Except the Dying by Maureen Jennings

Author:Maureen Jennings
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, pdf
ISBN: 9780771043208
Publisher: McClelland & Stewart
Published: 1997-07-17T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 14

THE WIDOW JENKINS HAD ROUSED a neighbour to go for help. The man, Jimmy Gallagher, who was not young, ran as fast as he could up the laneway to Mill Street. Excitement gave him strength as he slipped and staggered through the deep snow, but by the time he reached Parliament his chest was close to bursting and he had to stop for breath. A man in a bread wagon was plodding by and, realizing he knew him, Gallagher ran out in front of the horse and stopped him. Through gasps he related what had happened, but Taylor wasn’t too willing to give him a ride to the police station.

“Rosie isn’t so spry any more and I’m not a-going to kill my horse for no strange Jezebel.”

“You don’t know the poor dead woman was one such thing,” said Gallagher.

“Sure she was. Why’d she get herself killed down by the lake, else? Besides, I have my deliveries to make.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, they’ll wait an hour, surely?”

“Ha! And who’ll thank me if I lose my job?”

However, he finally conceded. Gallagher climbed up beside him, and Rosie was persuaded to canter up Parliament to the station. Crabtree had just arrived for his shift and Murdoch was in the orderly room brewing himself a breakfast tea. As soon as the Irishman spit out his story, Murdoch commandeered the police ambulance from the adjoining stables and they galloped off to the lake, Gallagher hanging on to his hat inside the wagon. He hadn’t seen so much excitement in many a long day.

Crabtree pulled up the panting horses at the end of the laneway within sight of the ice-pitted shore. The area was deserted. Either from fear or indifference, nobody else had emerged from the ramshackle huts. Only Mrs. Jenkins and the lunatic were there waiting. She was seated on a rock by the marge and had wrapped herself in a voluminous grey shawl. The lunatic was standing beside her, swaying back and forth, muttering to himself. Murdoch walked over to the old woman.

“Mrs. Jenkins? I’m Detective Murdoch.”

She nodded. “We’ve been sitting here in the perishing cold. Thought it best to keep guard.”

“Thank you. That was very sensible. Is this the man who found the body?”

She cupped her hand to her ear. “Eh? What you say?”

He repeated the question.

“Yep, that’s him.”

“What’s his name?”

“Calls himself Zephaniah. S’not his real name but he’s probably forgot that by now. He don’t understand much.”

The old man’s white, matted hair hung down his back, and the grizzled beard reached to his waist. His head was wrapped around in a woollen turban and his stained and torn coat had once been a soldier’s greatcoat. At Murdoch’s approach, he whimpered and shrank back. He had been jailed barely a month earlier for vagrancy and responded to the police like a beaten dog responds to the sight of the stick.

“She’s out there,” said Mrs. Jenkins, pointing out to the frozen lake.

The lunatic suddenly shrieked. “I will punish the princes, saith the Lord.

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