Under the Dragon's Tail

by Maureen Jennings

  “Thomas, you are a one. I’m ready.” She glanced at Murdoch. “I wish you luck with the case.”

  Thomas beamed in triumph and offered her his arm. They walked off, leaving Murdoch to close the door behind them as if he were the butler.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  This time Burns was much friendlier, eager for a tidbit of gossip he could pass on to the rest of the servants.

  “How is the enquiry coming along…?”

  He couldn’t quite get his mouth around sir, but his tone was conciliatory.

  “Proceeding.”

  Disappointed with his response, Burns pursed his lips.

  “I’ll see if madam is at home.”

  He was about to go slithering off when Murdoch stopped him.

  “I wonder if you’d do me a favour and just announce me.”

  The butler eyed him dubiously. “They won’t like it.”

  “Tell them I insisted. You had no choice. I’ll vouch for you.”

  Burns contemplated the pleasure of discomfiting his employer and the displeasure of the possible consequences. Pleasure won out.

  “They’re in the sun room taking afternoon tea. I recommend you don’t linger. His honour doesn’t like to be interrupted.”

  He led the way through the drawing room where Murdoch had previously met with Maud Pedlow. French doors opened onto the veranda, and here Burns gave a discreet tap and rather showily opened them.

  “I beg your pardon, your honour, Mrs. Pedlow, Mr. Pedlow, but Detective Murdoch of number-four station wishes to speak to you.”

  Give him his due, Burns did announcements particularly well.

  Murdoch heard a querulous voice say, “Not now, Burns, what are you thinking of…” but he entered right at the butler’s shoulder.

  Judge Pedlow, napkin tucked into his collar, was in the midst of stuffing a cake into his mouth. The cream had squeezed out around his lips like rabid foam. Maud Pedlow was seated beside him and across from her was Henry Pedlow. He looked at Murdoch in dismay and immediately lowered his eyes. If he could have disappeared into the fruit bowl he would have, thought Murdoch. The judge scowled.

  “This is very presumptuous, sir. What is your business?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of interrupting at such an important time, except that I’m investigating a serious case, your honour.”

  “Yes, what is it?”

  Murdoch hesitated ostentatiously. Let them sweat.

  “I’m particularly here to talk to Mrs. Pedlow.”

  “My wife! I don’t understand. Why would you want to talk to my wife?”

  Maud had obviously not told her husband about Murdoch’s previous visit. Burns fiddled with the dishes on the sideboard, waiting to hear what was going on. Mrs. Pedlow regarded Murdoch the way Macbeth might have stared at Banquo’s ghost.

  “Madam, did you not inform his honour of my interview?”

  She shook her head and dabbed at her mouth with one of the damask napkins.

  “No, of course not. It could have no relevance to him.”

  She stood up so quickly she jolted the table. Walter’s coffee splashed out of the cup.

  “Mrs. Pedlow, if you please!”

  “I’m sorry, Walter. I think it would be better if Mr. Murdoch and I met in another room. We don’t want to interfere with your tea.”

  The judge was not entirely a fool. He regarded her curiously. “Please sit down, my dear. If one of our police officers deems it necessary to come to my own house on official business I’d like to know what it is. Consider my position,” he added ambiguously.

  Maud sank back into her seat. Henry Pedlow was sitting very still and neither he nor his aunt looked at each other. Walter wiped off most of the cream custard from his mouth and decided to be gracious.

  “I can spare some time, Mr.–er–Merton. Fortunately we are having a cold meal today.”

  “I’m glad of that, sir.”

  Pedlow glanced up sharply but Murdoch had kept his face expressionless.

  “Burns, bring Mr. Murdoch a chair,” said Maud.

  The butler pulled a cane-back chair closer to the table. Murdoch placed his hat beside him on the floor and took out his notebook with some deliberation. Anything to intimidate these people.

  “Bear with us, Henry, this won’t take long,” Pedlow said.

  For the second time that day, Murdoch felt a surge of anger and the muscles in his neck tightened. The condescension in the judge’s voice infuriated him. Pedlow might as well have been talking about a pauper begging for alms.

  “I can’t promise that, sir,” he said. “I must take all the time necessary. I am investigating two murders.”

  “Two? What do you mean?” Maud gasped.

  “Hold on, Mrs. Pedlow,” said her husband. “I don’t even know about one. Start at the beginning, Merton, if you please.”

  He waved at him to begin as if he were a lawyer at the bench. Murdoch flipped over a few pages in his notebook, trying to get back his own control. No sense in letting a blowfly like Pedlow get under his skin. He could also feel how intently Henry Pedlow was paying attention and it aggravated him. His honour hadn’t deemed it necessary to introduce his nephew to a detective so Henry was saved the embarrassment of having to admit a prior acquaintance. Murdoch didn’t insist, deciding to keep that particular ace up his sleeve for now. Close up, the younger Pedlow wasn’t as attractive as he’d first seemed on the stage with Annie. Even the brown skin couldn’t mask the deep shadows underneath his eyes. Murdoch had an uncharitable feeling of satisfaction.

  “Well? Get on with it,” said the judge.

  “A few days ago, I spoke to Mrs. Pedlow concerning the unnatural death of a woman named Dolly Shaw–”

  “Why would my wife know anything of such a person?”

  “Her daughter takes in washing,” murmured Maud.

  Murdoch saw no reason he should spare her. “I discovered Mrs. Pedlow’s card in the dead woman’s desk. There was also a copy of a letter that could be construed as a blackmail threat.”

  “How so?”

  “The note mentioned previous services rendered which would be revealed unless a gratuity, her word, was tendered.”

  “Addressed to whom?”

  “I don’t know, sir, there was no name.”

  “And you say a copy. Am I to take that to mean you do not have the original?”

  “That is correct, sir.”

  “Therefore, not only do you not know for whom this letter was intended, you do not know if it was actually sent, or when.”

  “You are right on all counts, sir.”

  “Aha.” The judge sat back with the tips of his fingers forming a tent.

  “I also found a large sum of money on the woman’s person.”

  “How large?”

  “Five hundred dollars. Ten fifty-dollar bills.”

  “You are, therefore, of the opinion she may have received this monies from her intended mark.”

  “It seems likely.”

  “But you have no proof.”

  “Not at the moment. One of the neighbours says that Mrs. Shaw used to be a midwife and she boasted about an album she had in which she kept her records. Records of sin, as she referred to them. I’m assuming, of course, she dealt with babies conceived out of wedlock. So far I have not found this book.”

  “I see. You trying to make a tidy package of everything, aren’t you? Threatening letter, money, some kind of records. Your thinking is rather acute, I’ll give you that, Merton. Except I don’t know where some poor wretch of a shop clerk would get the amount of money you found.”

  “Doesn’t have to be a shop girl, sir.”

  The judge considered his wife. “Were you acquainted with this woman, my dear?” He was now totally in his element. He’d reverted to the kindly judge demeanour.

  “Of course not.”

  Henry spoke for the first time. “Really, Uncle, how could she be?”

  Pedlow ignored him, but Murdoch knew that bot
h of them, detective and judge, had registered the intensity of Henry Pedlow’s intervention.

  “How did the woman come by your card?” Walter asked his wife.

  “I don’t know, I truly don’t. One of the servants stole it probably. When I was visiting somebody. Passed it on to her.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “Please, Walter, you are making me feel as if I’m on the witness stand.” Maud tried unsuccessfully to laugh.

  “Uncle! I must add my protest. We are not in court. My poor aunt is about to melt in a puddle in the heat of all these questions.”

  Henry was right about Maud’s state and Pedlow frowned. “I am so sorry, my dear, I got quite carried away.” He settled a pince-nez on his nose and glared at Murdoch. “Do you see what happens when decent people are intruded upon in this manner?”

  “My apologies, Mrs. Pedlow.”

  “You are only doing your duty, sir.”

  The implied reproach was not lost on her husband and it seemed to incite him the way fear in a mouse will incite a terrier. He pounced.

  “Am I to understand, Mrs. Pedlow, that you have received no begging letter or threatening letter from this woman?”

  “No, of course not.”

  He turned to Murdoch. “You said Mrs. Pedlow’s visiting card was the only one you found on the woman’s premises?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How did the wretched woman die?”

  “She was suffocated, sir. With a pillow from her couch. It is possible she was then dragged to the hearth and her head was banged against the fender.”

  “I see. So we are most likely looking for a person with physical strength, a man no doubt.”

  “I wish I could be that definite, your honour. As I said, it is possible this is what happened. The physician couldn’t in fact say when the blow to her head had occurred. Mrs. Shaw may have fallen on the fender before she was suffocated and her murderer took advantage of the moment.”

  Pedlow sniffed, aware he’d fallen into some kind of trap.

  “Let us rest this case for a moment. You said there were two deaths?”

  “Yesterday evening the body of Mrs. Shaw’s foster son George Tucker was found stabbed to death.”

  “But he’s a boy…”

  “So he is, ma’am.”

  “Was he a boy?” the judge asked.

  “He was twelve or thirteen.”

  “Any suspects?”

  “Not exactly. Dolly Shaw’s daughter, a grown woman, has run off and there is another foster child, who has also disappeared.”

  “Sounds like they’re your culprits,” interjected Henry. “Partners in crime.”

  Once again Murdoch was struck by how rigid the man was. He was sitting forward in his chair as if he had a stick up his backside.

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions, Henry. If Mr. Merton was sure of that, it’s not likely he’d be here trespassing on our tea time is it?”

  “That’s correct, your honour. We haven’t arrested anybody yet. But this morning, I made another search of the house and I found this piece of newspaper.” He took it out of his pocket and handed it to Maud. “As you can see, ma’am, it is a photograph of your nephew’s recent reception.”

  Quick as a snake, Walter intercepted the paper. “What do you think is the significance of that, Merton?”

  “My name’s Murdoch, sir. Acting Detective William Murdoch. And I was hoping Mrs. Pedlow might be able to enlighten me.”

  Maud’s hand was fluttering around her cheek. “I’m afraid not. It’s most strange.”

  “Well, at the risk of my uncle reprimanding me for hasty conclusions,” interjected Henry, “I’d say you already have two good suspects. Who knows why they bothered to save this photograph?” He smiled. “I didn’t realize I was so celebrious. But truly, Officer, why would the daughter disappear unless she had a guilty conscience?”

  Walter couldn’t resist the opportunity.

  “You wouldn’t have made a good lawyer, Henry. Never assume. There are many reasons the woman might have run off. Fear for one. I’ve known many an innocent party act so guilty they might as well have placed the rope around their own necks. All from fear.”

  There was something about the way he said the word that turned Murdoch’s stomach. Relish. An almost lascivious delight in his own power and the helplessness of the victims. He turned his attention back to Maud.

  “I take it you can’t help with this matter, ma’am? You have never met the boy, George, or his foster brother?”

  “Objection, Murdoch. She has already said she did not know the woman so she is not likely to have met the boys.”

  “With respect, your honour, the one does not necessarily preclude the other.”

  “Got you there, Uncle.” Henry Pedlow was still trying rather desperately to inject a note of levity into the situation. Pedlow frowned at his wife. The kindly judge demeanour had vanished like a winter sunshine.

  “Come now, answer his question, Mrs. Pedlow. Did you ever meet a boy named George…what?”

  “George Tucker, your honour,” Murdoch answered. “The other boy is named Alfred Locke.”

  “No. Never. Not at all…I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t know of them, do you, sir?” asked Murdoch.

  “Have they been up in front of my bench do you mean?”

  “That as well.”

  “No, can’t recall. But I will ask my clerk to check the records. This is most unpleasant. Perhaps this woman Dolly Shaw was planning to harm me. You never know how warped some people’s minds can get if they feel they have suffered an injustice. The daughter is at large and might be insane for all we know.”

  Pedlow looked worried and Murdoch wondered if he’d received threats before. He wouldn’t be surprised, given his notoriously harsh sentences.

  “I want you to pursue this vigorously, Murdoch.”

  “I have every intention, sir.”

  Pedlow scrutinized him. “Have we met before? Have you ever been before my bench?”

  “Yes, I have. I was a witness in the Jimmy Mashuter case.”

  “I don’t recall…”

  “He stole some gloves. It was wintertime and he had frostbite in four fingers. He was a child of the streets, no parents worthy of the name. You sent him to the penitentiary for three years.”

  Pedlow flapped his hand in Murdoch’s direction. “I detect criticism in your voice, Mr. Murdoch, but in all my years on the bench I have been steadfastly of the opinion that firm measures in the beginning will save the criminal and society itself later transgressions.”

  “The boy was placed among hardened criminals, sir. He hanged himself shortly after he arrived at the prison.”

  Pedlow shrugged. “Obviously of a weak character. Wouldn’t have amounted to much.” He reached over and patted his wife’s hand. “Now don’t think too harshly of me, Mrs. Pedlow. These are the difficult decisions I face every day. You have no idea how burdensome they feel sometimes.”

  Murdoch stood up abruptly. “Thank you for your time.”

  Pedlow snapped his fingers at the butler, who had been watching the proceedings with frank curiosity.

  “Burns, see Mr. Murdoch out if you please.”

  As he stood up, Murdoch addressed Henry Pedlow. “We’ve met before, I believe, sir.”

  “Where?” asked his uncle.

  Henry contrived to appear embarrassed. “In truth it was at a tavern, was it not, Mr. Murdoch?”

  “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “It didn’t seem necessary, Uncle.”

  “What tavern?”

  “I don’t recall. I sometimes enjoy rubbing shoulders with the working classes. Gives me a perspective on life, as it were.”

  Walter considered him, clearly not conned. However, he chose not to pursue the matter. Murdoch saw the decision and knew it was not made from affection or concern for Henry. He wouldn’t invite the possibility of shit being revealed in front of the detective. Murdoch felt
a decidedly unchristian desire for the entire Pedlow family to be humbled. He was actually contemplating ways and means when he realized Pedlow was talking to him.

  “I’m sure the malefactor will appear in front of me before long, eh, Murdoch? We’ll throw the book at him.”

  “Perhaps the circumstances will dictate that, sir. And we don’t know for sure. The malefactor might be a woman. And that changes everything, doesn’t it?”

  Surprisingly Pedlow didn’t take offence.

  “Not in my court it doesn’t. Doesn’t matter to me what’s under their clothes. Pegs or holes makes no difference.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The bathroom at the Yeoman Club was luxuriously appointed. The water closet was of mahogany and porcelain, the faucets solid brass, the towels of satin damask. Annie, mother naked, was washing herself out with a rubber douche. Fenton was most particular about using French letters, but tonight he’d been too full, too lazy to use one. In fact, Annie had manoeuvred this state of affairs, pretending an urgency of desire she did not at all feel. She had her scheme well planned and it needed to be plausible. In two or three weeks she would approach him with anxious sighs, a tear unbidden. Then a little later, a frightened confirmation. If necessary she was quite prepared to escalate to hysterical scenes. She knew there was no chance of Fenton marrying her. He was a man of high aspirations. Next year he intended to run for alderman, and however cunt-struck he might be presently she doubted he could be pushed into such an unsuitable marriage. She’d read in the News that he had been paying court to the young daughter of one of his partners. So much the better. More reason for him to want Annie’s silence. Besides, she didn’t really want to marry. Not yet. In spite of the vulgarity of the Derby she liked the life, the attention, the feeling she had on good nights that she held them captive. Even the drunkest sot was silent when she sang “Home Sweet Home.”

  She winced at the cool water. No, a handsome settlement for pain and suffering would be enough. She’d slip out of Fenton’s life, let him know discreetly that their problem had been solved and put the money away. She’d played out this script twice already with different men.