I'll See You in My Dreams: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel (14 page)

Winkle, an unpleasantly plump expert in what Canadians used to call the Old Country, was picking up where he'd left off before my apparition at the window: a mirthful treatise about the role of roast beef as a culinary unifying symbol in seventeenth-century England. He trailed off on seeing me enter.

Father put on his glasses to inspect me. “We seem to have a visitant.”

“This is utterly unbearable,” said Mother.

I spread my arms wide in supplication. “I am the victim of an act of God. A landslide on the 99. Worst tie-up imaginable. I am devastated.” My alibi might ultimately be proven false when unmentioned in the morning
Province
, but at least I'd get through the night.

“Dr. Winkle, Mrs. Winkle, I am so delighted to see you. I came straight here from a weekend in the wilds, haven't had a chance to clean up. Ah, roast beef and roast potatoes … I have the combined appetites of Charybdis and Scylla.”

I assumed Father would find fault with that mythical allusion, but he contented himself with, “Roast beef, yes, as past participle, but never roast potatoes. Roasted potatoes.”

“I'll be back in a jiff.”

“A slangy abomination, young man.”

“Oh, we're dying to hear about your adventures.” Winnifred Winkle, a saccharine woman in a beehive.

In the bathroom I assessed my clothing options: one clean sweatshirt, one rumpled outdoors shirt and the mud-caked trousers I was wearing. The nobility robe would have to stay on.

Wine alone was not going to get me through this evening, so I poured myself a whisky before taking my place beside Mrs. Winkle. She entreated me again: “Oh, do tell all. You absolutely must let us in on the secret of that garment you're wearing. It's quite … magical.”

I felt bound to win them over, so I downed my whisky, poured another, and demanded the floor. I had discovered in my college years that alcohol set loose the Great Entertainer, a far more
fascinating me than the earnest stumblebum anyone may read about in
A Thirst for Justice
.

So we dined on roast beef and roasted potatoes to the merry accompaniment of sketches of meddlesome Thelma and smarmy Roscoe and cynical Bill Swift. I could tell I was doing well because of Father's darkening expression as he waited in vain to pounce on an unsustained metaphor or irrelevant allusion.

Though Mother had warned me not to talk about the “sordid details” to Winkle, Dermot's apparent death had obviously been endlessly chewed over at the university. The Winkles, after appropriate comments about how aghast and sorrowful they felt, kept pumping me for more. Mother seemed mollified – I was, after all, carrying the evening, rescuing it. The conversation was not for the ears of the cook, so she sent her away, and I laid out as much of the case as was appropriate. Not the pink panties, though – that was a little too rich a sauce for the overdone beef.

Irvine Winkle had a claim, much touted by himself, to Dermot Mulligan's friendship. I had promised myself not to mention the scurrilous talk about his relations with Gabriel, but my resolve weakened with a second glass of robust Medoc.

Winkle, who was quite pickled, laughed and shook his head at the preposterous thought that his pal had homosexual tendencies. “If a guy didn't know him, he might think he was bordering on queer, but Dermot, he was a horndog. He was getting nookie right and left.”

“Irvine!”

“He had the pick of the grad school girls. They lined up.”

“Irvine, tales out of school. Dermot was your friend.”

“Not denying. He was a good guy. Out of the mould a little, but a real good guy.” He raised his glass to Dermot's memory and we all followed suit but Father, whose frown suggested he regretted having the Winkles over.

Winnifred took up the cudgels for Irene, whom she had met once at a faculty wives cocktail party. “She's very sweet. Okay, she's no Ava Gardner, but she
adores
him.”

“So why wasn't she at commencement last year when he got his honorary D. Phil.? I've never seen him once with her, wouldn't know her from Princess Margaret.” And Irvine wasn't through with Dermot. “He had something going with the wife of Toby Schumacher, in Medieval Studies.”

“Now just stop that!”

“Come on, darling, it's all over the department. Rita Schumacher – you met her – the high-beam headlights?” He raised his glass to mine. “Maybe I've given you something to work with here, Arthur. A red herring you can throw in – your traditional jealous husband. I even heard Schumie was threatening to sue for divorce and alien–What do you call it?”

“Alienation of affections. I'm not finding it easy, Dr. Winkle, to picture the head of Medieval Studies pitching Mulligan's naked dead body into the Squamish River.”

I asked myself if the revelation of Mulligan's infidelity surprised me. Poor Irene was drab, and shared few of her husband's interests aside from his research and writing. I wasn't shocked that Dermot would be tempted but was repelled by this new perception of him, an academic bed-hopper.

The conversation eroded, as these things do, into academic gossip: a suspected homosexual ring in the Faculty Club, the scramble to cover up a faculty advisor's liaison with a prostitute, an indecent assault by a visiting Welsh poet. Over cake and coffee, Mother changed the tone with a polemic against our political leaders: Lester Pearson, with his suspect pacifist tendencies; Diefenbaker and his jettisoning of the Avro Arrow. Either would leave Canada defenceless against the hordes. Both believed in big government, and neither subscribed to the brave and serenely simple solutions of Ayn Rand.

Father was fighting sleep but interrupted her over a linguistic misuse. “We cannot be in a dilemma if we face a myriad of bad choices.” Then his eyelids drooped again, signalling the end to the evening. I sneezed – that woke him up. The Winkles dutifully rose.

I escorted them outside to their sedan while my parents waved goodbye at the door. Irvine insisted on pausing for a cigarette, a
luxury not allowed within because of Mother's asthma. Winnifred took the keys from him – “We don't want to be statistics, do we?” – and got in behind the wheel.

Leaning close, Irvine offered a final boozy confidence. “Irene let him have his affairs. That was their deal – he practically said as much. She'd cook for him and wash his underwear, type for him and do his editing, but he could fuck anyone he wanted.”

I prodded him. “This wasn't just some kind of midlife crisis?”

“More like chronic; it was like there was some kind of deep-seated need to get laid. One time over a few, we got on the subject of a memoir he hoped to write, and he mentioned how his childhood was troubled. It sounded pretty damn bad – he was seeing a priest a few times a week for counselling. That was after his sister's death. Genevieve, she was his angel. Maybe that ties in.”

“Darling, I'm
waiting.”

After they drove off I paced awhile, updating my mental bio of Dermot Mulligan. I don't know how much of what Winkle said was speculation or exaggeration; I'd seen no approaches by Dermot to female students, heard no rumours. Dr. Schumacher of Medieval Studies ought to be contacted – a task for my junior, Ophelia Moore, alienator of my own affections.

Upstairs in the split-level a bedroom light went off: Father's room. Mother's was down the hall. Mine was lower level at the back, and since I didn't have cab fare to get home, that's where I'd hibernate.

Undressing, I looked about my old, loathed room. The single bed upon which Mother caught me at thirteen, masturbating over the Eaton's catalogue lingerie pages (an episode not discussed then or mentioned thereafter). The framed certificates, the academic rings and trophies. The wall map of the ancient lands of Alexander, of Caesar. Five shelves of books, mostly texts. A desk and chair, a chess game set out for play. And something recently added, presumably brought out from storage: an array of 1940s Tinker Toys to remind me I was once and forever their child.

An old television set had been moved in as well. I turned it on and watched
Car 54, Where Are You?
until sleep came.

G
ertrude looked on, concerned, as I detonated more snot into my handkerchief. “Holy macaroni, boss, maybe you should go back to bed.”

I continued packing my briefcase. “Squamish court this morning. Can't be late.” My schnozz was flowing like a firehose, my throat inflamed. I had not clocked in yesterday after heating up to 102 degrees. Aspirins were barely keeping me upright, but however ill, I had to persuade a jeweller I had a common-law right to interview witnesses unimpaired. I wasn't ready for battle, not against Cyrus Smythe-Baldwin, Q.C.

Ophelia appeared in the doorway. “My sessions with Gabriel are being typed.”

“Did he explain how his prints got into Mulligan's wallet?”

She looked shocked. “We didn't talk about the crime scene.”

“The news is bad.” I told her about the fingerprints and cartridges. “Also, for some reason, he had a carbon copy of Mulligan's unfinished opus.”

“Gabriel mentioned that. Dermot gave it to him to read and comment on. You're sure you'll be able to handle this remand in your condition?”

“Absolutely. And finally, this.” I showed her the photos of panties snagged on a root.

“Whose are they?”

“Possibly Rita Schumacher's.”

I told her about Winkle's claim of an affair between Mulligan and Rita.

“Well, maybe that makes Irene a suspect too.”

“She follows him to his fishing hole? Orders him to take off his clothes or she'll pump him full of lead? Where would she have got a gun? They never owned one. And anyway, she's Gabriel's biggest booster.”

“Out of sorts, are we?”

I blew my nose and sniffled an apology, then assigned her to check out the Schumie rumour and to read through the paperwork Borachuk had given me. She disappeared, looking miffed. I took two more Aspirins, then headed out to my car.

I arrived late, with no time to brief Gabriel. The Squamish court was up the stairs from Yarwood's Drugstore, a made-over apartment with folding chairs. I slipped inside and sat in the back. A smattering of locals, a dozen reporters squeezed behind a table. No sign of Smythe-Baldwin, but Celia Swift was near the front with a few friends.

The traffic infractions being heard didn't merit the services of a real prosecutor, so Roscoe Knepp was playing that role, calling folks up to plead guilty or have their trial dates set. The jeweller – the acting magistrate – whose name was Yaeger, nodded a lot and spoke little.

“Usual fine for failing to signal is fifteen dollars.”

Yaeger nodded. “So ordered.”

The accused complained, “How was I supposed to know my signal light was burned out?”

Knepp: “I thought you were pleading guilty, sir.”

“I ain't guilty.”

I was distracted by movement at the press table. Smythe-Baldwin had just popped in, hale and portly, a version of Colonel Sanders with his manicured goatee. He looked about, spotted me, and came over.

“I have had you investigated, young man, and the reports are in your favour. Your pro bono work speaks equally as well of you as your many successes.”

“Better not come too close, Mr. Smythe-Baldwin. I have a rotten cold.”

“I never catch colds, though medical science cannot explain why. It's not healthy living, I can assure you of that. Let us not interrupt these vital proceedings.”

I followed him outside into the cool but dry morning air. I declined his offered cigar; he snipped the end off his, rolled it in his mouth, withdrew it, studied it, studied me. “I talked to Gene Borachuk. Sticky business, I must say.”

“A dilemma for him.”

“I am persuaded to give you an advantage. I shall not lead evidence of that interview with Knepp and Jettles. However, your chap made an earlier claim to have been with Miss Joseph all day. That, and her contradiction of it, will remain an important part of Her Majesty's case.”

That earlier claim had occurred during a strained conversation with Borachuk and Grummond in a patrol car. “There was no caution, no warning about his rights of any kind, Mr. Smythe-Baldwin.”

“Smitty – my friends call me Smitty. No warning was necessary. Your fellow wasn't a suspect at the time.” He planted the cigar in his mouth and lit up.

I blew my nose. “Bollocks, Smitty.”

“Then let us deal with that when the time comes. Motive remains a problem. A lover's quarrel has been widely suggested. Very tasty, and we shall be working that one up.”

That, I suspected, would be time wasted. He obviously wasn't aware that Mulligan had achieved some minor fame in academia as a ladies' man.

“One wonders why, after the dirty was done, he played about with Mulligan's wallet. Robbery? Unlikely. The theory I favour is that he was seeking to find and remove any evidence of their secret relationship. A love poem? A full-frontal naked photo?”