Put on the Armour of Light (13 page)

C
harles
found his hour as gatekeeper at the promenade pleasant enough. He sold tickets to several of the boys and girls from his Young People's Society and watched them amble through the twin palms at the entrance, arm in arm. With a wry smile, Charles reflected that strolling arm in arm can take many forms. The younger ones maintained their distance, the girl placing her hand in the crook of the elbow offered by the boy. They walked stiffly in this position, giggling and pulling awkwardly apart if by accident they strayed too close or bumped a hip. But then there was Arthur Ledyard and Primrose Ormiston whose arms were entwined so snugly that there was no space between them at all and they walked in a kind of sideways embrace — not saying anything but occasionally looking into each other's eyes and smiling. As the couple had announced their engagement in May, Charles didn't feel the need to interrupt the innocent caresses that the two shared as they strolled along. Why should he be the policeman of love? He chewed his lip with annoyance. There are so many worse things in the world than the possibility of two young people touching each other in ways that ancient prudery deems inappropriate.

In the midst of these surly ruminations, he caught sight of Frank and Agnes Martland chatting with Mrs. Heavysege at the entrance to the assembly hall. Agnes was dressed beautifully in cream-coloured silk with accents of what he thought might be called coral. Charles could see how Martland was showing her off and how he enjoyed the impression she was making. At one point she saw someone she knew and made to cross the hall but Martland caught her hand as it disengaged from his arm and drew her back to greet a business associate and his wife.
Martland doesn't like her to venture out on her own,
Charles thought.
That's why I never run into her on the street or at the houses of mutual friends.
The knot of concern in the pit of his stomach gave an uncomfortable tug and with it some formless ideas he had been mulling crystallized into a plan.

“Mrs. Underwood, could you spare me for a few minutes?”

“Of course, Mr. Lauchlan. You're almost done your shift anyway. Off you go.”

He grabbed a plate, put some sandwiches on it, and poured a cup of tea. With these in hand he made his way to the assembly room and over to Rosetta's booth. She was just finishing a sitting.

“Try not to jump when the flash lamp goes off, Miss Stiven,” Rosetta said from underneath the black cloth. “Mr. Stiven, you can wiggle your ears or something to distract her.” At this Miss Stiven looked at her father and the camera caught her with just the beginnings of an amused smile.

“Good. Just right.” Rosetta emerged from under the cloth. “Hello, Mr. Lauchlan.”

“I've brought you some sustenance, Mrs. Cliffe. Can you take a break?”

“Lovely. Thanks. Yes, I think there's a bit of a lull now.” Rosetta finished writing a receipt for the Stivens. “You can call for the finished photographs on Wednesday, Mr. Stiven.” The Stivens took their leave and Rosetta took the plate of sandwiches and the cup of tea with a sigh of relief. She perched on the portrait chair and ignored the glass eyes of the bear skin.

Charles pulled up the other chair and said in a hushed voice, “I have a favour to ask you, Mrs. Cliffe. I have a friend who may be in need of help.”

“What kind of help?” She was wary.

“She may need a place to stay for a while — on short notice. And I thought, since you have lots of room —”

“Well, now, Mr. Lauchlan, you know I run a photography studio downstairs and work all hours in the darkroom upstairs. I can't have someone hanging around just getting in the way —”

“I think you would understand why she needs this help. She needs an out-of-the-way place where she will not be known.”

Rosetta looked at him. “A bolt hole, then?”

“Yes. I'm afraid I can't be more specific. My suspicions may be just that. But I would like to be able to tell her that there is a place where she will be welcome — and safe — if she needs one.”

Rosetta pushed a sandwich around the plate, her brows drawn together.

“I know it's a lot to ask. You need your privacy; I understand that. But it would only be for a short time until she could make other arrangements.”

“I'm set in my ways, I'm afraid. Used to just doing for myself — and Eleanor — when she's home from boarding school.” She looked Charles straight in the eye. “But tell your friend she is welcome at my house, such as it is.”

“You can tell her yourself. I'm going to persuade her to have her portrait taken.”

Rosetta looked surprised.

“I know I can rely on your discretion, Mrs. Cliffe. To anyone looking on it must look as if you are simply taking a portrait. But it would be best if I could be your assistant for this one.”

“Of course; when will she come?”

“Soon, that is, if I can manage it. And when I bring her over, could you put off anyone ahead of her till later?”

“People are used to me being a little high-handed. As long as I can fit them in later, there should be no difficulty.”

Charles thanked Rosetta and began craning his neck to see through the crowd on the dance floor. The orchestra was playing a cake walk to the tune “Whistling Rufus” and the older members of the audience were tut-tutting behind their fans, complaining about this bumptious American dance invading decent Canadian ballrooms. Charles spotted Maggie strutting around happily with Henry McAlistair. The last chords sounded and they came to a halt in the final pose. Maggie hopped up and down and clapped with pleasure while Henry made her a sweeping bow.

“Oh, that was grand! Henry, you're a credit to Madame Edna's School of Dance. Thank you so much.” Henry just beamed and kept holding her hand.

“Hello Henry. Could I borrow Maggie for a minute?”

“C-c-certainly, Mr. Lauchlan. I have the next one with M-M-Miss Farquarson anyway.” Henry disappeared into the crowd with a final smile at Maggie, who waved at him.

“I thought you said two-steps were outside your ken,” Maggie said.

“They are — though if you wanted to teach me, I wouldn't complain. No. I have a favour to ask you. It's important.”

She caught the change in his voice. “What do you want me to do?”

“Could you occupy Frank Martland for about ten minutes? I want to spirit Mrs. Martland off for a short while.”

“Well, I suppose Trevor and I could waylay him and talk his ear off.”

He sensed that tiny bit of fear behind her bravado that made it all the more necessary for her to accept the challenge. “Good. That's just the ticket. But we'll have to work quickly — so that he's taken unawares and doesn't have much time to react.”

They were formulating a plan when Trevor found them.

“Ready for the next one, Maggie?”

“Oh Trev, do you mind if we sit it out? I need to catch my breath. Oh look, there are your parents. We shouldn't ignore them.”

Trevor looked a bit alarmed but Maggie had already taken his arm and was leading him, protesting, toward his parents with Charles right behind. The two-pronged approach worked, for before Frank Martland knew what had happened, he was being peppered with inquiries by Maggie about the dance, his health, his views on charity, and his prediction as to who would win the upcoming foot race.

“Mrs. Martland, could I have a quick word with you? Over here, if I may.” Charles took Agnes's arm and gently but quickly led her out of Martland's viewing range.

“Yes, Mr. Lauchlan, what is it?”

“We're having trouble getting people over to Mrs. Cliffe's portrait booth. It would really help if you would sit for her.”

“Well, I'm not sure —”

Charles began steering her toward the booth. “Wonderful. It's just over this way. I'll be glad to escort you.” He made her walk ahead of him so that her way back was blocked. When they arrived at Rosetta's booth, Rosetta was just greeting another customer. Charles nodded at her.

“Oh, I'm sorry Mr. Hardisty. I forgot that this lady is next. I can slot you in at ten o'clock, during the refreshment break. Will that be all right?” Her determined smile made it clear that it had better be all right. Mr. Hardisty nodded to Charles, gave a little bow to Agnes, and rejoined the crowd.

“Mrs. Cliffe, I don't think you know Mrs. Martland. She's most interested in sitting for a portrait. It's a surprise for her husband.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Martland. Well, then, we must make sure that Mr. Martland is surprised — pleasantly, of course.”

“Mrs. Cliffe. I'm pleased to meet you.” Agnes was a little off balance, but she was playing along. “I've heard such good things about your work.”

“Mr. Lauchlan, would you mind moving the camera a foot to the left — very gently — while I get Mrs. Martland seated?”

Charles busied himself moving and fussing with the camera while Rosetta directed Agnes. “Yes, that's right, Mrs. Martland. And look at the camera. Would you mind if I just pull your hair a little off your face?” Rosetta put her hand up to draw aside the wispy curls hanging at Agnes's temple but Agnes immediately caught the hand in her own.

“I'm sorry —” For a moment their eyes met. “Yes,” Rosetta said. “You're quite right; we'll turn the other side of your face to the camera.” Agnes stood again while Rosetta changed the angle of the chair and then seated her again. “Now, let me just have a look.”

Rosetta walked to the camera and disappeared underneath the black cloth. “No need to be apprehensive, Mrs. Martland. I've been at this long enough that the camera will see only what I want it to see. Mr. Lauchlan, would you mind rearranging our friend the bear so that his eyes face the wall over there?”

Charles knelt in front of the chair and began to adjust the bear skin. “Mrs. Martland.” His voice was almost a whisper. “This lady can help you. I've told her nothing — I know nothing for certain myself — but she can offer you the safety of her home — a place where no one would think of looking for you.”

Agnes looked at him, wounded. “Please,” Charles said, “forgive my bluntness. If I've mistaken your situation, I'm sorry. We haven't got much time.”

“I … don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Lauchlan —” She began to get up from the chair. Charles prevented her.

“Don't — if you leave without having the portrait taken, it will only attract attention.” She sat back down. He dropped his voice lower again. “I'll come and get you and take you to Mrs. Cliffe's. You only have to send for me, day or night. You're on the telephone?”

“Yes.”

“Telephone to Mr. Krafstadt's Dry Goods Store on Dufferin — night or day. He lives above the store. He'll send his boy to me with a message.” Charles went back to join Rosetta.

“I'll just arrange your skirt If I may, Mrs. Martland.” Rosetta knelt in front of Agnes and began to arrange the folds of her skirt. “You think he will change,” Rosetta whispered, “but don't cling to that, Mrs. Martland. Your real hope lies in getting out. I know what I'm talking about.” And then speaking louder, “There now; such a beautiful dress needs to be shown to best advantage.”

Rosetta looked through the camera lens again and loaded more powder on the flash lamp. “Now, if you'll just relax, Mrs. Martland, and think of something pleasant — your children, perhaps — being with your children on a perfectly sunny day. You're going to go boating with them on the river and then have a picnic at Nugent's Point.” Rosetta's voice seemed to echo the lazy yaw of an old skiff steering into the current, the dip and pull of the oars. Distress ebbed slowly from Agnes's face, leaving her looking grave but composed. “That's right. There isn't a cloud in the sky.”

Rosetta took three photographs in succession, quickly reloading the flash lamp in between. When she declared the sitting concluded, Agnes stood and took the money out of her evening purse.

“Here's your receipt with the address of my studio. I live just upstairs. The photographs will be available Wednesday, Mrs. Martland. Perhaps you could call for them yourself? I have a good selection of frames.”

“Yes. Yes, if I can find the time, I will call for them, Mrs. Cliffe. Goodbye.” Agnes extended her hand and Rosetta took it, holding it just a fraction longer than usual.

“I'll take you back,” Charles said and broke a path for her through the crowd to where Trevor was standing, looking forsaken. There was no sign of Frank Martland or Maggie.

M
aggie
couldn't quite put her finger on the point during her conversation with Frank Martland when control of the situation had slipped from her grasp. Though she had been on her guard, he had deftly fielded her barrage of breathless questions while proving to be surprisingly charming and talkative on his own behalf. Before she knew it, she had agreed to take the promenade with him so that he could, “see what all the fuss is about.”

“Well, Father, Maggie has the next dance with me. You could take your promenade with Mother.” Trevor, standing beside Maggie, had been mostly silent and fidgety until this moment.

“You could sit this one out, couldn't you, Miss Skene. Trevor, take another dance after the break. Your mother and I are leaving before the refreshments and this will be my only chance to see the promenade — and get to know Miss Skene better, of course.”

“Well, I've already sat out one dance —”

“He's impatient, Miss Skene. But these young men, they have so many dances in front of them; but old gents like me? A promenade is all we're good for. So if you would join me, I would be most obliged.”

“I don't see how I can refuse, Mr. Martland,” Maggie said and threw a conciliatory glance at Trevor, who frowned back at her. As she took Martland's arm, she resolved to be particularly nice to Trevor for the rest of the evening.

The sun had gone down, so that the greenery of the promenade was lit by only a few gaslights along the perimeter of the room and by candelabra placed at junctions of the pathways.

“This is when a promenade is best, Mr. Martland. The candles make it look quite magical — like the Forest of Arden.”

“I've never been to Arden. Never travelled much of anywhere, in fact. Mrs. Martland would like to go to Paris, but pressure of work has kept us from seeing as much of the world as we'd like.”

“Oh, but you must go! I can hardly wait to see Europe. Father isn't very keen on sending me, but I'm going to talk him around.”

“But you have your studies here?”

“Yes. But I want to attend lectures at a German university. They're so much ahead of Canada; I know I can make the best of the experience.”

“I'm not sure I see the sense in young ladies taking university studies. But I do admire your determination. Maybe it will rub off on Trevor.”

“Trev is quite diligent at his law studies, sir. He just hides it well.”

Martland laughed. “That he does, Miss Skene. Once we get through this disturbance with the murder of my partner, I hope to bring Trevor more closely into the business.”

“Oh, I should have said before now how sorry I am for your loss, sir.”

“Thank you. Yes, it's been very difficult. But sometimes tragedies can help get things clearer in your mind. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes, I think I do.”

“I had wanted to talk to Trevor about the future of the business that very night — the night of the murder. But I gather he was with you all that evening, and then —”

“Actually, he wasn't with me, but I'm sure that Trevor wants very much to talk things over with you. He's just —”

“He wasn't with you?”

“No. I was visiting Mrs. Drever. She has the shingles and Aunt Jessie sent me over with a poultice.”

“Well. Well. I must have heard Trevor wrong. Shall we go this way?” Martland steered Maggie down a path crowded on all sides by ferns. They walked on in silence for a few moments.

“Won't you miss your family — and friends — a great deal if you go to Europe?”

“Yes — terribly. It's the only thing that worries me about going. I hate leaving Father all on his own. And, well, everyone. I wish I could just wrap ‘home' up and take it with me. But other times, I think I'll just explode if I can't get there.” She grew suddenly self-conscious. “I suppose you think it's wrong of me to be so selfish.”

“Maybe it is, but I understand it. I can see that you aren't content to be ordinary, Miss Skene. I've never been content to be ordinary either. But I must confess that I'm a little relieved.”

“In what way?”

“Well, I can see that you're not ready to form a serious attachment to my son. And that's good, because Trevor has to take his time and make the right choice. He needs a wife who will put his concerns above her own.”

The meaning behind his words, the glint of steel, was so at odds with the benign good will she expected from older men that she wasn't entirely sure that she had understood him.

“Forgive me for being so blunt. I think we understand each other, you and me. We might have to pretend things to other people but we can be straight with each other.”

The wind buffeted the building and the gaslights dimmed momentarily, which lent a melodramatic air to the strange turn this conversation had taken. She felt hurt and at the same time aggrieved. The thought that they might be alike, might share some covert bond distressed her, yet she couldn't explain exactly why. Was that it? Or was this the straightforwardness of an enemy who has dispensed with the niceties of diplomacy?

“Mr. Martland, this has been very … pleasant. Thank you so much for asking me. But now I think I had better get back for my next dance.”

Charles looked on from the doorway of the YMCA as Trevor, dressed in a long duster coat, clambered over his carriage, raising its hood against the threatening rain. Trevor was taking Maggie home along with his friend Sidney Jackson and a girl Jackson was courting in a desultory fashion. Charles walked over to the carriage with the group and handed Maggie and the other girl up into it. They crammed into the carriage talking and laughing, and the wind, though it had quieted significantly since the beginning of the evening, still blew their words away and caused the girls to wrap themselves tighter in their evening shawls.

“Are you sure you don't want a ride? Jackson can ride in the seat well,” Trevor said, arranging the skirts of his coat over his knees and a blanket over Maggie's. “It's going to come down at any minute.”

Charles thought of the state of his good suit and the solitary walk home. But he knew he should leave the young people alone to share their post-dance gossip. “No, no. We'd all feel like sardines. Besides, I have to think of a ringing conclusion to my sermon — nothing like a walk in the rain for that.”

“Will you come for lunch as usual, after church?” Maggie inquired, looking intently at him.

“I'll be there,” he said, touching the brim of his hat to the girls. He started walking away just as the first drops, small but slanting, began to hit the pavement. He turned up his collar, shoved his hands in his pockets, and began to whistle with counterfeit jauntiness. Maggie watched his receding back until he turned the corner. The tune was a waltz but the wind blew it away.