Maureen JENNINGS - Under the Dragon’s Tail

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.

“Mr. 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.”

The 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.