Let Loose the Dogs (22 page)

Chapter Forty-one

J
UST AS HE WAS APPROACHING
Mrs. Bowling’s cottage, he heard the sound of crying. It was odd, not loud, not quite a child’s cry, or even one that was expressing pain. It was more rhythmic and repetitious, as if the weeper had lost faith some time ago in ever being heard. He could see now that there was a girl standing outside the Bowling cottage. She banged on the door and wailed again, the crying he had just been hearing.

“Hello there,” he called out, and she whirled around. She had a drab brown shawl over her head but no overcoat or gloves, and he could see her arms had reddened with the cold. It was hard to tell her age, maybe fifteen or sixteen.

“Hello,” he said again. “Did you get yourself locked out?”

She grinned at him and now that he was closer he realised there was something odd about her: her eyes were blank, her lips slack.

“I’m here to see Mrs. Bowling,” he went on, and she nodded vigorously.

“She’s in the back feeding chickens.” The words were slow and careful, as if she had been coached with pain to articulate properly.

“How did you get locked out?” Murdoch asked.

The girl shrugged. “It’s time for my tea. Momma must have forgot.” Suddenly, with a shock, Murdoch saw that she was tethered like a dog to a post near the door. There was a leather collar around her ankle with a rope attached. She saw his stare and lifted up her skirt as far as her knees. She had on boots but no stockings.

“Do you want to see some more?” she asked, and he couldn’t tell if it was the question of an innocent child or a seasoned whore. He was saved from answering by Mrs. Bowling, who came around the side of the house.

“Nan, stop that at once.”

The girl dropped her skirt and whimpered in fear. Mrs. Bowling addressed Murdoch. “What can I do for you?”

“Good afternoon, ma’am, we met yesterday. I came up with Mr. Newcombe.”

“Oh yes, I recognise you now.”

“I was wondering if I could have a word with you, ma’am.”

“I’m just about to feed the chickens. You’ll have to come around to the back.”

She actually started to head in that direction. “Mrs. Bowling, this young woman has got herself locked out. I assume she is your daughter?”

Mrs. Bowling turned, looked as if she was about to ignore what he’d said, thought better of it, and came back to the porch.

“Yes, this is Nan, my cross and burden in life. As you can see. You might think it cruel that I’ve tied her up like this, but if I don’t she’s liable to go wandering off and get herself into trouble. I can’t afford to have somebody watch her every minute of the day, and I work as you saw.”

“She’s cold. She should be inside.”

“Fresh air’s good for her,” said Mrs. Bowling sullenly, but she unbuckled the collar from the girl’s leg, opened the door, and directed Nan inside. The girl went obediently, casting one glance at Murdoch. There was no intelligence in those eyes. Nan should be in an institution where he was certain she would receive better care. As if she had read his mind, Mrs. Bowling said, “People are always telling me I should put her in the asylum, but the poor child is so attached to her own flesh and blood she would pine away. So I put up with her sly ways and do my best. The Lord will give me my reward in heaven.”

Murdoch bit back his own anger. “From what I witnessed yesterday, I’d say you share similar burdens with Mrs. Delaney.”

“It isn’t the same at all. Her son was quite normal until his accident. And he is so most of the time now. She doesn’t know how to handle him.”

“Unlike you, ma’am.”

She gave him a sharp glance, trying to assess the implications of what he’d said. He kept his face neutral.

She shrugged. “Necessity is a good teacher.”

She started off for the rear of the cottage, and he went after her. Nan was watching them from the window, and he smiled and waved at her. To his astonishment, she stuck out her tongue and ran her forefinger around her nipple.

There were a half-dozen scrawny chickens scratching and pecking in the hard, mud-crusted ground by the chicken shed. Mrs. Bowling picked up a bucket and poured mashed grain into the trough, and the hens ran over clucking in excitement. A big rooster with glistening green-gold plumage and bright red dewlaps pushed his way through them to get closer to the source of the food. Mrs. Bowling scooped some of the seed and held out her cupped hand.

“Here, Chanty.”

The cockerel pecked from her hand, and she beamed at him as if he were a pet dog. “There’s my clever boy. Are you going to make Momma some good eggs?”

At that moment Murdoch noticed one of the hens, which was on the fringe of the group, had red streaks down her chest.

“What happened to that one?” he asked, pointing.

“She got herself pecked. She was lucky I happened by else they’ve had killed her. They see blood, and they go for it. Nocky bird. She just stood there letting them do it.”

“Good Lord, why do they do that? It’s one of their own.”

Mrs. Bowling was stroking the rooster’s coxcomb. He actually seemed to like what she was doing and didn’t move away.

“They sense weakness and it sends them into a blood frenzy.” She sniffed. “Dogs are the same. And so are people, if you ask me. They sense a soft spot, any kind of weakness, and they’ll go for it. To destroy. Especially men.”

Her tone was so bitter and cynical that Murdoch bristled.

“Not everybody is like that surely, Mrs. Bowling?”

“Aren’t they? God expelled Adam and Eve from Paradise because of our base nature, and we’ve been disobeying Him ever since.”

Suddenly one of the hens rushed over to the injured chicken and pecked it hard on the chest. A gout of blood spurted out. A second hen joined the first and within seconds they were both stabbing at the other chicken, drawing blood. It stood transfixed, not running away. Mrs. Bowling didn’t move.

“Shoo!” shouted Murdoch, and he ran at the attackers clapping his hands. He was almost on top of them before they took any heed. He grabbed up the injured bird.

“Won’t do any good,” said Mrs. Bowling. “Not unless you want to take her home with you. They’ve got a taste now, and they’ll go after her again till she’s dead.”

“Can’t you separate her until she heals? She must be worth something to you.”

“She won’t be wasted. She’ll be a good stew.”

“I’ll take her then.”

“You’ll have to pay.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

The poor chicken was bleeding all down his coat, but he didn’t care. He managed to fish in his pocket and found a dollar.

“Here.”

“That’s not enough for a good layer.”

“And a pot of stew is fifty cents, so you’re making a profit.”

Whatever it was, she looked pleased, as if she had enjoyed the skirmish. She put the money in the pocket of her apron.

“I doubt you came all the way up here to rescue my birds. What do you want?”

The hen struggled feebly in his hands. “Can you do anything here?” he asked.

“Isn’t worth it. One of them got through to its heart. Look.”

Murdoch could see a deep puncture wound that was pulsing blood. He knew he was being sentimental about this poor creature, but he couldn’t help himself.

“Do you have a cloth I can bandage her with? Anything?”

Mrs. Bowling wiped her hands down the sides of her coat, which was a long, man-sized check overcoat.

“We might as well go in. It’s frigid out here.”

She turned on her heel, leaving Murdoch to hurry after her. The chicken’s long neck drooped over his elbow, and the beak was gaping.

At the back door, his reluctant hostess took a key from her pocket and went inside. Murdoch followed and almost gagged on the fetid air in the room, a sour smell overlaid with acrid smoke from the woodstove. Nan was sitting on a chair that she had pulled close to the stove in the corner of the room. There was only one small lamp that had been lit, and the wick was turned down low.

“What happened to the chook?” She got up and came toward them, but her mother shooed her away with an angry gesture.

“Nan, leave it alone. Go and sit on the couch until I tell you.”

The girl scurried over to a bed sofa that was against the far wall. In size and shape this cottage seemed identical to what he had glimpsed of the Lacey one, but whereas that had appeared neat and pretty, this room was dirty with broken mismatched chairs. There was a beige-coloured drugget on the floor that looked so dusty he almost sneezed at the mere sight of it.

“Bring the wretched thing over to the sink,” said Mrs. Bowling. She took a grubby strip of cloth from a hook and wrapped it tightly around the bird’s chest. The wing fluttered briefly but that was all the response.

“Will it live?” Murdoch asked.

“Probably not. But you said as you wanted me to do something.”

She laid the stricken hen on the draining board beside the sink, and for a minute he thought she was going to reach for a chopping knife and take off its head. However, she took down a teapot from the window ledge.

“I could do with a cup of tea; I suppose you could too?”

Not exactly gracious, good society manners, but he accepted, hoping he wouldn’t catch some dirt-engendered disease. There was a steaming kettle on the stove, and she poured some hot water into the pot, swished it around, then emptied it. Then she added three large scoops of black tea leaves from a tin caddy and made the tea. Murdoch noticed that the pot was a good china and realised he’d seen that same pattern in the Delaney house. As he glanced around the room, he saw there were two lush green velvet throws on the couch and the chair. They looked new.

Nan was watching him and her mother. When she met his eyes she smiled, and for a moment Murdoch quailed, wondering what would follow. However, this time the smile was that of a child, rather shy and sweet.

Mrs. Bowling poured tea into a china cup and handed it to him without the saucer.

“We don’t have any milk, and the sugar’s low. I hope you can drink it like this.”

“Of course. Thank you.”

She hadn’t asked him to sit down, but he went to the table and sat in the wooden chair. He sipped the tea. In spite of the fact that he usually liked his brew sweet and milky, it tasted good. Fresh and strong.

“I see you share the same pattern as Mrs. Delaney,” he said, tapping the cup.

“A gift.”

“You have a generous employer,” he said, pointing. “I assume she gave you those handsome covers as well.”

Mrs. Bowling frowned. “As a matter of fact, she did. I get my due. That’s a big house to take care of. And Mrs. Delaney understands the cross I have to bear.” She remained where she was, leaning against the sink. “Well, what do you want? What’s the reason I’m honoured with a visitor? You’re not on the lookout for a dog, I hope. I don’t know nothing about them. You’ll have to talk to Vincent.”

There it was again, the sly suggestion that there was a special relationship between her and the innkeeper.

“I’m doing a further investigation into Mr. Delaney’s death.”

She regarded him over the top of her cup. Her eyes were shrewd.

“What do you mean a further investigation? I thought everything was finished. The Murdoch fellow is going to hang soon, isn’t he?”

“I’m tying up loose ends, as it were, just in case. We wouldn’t want an innocent man to die, would we?”

She frowned. “The Lord is the great Judge, not us. On the day of judgement we will all know as we shall be known.” She took a noisy gulp of tea. “Who are you then? By what authority are you acting?”

“I’m a detective and I’m acting in a private capacity for the family.”

“Are you?” Again she looked at him shrewdly. “What’s it to do with me?”

“I’d like to ask you some questions. I noticed you didn’t testify at the trial.”

“I wasn’t asked. The constable talked to me once but decided I had nothing of importance to say.”

“Was that true?”

“I suppose so.”

Murdoch could see that the cloth around the chicken’s breast was stained a bright crimson, but it was still breathing.

“Do you mind repeating to me what you told the constable?”

“He asked me if I had heard anything that night and where I was.”

She paused maddeningly and Murdoch tried to keep back his impatience.

“And what did you tell him, Mrs. Bowling?”

“I was here in my own house. I didn’t hear anything except the wind and the birds in the trees.”

“When did you know that Mr. Delaney had been killed?”

“Oh, I heard that ruckus all right. That was later when they came to tell the missus. She carried on like a scalded cat.”

“And what time was that?”

“I couldn’t say. Me and Nan go to sleep when it’s dark. Saves on candles. It could have been the middle of the night as far as I know.”

Murdoch put his mug down on the table, unbuttoned his coat, and pulled his watch out of his vest pocket.

“Speaking of time, I mustn’t linger. What does your clock say, Mrs. Bowling?”

His ruse seemed transparent to him, but she shrugged. “I don’t have a clock. No need. Chanty wakes us up every morning, rain or shine, and as I said we go to bed when we’ve had supper.”

Murdoch guessed she had never learned to tell the time. He replaced his watch.

“I understand that Mrs. Lacey came past your house with her little daughter about nine o’clock that night. The child was unwell, and she was taking her down to the Manchester tavern where her husband works.”

“She might have. I didn’t hear or see her.”

Nan interrupted her. “No, Momma. Sally was crying.” Nan imitated the sound of a child crying, startlingly loud. “She went down the path.”

“Don’t be foolish, Nan. That must have been a different time.”

“No, Momma, I remember. It was the same night Philip’s poppa died. I do remember.”

She was proud of herself for having such important information.

Murdoch looked over at Mrs. Bowling. “Do you mind if I ask Nan the same questions?”

“Yes, I do mind. You can see how handicapped she is. She won’t understand you, and she’ll get upset.”

Nan spoke out in an excited voice. “I can answer, Momma. Let me answer a question. Please, Momma, let me.”