Maureen JENNINGS - Under the Dragon’s Tail

Annie caught hold of Murdoch’s sleeve. “Please! I must get there as fast as I can. Let me come with you.”

Her boots were of soft kid with a needle toe and higher heel. They didn’t look the best footwear for a hurried walk but he understood her urgency.

“Can you ride a bicycle?” he asked.

“Yes. I’ve used one in my act.”

Murdoch turned to the youth. “McEvoy, I’ve just requisitioned your wheel in the service of the police.”

The boy blushed with delight. “My pleasure, sir, er, madam.”

“You can come with the constable. Miss Brogan, let’s scorch.”

Annie, not caring, folded her skirts up and tucked them into her belt. She handled the wheel like a professional, and they got to the Shaw house in minutes. Fortunately, no curiosity had yet been excited and the street was deserted. Murdoch was praying that Freddie hadn’t been alarmed and fled again. He signalled to Annie to dismount at the opposite corner. The rain was glistening on the macadam, sleeting through the drooping leaves of the trees.

“Do you mind the wet?”

She shook her head. She would have stood in fire and brimstone if necessary.

“It’d be better if you wait here, then. I’m going in the back way and you’ll be able to see if he shoots out the front. If he does, grab him and yell for me. He’s a little titch. You can hold on to him if you have to.”

She nodded and he knew that she would risk her life at this point if she had to.

He crossed the road and walked casually in front of the house. There was no sign of anyone stirring, the curtains in the front parlour were still drawn tight. He went through the gate and walked around to the rear garden. The plot was given over to vegetables and well tended. Tomatoes were ripening on the vine, and there were several rows of potatoes and turnips. In the sunlight, the garden would have appeared lush and fertile, now it seemed desolate, the colour washed out by the rain.

When he had finished searching the house previously, he’d barred the back door from the inside and locked the front. Freddie had been forced to climb through the kitchen window. He’d trampled in the earth. The sash was pushed up and the sill muddy.

Murdoch leaned his head in first, cautiously. The window opened directly into the kitchen, where George had died. Murdoch stood still, trying to determine if he could detect the boy’s presence, but the house remained quiet, as if it were holding its breath. He put his leg over the sill, scrunched his body, and slithered with some difficulty into the kitchen. Here he waited again. Nothing, except now he could hear the tick of a clock on the mantel. The heel of the loaf of bread was green with mould, and on the floor was a half-eaten unripe tomato. The cupboard door had swung wide open and he wondered if Freddie had come here in search of food.

He walked through into the hall.

“Hello! Anybody here? Freddie? It’s Detective Murdoch. I’m not going to hurt you. Just come out. We’ve got to have a talk.”

Silence.

He could see the door to the parlour was open. He went to investigate but that room was also empty.

He returned to the hall, which was uncarpeted, and thumped his feet a couple of times as if he were walking. He closed the creaky door to the kitchen with a bang. Then he lowered himself to the floor and leaned against the wall. When he’d gone into the fields as a boy, he’d found the best way to see the wild deer or rabbits was to sit still and wait. He hoped Crabtree hadn’t arrived yet and that Annie could hold out.

He’d been sitting for almost ten minutes when he was rewarded by a tiny sound, just the merest scrabble. Murdoch didn’t stir. The noise had come from down the hall and he saw there was a cupboard underneath the stairs, the door open the slightest crack. He heard the scratching sound again but it lasted longer this time. The cupboard door shifted an inch wider and Freddie’s dirty face appeared.

At first he didn’t see Murdoch because of the gloom in the hall and he came out, crawling on all fours. At that instant the front door opened and Annie Brogan entered. Murdoch could see Crabtree standing behind her.

Freddie saw them all, whimpered, and made a dash for the stairs. Murdoch jumped up.

“Freddie, stop! Freddie!”

He charged after the boy and got to the top of the stairs as the boy raced into the bedroom on the left, slamming the door behind him. Annie also ran up the stairs. She halted on the landing. “I had to come in,” she gasped. “I couldn’t bear the wait any longer.”

“Stay there,” he said and slowly opened the door. For a moment it seemed as if the boy had vanished into thin air. The tiny bare room seemed completely empty. Murdoch held his breath to listen, but Freddie was unable to control his own panting. He was under the bed. Murdoch crouched down and found himself staring into one of the most terrified faces he had ever seen.

He got low to the floor and lay on his side, propped on his elbow, the way he had when he’d watched a fox’s den.

“Don’t be afraid, lad. I’m here to help you.”

Freddie shrank back further against the wall. Suddenly there was a scuffling sound and Annie plunged to the floor as well, not caring about dirtying her dress or the inelegance of her position. She peered at the boy, winced, and said softly, very softly, “My God, it is him. He’s the spitting image.” She almost broke into a sob but she held it back. “Freddie, please come out. I’m Annie Brogan and I do believe we’ve met before, a long time ago.”

Murdoch was sitting on the chair by the door, while Annie, lying on her side, talked to Freddie. Her tone was as casual as if they were across a tablecloth at a picnic, although the boy was clad in only his nightshirt. Annie’s dress was dark from the rain and her hair was bedraggled and falling down at her neck.

“You must be starving,” she said. “I know what that’s like. I used to be hungry a lot when I was a nipper. Do you want to come out and we’ll get some good grub?” No answer. “I wouldn’t mind some sausages and mash. I know a nice eating house just down on Queen Street. Not too far away. What d’you say?” Silence. Murdoch began to wonder if they were going to have to drag him out. Then he remembered the Cupid’s Whispers he’d bought from Mr. Bright. He fished the tin out of his inside pocket, removed the lid, crouched down, and held them out to Annie. They were dipped in powdered sugar and smelled pleasantly fruity.

“Want one?”

She glanced at him in surprise, realized what he was doing, and smiled in delight.

“Sure would.” She popped one in her mouth and made a great show of enjoying it, licking her lips. Murdoch took one himself, got down to floor level and held out the tin to Freddie.

“Would you like one?”

Annie made more tasting sounds. “Can I have another?”

She took one. Murdoch waited. Then he put the tin on the floor and pushed it towards Freddie. He could see the boy’s wide staring eyes, how thin his face had become. Suddenly, Freddie grabbed a handful of the lozenges and stuffed them in his mouth. There wasn’t going to be a problem with unpleasant breath among any of them. The air beneath the bed was fragrant with the smell of raspberries.

“I know you’re frightened, lad,” said Murdoch. “But I promise we’ll listen to your story fair and square. If you haven’t done anything bad you won’t be punished.”

He saw the boy blink away a rush of tears. Then Freddie looked at Annie and said in a whisper, “What you mean you met me before?”

Annie slid further along the floor and stretched herself out. “I’m getting such a crick in my neck. Tell you what. If you come out from under there and sit on a chair beside me, I’ll explain. And it’s absolutely true what I said, on my honour. You look just like your father. And him and me knew each other well.”