Except the Dying
As the unforgiving cold swirled around the girl's unclad body, the bleakness of malice reflected in her lifeless eyes.

There was something more sinister than the frigid Canadian weather responsible for Theresa Laporte's death, and Detective William Murdoch was going to uncover it all. The girl had opium in her system and an unborn child in her belly—with evidence suggesting both may have been forced upon her unwillingly.

Retracing the frightened girl's steps takes Murdoch through the high and low streets of Victorian Toronto, bringing him from a den of doxies to the well-appointed parlors of the city's most influential families. Everyone has secrets lurking in the shadows—and Murdoch is caught between his own conscience and pressure from above to solve the murder while shielding the city's elite.

1100305845
Except the Dying
As the unforgiving cold swirled around the girl's unclad body, the bleakness of malice reflected in her lifeless eyes.

There was something more sinister than the frigid Canadian weather responsible for Theresa Laporte's death, and Detective William Murdoch was going to uncover it all. The girl had opium in her system and an unborn child in her belly—with evidence suggesting both may have been forced upon her unwillingly.

Retracing the frightened girl's steps takes Murdoch through the high and low streets of Victorian Toronto, bringing him from a den of doxies to the well-appointed parlors of the city's most influential families. Everyone has secrets lurking in the shadows—and Murdoch is caught between his own conscience and pressure from above to solve the murder while shielding the city's elite.

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Except the Dying

Except the Dying

by Maureen Jennings
Except the Dying

Except the Dying

by Maureen Jennings
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Overview

As the unforgiving cold swirled around the girl's unclad body, the bleakness of malice reflected in her lifeless eyes.

There was something more sinister than the frigid Canadian weather responsible for Theresa Laporte's death, and Detective William Murdoch was going to uncover it all. The girl had opium in her system and an unborn child in her belly—with evidence suggesting both may have been forced upon her unwillingly.

Retracing the frightened girl's steps takes Murdoch through the high and low streets of Victorian Toronto, bringing him from a den of doxies to the well-appointed parlors of the city's most influential families. Everyone has secrets lurking in the shadows—and Murdoch is caught between his own conscience and pressure from above to solve the murder while shielding the city's elite.


Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780857689870
Publisher: Titan Publishing Company
Publication date: 02/28/2012
Product dimensions: 6.00(w) x 1.25(h) x 9.00(d)

About the Author

Maureen Jennings’s Detective Murdoch series has been a hit from the start. Published to rave reviews, the first novel, Except the Dying, was shortlisted for both the Arthur Ellis and the Anthony first novel awards. The influential Drood Review picked Poor Tom Is Cold as one of its favourite mysteries of 2001. And Let Loose the Dogs was shortlisted for the 2004 Anthony Award for best historical mystery. Three novels have been adapted for television with two more in development.

Born in the U.K., Jennings now lives in Toronto.

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 9, 1895

The wind cut to the bone and Alice Black pulled her shawl tight about her head and throat. The hot gin was a fire in her stomach but no defence against the cold of the winter night. She grumbled to herself, trying to expose as little of her face as she could. She'd expected to do some business at the John O'Neil but none of the piss-makers wanted to pay for a bit of dock tonight. She wiped the back of her hand across her dripping nose. She hoped Ettie had fared better, else it was potato-peel soup for the next few days.

It was getting late. Although the hotel officially closed at the legal Saturday time of seven o'clock, there was a back room where the regulars could go to top off, and for a cut of the dash, the proprietor, James McCay, usually allowed her and Ettie to stay on.

Alice edged closer to the houses. She was afeard to go past the churchyard where the bodies of the Irish immigrants were laid out in their eternity boxes. Even though the epidemic had happened almost fifty years earlier, for sure ghosts lingered in the area. Not so the cholera. She always held her nose as she scurried by. On this stretch of Queen Street the shops were interspersed with vacant buildings and the boarded-up windows were blinded eyes. The gaslights were few and far between and what with that and huddling into her shawl, she didn't see the young woman walking in front of her until they almost collided.

"Mind where you're goin'," snapped Alice. She heard a muttered "Pardon" as the other one moved out of the way. She had a thick muffler wrapped around her face, but Alice had an impression of youth, and she wondered wherethe girl was going by herself at this time of night. A country piece, by the look of that hat and valise.

Alice glanced over her shoulder. The girl was hovering on the sidewalk. She looked lost, and for a moment Alice considered stopping to offer help. But sod it, it was too cold. A gust of wind blew her skirts up about her knees and she struggled to hold them down. At that moment she heard the jingle of harness as a carriage came around the corner heading east onto Queen Street, going a good clip considering the state of the road. The iron-hard ruts had a light covering of snow and they were slippery and dangerous to the horses.

"Get out of the way, you bloody bint," yelled the driver. Alice jumped back onto the sidewalk just in time. She lost her balance on the snowbank and fell backwards, landing on her tailbone. For a moment she remained sprawled on the hard ground, groaning, then angrily snatched up a handful of snow and threw it in the direction of the carriage. The wind tossed it back in her face. Sodding toady. She shook her fist and suddenly the driver pulled his horse up sharp, wheeled around and headed back in her direction. She shrank back, prepared for recriminations, but the carriage went right past her and halted beside the girl. The door opened and a gloved hand reached our. After a moment s hesitation, the young woman accepted the help and climbed in. In the flickering yellow light of the gas lamp, Alice saw that the carriage was a smart burgundy colour with brass fittings, the high-stepping horse light-coloured, but the blinds at the windows were pulled down tight and she couldn't see the occupant.

The driver cracked his whip, wheeled the horse around, and they set off again at a brisk canter back along Queen Street.

Alice got to her feet, rubbing at her rump. She brushed the snow off her skirt, rewrapped her shawl and started to walk. Her stomach was cramping badly and she needed to get home soon. She should've known better than to trust those snaggy sausages of McCay's. If there was a morsel of real pork in there at all she'd be surprised. More like rotten horsemeat, by what it was doing to her stomach.

She was going by the Dominion Brewery now, the pleasurable part of her route. In spite of the increasing urgency of her indigestion, she paused in front of the entrance. The smell of hops hung heavy and sweet on the night air. She sniffed hungrily but the cold made her cough. Sod it. She headed up Sumach Street. Her toes had gone numb. Even though she'd stuffed newspaper into her boots, they were so split they were useless.

"Lucky for that little tit, whoever she is. Gettin' a ride to some warm place. Why'd it never happen to Alice ?"


Constable Second-class Oliver Wicken was looking forward to the end of his shift, when he could warm his feet at the station woodstove. His thick serge uniform and cape kept his body warm enough but his feet were frozen and a chilblain itched painfully on his right heel. He stopped for a moment and stamped to restore his circulation. Since the early hours of the morning a steady snow, soft and pure, had been covering the grey detritus of the week. Now with dawn approaching the wind had got up again, burning his face, and tiny icicles had formed along the edge of his fine blond moustache.

At this hour the streets were empty. He hadn't encountered another living soul during his entire beat except for a bread man in his dray rumbling down River Street. Privately, young Wicken always hoped for a little excitement he could relate to his sweetheart. She was a romantic girl and was always after him to tell her his adventures. Like he'd told her, the graveyard shift in the winter wasn't going to be lively.

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