Put on the Armour of Light (16 page)

T
he
next afternoon Charles found himself in a place he had never been before, yet there was a map of it in his head. There it was — the blueprint table — and there, the large fern in its dark oak stand, looking better tended than Peter had remembered. The mission Charles had embarked on was not sitting well with his conscience but he had armed himself with the text: “Behold, I send you forth as sheep in the midst of wolves: be ye therefore wise as serpents and harmless as doves.” The stenographer sitting behind the counter was distinctly
un
wolflike. She was intent on her typewriting and only looked up after he cleared his throat.

“Excuse me, Miss. I understand that Mrs. Asseltine is here?”

“Er. Yes, sir.” She looked back over her shoulder in the direction of an office door with
J.P.T. ASSELTINE
painted on the etched glass. “But she never told me to expect anyone.”

“Yes. Of course, I'm sure she has many things to attend to. But could you give her my card and ask her if she would be kind enough to spare me a few minutes?”

The girl took his card and, smoothing down her skirt and patting her hair into place, she walked to the door of Asseltine's office, knocked and slipped in.

No, this is madness. Make some excuse and get out
. But before he had time to fan the flames of his panic, the girl had returned and was looking quizzically at him.

“Mrs. Asseltine will see you, Reverend.”

He just had time to paste on a look of earnest kindliness before striding quickly into the office. “Mrs. Asseltine. How good of you to see me on short notice.”

She had been sitting at her husband's desk with papers neatly laid out. “No notice, as it happens, Mr. Lauchlan. Kind of you to call. I must say, I hadn't expected anyone to find me here.” She rose from the desk and moved around it to extend her hand.

“Yes. That's understandable. But, fortunately, when I called at your home, the maid — Gertie, is it? — told me you were here.” He took her hand in his and placed his other hand on top. “My heart was so full that I couldn't wait another moment to extend my sympathies to you. And to say to you what an extraordinarily generous man your husband was. Such a loss for you — and for the whole city.”

“Yes, well, Thank you, Mr. Lauchlan. Naturally, the children and I are desolate.” She attempted to extricate her hand. “I was not aware that you knew my husband. We go to Knox — though not as often as we would like —”

“True enough, dear lady.” He held her fast. “It was not my good fortune to know your husband well. But we did have the ‘roaring game' in common.” He noted her puzzlement. “Curling? No, no, I didn't know him well and that was why it was such a surprise — a delightful surprise — that he would speak to me as he did the last time we met.”

“Surprise, Mr. Lauchlan? I'm afraid I'm not following you.”

“Why, the bequest, of course.” He let go of her hand at last. “I need hardly tell you that there are members of my own congregation who have not been nearly so generous in their support. I want to assure you that the money is greatly needed and will help so many in my parish.”

“Bequest? No, no. There must be some mistake.” She squinted at him. “Did my husband give you something in writing?”

“Why, no. He said that he was making some changes to his will and that he would be inserting a clause — for a very gratifying sum — to the Dufferin Avenue Church Neighbourhood Fund.”

“But — I am the co-executor of my husband's estate, Mr. Lauchlan. And I'm sorry to say that I found no bequest to you or to your church in his will.”

“Oh. But surely that is not — he was quite specific — Oh, dear. Oh — are you sure you've read the whole —”

“Yes, quite sure. I have it here on the desk. There's nothing —”

“Oh. That's curious. What could have — this is very —”

“Are you all right, Mr. Lauchlan?”

“Yes. Yes, of course. Just a little light-headed. The shock —”

She swept around him and to the door. “Miss Haskins, a glass of water — no, — whiskey. Quickly.” She came back and led Charles, who was holding a hand to his forehead, to a chair in front of the large mahogany desk. He was fanning himself with his handkerchief when the whisky decanter arrived, not borne by Miss Haskins, as he expected, but by Frank Martland. As he juggled the decanter and a small cut-glass tumbler, Martland seemed just as surprised.

“Lauchlan. What the — Oh. You're the one feeling poorly?”

“Yes, er … possibly the heat. I just came to pay my respects to Mrs. Asseltine. Such a sad occasion.” She took the decanter and glass from Martland, carefully filled the glass with amber fluid and handed it to Charles.

“How true. Yes, very sad. We're only too happy to accommodate Mrs. Asseltine here. Least we can do. Well, Millie? Getting along all right? Finding everything you need?”

“Well enough, thank you, Frank.” She placed the decanter on the other side of the desk from where Martland was standing. “The staff have made me quite comfortable. As you can see.”

“Good.” He surveyed the papers on the desk. “Good. I'll leave you to it then.” He turned to Charles. “You'd best be careful, Lauchlan. Of the heat, I mean.” With a nod to her, he turned to go.

“Oh Frank?”

“Yes?”

“There are one or two more things I should see. Here's a list.” She picked up a piece of paper from the desk and handed it to him.”

Martland's lips must have been dry. He pressed them together as he read. “Well, yes, you have been hard at it.” He looked up from the page and there was for the briefest moment a deeper chill to the blue of his eyes. “I'll get Collier to bring them.”

Charles had been watching them, fascinated. So fascinated that, as Martland took his leave, Charles took a deeper swig from the heavy-bottomed tumbler than he had intended. “Thank you, Mrs. Asseltine.” It was all he could rasp out as he set the glass down on the desk. “You're very kind. Whew!” The distilled vapours were curling the hair in his nose.

“You're feeling better, then?”

“Yes, much, thank you. Hem! Really, Mrs. Asseltine, I'm terribly embarrassed. You must think me a complete fool. Trooping in here, intruding on your grief.” He looked up at her, all limpid innocence. “I'm not a worldly man. Perhaps I misunderstood your husband.”

“Perhaps so, Mr. Lauchlan. Mind you, I was not privy to every financial decision Joe made — as I'm now learning.” She resumed her chair behind the desk and leaned back in it, stretching into the leather folds. “And my husband was under a certain amount of strain these last few months.”

“I'm sorry to hear it. Was it his health?”

“No. Well — not exactly. Business life is not always harmonious, Mr. Lauchlan.” She picked up a letter opener and ran her fingers down the edges. “Sometimes the hardest blows are not the ones that come from your adversaries.”

Charles leaned toward her and met her eyes. “I've always understood that Mr. Martland and Mr. Asseltine were on good terms. Did something —”

She drove the point of the letter opener deep into the desk blotter with a force that caused a metallic springing sound from the blade. The whiskey glass jumped an inch into the air and slopped its contents onto the desk.

Charles opened his mouth but nothing came out. A trace of outraged fury remained on her face before it was replaced by the look of slightly detached concentration she had worn before. He covered his astonishment by mopping up the spilled whiskey with his handkerchief. “O–Of course, I know neither Mr. Martland nor your husband well. My dealings have been more with Eklund.”

“Eklund.” It was said with neither rancour nor approval. She seemed to roll the name around in her mind as she removed the letter opener from the blotter with deliberate care and smoothed over the hole with her finger. “Well, Eklund has always been Frank's man. Ever since Frank picked him out of a day labouring gang and gave him permanent work. Fourteen years old and half-starved. I suppose it's no wonder.”

Then she seemed to remember his presence. “As co-executor, I have a duty to my children to ensure that the estate their father built up — the complete share to which Joe was entitled — is fully realized.” She leaned back in the chair. “I'm sorry about the bequest, Mr. Lauchlan. But now I must return to that effort.”

So much for fearing that his little deception would harm Millicent Asseltine; avenging goddesses need take no heed of such trifles as he represented. Yet there was a whiff of brimstone in the air. Did she really know what she was walking into?

“Mrs. Asseltine, I think it's best to tread warily. There are, perhaps, things you don't understand.” Too late, he remembered his script.

There was just the slightest sign of recognition, of clarity after confusion, before she replied. “I'm sure that is true, Mr. Lauchlan. But I intend to understand all — in good time. And perhaps I should give you the same advice?”

He could feel his ears getting red. “I can see that you're a determined person. I hope you achieve what you are seeking.” He got up from his chair, stuffing his handkerchief back into his breast pocket. “Thank you for letting me down so gently. And please keep my card. If you need my help — at any time — just call on me.” He picked up his hat from the desk, put it on his head and gave her a little bow of farewell.

As he was walking home to the church, the implications of this extraordinary scene came clicking into place. There had been friction between Asseltine and Martland. Was it the drinking and the gambling? Yes, he could see that such a man would become increasingly unreliable. And Eklund was Frank's man — two against one. Charles knew for certain two scurrilous things of which Frank Martland was capable. Was there a third? And with Millicent Asseltine on the scent of unexplained things in the company books, what might Martland do next?

C
harles
picked his way through the crowded locker room at the YMCA. Then he spotted Trevor, detached and silent amid the loud calls and raucous laughter of men not altogether sure they were up to the coming challenge. Trevor was pulling his racing singlet carefully over his chest, his eyes fixed on some imaginary horizon.

“Hello Trevor. All ready, I see.” And then in a whisper. “Here. Can't say I'm sorry that my custodial duty is over.”

Trevor took the package quickly and, shielding his actions with his body, put it in his locker. He closed and locked the locker and pinned the key to the inside of his waistband.

“Thanks, Charles. I'll see it through now.” He looked determined, if a little drawn.

“Look,” Charles whispered. “Don't leave it till tomorrow. Go to the police tonight — after the race. I'll go with you.”

Trevor shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I've already made plans for after. But you can come with me tomorrow, if you like. I'll meet you tomorrow at nine at Dingwall's Jewellers. We can walk to the station from there.”

“But — there's something I should tell you —”

“Shhh. Not here. Tell me after the race.” Trevor extended his hand and said, louder, “Good luck.”

“Same to you. Meet you here after —” Charles said, but Trevor was already halfway to the locker room door.

As the runners lined up at the starting line in front of the YMCA building, Archbishop Machray, chairman of the All Charities Appeal, was receiving instructions on how to fire the starter's pistol. Somehow, however, the gun had gotten tangled in his long silvery beard. A six-mile course had been laid out in a rough square from McDermot to Main Street, across the Main Street Bridge into Fort Rouge, west along River Avenue to the Crescent Drive, down the tree-lined crescent to the Maryland Bridge, across the bridge and north along Boundary Street on the western edge of the city to Portage Avenue, then east on Portage, bringing the runners back to the centre of the city, and to the starting line again.

Charles felt exposed in his faded navy blue running shorts and his pale blue singlet with “University Co lege” sewn on the front. The air played around his legs and arms in a quite unfamiliar way. Trevor was doing elaborate leg stretches and bouncing lightly up and down on his toes. Charles began some dimly remembered limbering routines of his own and wondered if there might be a graceful exit; a parishioner suddenly taken ill, say, or an emergency wedding. But no, His Grace had quit fumbling with the starting gun and looked ready for action now. Charles took his place at the line with about one hundred other runners and assumed the ready position with what he hoped was a look of casual confidence.
BANG!
He lurched ahead, engulfed in a tangle of churning legs and pumping elbows. Trevor's pale yellow singlet vibrated five yards in front of him. They turned onto Main Street and headed south and Charles, in spite of himself, was filled with a sense of exhilaration as they thundered down the street at a full gallop, not yet breathing so hard that the cheers of the spectators were muffled. Trevor had dropped back level with him.

“Too fast.”

“What?”

“The pace. It's too fast. Those lads ahead will regret it if they keep it up.”

Charles nodded agreement and resolved to stick with Trevor as runners around them started to pass them. He sensed rather than saw a jostling just behind his left elbow as someone pulled level with them from behind.
Eklund! Where had he come from?
Just in time Charles remembered the conversation of the previous evening. He nodded, radiating cordiality. Just three hardy fellows out for a friendly run. Eklund smiled an equally convivial smile and gave a slight wave back.

“Eklund. This is a surprise. Wonderful evening for a race,” Trevor said, after the slightest hesitation.

“That it is, Mr. Martland. Some of the boys at the yard have money on me, so I have to give it my best.”

“I'm sure you won't disappoint them.”

By the time they reached the Main Street Bridge the field had spread out. The front runners had separated from the middle group where Trevor, Charles, and Eklund were running and this group had begun to fray as slower runners straggled and fell back. They pounded over the bridge and felt the iron girders vibrate in sympathy. The evening sun glinted off the river and when they were across and had turned west on River Avenue, the full force of it caused Charles to narrow his eyes to slits. The road, though unpaved, was lined with wooden sidewalks but they were effectively in the country with the river bottom forest that stretched back from the road on either side only occasionally punctuated by clearings in which piles of brick, sand, timber, and foundation stone littered the sites of what would soon be very substantial houses.

As they went past Fort Rouge Park, Charles started to wonder where his next breath was coming from. Despite being only a quarter of the way through the race, sweat had popped out on his forehead and drops rolled down and hung suspended from his nose. He was now two paces behind Trevor. His own breath seemed to roar in his ears crowding out all other sounds. It helped him to imagine a silver cord running from Trevor's elbow to his own, towing him along. Eklund was still level with Trevor but he was flushed to a high colour, his breathing loud and wheezy. They had to stop and wait at Osborne as two streetcars trundled by in opposite directions and the passengers cheered them and waved as they went by. The slight rest and the warmth of his fellow humans buoyed Charles up and as they turned onto the Crescent Drive he was again side by side with Trevor and Eklund.

This was the more scenic part of the route where there was less traffic. Still, carriages and bicycles threaded their way among the runners, bearing wives, children, and fiancées of the runners, all cheering on their men. There were not enough policemen to help in keeping the carriages and buggies out of the lane the runners were occupying and Charles found it a needless annoyance to have to think about keeping out of the way of vehicles. Irritably, he wondered why the throngs of people hadn't just stayed home.

He was now several paces behind Eklund, who was just behind Trevor. They began to pass runners who had started out ahead of them. What mental effort Charles could spare from willing his burning legs onward he spent fretting about Eklund. What was his game? And how far would Eklund and Martland be willing to go to secure the return of those papers? Possible answers to that question made him dig harder to close the distance between himself and the two younger men ahead of him.

Can't. Just can't. Too winded. Cat and mouse. Has to be now.
With a surge fuelled by desperation he drew level with Eklund. All that was needed was to swing his foot a little to the right.
There
. In a nightmare ballet, Eklund and he, legs intertwined, tumbled in a heap. They hit the packed mud and sand of the roadway — humph! Runners behind leaped over and to the side of them. Eklund extended his arm for support to get up but Charles, also rising, knocked the arm away and re-entangled himself.

“Watch out, damn you!”

“Sorry! Sorry Eklund. Can't think what happened.”

Eklund made no reply but strained to see ahead as he brushed mud off his thigh. Trevor was striding out confidently and smoothly with no wasted effort. Eklund set his teeth and trundled off. Charles started to run again after dusting off his knees. He did what he could as Trevor's yellow singlet grew smaller and smaller and the imaginary silver cord lengthened and grew exquisitely thin. It snapped and disappeared into the ether as Trevor receded into the distance. Eklund, too, was ahead of Charles but now it was clear that he would not catch up to Trevor.

That left Charles with only his bottomless fatigue and an undercurrent of alarm for company. Two more miles. As they approached the Maryland Bridge, one or two runners beside him fell back and slowed to a walk, hands dejectedly on hips. Charles concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and trying to ignore his rapidly stiffening calf muscles.

He turned east on Portage Avenue on the homeward stretch back to the starting line.
Stop. Just want to stop. No harm done. Had a good crack at it.

“Charles! Hurray! Only one more mile. You're almost there.” She was just ahead at the corner of Balmoral and Portage — about a hundred yards away opposite Wesley College. Quitting now out of the question.
Quit? Not for me, the coward's way.
He straightened up, willed the knotted sinews in his legs to stride out, lifted his chest and pushed his belly out for the deepest and most sustaining breaths. He forced his arms to pull forward stronger and his feet to hit the ground quicker, causing him to move up through the group of shambling laggards he'd been sharing the road with. As he ran by he managed a wave and a smile, his expanded chest straining against the damp singlet. Maggie jumped up and down and whistled in quite an unladylike manner. He laughed. Well! He seemed to have caught a bizarre kind of second wind. The pain was excruciating but he was somehow apart from it. Two blocks from the end the crowds were heavier and they bore him along. He crossed the finish line feeling as wonderful and as awful as he had ever felt in his life.

As Charles came into the locker room there was no sign of Trevor but it was clear that the front runners had already changed and cleared out. After using the shower bath and changing as quickly as he could, he reappeared outside for the prize giving ceremony. The slowest runners were still jogging and walking across the finish line. He found Maggie in the crowd and basked in her praise.

“Charles! You're full of surprises these days. No need to pick you up off the pavement after all. And in the top half of finishers, too.”

“It did go rather well, didn't it? Have you seen —”

“Oh, shush. They're starting …”

They turned to the dais, where the dignitaries had gathered. Charles assumed that Trevor was among the faster runners and he was not surprised in due course to hear the archbishop calling out, through a megaphone, “Second place, Mr. Trevor Martland.” They clapped and cheered and Charles was warmed by an inner satisfaction in having kept up with Trevor for more than half the race.

The archbishop was looking over the crowd. “Trevor Martland? Don't tell me he's going to disappoint the ladies?” General laughter. “Come now, Mr. Martland. We want to salute your achievement. No? Will someone accept the trophy on his behalf?” The crowd murmured and looked around. Eventually more than a few people picked out Maggie. Charles could tell that some teasing was forthcoming and when he turned to Maggie, she looked flustered and reached out to put her hand on his arm.

“Shall I get it?” Charles said. She sighed with relief and nodded.

“Ah, here's the Reverend Mr. Lauchlan fresh from the race course. Thank you, Mr. Lauchlan.”

Charles did not feel fresh, but he took Trevor's trophy nonetheless. He wasn't sure how to feel about the fact that Trevor seemed to have left already. Depended on who he left with, really.

“Maybe he misunderstood and went to my house,” she said. “I'd better go and see if he's there. If I run I can catch the Broadway tram.” He just had a chance to hand her the trophy before she was off in a flurry of hiked skirts, galloping to the streetcar stop on Main Street. He looked after her, suddenly at loose ends. Maybe she was right and Trevor would be there, sitting on the verandah, as usual. Or maybe not. Better take one last look around. He took a final reconnoitre around the edge of the crowd and bumped into Eklund, hair uncombed and necktie thrown loosely around his collar. Charles adjusted his face into the right planes for backslapping commiseration and tried not to show the relief he felt.

“Eklund. Fine race. But I guess neither of us could keep up with Trevor, eh?”

“What? Oh. No. Right enough. Got away from me. Yes, quite a race. Congratulations.” He continued looking through the crowd. “Well, excuse me. Mr. Lauchlan. I've got to get off home now.” He rushed off at a pace that made Charles wince just to look at him.