Soldier of the Horse (2 page)

The court clerk stood and read the charge. “That you, Thomas Henderson Macrae, did, on December first, nineteen hundred and fourteen, aid and abet the escape from jail of one Jack Kravenko, lawfully confined. How do you plead?”

Tom was about to croak, “Not guilty,” when the door at the back of the courtroom banged open. John Evans, King's Counsel, partner in Winnipeg's largest and most prestigious law firm, strode down the centre aisle.

“Your Honour, I have not yet had a chance to meet with my client.”

Tom felt as surprised as the judge looked.

Judge Dansing was not to be thrown off. “I'll take that as a ‘Not guilty.' You can meet with him to your heart's content, because I am remanding the accused in custody for ten days.”

Ten days! Tom's stomach heaved, and he felt a rush of blood to his face. He heard a gasp and turned to see his mother's hand at her mouth, her eyes wide. How could any judge, even Dansing, do this to him, to his family? He swung to face the bench but the judge was gone, and the cops dragged him down from the dock and out of the courtroom.

Minutes later, Tom was in a cell on the top floor of the police station. He sat on the lower bunk and gazed at the steel wall three feet in front of him, rubbing his wrists. The handcuffs and leg irons were gone but the pain remained. The pain, and the anger.

He looked around his iron box and felt a stab of claustrophobia. Stretching his arms, he easily touched the front and back walls—under six feet. Even less from side to side. Half of the front wall was a barred door and the other half a rusting metal plate. Two bunks, a toilet, and a wash basin were squeezed into the spartan, white space.

Steel-shod boots clicked on the wooden floor of the passage outside his cell, and Tom pushed his head against the bars on the door so he could look down the hall a few feet. A scuffling noise and muffled curses accompanied what Tom could now see were two policemen with a rumpled, unsteady figure between them. It was Henry Zink, the man to whom Tom owed his recent professional standing. Zink groaned and muttered. A miasma of sweat, cigar, and rye whiskey assailed Tom as he watched. The jailers pushed Zink into the adjoining cell and slammed the door behind him. Keys rattled as the lock clicked home.

“That you, Tom?” Zink rasped. Tom could hear him shuffling to the front of his cell.

The two men stood facing the wall opposite their cells, shoulder to shoulder but for the thin metal barrier between them.

“Henry, what's going on here? I've been charged with aiding and abetting Bloody Jack's escape. How did he get out?”

“I don't know much more than you do, Tommy-boy. The police are looking for Bernie Inkmann too.”

So Inspector Boyle was casting a large net, hoping to land Inkmann, who did odd jobs for Zink and had once been Zink's student, the position now held by Tom. Boyle was out to arrest the entire legal crew.

“Have they charged you, Henry?”

“I think they're just holding me until they can interview everyone. Then I expect to be out of here.” Zink's whiskey-soaked breath wafted into Tom's cell.

Tom gripped the bars on the door, his knuckles white. Why would Zink get out when he couldn't?

Zink lowered his voice and spoke again. “Here's the deal, Tom. The cops will charge Bernie Inkmann, just like they did you. They think you and Bernie worked the escape with Bloody Jack. Maybe he promised you a cut of his stolen loot. Now, I can help you with all this.”

What? Tom thought. Where is this coming from? He couldn't get his mind around what Zink was saying. “I didn't do anything! What do you mean, you can help?”

“I'm going to get a clean bill of health from my friend Inspector Boyle, once I get to talk to him. I want you and Bernie to own up to smuggling in the gun and I'll work my tail off to get you both reduced sentences. You'll be out in no time and I'll make sure there's money in an account for you.”

“Gun? What gun?”

“Oh, you know about the gun, don't you, Tom? The one you picked up and delivered—not that I'm saying where to. Hell, you can say you didn't know it was loaded, or Jack said he'd only use it to scare the guards, or something.”

“That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. I didn't smuggle in any gun.” If Henry had his way, Tom would be in jail and Henry would be out, free as a bird. “You're as bad as Inspector Boyle, making things up.” Tom tried unsuccessfully to stop his voice from shaking.

“Calm down, young Tom. Think it over. Once I'm on the outside I can do you a lot of good.”

Any solidarity he had ever felt with Zink drained from Tom in a rush. “Just like you did a lot of good for Bloody Jack,” he exploded. “What are you going to do—smuggle a gun in to me, too?”

“Don't get smart, Macrae. I'll deal with you, and I'll deal with anybody who goes against me.” Zink's voice hardened. “Anyone thinks Henry Zink is done for is in for a big surprise.”

Tom heard his boss back away in his cell and flop onto the bunk. Heavy breathing turned into loud snores. Tom stood at the bars for a long time, staring out.

♦  ♦  ♦

They came for him early next morning. Tom was dog-tired after a restless night, his six-foot frame cramped in the tiny cell. His life was spinning out of control and he didn't know how to stop it, his mental turmoil overshadowing the ongoing pain in his scalp where the policeman had walloped him.

The jailers handcuffed him, marched him down the stairs, and loaded him into a horse-drawn paddy wagon, which jolted ahead. Tom jammed himself into a corner so he wouldn't bounce around, shivering as the bare wooden bench sucked the warmth from his body. The wagon swayed and clattered through the chilly dawn; Tom could make out, through the small barred window, that they were going south on Main Street. When the driver called “Whoa,” the wagon creaked to a stop and one of the cops pulled him out into the faint light, where Tom recognized the back of the main courthouse. He had no time to collect himself before his escort pushed him through a doorway marked
POLICE ONLY
and up a flight of stairs.

The policemen sat him down in an interview room where they removed the handcuffs, leaving him alone, and took up station just outside the open door. A few minutes later John Evans came in and shut the door behind him.

Tom straightened. Besides being a big-shot lawyer, Evans was the father of Ellen. Good lord, what must Ellen think when she heard about all this?

John Evans was a slim, immaculate figure in a three-piece suit. “Your father has asked me to advise you.”

Tom wasn't sure he needed advice. What he needed was to turn back the clock, get out of this mess. “I really don't know what's going on.”

“I think you may know more than you're letting on. But never mind that for now. I'm not comfortable acting for you. For personal reasons. And because nobody knows where the police investigation will go next.” Evans paused. “I must attend to something right away, but I'll be back in a few minutes. You can decide if you want me to help you, or not.” He turned on his heel and walked out.

This was a nightmare, a nightmare parallel to the one Tom sometimes dreamed in which he had to run from terrible danger but could move at only a tenth his normal speed. Like trying to run in water up to his waist. But this time he was up to his neck.

For years, Tom had looked forward to becoming a lawyer. His family had scrounged and saved so he could go to university. He looked up to lawyers—ironically, he had even looked up to Henry Zink. Zink had a colourful history, but what mattered to Tom was completing articles so he could be called to the bar. He wanted to share in the camaraderie and professionalism of the lawyers he had met; he wanted to help people, and he wanted to make money and gain the respect it would bring. But back in his cell, Zink was talking like a crook.

Tom was in big trouble, and John Evans, King's Counsel, wanted to “advise” him. But Tom knew Evans had some sort of problems of his own, in spite of the lawyer's position. What would be next—advice that Tom should plead guilty?

♦  ♦  ♦

Only a few weeks before, on the day Tom met John Evans for the first time, the Portage Avenue streetcar had bumped and rumbled west along the avenue of the same name. There was nobody in it but the driver, Tom, and a sixtyish, well-dressed woman who glared at him through tiny glasses perched on the end of her nose. A Union Jack brooch clung to her ample bosom. In her spare time she'd be knitting socks for the boys going overseas and no doubt was wondering why he, young and fit, wasn't with them.

He scanned the front page of the
Free Press
. The British government—and hence Canada—had declared war on Germany barely a month before. Now, in early September of 1914, the professional soldiers of the British Expeditionary Force and the French army had been staggered by the German army's rush through Belgium. British and French alike were struggling with Germans on the outskirts of Paris. In response to these doleful circumstances, Canadian recruiting offices had been overwhelmed with volunteers; the Canadian Expeditionary Force was mustering in Valcartier, Quebec, where it prepared to cross the Atlantic to save the Empire. Well, the Canadian army could do it without Tom. He was an articled student of the law with a fine career beckoning.

He left the newspaper on the streetcar when he got off and walked the three blocks south to John Evans's home on Wolseley Avenue. A whiff of burning leaves spiced the clear fall air; the elm trees that lined the street glowed green in the late afternoon sun. Winnipeg was the largest city in western Canada, the Gateway to the West. Located at the strategic junction of the Red and Assiniboine rivers, it boasted electric streetlights and the magnificent Walker Theatre, an opera house that rivalled anything in eastern Canada.

Tom was nervous about this, the first Evans garden party to which he had been invited. The parties were a fixture of the season, a must for up-and-coming young lawyers and other professionals, and many of Winnipeg's leading lights would be there. And with any luck, some eligible young women.

Tom walked up to the brass-studded door and banged the knocker. While he waited he took a quick look around at the expensive homes with their well-tended lawns. Two years earlier, while he was in university, he had worked for the summer installing sewers two blocks over. He was finished with crawling in muddy ditches and damn glad of it.

Steps echoed from inside the house and the door opened. An older man in grey striped trousers and a charcoal jacket stood to one side, his face neutral.

Tom stuck out his hand. “Tom Macrae, Mr. Evans. How do you do?”

The man ignored his hand. “I am the butler, sir. This way.”

The butler turned away and Tom followed him in. He could feel his cheeks burning. Great start, Tom.

They walked through the house, dark after the brilliant outdoor light, and out to a back garden with an acre of lawn, scattered flowerbeds, and ornamental trees. The butler approached a dapper, elegant man in his fifties, speaking to a girl who looked to be in her late teens, and an elderly couple.

“Mr. Tom Macrae,” the butler intoned.

The dapper man, who had a well-barbered head of grey hair and a thin mustache, gave Tom a cool smile and a hand to shake. “John Evans, Mr. Macrae. Welcome to our annual affair.”

The other couple meandered off, but the girl stayed. She had a direct gaze, blue eyes, and a spray of freckles. She was tall, almost as tall as Tom, and her chestnut hair cascaded to her shoulders.

“Aren't you going to introduce us, Daddy?” she asked, as she linked her arm in her father's.

“Of course, my dear. This is Mr. Tom Macrae, an articled law student. He works for Henry Zink, one of our . . . more colourful criminal lawyers.”

The girl made a small movement of her head and shifted her body slightly, the movement striking Tom as somewhere between the start of a curtsy and a royal nod. He reluctantly turned back to John Evans, who was still speaking. “Mr. Macrae, my daughter Ellen. She has been attending school in the east.”

Tom took in Ellen's willowy, fashionable shape, draped in a demure blue dress that failed to hide her appealing figure.

“You work for Mr. Zink?” she asked. “Then you'll know all about Bloody Jack Kravenko. Have you met him?”

“Oh, I've met him right enough,” Tom replied, and was about to let some titillating detail slip to keep Ellen's attention. His recent working days had been spent with Henry Zink and Kravenko, preparing for Bloody Jack's murder trial.

John Evans frowned and interrupted. “Now, I am sure Mr. Macrae doesn't want to talk about clients. And I see more guests have arrived. Come along, Ellen, and we'll say hello.”

Evans guided Ellen away, but as he did so, she looked back at Tom with a quick, direct glance and a conspiratorial smile that made him feel lightheaded.

A punch bowl and sandwiches were set up on a table under the rustling leaves of a willow tree. Tom wandered over and helped himself to a glass of punch. It looked innocuous, a neutral yellowish liquid with pieces of fruit floating in it, but his first sip revealed a refreshing citrus tang, followed by a slight tingle. He refilled his glass, and turned as a tall, khaki-clad man marched up to stand next to him. Calf-high leather boots glistened below the uniform of a lieutenant in the Canadian army.

“I'm told you are Henry Zink's latest student,” he said, in what to Tom sounded like a vaguely English accent, while ladling a measure of punch into a glass.

“I am.”

“I'm Cedric Inkmann. You must know my brother Bernard.”

“Of course.” Tom knew the Inkmanns were well connected in Winnipeg—indeed, Canadian—society. Cedric was a larger version of his brother, who continued to work for Zink in some ill-defined role. “How long have you been in the army?”

“Years,” Inkmann said. “In the militia. Now that war has been declared I'm on active duty. I work at Winnipeg Depot, on training staff. Bit of a challenge, teaching farm boys to march.”