Читать онлайн «Poor Tom Is Cold»
Автор Морин Дженнингс
THE MURDOCH MYSTERY
GLOUCESTER: Our flesh and blood, my lord,
is grown so wild
That it doth hate what gets it.
EDGAR: [pretending to be a lunatic]
Poor Tom’s a-cold
–from
Prologue
SINCE THE BOY HAD DIED, she didn’t sleep and many nights she prowled around the house, searching. She was quiet so as not to wake any of the others, but they knew and talked about it when she wasn’t there. This night was particularly bad. It was long past midnight and she had heard the grandfather clock in the hall chime. She counted out the number of gongs, not wanting the sound to die away as it was comforting, like a voice. After a while the snuffles and groans of her sleeping husband were insufferable and she got out of bed. She didn’t put on her dressing gown or slippers, even though the room was chill. She went out to the landing. A slit of light was showing beneath the door opposite and she knew he was not yet in bed. She walked over and went in without knocking. He was seated at his desk, writing, and turned quickly when he heard her enter. She was glad she had startled him. She smiled, a false smile, hiding her fear. He regarded her coldly. He didn’t get up, didn’t exclaim in concern or bewilderment; he merely sat and waited for her to say something.
She moved closer. “You are up late,” she said.
“And you. ”
“You must be cold. ”
“Not at all.
”He indicated the fire, which was still burning in the hearth, and the woollen shawl that was around his shoulders.
She wanted to flee, to run from that icy stare, but she knew this might be her only chance.
“I have seen the looks you give me. They burn my skin like the hot sun. ”
“I must disillusion you. I have no such desire. ”
Some of her earliest memories were of witnessing the power her mother could exercise over the many men who visited her, and Peg knew she had no other recourse. She slipped her arms out of her nightgown, letting it fall to her ankles. She tried to take a bold stance, feet apart, the way she had long ago seen her mother do. But her legs were quivering and she couldn’t force herself to stand other than with her knees pressed together. Cupping her small breasts in her hands, she pushed them up.
“I ache for your suck,” she said. She tried to make her voice coy and sweet, but even to her own ears, she sounded unconvincing.
He scanned her thin body, studying her dispassionately, critically, making it clear how much the choice was his. Then he took the candleholder from his desk and came over to her. She tried not to flinch but she couldn’t help herself. He bent down and pulled up the nightgown.
“Allow me to take you back to your room,” he said.
Chapter One
IT WAS STILL DARK OUT, not yet dawn, and the flickering street lamps made little dint in the sodden November darkness. Acting Detective William Murdoch pulled his astrakhan hat tighter over his ears, thrust his bare hands deep into his pockets, and shoulders hunched against the cold driving rain, plodded up Ontario Street toward the police station. Pain from an infected tooth had sent him from his bed, and in an attempt to distract himself, he had dressed and set out for work well ahead of his duty time.
