Maureen JENNINGS - Under the Dragon’s Tail

Some of the men laughed, glad to relieve the tension.

“I assume therefore that the woman got herself pie-eyed, fell, and connected her head with the fender in a manner so as to crack her skull.”

“Is that what killed her, sir?” asked Clarence Daly, who was one of those subpoenaed as a juror.

“That’s what I’m suggesting, isn’t it? Any better ideas?”

The men variously shook their heads. More than one of them had had the experience of falling down drunk.

“We’ll know for sure after the post mortem examination,” Johnson continued. “Now who is she? One of you must know her, surely.”

“I do,” said another man.

“And who are you? Speak up so the constable can write it down.”

“My name’s Dick Meadows. I live down the street a piece. Her name was Dolly Shaw.”

“Do you know her to be a heavy drinker?” asked Johnson.

“Worse than any judge if you ask me, sir.”

There was a chuckle at his little joke, but the coroner glared. “I don’t want to hear any impertinence from you men. This is a serious matter.”

“Sorry, sir.” Meadows tugged at the brim of his hat in deference.

“Detective Murdoch here has found some money on the woman’s person. Anybody know anything about that? What did she do for a living? Daly, do you know?”

“I don’t think she did anything, sir,” answered Daly. “Leastwise not that I saw. She has a grown daughter and she takes in washing. There are two nippers live with her but they’re too young to bring in much.”

An older man with a long unkempt beard spoke up. “I’ve lived on this street for ten years, sir. Dolly Shaw came here three years ago. There’s never been a whisper that she had muck. She was always begging and borrowing from the neighbours as I heard.”

There was a murmur of assent.

Johnson shrugged. “She most likely didn’t want it known she had any savings. Why you people don’t put money in the banks where it belongs, I’ll never understand. Any questions so far?”

There weren’t.

“I’ll fix the inquest for Monday morning at ten o’clock. We might as well hold it at Humphrey’s. That’s the undertaker on Yonge Street for those of you who don’t know. Just north of Wilton Street on the west side. The doctors usually like to do the post mortem examination there.”

“Excuse me, sir.” A broad-shouldered man with a wide, red-veined face put up his hand. “I’m on the night shift at the Dominion Brewery. I have to get my kip in or I’m a goner.”

Johnson called over to Crabtree.

“Constable, how many jurors did you say we have?”

“Thirteen, sir.”

“All right then, you’re lucky, young fellow. Seeing as we’re only required to have twelve you’re excused. Everybody else, I will see you at ten o’clock. Sharp, do you hear! We’ll have the doctor’s report by then and anything else Detective Murdoch digs up.”

The men began to shuffle out, a burst of chatter released among them. One of them accidentally trod on a plate that was on the floor. Irritably, he wiped his boot clean on the carpet. Whatever the food had been, it wasn’t identifiable. Maybe mashed potatoes.

“Do you have an ambulance outside?” the coroner asked Murdoch.

“Yes, sir.”

“Take the body over to Humphrey’s. Let’s get on promptly.” He waved his hand. “This weather, the sooner we put her under the better.”

Murdoch heartily agreed.

They had only enough money for two streetcar tickets, so after some wrangling they agreed to ride to the house and walk back. As Annie pointed out, they would be hot and dusty and less presentable if they walked first. Privately, she hoped they might get some money out of Meredith but she didn’t say that.

The streetcar let them off at the corner of Wilton and Church and they proceeded over to Jarvis, a wide, gracious street dappled with shade from the broad-leaved hawthorn trees that overhung the sides. They didn’t talk to each other, and Millie dragged a pace or two behind like a sulky child. She hated being anywhere in public with her sister. Annie was wearing her best linen suit of blue-and-white check. It was sedate enough in itself but the hemline was a few inches too high and the jacket too tight. As well, the straw hat perched on her head was bedecked with dancing blue ostrich feathers and a cascade of mauve taffeta ribbons. She was carrying a red parasol.

“I do wish you wouldn’t walk like that. It isn’t becoming,” Millie muttered at her sister’s back.

It was a foolhardy thing to say because Annie stopped immediately and turned with a ferocious glare.

“Like what? How am I walking?”

Millie winced but went on. “You’re swinging your parasol as if you were…well you’d think you were leading a parade.”

“I’d rather walk like that than creep along like a mouse that’s expecting the cat to pounce.”

The contempt in Annie’s tone brought tears of humiliation to Millie’s eyes. But there was an awful truth in the remark and she knew it. She was wearing her good navy serge jacket and grey skirt but the clothes were out of fashion and dowdy. Her black felt hat was trimmed only with a strip of brown silk and she carried her head bent into her hollow chest.

“Why any man would want to have a bit off with you, I don’t know,” added Annie. At that moment, she meant what she said. Millie’s unhappiness was making her look worn and frowsy.

She set off again, swinging her parasol even more jauntily. She was actually glad for the little tiff, happy to be distracted, even momentarily, from her thoughts.

However, her mind kept returning there, the way one probes at an aching tooth. It didn’t help, probably made things worse, but it was impossible to stop.

The Brogan family had not even been settled in Toronto a month when an outbreak of diphtheria snatched away both parents and two younger brothers. Annie and Millie had been taken in by a Mr. and Mrs. Reilly who were fellow emigrants. Although there were already five children in the family, the Reillys didn’t hesitate. “We’re poor but we’ll share what we have and bring them up in the knowledge of their Faith.” These proclamations were said to any who would listen and had garnered much praise and some money from the parish. In practice, it meant that the girls quickly became the household skivvies, expected to earn their keep by doing as many menial chores as Mrs. Reilly needed. Annie was seven, Millie five.

They were given a tiny room at the rear of the house which they shared with the two youngest girls. It was little more than a lean-to and in the winter it was freezing. They all suffered from colds and painful chilblains. Annie could have endured the discomfort, the hard work, but there was worse. Their room was off the kitchen where the two older boys slept. No matter how she schemed to get to bed ahead of them, one or the other, Thomas or Patrick, was usually lying in wait.

“Millie, you can go. You stink anyway. But you, pretty Miss Brogan, you we’ll keep.”

Annie took a deep breath, feeling the bite of her stays into her ribs.

“Annie! Annie, wait up, this is the house.”

She stopped. Millie was pointing to a yellow brick house with dark green gables that sat back from the road in a well-tended garden.

“What’s the matter?” she asked. “You look like a goose just walked over your grave.”

“Never mind, just memories. They’ll do you in every time. Let’s get on with it.”

Annie caught her by the arm and pushed open the gate. The wrought-iron fence was high and elegant, enclosing various tidy shrubs. All in their proper place.

Together, the two sisters went up the paved path to the front door.