Put on the Armour of Light (15 page)

T
he
Globe Hotel on Princess Street was the hostelry of choice for commercial travellers who were down on their sales quotas for the third month in a row, or farm wives on a spree with the egg money. Setter was a regular in the dining room, where Mrs. Mueller held sway. It being Sunday, no liquor service was allowed in the Globe's long, narrow beverage room, but Setter was pretty sure that they were handing bottles out through a cubbyhole in the back lane. He liked Mrs. Mueller's rhubarb pie too much to investigate further; what he didn't see couldn't hurt the Globe. He sat at his usual table by the window and pulled out the latest number of the
Lancet
. After reading only two sentences on the workings of strychnine, he put the journal down by his cutlery and stared off at nothing. Something was niggling at him about his present conduct. An under-the-counter meeting with a man charged with murder was a new experience. True, he had been forced into unorthodox methods. But there was some excitement in that, a heady rush in being out on a limb. No. What he worried about most was losing his balance. Being here, hiding out, letting himself get caught up in the feelings of an accused man and his supporters. Could he do this and still see the whole case clearly? He was still circling around this question when Lauchlan and McEvoy appeared and seated themselves at his table, both with smiles threatening to break through a determined firmness about the mouth.

“Good, good. You found the place, I see.”

“Oh yes, no trouble there at all,” said Peter. “Of course, I know the room across the hall much better than this one.”

Setter looked in the direction Peter was pointing and saw the end of the long walnut bar, with its brass railing. “Right, yes. Not much happening in there today.”

“No, but there'll be lots going on at the back.”

“Well, er, I'd prefer not to hear any more about that, if you don't mind, McEvoy.” Setter cast a cautious eye at Mrs. Mueller bustling in and out of the kitchen.

“Never mind that, now,” Charles said. “I think we hit on something important last night. It could break the case wide open.”

Civilians,
Setter thought. “Let's hear it, then.”

“I wasn't there!” Peter burst out. “Isn't that incredible?”

“I beg your —”

“We went over it — in a methodical fashion. That is, what Pete remembers of that night. And it just popped out. I wouldn't have believed it, but there it is.”

“What was it, this popping —”

“Peter remembered hearing the sounds of a struggle in Martland's office. It sounded so bad that he was afraid to go in. Don't you see? He wasn't even in the room when the struggle that killed Asseltine took place!”

Setter turned to Peter, suddenly intense.

“I was in the outer office,” Peter said, “looking at the light coming through the etched glass of Martland's office door. There were sounds — grunting, furniture being knocked over — then a crash and things went quiet.”

“Did you hear voices? Anything coherent?”

Peter shook his head. “No, no. Only grunts and the sounds of movement. No words. And that's all that came back.”

“Then you don't remember going into the office?”

“I'm afraid not. Nothing until I was sitting there looking down at Asseltine. But this is something, isn't it? Something really important. It means that someone else was there in the office before I got there. And he was the one who killed Asseltine.”

“And whoever it was, he would have had to walk right past you in order to get out of that room. You must have seen him, McEvoy.” Setter leaned toward Peter over the table. “Do you remember anything about him? Anything at all?”

Peter looked pained and shook his head. “Nothing. I've been over it and over it — by myself and with Charles. Nothing — except those muffled sounds behind that door.”

Setter sat back in his seat and said, “Hnnnnnn.”

“You don't believe me.”

“On the contrary. It's what I've suspected all along. It explains a lot — to me, at any rate. Unfortunately, it's a question of whether the jury and the judge will believe it and —”

“And all they'll see is a down-and-outer trying to save his neck by — what? — convenient recollection, I suppose.” Peter looked down at the empty plate in front of him.

“It's not enough, then?” said Charles.

“Well, not on its own, perhaps. But it's given me a lot to work on. Damned interesting development, really. Now, this will have to be kept between us for now, understand? No loose talk to anyone else.”

Peter made assenting noises but Setter saw Charles hanging back and gave him a questioning look.

“Sorry. I didn't know it was as confidential as all that. I told the Skenes at lunch. I thought Doctor Skene should know.”

“All right. No great harm there. But no one else, agreed?” Charles nodded. “And tell Dr. Skene to keep it close to his vest. Now …” Setter took out his notebook, flipped it open, and started firing questions at Peter.

T
he
possible outcomes of Peter's trial came all too clearly to Charles's mind as he watched Setter patiently questioning Peter. Death by hanging; something less for second-degree murder or manslaughter, but still a horrible calamity for someone who was fragile to begin with. That's why it wasn't enough just to prove Peter's innocence. They needed to find the person who really killed Asseltine.

But Setter appeared to have that in hand, at least, Charles hoped he did. In an effort to silence his uncertain thoughts, Charles picked up the menu and looked down the list of items without seeing them. That nagging little voice.
Why are we meeting away from the station? What is this need for secrecy about?
Justice seems to be taking a rather devious route on its way to prevailing
. A thought occurred to him and was instantly banished.
No, I should stay out of it
. The insinuating toe slid around the door again.
Why so?
Because it would not be prudent. Caution. Prudence. Let the appointed authorities do their work. And yet these words smelled of cowardice. He appealed to the light born of reason. Is it beyond the realm of possibility that the appointed authorities sometimes require a little help? And hadn't Setter already asked him to help Peter get his memories back? Wasn't that a kind of deputizing?

Well, then. But where to start? Asseltine couldn't tell them how he had died. But what if he could learn more about Asseltine from the person who knew him most intimately?

But before he could put into action that as yet formless resolve, there was the matter of Trevor. Later that evening he was standing at the church door shaking hands with his congregation following the vesper service. He saw Trevor slipping past him while Mrs. Macleod was delivering her verdict on his sermon.

“Now I don't say it wasn't good, Mr. Lauchlan. No, I don't say that. But I had hoped to hear more downright talk about the consequences of falling into sin —”

“Would you excuse me for one moment, Mrs. Macleod? — Trevor? Just a moment —” He disengaged his hand from Mrs. Macleod and just caught up to Trevor as he was going out the door.

“Trevor, did you bring your rig tonight?”

“Yes, why? Do you need a ride somewhere?”

“I do, as a matter of fact. Samuel McCorrister is ailing and I promised to visit him tonight.”

“Fine. Be happy to. He's on Smith isn't he? I'll wait for you outside.”

After Charles had changed out of his gown and tabs and had a quick word with Peter to tell him to do the locking up for the night, he hopped up into Trevor's rig and they were away. Trevor was mostly silent while Charles made inconsequential small talk.
Just postponing the hard part,
Charles thought.
Get to it now; it has to be done.

“Actually Trevor, I wasn't entirely truthful with you. I don't really have to visit the McCorristers this evening. I wanted to have a word with you. Is there someplace we can talk?”

Trevor reined in the horse, though they were in the middle of a block. “Well — I'm not sure —” He turned and looked behind and around before turning to Charles. “Is this about Mother?”

“Yes. At least partly. And about you.”

Trevor gave the walk signal to his mare. “I see.” He was quiet for a moment. “Well, if you don't mind helping me bed Daisy down for the night, we can go to my stable.”

“Fine. That'll be fine. It's been a long time since I had to see to horses.”

They went along in silence for awhile. Then Trevor said, “I'm glad you know.”

“Well, you practically insisted that I see her. Almost as if you wanted me to find out.”

Trevor let out a long sigh. “I might not always be around, you see.”

Charles nodded. “Yes. I see. Has it … has it been going on long?”

He made a curious, stiff, figure-eight movement with his head. “Coming back from university — and from school before that — I always hoped that it had stopped. He's always sorry afterwards. He always apologizes.” He turned to Charles, incredulous. “To me, of all things! He hits Mother or Clare and even sometimes Louise. Not me, unless I try to stop him. But then he'll just wait till I go out and hit her harder. It was just so much easier to be away and not have to see it.” Suddenly Trevor's chest caved in and his head bowed down until his face almost touched the reins. Charles took them out of his hands.

He never knew what to do at times like this. He had hoped that, somehow, the knowledge of what to say would have descended on him with the laying on of hands at his ordination. All he could think of now was to lean in Trevor's direction, addressing the gentling sounds, the geeing and hawing, to both horse and man. After a while, Trevor straightened up and his breath came easier. Then Charles felt it was all right to tell him about his plan, about Mrs. Cliffe.

“If only she would,” Trevor said. “But she can't seem to leave on her own. God knows I've tried to persuade her.”

“I'll do my best. I think she's starting to trust me.”

“There's the stable. Macpherson's. Just there, after the intersection. Here, I'll take them.” He took the reins from Charles.

In the stable yard a boy came out and helped Trevor unhitch the horse from the carriage. The boy and Trevor towed the carriage into the cavernous stable and jack-knifed it into its parking space while Charles led the horse down to its stall.

“If you could just get her some fresh hay, I have to get my driving coat and hang it up.”

Charles put Daisy in her stall, removed her harness and hung it up. He forked some hay into the manger, enjoying the smell of horse and liniment, leather, and manure. Trevor walked up the aisle shaking out his coat that was still damp from the previous evening. He draped it over two pegs at the side of the stall.

Charles watched Trevor carefully spreading the oiled canvas skirts of the coat, twitching and stretching it to flatten the wrinkles, and he was suddenly certain, so certain that he blurted out the conclusion before his brain was finished totting up the evidence.

“It wasn't Eklund; it was you.”

“What? What do you mean?” Trevor stopped dead.

“You bowled me over on your way out of Mrs. Gough's. The night I was called to the police station. You were wearing that coat.”

Trevor continued to fidget with the coat. There was silence between them and Charles's conviction started to ebb away.

“Of course, I could have been mistaken —”

“No. No. I suppose there's no harm in your knowing now.”

“You left me that package. Why?”

“I was afraid he'd find it. It's the one thing I've got that will do it.”

“Who? And do what?” They were whispering now.

“My father. It's the only way that's foolproof. I've got to make sure he goes somewhere where he won't be able to harm her anymore.”

“Where? I don't —”

“Prison. God knows he's done some things that should put him there for a long time.”

“You mean for the beatings?”

“Yes, but that's not good enough. It's too difficult to convict. And anyway, she won't press charges. It had to be the hotel project.”

“The Imperial?”

“Yes. The Imperial project.” Trevor moved into the stall and took a currycomb off a shelf. He murmured to Daisy and began to comb her.

Trevor's voice was so quiet that Charles had to stand right next to him at Daisy's flank to hear him. “My father cheated the investors by inflating the cost of the building and then substituting inferior materials when it was actually built. He and Asseltine pocketed the difference and invested the money in New York. I found out by accident while I was learning the business.”

“Fraud, then.”

“Yes. Fraud.” Trevor gave a small smile of satisfaction. “I've made a special study of the criminal law in relation to fraud. He could get as much as fourteen years for it.”

“Why didn't you just go to the police with the information?”

“I wanted to. But you don't know my father. He has a way of persuading people to his point of view. I had to make sure I had enough information to convict, enough that he couldn't possibly wiggle out of it. Then there was this horrible business with Asseltine. It put Father on his guard and he hid everything else that might implicate him and paid off or threatened everyone who knows something.”

“Does that include Eklund?”

“Eklund's in on it; he has been from the first. He's the one who was in charge of the real specifications for the building, the ones they used on the site. He bought all the material that went into the hotel personally. The workmen have no idea that the investors saw a completely different set of specs.”

“Haven't some of the investors toured the site?”

“That was the beauty of it. Asseltine made sure that none of the investors actually live in Winnipeg. And the architect is from Toronto, too. If one of them happened to be in town, Eklund and my father made sure they only saw the parts of the building that were built according to the specifications given to the investors. Most of the shoddy stuff is hidden in the foundation and behind walls anyway.”

“Asseltine. Did his murder have anything to do with this?”

Trevor was giving a lot of attention to some tangles in Daisy's mane. “I don't know. But everybody in the office knew about his gambling, the kind of people he associated with — drinking and betting — anything could have happened.”

“So the package contains some kind of evidence of the fraud?”

“Yes. The papers are pretty damning.”

“Why did you give them to me?”

“You were the last person my father would think of. And, well, I thought that — I hoped — that I could count on something like the privilege of the confessional.”

“You were right about that, as it happens. I felt bound to keep your confidence; at least until I found out whose confidence it was I was keeping.”

Trevor stroked Daisy's nose. “Funny. It's surprising how easy it is to talk about this, after all. So many secrets in my family; we hardly know how to tell the truth.”

“But surely you see that you have to turn these papers in to the police.”

“Yes. Yes, it's time. I had pretty much decided that already.”

“Why not get a good sleep tonight and go to the police tomorrow?”

“Yes. But it can't be tomorrow. I promised to run in the All Charities foot race tomorrow evening. If I go to the police tomorrow, they'll likely need me for questioning and I might have to miss the race. So many people have sponsored me; I don't want to disappoint them.”

“But, Trevor. There's something else you should know.”

“Yes?”

“Yesterday Peter caught Eklund coming out of our room at the church. We're pretty sure he was searching through our things.”

Trevor leaned against the railing of the stall. “Yes, I see.” He thought for a moment, pulling hair off the currycomb. “Well, they know the papers are missing and they're desperate to get them back. They must think that McEvoy got them out of the office somehow before he was arrested.” He ran his fingers down the tines of the currycomb. “And that maybe he had help.”

“But doesn't that argue for your going to the police earlier, then, rather than later?”

“If I'm right, they still aren't completely convinced that I'm the one that has them. I should be all right for another day or so if I'm careful. Don't worry, Charles. If I'm the mouse, I know how to trick the cat for a while longer.”

Charles was far from convinced of that. “I'm uneasy about this whole business, Trevor. But I suppose I can't make these decisions for you. Is there anything else I can do to help?”

“Yes. If Eklund comes around, don't let on that you know anything. Don't confront him about searching your room. Just act normally.”

“I'll do my best.”

Before going their separate ways they agreed that Charles would return the papers to Trevor in the locker room of the YMCA before the race. Trevor gave his solemn promise to go to the police with the papers on the day following the race.