Under the Dragon's Tail (21 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

H
enry Pedlow had woken early but he was still sitting in his pyjamas in the armchair beside the bed. A waiter had tapped on the door to deliver his breakfast but he’d sent him away with a surly command. Food seemed irrelevant to him. He was surprised when he came out of his reverie and saw it was after eleven o’clock. He had no recollection of what he had been thinking in the past four hours. He didn’t believe he had fallen back to sleep, but the time had vanished, wiped away like a mark on the beach. Stiffly, he got to his feet. His limbs ached and his throat was on fire. The doctor had warned him, of course. It would get worse. A man of few words, he had only added, “We have morphine or opium for the pain, but in the end…” He shrugged. Henry hadn’t
known this physician long, only since he had arrived back in Toronto, and he knew the man disapproved of him, despised him for the disease. Not that Henry could blame him. He himself was filled with self-contempt. What a fool he’d been. What a stupid, stupid fool.

He began to pace, swept with a surge of emotion so violent he couldn’t stand still. He slammed his fist down on the sideboard, making the ornaments bounce.
Stupid! Stupid! Fool!
He’d been warned as soon as he arrived in India. “Watch for the fire-ships. You can’t always tell. Even the young ones can have it.” But the soft, dark eyes, the compliance of the women proved irresistible.

As suddenly as it had come, his anger vanished. He burst into tears. He couldn’t stop. Sobs racked his chest, hurting him, burning his throat. He finally forced himself to stop crying, not because the grief was over, but because the physical pain it created was too severe.

He was lying facedown on the bed, his head buried in the pillows. He didn’t remember moving there. Again he checked the clock. He had lost another half hour. Or had he? Was it ten past eleven when he had last looked? It was now almost noon.

Groaning, he got up off the bed. He’d asked for a fire to be laid and he walked over to the fireplace, struck a match, and lit the paper. The flames leaped, ready to lick around the coal. He waited for a moment but he was afraid to be still for long, too many thoughts rushed in. He went over to the escritoire by the window. The hotel provided stationery, rather good quality letter paper with
the hotel crest at the top. He sat down, took one sheet, unscrewed the top of the inkwell, dipped in the pen, and wrote in large letters, “To Whom It May Concern.”

He supposed he could address it directly to the detective who was investigating the case but he had forgotten his name.

She hadn’t told him immediately, letting him meet Sarah and recounting the story she gave out to the world. This is my ward, and so on. It wasn’t until she’d received the letter from Dolly Shaw that she told him the truth.

Henry’s thoughts shied away, the shock of that revelation overwhelming him again.

He pulled up the window blind a few inches and gazed down onto the street. A carriage went by, the horse splashing in the rain-filled ruts. The driver, his waterproof glistening, flicked his whip and the horse broke into a canter. A man and a woman huddled together beneath a black umbrella as they hurried towards the hotel. He could see they were not young and something in the way they leaned in to each other, the closeness, suggested a conjugal familiarity.

His envy was like the taste of bile on his tongue. He had never known such ease with any woman and would not now.

Except for Maud.

Their connection had meant little to him. A chance to take a willing woman, and he hadn’t been in contact with her the entire time he’d been in India. Even her first dreadful revelation hadn’t brought them closer. He’d
felt guilt, fear, anger, but no real sympathy. Then she’d come to his hotel. She was frantic. The police suspected her, she said. The detective was at her heels. She’d turned to Henry, as desperate as a deer at bay. Impatient with her fear and angry at what she’d done, he’d told her his own secret. He said it brutally, wanting to hurt her. She’d been jolted into agonized tears and then she’d reached for him and held him in her arms, her tears wetting his face. It was when he realized she was weeping for him and not just herself that Henry Pedlow experienced something approaching love for the first time in his life.

The memory was too painful to dwell on, and he looked out of the window again.

Across the road the lamps were lit in the houses. He could see into a drawing room, a maid straightening the antimacassars on the chairs ready for callers.

He felt himself move far away from the scene as if he were drawn up to a high mountain top. The carriage, the man and the woman, the houses, seemed like toys. Another sob threatened and he lowered the blind quickly.

“To Whom It May Concern.

“I wish to make a full confession to the murder.” He crossed out the word, could think of none better, and rewrote it.

“the murder of Dolly Shaw.”

He no longer knew who had first suggested this course of action, perhaps it was Maud. Regardless, he was now embracing it. In spite of human fear, his mind had become clear and precise. He continued.

“She had discovered details of my past life that I did not wish the world to know. She was attempting to blackmail me. I went to her house to reason with her and in a moment of rage I killed her.”

He paused. Was it necessary to elaborate? Better not. It was safer to keep it simple. However, he inserted, “By suffocation.” He blotted the paper and concluded. “What I do here, I do in full possession of my faculties.”

He considered adding, “I am a condemned man anyway,” but he wasn’t sure if that would weaken the power of the confession. Better to leave it.

There would be some scandal, but he knew he could rely on his uncle Walter to keep that to the minimum. And Maud would die on the rack before she confessed.

He wrote his signature, more clearly than he usually did. There must be no room for doubt. Then he took the album out of the black satchel where he’d stowed it and went over to the fire, which was crackling merrily by now. He placed the book in the middle of the flames. The leather curled immediately and the paper was devoured by the fire. He watched for a moment or two to be certain it was completely destroyed. The chime sounded in his watch and he was startled. It seemed as if another fifteen minutes had slipped out of his mind. The album was bits of ash and he was soaked with perspiration from the heat of the fire. He went over to the washstand, lifted the pitcher, and poured some water into the bowl, splashing it liberally over his face and neck. He wondered if he should shave. It seemed pointless to do so,
but some niggling vanity made him decide to proceed. He opened up his razor, realized the water was cool in the bowl, and abandoned the notion. He didn’t want to ring for hot water now.

The satchel where he kept his samples was standing open on the desk, waiting. Carefully, as if he were arranging a display for a customer, he removed one of the bottles, one of the cotton pads, and the wire cone. He considered praying to prepare himself, but his pain made his soul earthbound. He undressed and lay on the bed, the letter to one side, the chloroform within reach on the other. He thought about Maud and he found some peace.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

“M
r. Pedlow! Mr. Pedlow! It’s Detective Murdoch here.”

The manager of the Avonmore hovered nervously behind Murdoch and Crabtree, torn between fear and anger. Huge constables and bellowing detectives in the corridor were not conducive to good business. Already a couple of doors had opened and the curious occupants were peeking out.

“Open the door,” said Murdoch to him.

Mr. Tomkin did not waste time protesting. He picked out the key from the ring and unlocked the door.

“Oh my God,” he whispered and collapsed against the wall as if his legs wouldn’t hold him. Murdoch, with Crabtree behind him, entered the room. The air was
unpleasantly warm and thick with a sharp, stinging smell. The naked body of Henry Pedlow was lying on the bed. A cotton cloth covered his face and on top of it was a cone-shaped mask. There was a small bottle by his right hand, and a sheet of paper beneath his left. His body was in a position of repose.

“Crabtree, open all the windows, fast as you can.”

Murdoch went to the body and pulled off the cloth. Leaning down, he placed his ear against the man’s chest but it was a perfunctory gesture. Pedlow’s heart had ceased to beat some time before.

Murdoch pulled the piece of paper from underneath the greying hand.

“To Whom It May Concern.”

He could hear the hotel manager making retching noises from outside the door, and he tried not to breathe too deeply himself. Already his stomach was feeling queasy.

Crabtree joined Murdoch at the bedside, and as he saw the body he shuddered in revulsion. “Dear Lord, what was wrong with the man?”

Henry’s entire torso was covered with oozing sores.

“I’ve seen drawings,” Murdoch replied. “I’d say he had syphilis.”

Crabtree shook his head in disbelief.

“Is that why he killed himself?”

“Let’s see what he wrote.”

Murdoch read the letter out loud to the constable, who whistled through his teeth softly when he had finished.

“So that’s the story, is it? He’s the one who done in the old woman.”

“That’s what he says.”

Crabtree looked at him curiously.

Murdoch put the paper on the desk and went over to the fire, which had burned down to glowing coals. He could see the charred remnants of a leather binding, the letters…
iends
. Dolly’s book of reckoning with all its shameful secrets, gone forever. Not that it mattered to him. The children were the ones who suffered most, as far as he was concerned. The innocent paid the bill of the guilty.

He glanced over his shoulder at Henry’s hideous body. Was Sarah the natural child of Maud and Henry Pedlow? If that was the case and it became known, she would have no future at all. And if Walter Pedlow found out, Murdoch was certain, she would have no money even to buy a future.

“Sir? Mr. Murdoch? Shall I have Mr. Tomkin go fetch the coroner and the ambulance?” Crabtree regarded him. “The man was under sentence of death anyway by the looks of it. He’s cheated the gallows is all. And a full confession helps us. He wouldn’t tell a lie on his deathbed.”

Murdoch picked up the poker and stirred the embers in the hearth. A last shred of the album caught fire and melted into ashes.

“You’re right about that, Crabtree. Nobody will doubt it.”

EPILOGUE

T
he Kitchens and Mrs. Jones and Alwyn had come out to see the games. They were seated on benches at the edge of the tug-of-war strip and were watching the police team hammer in the wooden blocks they used as wedges for the pull. There had been a thunderstorm earlier that morning and the ground was soft and muddy. Not good conditions for a tug-of-war.

“Crabtree seems fit now, Will.”

Murdoch grinned at Arthur Kitchen. “He’s much looser, that’s why.”

“Mr. Murdoch, shame on you,” said Beatrice, but they all laughed. He’d told them what had happened. Brackenreid had been reluctant to abandon his poisoning theory but Crabtree had improved so dramatically
when he stopped the strengthening pills that the inspector had been forced to concede.

“Watch me, Mamma,” called Alwyn.

Enid Jones turned to smile at her son. He had picked up a rock and was heaving it the way he’d seen Crabtree heave the shot put not too long ago. Murdoch was glad to see him behaving more like a healthy lad instead of the sober-eyed, clinging boy he was usually. Although he knew he was not being fair, Murdoch had felt impatient with Alwyn since the Shaw case. Lily’s life had been tragic and it would be a long time before the memory of Freddie’s terror and misery stopped haunting him. Thank God, Annie Brogan was doing everything she could to make up for lost time.

Alwyn ran over to his mother for a kiss and stayed there, leaning against her knees.

It was Beatrice Kitchen who’d persuaded the widow to accompany them to the tournament and Murdoch was delighted. He’d never seen Enid so carefree or so pretty. She was wearing a dress of pale pink muslin with delicate flowers on the skirt. Her white straw boater was trimmed with a green band. He thought she looked entrancing.

Henry Pedlow’s death had created no stir at all in Toronto society. Murdoch heard from Louise Kenny that the story given out was that Henry had died from an accidental dose of morphine. Even his disease was described as “tropical.” The coroner, of course, had ruled otherwise, but Walter seemed to have kept the
newspapers away, and the verdict was never published. There was gossip in Dolly’s neighbourhood for a while, but it seemed to Murdoch only two people knew the truth, himself and Maud Pedlow.

“My, you are in a study,” said a merry voice from behind his shoulder.

Murdoch turned. He scrambled to his feet, tipping his straw hat. “Miss Kirkpatrick, how nice to see you.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. I came down with my friend and we’ve been wandering around ever since the race trying to find you so we could officer our congratulations.”

Murdoch hadn’t won, beaten by half a wheel by some wiry, bandy-legged detective from headquarters. However, he’d ridden well and he was satisfied.

“Thank you. If I had known you were watching, I would have tried even harder.” He glanced around. “Where is your friend?”

“Oh, she saw someone she knew.”

The Kitchens and Mrs. Jones were eyeing the young woman with frank curiosity and Murdoch hurriedly introduced them.

“Miss Kirkpatrick is in my dancing class,” he said.

“And he’s the best partner I’ve ever had,” Clarice said with a laugh.

“I’m not surprised. Many a night I’ve heard him practising,” interjected Enid. “Mind you, then, I’m not complaining. He is one of the most considerate fellow boarders imaginable.”

She seemed a little flushed, and it was the most Murdoch had ever heard her say of a personal nature.

“Why, thank–”

“Men, are you ready?” called the referee, and their attention was diverted to the competition.

The twelve men on each team gave one final spit on their hands and kicked at the wooden blocks to make sure they were solidly in the ground. The thick rope lay across their feet. Crabtree was the anchor for the police team and he had wrapped the rope through the steel rings on his special leather belt.

“Oh my, you must explain the rules to me, Will,” said Clarice.

“Man the rope!” shouted the referee.

Both teams picked up the heavy manila rope, holding it tight but not pulling yet. Standing to the side were the coaches. The police team’s was Archie Wilson from the mounted division in number-seven station. He was a slim fellow, dressed in his best suit and hat for the occasion, and he was regarding the opponents the way he studied the horses at a sale. Get a sense who was strong, who had some weakness. Puller number four looked to be in pain. He was favouring his right leg. Use that at the crucial moment.

“Take the strain!”

With one sharp movement, all the men leaned backward, their muscles taut. The spectators who lined the strip were silent, expectant.

“Steady–pull!” The referee drove his red-and-white striped stake into the ground at the point of the white centre marker. Immediately, the grenadiers took the advantage and the red ribbon wrapped around the police team’s rope moved forward two inches. Dangerous. Wilson called out.

“Hold.” His voice was clear and commanding. Murdoch almost expected him to click his tongue. His men grunted. They were all wearing black knee-length drawers and sleeveless undershirts. The muscles in their calves and arms bulged. Crabtree crouched low to the ground. The team held. The ribbons didn’t budge on either side.

“Yeah! Come on, George, pull.” Murdoch cupped his hands and yelled at his constable.

“This is so exciting,” burbled Clarice. He glanced down at her. She hardly reached to the middle of his chest if you discounted the foliage on her hat. Her face was aglow with pleasure.

“Mr. Murdoch,” said Enid on his right, “what is the significance of the red ribbons?”

“They are the markers for each side. If it passes the referee’s pole, the team has lost the pull.”

Wilson was standing with his back to his team. His hand was behind him and he was giving signals with his fingers. Number four of the grenadiers was ready to crumble. Wilson swirled around with a little jump like a dancer.

“Now!”

The police team heaved, all together, one body. The grenadiers were dragged forward. Their marker was only three inches from the referee’s pole.

“Oh, Will. I don’t think I can watch.” Clarice turned her head away so she was practically hiding in his arm.

“Mr. Murdoch, what are those blue bands for?” Enid touched his other sleeve.

“Pull!” cried Wilson.

“Dig!” countered the other coach.

The men dug in, grunting with the effort and took the strain. Murdoch fastened on the white marker as it wavered in the centre of the rope.

“Pull!”

It moved an inch to one side, toward the police team.

“Mr. Murdoch?” repeated Enid.

The marker moved back an inch toward the grenadiers.

Murdoch willed himself to focus his attention on the competition.