Jennings, Maureen "No author has mined Toronto's past . . . with the dedication to detail of mystery writer Maureen Jennings. . . . Let Loose the Dogs follows Murdoch through a dense plot centred on a bloodthirsty gambling event of the era." — Toronto Star "Jennings is too tough and honest a writer to let anyone off her moral hook, even her hero." — New York Times Book Review "Perhaps [the] darkest and most complex novel in this well-received Victorian series." — Publishers Weekly "The most generously plotted of Murdoch's four cases, but the one whose constant reminders of mortality . . . are the most piercing." — Kirkus Reviews MAUREEN JENNINGS was born in the UK and emigrated to Canada as a teenager. After a long career as a psychotherapist, she became an award-winning writer. She is the author of four series in the crime fiction genre—Christine Morris, Tom Tyler, Murdoch Mysteries, and Charlotte Frayne P.I.—as well as a book on creativity, one novella, and four plays. The Murdoch Mystery series has been adapted into the beloved television series Murdoch Mysteries shown in over 120 territories worldwide, and the Tom Tyler series served as the inspiration for the television series Bomb Girls . In 2011, Jennings was the recipient of the Grant Allen Award for her contribution to Canadian crime writing. She lives in Toronto with her husband and their dog, Murdoch. Chapter One     He remembered the match vividly. After that – after he had fallen by the bridge – he had no recall and only knew what had happened from the statements of witnesses at his trial. The day had been oppressively hot, the sky heavy and dark with a threatening storm. Inside the barn it was stifling, the air thick with the smell of blood and the stink of the rats. The dogs were going wild. Tripper, the innkeeper’s black- and- tan bitch; the two white pugs that belonged to the Craigs; and a squat, brindle bulldog, who was there for the first time, were all tethered to the rings that ran along the wall. All of them were barking nonstop, their eyes dilated, saliva flooding from their mouths. He had shouted with the others all through the matches. They all had, even the Englishman who made such a point of being unruffled. Delaney had Flash in his arms and was having a hard time holding on to him, he was squirming so much, wanting to get back into the ring. Everybody knew this terrier had won unless Havoc got more kills. The stakes were high as they always were at Newcombe’s matches, and Harry had put down a lot of money, every dime of what he’d saved over the summer. He was glad he’d drawn the last run because the later dogs were always more ferocious.   “Havoc up! Last dog. Flash the one to beat with forty kills,” Lacey, the ring- keeper, called out. He released a cage of rats into the pit. They were dull brownish grey and fat from their summer feeding. At first they stayed close together, noses twitching, dazzled by the light. Lacey stirred them up with his crooked stick, then he shouted again.   “ NOW! LET LOOSE YOUR DOG .”   Harry dropped Havoc into the ring. Immediately the terrier pounced on three rats in succession, killing each one with a single bite and a violent shake that broke their necks. The rest started to run, circling the small walled pit. Some tried in vain to climb up the smooth sides. For the next, long ten minutes the dog pursued them, biting, shaking, and dropping one after the other. The men took up the count, calling out the number of hits.   “ TWENTY- TWO . . . TWENTY- THREE . . . TWENTY- FOUR . . .”   One of the rats twisted up and gripped the dog on the nose with its razor teeth, but Havoc wasn’t deterred, running on until finally he slammed against the wall crushing the creature and it dropped to the floor. Several of the other rats tried to huddle in a corner, but Lacey banged on the side of the pit wall to get them going. The terrier killed all of them. The chant got faster, driving him on. His muzzle was crimson, his coat flecked with blood and spittle.   “ THIRTY . . . THIRTY- ONE . . .”   Briefly, the little dog seized one of the corpses.   “Dead un! Leave it!” yelled Harry, and Havoc obeyed. The brown- and- white feist that belonged to White almost broke his leash in his attempts to get over to the ring. As if sensing what was at stake, all of the other dogs grew more frantic and shrill until it was hard to hear anything at all.   “. . . THIRTY- SIX . . .”   The dog captured another one, almost tossing it out of the ring.   “. . . THIRTY- SEVEN .”   Lacey was watching his big brass clock, which was on the ledge where everybody could see it. His hand was at the ready, clutching the rod to strike the gong beside him.   Suddenly the terrier stopped, panting hard. He looked toward the ring of spectators. Harry yelled.   “ Go on . . . Get ’em. Go on! ” But the dog didn’t move.   “ TIME! ” Lacey sounded the gong. The match was over.   “Pick up your dog,” he called out.   “It was a cheat. My do