. Neither one can read nor write. It was the older boy who found her.”

  Murdoch had questioned George about the envelope in Mrs. Shaw’s pocket, but he’d no explanation. According to him, they had a hard time making ends meet even though Lily worked like a donkey.

  Arthur started to cough, helpless in its fierce bite. His wife and Murdoch waited until the fit subsided, pretending a calm neither one felt. Finally, Arthur lay back. He wiped away a spot of blood from his lips and dropped the piece of rag in the bucket filled with carbolic that was always beside him.

  Mr. Dwyer had now moved into a slow, plaintive rendition of “Barbara Allen.” Murdoch drew in more tobacco smoke and leaned back.

  “Haven’t heard that piece in a while. My mother used to sing it to us when I was a lad.”

&
nbsp; Sometimes, when his father was safely out of the way at sea, the four of them, his mother, sister, brother, and he, would sit around the fire mending the fishing nets. The room smelled of brine and fish and the knots were tough in the salt-stiff twine, but in those rare moments of peace he was happy. Albert played with his own piece of netting that his mother had given him, proudly mending it like the others, and his mother would teach them songs.

  “My little brother always wanted a hearty sea shanty so he could shout out, ‘Ho! Ho! Ho!’but me and Susanna begged for the sad ones.”

  He smiled at the memory.

  “Mother would sing so sweetly it made us cry but we’d ask her again and again until she cried ‘Mercy!’ ‘Barbara Allen’ was one of our favourites.”

  Murdoch began to sing, quietly, so as not to intrude.

  “Since my love died for me today,

  I’ll die for him tomorrow…

  Her name was Barbara Allen.”

  Mrs. O’Brien joined in and then Beatrice started to hum. Up and down the street the song came floating on the air. Mr. Dwyer finished the final chorus and there was a little smattering of applause from the choristers, well pleased with themselves.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Annie was relieved when Burns answered the door, not Meredith. In spite of her bravado, she hadn’t been looking forward to another encounter. The butler gazed down at her disdainfully.

  “Mrs. Pedlow is expecting me,” she said and handed him her calling card, one of the new ones she had printed just the last week.

  He glanced at her in surprise. “You’re Miss Brogan?”

  “Have been all my life unless you know something I don’t.”

  “She is indeed expecting you.”

  He didn’t need to finish the sentence. His expression said it all. Why somebody like you is calling on Mrs. Pedlow, I cannot imagine.

  “Madam is in the gazebo. She asks you to join her there.”