Put on the Armour of Light (4 page)

I really should get back to my sermon,
he thought. But all he did was stare blankly at a coffee stain on the carpet. He wanted very much to start this evening over again, omit all this business with Peter and the bail and the note and the package, and get back to the more familiar complications of his life. Strange how every step since dinner seemed to be taking him into unknown territory.

Midway upon the journey of our life I found myself within a forest dark, For the straightforward pathway had been lost.

He grunted.
Dante. Don't be so pompous.
He heaved himself out of the armchair, moved to his desk and put the envelope in the centre drawer. Unearthing his partially completed sermon manuscript from the general chaos of the desktop, he cleaned his pen nib on a scrap of cloth ripped from an old night shirt, opened his inkwell, and reviewed the last sentence. After scratching three new words, he put his pen down, fumbled for the keys in his pocket, and carefully locked the centre drawer.

T
revor
walked the three blocks from the commercial stables, where he kept his carriage and horse, to the Martland house on Carlton Street. His father said that when the new house was finished, across the river in Fort Rouge, they would have stables and a groom. Trevor smiled to himself. He had heard that Augustus Nanton was going to buy a motor carriage, in which case Trevor's father would have to have two and a mechanic to keep them both running.

“Never forget, Trevor,” his father would say. “Keep your eye on the kind of life I'm building for you — you and your sisters.” That last was added as an afterthought. Although his father cared for the girls, he reserved for Trevor a fiercer kind of love. As a boy, Trevor had tried desperately hard to be worthy of this unlooked for singularity. He hadn't done too badly. School in Toronto at Upper Canada College; mixing with the right sort of people; rugby, lacrosse, and rowing to seal those bonds with boyish sweat. Then Queen's, Gaelic yells, and more sweat, accompanied by modest success in the classroom. Top marks in the venues that really count for a young man: the rugby field, the ballroom, and the card room. It was enough that when he returned from university Trevor carried with him a tantalizing air of manly refinement that made him, not just acceptable to the small top crust of Winnipeg society, but in demand. The impression of old money was heady, no matter how different from the prosaic reality, in a city where the oldest fortune had been acquired a scant quarter of a century before.

Trevor and the girls would laugh about their father's frequent references to his shanty Irish roots and his days rolling beer barrels across the floor at Dawes Brewery in Montreal's East End. “That was my university,” he would say, that and the rough handling he got when, as a green young businessman, he came out to Manitoba and banged head-first into the awful bust of 1882. His father had been forced to beg his suppliers for extensions of his credit and that, Trevor knew, was not a subject for teasing. He was careful about teasing his father at the best of times; you could never tell where the line was with him.

Trevor found that he was sweating a little as he quietly entered the house. He leaned against the newel post in the darkened hallway, took out his handkerchief, and blotted his brow.
Need to think
. If he was lucky his father would have gone to bed early and he could put off the conversation until tomorrow when he would have more time to plan how to steer it. He took off his shoes and padded carefully up the stairs. Damn.

“Trev?” The voice came from behind the closed library door. The creaking stairway had given him away.

“Yes?” He hesitated slightly before opening the door to the library then put his shoes down outside the door and went in. Frank Martland sat at his desk hunched over his papers in the glow of an electric lamp. Although middle-aged, he had not lost the thick chest and powerful arms first developed by lifting barrels at the brewery.

“I was just going to say goodnight to mother.”

“She'll be asleep already. Don't disturb her.”

“Is she —”

“She's fine, Trevor. A little upset over this damned business with Asseltine, that's all. Come and sit down. Come —” He waved Trevor into the room. “— I was just reading over my partnership agreement. The lawyers will be in clover trying to sort out Asseltine's interests from mine for the settlement of the estate. Why we didn't incorporate years ago, I don't know. You'll have to handle some of it for me.”

“Of course, Father.” He walked over to the desk and sat on the edge of it. Better to get it over with. “I went to the prayer meeting tonight.”

“Did you?” Martland said as he paged through the agreement. “That's good. Who else was there? The Davidsons?”

“Yes. And Dr. Skene had to lead because Mr. Lauchlan was … detained.”

Martland looked up, having heard the slight hesitation. “Detained? Where was he?”

“Well, it's the oddest coincidence. You won't believe it. He and Maggie — Miss Skene — were at the police station talking to the man they arrested for killing Mr. Asseltine.”

Martland lurched back in his chair. “Why would Lauchlan do that?”

“Well, that's the amazing part. It seems the man — his name is McEvoy — was Lauchlan's roommate at university. They're old friends.”

“But, how's that? From what the chief said, the man's a vagrant, a hopeless drunkard.”

“Yes, he seems to have had it pretty rough. Mr. Lauchlan had completely lost touch with him.”

“Well, he has rougher times to come. I warned Joe about mixing with scum but the cards had a grip on him and no mistake. I can't abide that kind of weakness in a man.”

“Mr. Lauchlan has taken on the responsibility of finding bail for McEvoy and seeing that he has a lawyer. He was worried about raising the money.” Trevor looked carefully at his father before continuing. “So I said that I would pay.”

“You what!?”

Trevor jumped to his feet, placing the desk between himself and his father. “I said that I would put up the bail money and pay for a lawyer. You have to admit, father, every man deserves a fair trial and a full defence, even this one.”

“But how is this going to look, Trevor? Think, boy.” Martland stood up as he spoke, propelling the chair backwards on its wheels. “We need to show our support for the Asseltines. How am I going to face Millie Asseltine and say, ‘By the way, my son is paying the legal fees of your husband's murderer.' She'll go straight to her lawyers and tell them to snoop in every corner of the accounts, squeeze every last dime they can out of the company.”

“Mrs. Asseltine isn't like that; she doesn't know the first thing about the business,” Trevor said.

“Ha!” said Martland and cast his eyes heavenward.

Trevor pressed on. “It just needs to be handled in the right way. If we explain it in a way that she'll understand I'm sure there won't be a problem.” He was balanced lightly on the balls of his feet as his father leaned on the desk, his head jutting toward Trevor.

Martland narrowed his eyes. “Suppose you explain it to me in a way that I understand. What's this about, Trev?”

Trevor could feel the sweat forming on his brow again. “I — I just felt that I needed to help them, Miss Skene and Mr. Lauchlan.”

“And what about your loyalty to me and to this family?”

“I'd match my loyalty to this family with yours any day.” The anger in Trevor's voice surprised both of them. He took a deep breath. “Look, a man's being charged with murder and he may be innocent. That's what Maggie thinks and she may just be right.”

“Miss Skene is a young lady with too much education and Lauchlan is …” He searched for the right word. “An idealist.”

“He just wants to help an old friend. That seems very reasonable to me.” Trevor stopped himself. Better to keep this as short as possible. “I've made up my mind, Father. That's the end of it. I'm going to meet Mr. Lauchlan and Dr. Skene tomorrow to settle on the lawyer and arrange for the bail application. If you like, I'll talk to Mrs. Asseltine. Goodnight, Father.” He turned and walked toward the door.

“Trevor?”

“Yes.” He did not turn back.

“We used to agree on most things. Not everything, of course, that's natural. But I always thought you would back me up on the important things.”

“I'll see you in the morning, Father.” Trevor closed the door of the library behind him. Martland stared at the closed door for a very long time.

E
nclosed
within the dancing sphere of light cast by the coal oil lamp he carried, Setter negotiated the length of the dark cell block following behind the on-duty constable. When they reached number 11, the constable turned his key in the lock and stood back. Peter was sitting on the edge of his bunk. He had flinched when Setter threw open the bolt on the cell door but he seemed to have regained his composure since the meeting with Lauchlan earlier in the evening. Setter motioned for the on-duty constable to wait.

“Is there anything you want, Mr. McEvoy?”

“Apart from getting out of here?”

“Some water? Some tea?”

“Oh, Yes. Water. I've been drinking the wash water and now it's gone. So thirsty.” He ran his hand through his hair.

The constable went off, his keys jingling. Setter walked in, put the lamp on the small washstand and sat in the chair that Charles had vacated.

“A few more questions, if I may.” He took out his notebook.

“I hope you don't want to search my clothes again. And anyway, I've already told you I don't remember much.”

“How do you live, Mr. McEvoy? I mean, how do you put food on the table, pay your rent?”

“I manage. Not easily, but I manage. I don't see what this has to do —”

“Yes, but how, specifically?”

“I'm a trained draftsman.” He straightened his shoulders. “I get the odd bit of drafting. Nothing steady. But there's always building going on.”

“Did you ever get any work from Mr. Asseltine?”

Peter shifted on the bunk. “Well, not directly, exactly. But he was well-connected. Sometimes he would give me a name.”

“A name? Someone to contact for work?”

“Yes. I don't see the relevance —”

The on-duty constable came back with a pitcher of water and a tin cup. He put it on the washstand and took his leave. Peter poured a cup unsteadily and drained it, his Adam's apple pumping in his thin neck.

“And apart from that, it was money won at cards?”

“Just when I needed something to tide me over. It wasn't —”

“And Mr. Asseltine was always a willing player? And one you could usually beat quite handily?”

“Usually —” Peter jerked his head up. “— Look, I know my rights. Gambling under the Criminal Code doesn't apply to games of poker between friends.”

Setter looked up from his notes. “You and Asseltine were friends, then?”

“We were friendly. Is that so hard to believe?” Peter was now quite flushed.

“McEvoy, a gaming charge is the least of your worries. I want to know how things stood between you and Asseltine.”

“He owed me money and I needed it. It's really quite simple.”

“Yet when we searched you, you had no money on you, though there was money in Asseltine's wallet and money in the safe. Can you explain that?”

Peter drank from his cup and looked down into it. “Maybe he misunderstood about the amount. Fifty dollars. I can't …”

“You had an argument?”

“No. That is, I don't think so. I don't remember arguing with him.”

“Mr. Asseltine had more than enough money to cover the debt between what was in his wallet and the money in the safe. Was he —”

“A bilker? A piker?” Peter was looking out at the hall, almost talking to himself. “No. Not before at any rate. He was a straight enough fellow, even after a few drinks.”

“And he opened the safe?”

“I suppose so. The safe was open. I remember that. And papers on the desk.”

“Papers from the safe? Did you see any of them or read them?”

“No. They had nothing to do with me. They were just there.”

“And there were some on the floor?”

“There may have been. But I didn't touch them. I was there for the money that was owed to me. I can't remember what …” He put his hands up to his face. “It's a blur, that's all. If I could explain it, don't you think I would have by now?”

Setter flipped the cover of his notebook over. “Thank you, Mr. McEvoy. That'll be all for now.” As he stood up, he pulled something out of his pocket and laid it on the bunk. “In case you need something to read in the morning. I wouldn't let the on-duty constable see it, if I were you. Sorry I can't leave the lamp.” Peter took the newspaper and shoved it under the mattress.

R
osetta
closed the door of the darkroom and fastened the thick, rubberized canvas apron so that it was snug about her waist and its bib was taut against the front of her shirtwaist. “If a customer rings down below, Sergeant, they'll just have to wait or come back later. Mrs. Harbottle has one of her sick headaches.”

Setter brightened noticeably at this news. He was always acutely aware of people who did not approve of him and after one brief meeting; Mrs. Harbottle had fit the bill. “That's unfortunate,” he said. “I hate to think of you losing customers because of me, Mrs. Cliffe. Perhaps you'd better charge me more.”

Rosetta shook her head. “Or perhaps I should hire you in place of Mrs. Harbottle. You've shown more interest in darkroom technique in three months than she has in three years. And your questions have been more than thorough.” She removed a pair of wooden tweezers with rubber tips from a hook on the wall and placed them on the counter. “But now you'll have to be quiet and let me get on with it.”

“Sorry. Too much thinking out loud to myself, I suppose. It's a habit of people who live alone.”

“I know what you mean. The house gets very quiet when Ellie goes back to school. Sometimes I'm not sure whether I've actually said something out loud or just thought it.”

“If you shared an office with Constable Smithers, that question would be answered for you. I often catch him looking at me with a vague, alarmed expression.”

Rosetta laughed and he smiled broadly. She had firmly refused when he first asked if he could observe how contact prints were made but after his sixth or seventh request she relented — only on condition that he keep quiet, stay out of her way, and tell no one.

That last got his back up a little. Was she ashamed to be seen with him? But then when he told her that he was not an Indian, but rather a half-breed, and that his people had been farming here in St. Andrew's Parish since the 1840s, she had actually laughed and said that back then her own family were still mucking out byres for the toffs in Ireland. There was a warmth in that joke that made him think she wasn't bothered much about his brown skin. That only left the fact that he was a man. Well, if that was it, she needn't worry. No matter how much he wanted to, and he often wanted to quite a lot, he had never known what to say to a lady to turn the conversation to softer things. How the devil did other fellows manage it while he stayed tongue-tied? Not that he would say such things to Mrs. Cliffe, of course. There was an invisible boundary between them that he must not cross if he wanted their professional association to continue.

Setter stood as far back as he could since the darkroom had not been built for two. This was his second time observing but he still had to curb his habit of trying to see everything close up, as it was happening. He liked being there with the red safety sleeve over the gaslight creating velvety shadows, watching the images slowly forming on the paper, the lines cutting in until they reached a burning clarity. Maybe he would even invest in a camera of his own and try his hand at darkroom work. Give him that interest outside of his work that Crossin was always at him about.

Rosetta took down a series of brown glass bottles from the shelves above the counter and filled three large enamel pans with chemicals. She replaced the glass stoppers with a brisk,
thrip
.

Grasping the photographic paper by its edges, she carefully removed it from the wooden developing box and immersed it in the first enamel pan. As she bathed the paper gently by manipulating it with the tweezers, the image began to appear. Once she had moved the print along its liquid way into the fixer and then into the washing bath, he would be able to ask questions. She fished the sheet out of the bath, holding it by its top edge and hung it to dry on the clothes line, then turned to place another negative in the box and repeated the whole process until fifteen prints hung on the line. They recreated the scene in Martand's office, its masculine opulence marred by the sprawled body and displaced furniture and papers cast along the desktop and across the rich Turkish carpet.

“Yes, wonderful. Already I had forgotten some of the details but now I have them back again,” he said. “The depth of field you achieved is splendid. I wondered — could you take a close-up of a very small object?”

“How small?” she said.

Setter reached into his inside jacket pocket and drew out a white envelope. He removed something from it and set it on her work table. She was hanging a wet print on the line and returned to pick up the object.

“A button? Is it the one you found on the floor?” she said.

“Yes. Can I see the one that shows the desk?” He went over to the dripping prints on the line. “Yes. This one. Here's the button lying by the leg of the desk.” He pointed with his pencil.

She peered at the photograph. “Yes, I see it.”

“I wondered if you could photograph the button again, both sides, very close up.”

“Yes, I expect I can. I'll use my new camera — the one I use for botanical illustrations for the university. Why do you want me to photograph it again?”

“I want to avoid showing the button itself as much as possible. And Smithers can double my efforts by using photographs in his inquiries.”

She slipped the safety sleeve off the gaslight and held the button up to the lamp. It was made of mother-of-pearl and tinted a greenish-blue. “Pity we can't show it in colour. It's quite an unusual colour for a man's button.”

“You think it could belong to a lady?” Setter crowded under the lamp with her and squinted at it. “It matches the size of my jacket and vest buttons so I just assumed — I'm afraid fashion — for either sex — is an unknown land to me.”

“I could say the same. But some of the new ladies walking suits are quite mannish. I'm just not sure. You think this button is important, then?”

“Yes. Of course we may yet find that it was innocently dropped by one of Martland's clients and missed by the cleaners, or —”

“Or there was someone else there, someone besides McEvoy and Mr. Asseltine?”

Setter was unaccountably pleased. It had taken Smithers a while to reach that conclusion. Then he remembered himself. “Er — yes, possibly so; but it could still be just a wild goose chase.”