Except the Dying by Maureen Jennings Page A

credentials but, as he taught dancing and did phrenology consultations, Murdoch didn’t think it much mattered if his mastery of Greek and Latin was shaky and his accent slithered all over the place before coming to rest in the flat vowels of Liverpool. They’d had three waltz lessons so far. After five lessons Murdoch would be allowed to attend the soiree that the professor gave for his best pupils on the second Saturday in the month.
    He took his patent-leather dance slippers out of the shoebox and slipped them on. Ready? Arms up to shoulder height, right hand resting lightly on the lady’s back.
    “Mr. Murdoch, pul-leez! Don’t push. You’re not trying to get a cow into a barn. Ladies are like thoroughbreds. Skittish and sensitive. You must
persuade.
And again! Pul-leez, sir, don’t stomp. A person would think you were killing cockroaches. Glide, always glide. Like skating … And with the right … Forward, two, three. Left again, two, three …” The professor’s wife, a plump, well-coiffed woman, thumped out the waltz withmilitary precision on the out-of-tune piano tucked into the corner of the third-floor studio. Otranto took the female part, surprisingly graceful for such a corpulent man. He was short, and the overpowering smell of his violet pomade wafted upwards beneath Murdoch’s nose. The oil, however, could not disguise the sparsity of the hair plastered across his crown, nor could the sweet cachou he sucked on mask his cigar-tainted breath.
    In spite of this, Murdoch was enjoying the lessons immensely and was looking forward to holding an honest-to-goodness woman in his arms.
    Humming some bars from Strauss, he began to dance around his tiny room.
    “Glide! One, two, three. Forward, two, three. Lightly, lightly, like it’s air you’re treading on. Think of clouds, light fluffy clouds …”
    He did this for twenty minutes more, then executed a tricky half-turn and, pleased with his progress, decided to call it a night.

Chapter Five
    He recognized the portrait immediately, although in it, Therese looked older and of course the artist could not capture the glow of rude health on the lightly freckled cheek that made her so attractive. Fear shot through his body. Had anybody seen him? Could he be linked to the dead girl? He lowered the newspaper, struggling to gain control. Guilt came like acid in his stomach, but it was really the fear that gripped him. If there was one jot of sorrow for the young interrupted life, it was so fleeting he could not have acknowledged it.
    MONDAY, FEBRUARY II
    L IKE ALL THE OTHER POLICE OFFICERS , Murdoch spent long hours at the station. When he entered the station hall early the next morning and caught the usual whiff of sawdust, coal stove and winter clothes, it was as familiar as home.
    “Good morning, Sergeant,” Murdoch greeted the duty sergeant, who was perched on a tall stool behind the high counter. The other man’s dour face changed and he grinned at Murdoch.
    “Would you believe I rode on the Singer this morning?”
    “No! You must have wheeled it all the way.”
    “I did not. I told you, it’ll go through anything.”
    Variations of this conversation had been happening all winter. Because the detective branch of the police force was so new, the status of detectives, especially acting detectives like Murdoch, was unclear. Technically he ranked above all the other officers but below the two sergeants and the inspector. As the only detective he often felt isolated. Then last summer, by chance, he and Sergeant Seymour had started to chat about the merits of the Singer versus the Ideal bicycle. It turned out that Seymour was also a keen cyclist and on that basis the two men had struck up a friendship. The rivalry wasn’t serious and they had gone on a couple of strenuous bicycling trips when their days off coincided.
    “Anything for me?” Murdoch asked.
    “Foster sent over a photograph. I put it on your desk.”
    He nodded in the direction of the three