Except the Dying (28 page)

She tugged the glove off the wooden form and dropped it in the bag with the others. Then she stood up, yawning again. She’d better hurry. Mr. Webster said he’d wait until eight o’clock for the gloves and he’d never stay a minute longer. Bugger, it was a quarter to, now. She grabbed her jacket and shawl off the peg, blew out the candle and tucked the bag under her arm.

At Quinn’s room she paused for a second, but there was no light under the door and no sound from Princess. They must be out.

Outside, a light, steady snow was falling and the backyard was clean and white. Ettie wrapped her shawl tightly around her head and shoulders as she trudged down the path and into the laneway. Opposite the house, the police rope blew in the wind, still marking off the spot where Therese Laporte had died. That
seemed so long ago now. What she and Alice done was wrong, and look where it had got them. They didn’t have the clothes and Alice was dead. Perhaps there really was an angry God up there punishing them like the preachers shouted on the street corner.

She was walking as quickly as she could, but the snow was untouched and slowed her down. Sod it! Webster never waited. She turned out onto Sackville Street.

“Ellie, Ellie, hold on a minute.”

Wrapped in her shawl and in the darkness of the laneway, she hadn’t seen the man following her. He was wearing a long greatcoat and wide hat and it was only when he was close and pulled the muffler from his face that she recognized him.

“You’re a bloody racehorse,” he said, panting a little. “Where’s the fire?”

“You! Get away from me.”

She went to run but he grabbed her by the arm. “Hold on. What’s up with you?”

“You know sodding well. You done in Alice.”

“What you talking about?”

She struggled to get free but he held on.

“Let go of me. I’ll start yelling in a minute.”

“Come on, woman. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Alice left with you that night and got herself strangled.”

He gave her a hard shake. “Ellie. Listen to me. I didn’t do anything.”

“Why should I believe you?”

She couldn’t move out of his grip. “Because it’s the truth, you dumb git.”

“Don’t call me that. And me name’s Ettie. Bernadette to you.”

“Beg pardon!” He set her free but stood close. “Listen, Miss Trim and Topper, your chum did leave with me and we were all set to go off and have a good bit of jig. Then some swell went past in his carriage. He stopped and without so much as a wink or a wave, she jumped in and off they went.”

Ettie stared at him, trying to determine if he was lying or not, but his pugilist’s face was impossible to read in the shadows.

“What sort of carriage was it?”

“Nobby, reddish colour.”

“Was the horse light?”

“I think so, a bay maybe or a grey. Why? D’you know him?”

Ettie bit on her lip. That was the description that Alice had given of the carriage she’d seen on Saturday. It made sense that it was the same one. Sod it. Had Alice been so stupid as to get in? She probably thought she could put the squeeze on the man. Angry tears sprang to her eyes. What a foolish ignorant tart she was.

“D’you know the toff?” the sailor repeated.

Ettie shook her head.

“Listen, even the police believed me,” he continued. “I got a visit from them yesterday. Every dick at the tavern must have given them a description of me going off with Alice –”

“What did the coppers look like?”

“One was a Goliath, seven feet at least. The detective was tall too, dark moustache. Fancied himself.”

“No he don’t. He’s a good sort for a frog.”

“Ha! Perhaps I should have said he fancies you. His eyes lit up like a gas lamp when he mentioned your name.”

“Go on, that’s horseshit if ever I smelled it.”

“It’s the truth, Ellie. He’s quite cracked about you.”

She shrugged, but she was pleased. “My God, what am I doing here dithering with you? I’ve got to deliver these gloves.”

She set off again, heading for Queen Street, and the man kept pace.

“I was real sorry to hear about Alice. Here’s something for the funeral.” He pushed a folded five-dollar bill into her hand.

Ettie put it into her pocket. “Thanks.”

“Can I stand you a pail and bin at the tavern when you’ve done your errand?”

“What?”

“An ale and gin.”

“Throwing it around like a lord, aren’t we?”

“There’s only one better place I know of to put my money.”

“And where’s that?”

He touched her on the crotch. “Right in your duck hunt.”

“Cheeky.”

In fact, she didn’t fancy him at all, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Maybe she could toss back enough gin to stomach him.

They were hurrying west along Queen Street to the tailor’s shop. Like Alice, Ettie was afraid of the churchyard, but she didn’t want the man to know that so she pulled her shawl like a blinker in front of her face and walked faster. She stopped in front of the shop, which was in total darkness.

“Sod it, he’s gone. You’ve made me miss him.” She banged hard on the door. “Mr. Webster? Mr. Webster? Bugger, now I won’t get my money.”

“Maybe he’s upstairs.”

“Not him. That’s the workroom. He lives like a swell over on Jarvis Street.”

The store adjoining the tailor’s was vacant. Next to it was St. Paul’s churchyard, where the snow was slowly creeping up the old tombstones.

“Stay there a minute,” the man said. With a quick glance at the empty street he took a knife out of his
pocket, opened one of the blades and inserted it between the lock and the doorframe. One quick thrust and the door jumped open.

“What’re you doing that for?” Ettie asked.

“Let’s see if he’s left any money. He owes you.”

Ettie hung back. “I’ll get in trouble. He’ll know it’s me.”

“No he won’t. There’s nobody to see. Come on, Ellie. I bet you’d like a bit of best satin for the funeral, wouldn’t you?”

He half pushed her into the dark front room of the shop, which was where Webster received his customers. There were two or three tailor’s dummies standing by the window, shrouded for the night in white sheets.

“Oi, they’re like bloody ghosts,” she said.

“You don’t have to be scared of the dead, Ellie, only the living. Now let’s have a look-see. Where’s the cloth kept?”

“Upstairs.”

“Let’s go, then.” He placed his finger on her breast. “I want to see you just the way your own mother did.”

It was then that Ettie knew he meant to kill her.

Joe pulled up in front ofthe lodging house and Murdoch jumped down.

“Get to the station fast as you can. Tell them to send an ambulance to Shepcote’s house right away, and have
the officer get two constables over here on the run. Speak to Sergeant Seymour.”

Joe whipped up the panting horse and galloped off.

Inside the dark hall Murdoch paused, listening. He didn’t know if Canning was in here and he was afraid to jeopardize Ettie’s life by acting too impulsively. The house was silent as the grave. Hoping against hope he wasn’t too late, he crept down the hall. At Ettie’s room he halted again. Nothing. With his lantern held high, he opened the door, almost afraid of what he might find. The room was empty, the bed tidy. A candle stub was on the shelf and he touched the wax. It was soft. She hadn’t left that long ago.

At that moment he heard footsteps, and Quinn with Princess at his heel appeared in the doorway.

“Hey, what’s going on here?” The baker looked alarmed. “Oh, Detective, it’s you.”

“Have you seen Ettie?” Murdoch demanded.

“No, I haven’t. I just got back in myself. What’s up?”

“I’ve good reason to think she’s in serious danger.”

“Lordy! How?”

“The same man who killed Alice wants to shut up Ettie –”

“The sailor?”

“He’s not a sailor, he’s a coachman by the name of Canning.”

“The hell –”

“D’you think she’s at the O’Neil?”

Quinn glanced around the room. “The bag’s gone. She was sewing gloves for Webster, the tailor. She’s probably gone to his shop.”

“Where?”

“Queen Street, right beside St. Paul’s Church.”

“Come with me. We’ve got to hurry. Back door. She didn’t go out the front.”

They set off back down the hall, but suddenly Quinn stopped.

“Just a minute. Hold Princess, will you.”

He thrust the twine into Murdoch’s hand and dived into his own room, emerging immediately with another dog on a thick leather leash.

“Good Lord, what’s that?” asked Murdoch.

“He’s an English bulldog. I thought he might come in useful. He’s a mild-tempered fellow but he doesn’t look it.”

The dog stared up at Murdoch. There was a long stream of saliva dripping from his mouth, his prominent eyes were red-rimmed and the lower fangs protruded outside slobbery lips. His face looked as if he’d run into a door.

“You’re right about that,” said Murdoch. “He’d give Cerberus a fright. Belong to a friend, does he?”

“Er … yes, as a matter of fact. His name’s Tsar.”

“Come on, then.”

In the snow-filled yard, Ettie’s footprints were clearly visible. The two men and the dogs hurried down to the
laneway. Here another set of prints appeared, larger and wider. Murdoch retraced them a few paces. Canning had been standing behind the shed waiting.

They went on again. The dogs had picked up the sense of urgency and they trotted alongside obediently. Tsar sounded asthmatic but managed to keep up a brisk pace.

At the entrance to Sackville Street Murdoch stopped again.

“Canning caught up with her here.” He pointed to the prints still visible. “They stood and talked. You can see the snow has melted farther down. There wasn’t a fight. They set off again together.”

“Would she have gone willingly?”

“The footsteps don’t seem to waver at all, so I doubt she was being coerced at this point, anyway. We’re right at Sackville Street and there’s too much chance of him being seen.”

They were jog-trotting down the street now and the few passersby regarded them curiously. In a few minutes the trail crossed to the south side of Queen Street.

“I was right. She’s heading for Webster’s shop,” panted Quinn.

As they approached the graveyard, Quinn tapped Murdoch on the arm.

“That’s the shop. Next one.”

Murdoch slowed down to get his breath. The tailor’s was the middle one of three, but the nearest was vacant
and boarded up and the far one, a fancy goods shop, was in complete darkness.

“I think I saw a wink of light on the second floor,” whispered Quinn. Murdoch stared upwards but saw nothing. However, the footprints they had been following led right into the doorway. None came out. Ettie was in there.

Two of his side teeth on the upper gum were heavy with gold fillings and she noticed that from time to time he tapped them with an air of satisfaction at his own prosperity. She wondered how he could afford gold teeth. His clothes were of good cloth too. It was the snake tattoo that spoiled the effect, peeking out from the cuff on his shirt, purple and malevolent.

Ettie wasn’t aware of being afraid. Her mind had gone into a kind of detached clarity, working independently as if she were watching herself from afar. There was an inner voice commenting.
If she screams now, he will cut her throat right here … Nobody is close enough to hear and it don’t matter to him anyways. He’d do it and run off. Better to keep talking, distract him as longas possible. She’s done that lots of times when she wanted the jigger to fall asleep before he docked inside her … He don’t seem in a hurry. He’s excited, though, she can smell it … but she can fool him. If he thinks she’s just another nocky piece of cattle, he might let down his guard.

The second floor of the shop was used for storage, and along the far wall were deep shelves stacked with rolls of fabric. There were two long tables in the centre where the tailors did their cutting and at the end of each table was a large oil lamp. Canning lit one of them.

Somebody will see the light
, said Ettie’s inner voice.
The copper on his beat will investigate. She’ll be safe soon. Sleeping in her own bed before she knows it.

But Canning immediately pulled down the window blind and fastened it tight.

He walked over to the shelves and was fingering the different bolts of cloth.

“What’s your real name?” she asked.

“You don’t need to know, Ellie. Jack’ll do.”

“You’re not a sailor, are you?”

He scowled. “Are we playing ‘Forfeit’ all of a sudden?”

She shrugged.
Careful, don’t crack the egg
, her voice warned. “You seem too nobby for a sailor is all.”

That seemed to please him. “I was one once. Not now. Now I’m a gentleman … or as near as makes no difference.”

So far he hadn’t removed his coat or hat, which she took comfort from, but now he unwound his muffler. He looked different but she couldn’t at first identify why. Then he removed his wide felt hat. Instead of the close-cropped pate she’d seen at the O’Neil, he sported a head of dark, smooth hair.

“Sod me, you’ve got hair.”

“Sod me, but I haven’t,” he mocked. He tugged off the wig and tossed it to the floor, where it lay like a strange species of animal.

“Frigging thing’s hot,” he said. Next he removed his greatcoat and placed it on the workbench. “Why don’t you get more cozy. I’ve never taken a flyer before and I don’t fancy it now.”

“I’m cold.”

“I’ll warm you up … I said to take your jacket off.”

The tone of his voice made Ettie’s knees quiver. She licked her lips; her mouth was as dry as sand. “Don’t happen to have a spot of soother with you, I suppose?”

“As a matter of fact I do.” He took a silver flask from his pocket and handed it to her. “You
are
cold, Ellie.”

“Ettie! I keep telling you my name’s Ettie, from Bernadette.”

“What’s the difference?” he said.

She unscrewed the top from the flask and took a deep gulp of the liquor. It wasn’t gin but something that burned her throat.

“Hey, leave some for me. That’s expensive scotch you’re swallowing like it was water.”