Except the Dying (29 page)

The drink was a fire in her stomach, but every other part seemed to grow colder. In the distance she thought she heard a dog bark but in the room the silence grew deeper, as if her ears were stopping up. He stood, legs apart, contemplating the rows of
fabrics. Then he suddenly and violently hauled out a big bolt of crimson satin. In the faint light of the lamp, the cloth was as dark as spilled blood.

“This’ll do.” He turned back to where Ettie was sitting on one of the wooden chairs at the table. “Didn’t I say to take off your clothes? I can’t stand gits who won’t listen.”

She flinched and with shaking fingers began to unbutton her jacket. In the meantime he rolled out the satin, making a pool of crimson on the grimy floor. Then without another word he walked over to her, gripped the back of her neck with one hand and with the other pulled at the collar of her blouse. A button tore off.

“Oi, what are you doing? This is my good waist.” But her voice lacked conviction. Her beautiful detachment vanished and she was back in the stuffy room, the smell of new fabric intermingling with the stink of their sweat. Her arms ached as if she had been holding a heavy weight, and her legs had lost all strength. His face was very close to hers, his breath was foul, and she could see a small deep scar by his nostril as if a knife point had been driven in. His chin was rough with reddish hairs. His pale blue eyes looked at her but did not see. He grinned again and the gold tooth gleamed.

“I’ve made you a bed fit for a queen. Come on and try it.”

She knew she’d lost.

—

Murdoch extinguished his lantern, relying on the jumping light of the nearest gas lamp. He couldn’t risk being detected.

“Go around to the back and wait there,” he said to Quinn.

“No, let me come. Ettie may need me.”

Murdoch shook his head. The man was distraught and in that state might prove to be more hindrance than help.

“I need you to guard that door.” He bent down and picked up a half-brick that was lying against the wall. “If he comes out, hit him.”

“My pleasure.”

Murdoch slipped off his seal coat and hat and placed it in the doorway, hoping they’d still be there afterwards.

“You take Princess and keep her quiet. Give me Tsar.”

Quinn did as he was told. With the bulldog’s leash in his hand, Murdoch entered the front room. There was a thin rush covering on the floor which effectively deadened the sound of his boots, but he wished he had some weapon. Then he heard a thump from above and the sound of heavy footsteps across the floor. They were up there.

He held Tsar’s jaws closed so he could hear better. He made out two voices, one male, the other female. Relief swept through him as he realized she was alive.
Quickly, he crossed to the rear door and as lightly and as fast as he could mounted the stairs, the dog beside him.

“You’re going to crash me, aren’t you?”

The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. She felt dizzy but it was a relief to tell the truth. It gave her a strange kind of strength. He stared at her, then stepped away as if she’d violated an unspoken taboo.

“What a fly mort you really are, Ellie. I was wondering when that would occur to you.”

This time a wave of anger shot through her body, burning hot but as brief and ineffective as the striking of a match.

“You did for Alice too, didn’t you?”

“That’s right. She was too leaky for her own good. She told you she saw us pick up the girl, didn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“So there we are, then, Ellie. Too bad for you.”

He yawned like a nervous dog and for the first time she realized he was afraid too.

At that moment, she heard a sound from the landing, a creak.

He also heard it.

At the top of the stairs, Murdoch hesitated. The voices had ceased and everything was completely quiet. Slowly,
he turned the doorknob. The door wasn’t locked and yielded easily.

With a fervent prayer he flung it open and jumped into the room, dropping at once into a crouch.

Canning was waiting for him.

His left hand was covering Ettie’s mouth and at her throat he was holding a short sailor’s knife. He had pricked her skin and a trickle of bright blood was running down her neck. She was not struggling, but her eyes as they saw Murdoch were wide with terror and pleading.

“Let her go.”

Canning scowled. “nothin’ doing. She’s my ticket of leave. Now get out of the way. I’m coming down those stairs.”

Tsar licked his lips and whined softly, sensing the emotion.

“And don’t think of letting that brute go ’cause I’ll slit its throat right after I slit hers.”

“Turn yourself in, man. You can’t get away.”

“Wrong. I was a sailor, don’t forget. I’ve got escape hatches you’ll never know about. Now move away. Over there! Now!”

Ettie flinched at his voice in her ear.

“Please,” she whispered.

Slowly Murdoch obeyed, trying to sense the moment of weakness, the moment when Canning would give him an opportunity to act. He regretted bringing the dog,
who had suddenly sat down, panting. Mild-mannered fellow indeed. Unobtrusively he dropped the leash.

“Let go of the girl and I’ll give you time to get away.”

“The fig you would. Come on. Get over to the corner. If you don’t hurry up, I’ll start on her now.”

The blade dug deeper. Ettie gasped.

Suddenly from the stairs came a deep-throated baying. The door banged against the wall and Quinn burst into the room. Princess was at his heel, howling. Canning turned, momentarily distracted. At the same time, Ettie twisted out of his arm and dropped to all fours, scrambling away. Quinn ran over to help her but as he bent down Canning’s boot connected with his jaw, felling him instantly. With a howl, Princess went for the offending leg but Canning landed a blow on her side that flung her in the air. Murdoch lunged forward to grab him but he wasn’t fast enough. Canning jumped backwards behind a sewing machine, waving his knife in front of him. Ettie was screaming obscenities at the top of her voice as, still on her hands and knees, she crawled to the injured dog.

It was then that Tsar woke up. He growled deep in his throat, then hurled himself past Murdoch and went full-speed at Canning. The sailor tried to kick at him but the blow glanced off the dog’s shoulder. Tsar leapt on Canning’s right arm, clamping his jaws around the wrist. With a scream of pain, the man tried to punch
the dog in the head with his other hand. He might as well have thumped a pillow for all the impact it had, but it gave Murdoch the chance he needed. He caught hold of Canning’s left arm and twisted it backwards, at the same time bearing down with all his weight.

They fell to the ground, the two men and the dog tumbling and rolling among the tables of the sewing room. Neither Tsar nor Murdoch would let go. Dimly he was aware of savage bumps as his spine and shins connected with the iron legs of the sewing tables. Canning was not a big man, but he was strong. Murdoch could not hold him down, and Canning managed to butt him so hard under the chin that Murdoch almost lost his grip. The din was horrific – Tsar was snarling ferociously non-stop, Ettie was screaming and Canning was yelling. Then Princess ran back into the fray, but she didn’t distinguish between friend or foe and gave Murdoch a nasty bite on the calf. He tried to protect himself at the same time that he attempted to get his arm around Canning’s neck. Then, with a Herculean heave, his assailant staggered to his feet. The bulldog hung on, his stubby paws waving in the air. Blood was streaming from Canning’s arm.

“Get him off!” he screamed.

He swung around and Murdoch, who was still behind him, was almost crushed against the shelves. It was only the softness of the cloth bolts that saved him. Canning might have escaped, but at that moment the
little hound moved in for another attack and got Canning right above his heel, severing the Achilles tendon. He fell to his knees and Murdoch rolled off to the side. The breath had been knocked out of him and he was gasping for air.

Canning was closer to Ettie and, seeing what was happening, she aimed a savage kick at his ribs, the pointed toe of her boot catching him in the solar plexus. He went white and fell flat on his stomach like a marionette whose strings were cut.

She would have gone on kicking but, panting, Murdoch managed to pull her off.

“Ettie, stop. Stop. Leave him to me.”

She struggled for a minute but Princess ran to her aid and she was forced to hold the dog off Murdoch. Canning was retching and gasping on the floor. Murdoch left Ettie, dragged out his handcuffs and snapped them around the fallen man’s wrists.

The crimson satin cloth had got wrapped around Canning’s legs, and his own blood was making ribbons on the floor.

SUNDAY, MARCH 17

E
VEN AFTER A MONTH
, the parlour still reeked of kerosene. When Murdoch had finally limped home, a shocked Beatrice Kitchen had soaked pieces of flannel in kerosene oil and applied them to the multitude of bruises on his arms and legs. The dog bite she had bathed in a solution of carbolic acid, and the initial pain was worth it because no infection had developed. Canning had not been so fortunate.

The Kitchens and Murdoch were sitting in the parlour after Sunday Mass. Arthur had accompanied them to St. Paul’s for the first time in almost a year. The egg-seller’s cure seemed to be working and although he now looked exhausted his strength was generally much improved. Without complaint he downed his twelve eggs and cream a day.

Beatrice poured Murdoch some more tea. He could
see she was dying to tell him something but with the instincts of the born storyteller she was saving the news until the right moment.

What’s on your mind, Mrs. K.?” he asked her finally. She put down her teacup, her eyes bright with excitement.

“I have been wanting to chat about my little encounter yesterday but there simply has been no opportunity. You were out.”

Murdoch had attended his second salon dance the night before with Professor Otranto’s students. It had not been at all satisfying. He had practically destroyed the velvet dancing slipper of one of his partners and she had been most displeased.

“Now’s your chance, then, Mother,” said Arthur.

“I met the Rhodeses’ new cook at the market yesterday,” Beatrice continued. “Her name is Doris Winn. She’s from down east, your country, Mr. Murdoch. We fell to talking, you know how it is. She was surprised I knew about the family’s misfortunes. I didn’t say much, of course, merely made an enquiry after Mrs. Rhodes’s health.”

She glanced rather anxiously at Murdoch, but he smiled reassuringly.

“I’m sure you were absolutely discreet, Mrs. K.”

“For Mary’s sake get on with it, Mother,” said Arthur.

“Don’t rush me … Where was I? Oh, yes, Miss Winn. She told me that Mrs. Rhodes is planning to return to
England in the spring and she’s not certain if she will ever come back to Canada. Her son and his fiancée are going to follow as soon as Miss Shepcote is out of mourning. And Mrs. Rhodes is taking the stableboy, Joe, with her. She’s made quite a pet of him, by all accounts.”

“I’m glad about that,” said Murdoch.

“Yes, poor mite. But here is the news. The doctor has moved out of the house! Just two weeks ago, a woman came to the door asking for him. Well, Doris had hardly got her feet wet, as it were, and she didn’t know as it wasn’t one of his patients, so she let her in. And then there was a dreadful scene. The woman wasn’t a patient at all but said she had been living with the doctor as man and wife for over two years. Can you imagine that?”

Arthur glanced over at Murdoch. “Did you have any idea about this, Will?”

“Let’s just say I’m not at all surprised. I suspected the good doctor was up to something to give him a guilty conscience.”

“According to Doris Winn the woman is completely vulgar. She has a daughter but the girl isn’t the doctor’s. She said it was because she wanted the girl to be adopted and have a respectable home that she came forward.” Beatrice sniffed. “It sounds noble enough, but from what Doris said the woman is just out for what she can get.”

“Almost makes you sorry for him,” said Arthur.

“Not too sorry, Father. A man in his position keeping a mistress should be ashamed … Anyway, let me go on. Mrs. Rhodes was home at the time and Doris said she was completely ladylike during the whole thing. Can you imagine? I wouldn’t be, I can tell you that.” She nodded over at her husband. “Fortunately Arthur’s never given me cause. Anyways, in the end she asked the woman to leave. The doctor packed up the very next day.” She lowered her voice. “Doris thinks they may even divorce. I feel the most sorry for the Shepcote girl myself. She’s had enough scandal to deal with.”

She paused and it was clear the real dirt was about to be dished. “Doris said she’d run into that wicked Edith Foy last week who’s been saying all manner of dreadful things about the family. A case of the pot calling the kettle black, if you ask me, after what her own husband done, but there you go. Fortunately she’s got her head on her shoulders, has Doris Winn, and she took it all with a pinch of salt.” She stopped to savour the moment. “I’m referring to young Rhodes.”

“What do you mean, Mother?”

“Mrs. Foy claims he’s not quite, er, natural. There was some scandal to do with a stableboy last summer. It was all hushed up but apparently his mother found them … together. There are whispers he associates with known – what is the word, Arthur? Miss What’s-it?”

“You’re thinking of Miss Mollys, I believe, Mother.”

“Yes, that’s it. However, the young fellow is going to marry Miss Shepcote, who by all accounts adores him. That’s sure to set him to rights. After all, boys do odd things sometimes, don’t they?”

Murdoch liked young Rhodes for his kindness to Joe Seaton, and he too hoped his marriage would straighten him out.

Arthur changed the subject. “How’s Mr. Quinn doing?”

“Almost recovered. I dropped in to see him yesterday, as a matter of fact. He’s eating solid foods now.”

“No more dognapping, I hope.”

“No, he’s sworn off it. He knows what would happen if he tried that again. I can’t ignore it next time.”