Put on the Armour of Light

For GKM

J
une
4, 1899

“Sergeant, if you want me to take a photograph of his head you'll have to get out of the way.”

Setter, startled by the sound of her voice, sprang up from the crouching position that he had been holding too long for the comfort of his knees. They had not spoken for almost twenty minutes and she had spent most of that time huddled underneath the black cloth that covered the back of her camera, doing mystifying things with its finely calibrated dials and settings.

“Sorry.” His voice sounded loud in his own ears. “I was thinking about the blood. Not much here, even though it's a scalp wound. Can you take the head from several angles?”

She emerged from under the black cloth, stretching gingerly. “Of course; still lifes are rather a specialty of mine — oh, mercy!” She clapped a hand to her mouth and stifled a giggle.

Setter gave her a tired smile. “It's all right, Mrs. Cliffe. A little lightness actually helps in these situations.”

He was relieved that it was only lightness she was indulging in. Rosetta Cliffe had a steadiness that was, in his opinion, unusual for her sex. If she had been prone to female histrionics, he would not have hired her for this kind of job. As it was, he had been stepping carefully around the room with his gloved hands for two hours; writing in his notebook, directing Rosetta to photograph the open safe, the desk top, the upset waste paper basket, the papers strewn on the floor, the chair on its side, confident that he could do his work while she did hers. They had only just gotten to the prostrate figure lying in front of the fireplace, his — its — head cocked at an odd angle over the fender.

If Rosetta was unnerved by the earthly remains of Joseph Asseltine, she was refusing to show it. She ducked under the cloth to recheck the focus against the ground-glass viewfinder, made a last adjustment to the stand on which the flash lamp was fastened, and pressed the shutter release. There was a loud
whump
and everything was frozen in white light, including Inspector Crossin, who had entered the room just as the flash lamp exploded.

“For God's sake, Setter. How long are you going to be at this? — Whew!” Crossin wrinkled his nose and waved his hands to clear the smoke from the spent flash powder. “I thought I told you. A few photographs to record the position of the body. Not a damned portfolio.”

“Yes, I know, sir,” Setter said. “But I felt we needed a few pictures of the rest of the room. And Mrs. Cliffe does such excellent work.”

Crossin shot an embarrassed look at Rosetta and touched the brim of his hat to her. “Mrs. Cliffe, pardon my language. Now look, Setter. I've told you before — these extras of yours are well outside our standard practice.”

“Yes, sir, but it's just extremely useful to be able to record what the murderer — if that's what he is — left for us to see.”

“What do you mean, ‘if that's what he is'? Look at this poor sod.” Crossin pointed to the unfortunate deceased. “He didn't do this to himself, you know.”

“Well, with respect, sir, we don't know that for certain and that's why I would hate to miss something. It's too late after the room has been cleared and cleaned and all the details obliterated.”

“Look — my other detectives could follow your example in the way of effort and we'd all be better off.” He dropped his voice and turned Setter slightly to the side. “But most likely we've got our man in custody already and — blast it.” He tugged his hat off and rubbed the back of his neck. “You know I have to account to the chief for every paper clip.”

“I understand that, sir.” The sergeant's lips flattened into a stubborn line. “I'll take care of it.”

Crossin shook his head, “Setter. What's to be done with you? No wonder you never have any money to go on a holiday or take some nice young lady out dancing.”

“Oh, I get along all right, sir.” He made a business out of brushing flash powder off his sleeves. “But I suppose I'll have to continue being a non-dancing stay-at-home until the chief either increases the investigation budget or raises my wages.”

“Well, you and I had better continue working in the vineyard to hasten that happy day.” Crossin pulled out his watch. “Which means me reporting to the chief now … and you getting things finished up here by 6:00 a.m. And don't speak to the press. The chief wants us to get more information out of the killer before the news gets out.”

The door closed behind Crossin and Setter stood for a moment looking after him, absently pulling at the fingers of his gloves.

“Well, Mrs. Cliffe. Let's get on with it, shall we?”

T
he
chief was less than pleased at having been roused in the middle of the night, but he stood stoically in the early morning light with Inspector Crossin, straightening the folds of his tunic while Crossin, grasping the knocker, rapped loudly on the door at the Martland house. They were a little surprised when the door opened after about fifteen seconds to reveal a pale young man who was hoisting his suspenders as he drew the door inward. He was joined almost immediately by a young woman in a house coat, her hair in braids.

“Yes? What is it?”

“Inspector Crossin, sir. This is Chief Constable McMeekin. Is Mr. Martland at home?”

“I'm Mr. Martland —”

“— Mr. Frank Martland?”

“Oh, no, of course. You mean my father. Please come in. I'll just run up and —”

“What's all this, Trevor?”

The young man turned around to face an older man descending the stairs and pulling a silk dressing gown around his night shirt.

“It's the police, Father.”

“McMeekin? What's happened?”

“Sorry to drag you out of your bed so early, Frank. I'm afraid there's been a terrible tragedy. I've just come from your offices. Joseph Asseltine was found in your office a few hours ago — dead — and there's evidence, I'm sorry to say, of foul play.”

“Lord! Angus? What is all this?” Martland brushed his hair back from his face. “What the — are you telling me he was murdered?”

“I'm afraid it looks that way.”

“Who would do that to him?”

“We have a man in custody, Frank. He was found at the scene in a drunken condition. He appears to have been one of Joe's — er — card-playing friends; something about a gambling debt.”

“You say this happened in my office? Not Joe's?”

“It appears Joe was getting money from the safe —”

“The safe, good Christ! Don't tell me the fellow got into my safe. I'll have to go there immediately.” Martland started for the stairs.

“You will certainly want to see to your office, Frank. But our people will have to finish in there first.” He turned to the inspector. “How long before Setter and that photographer woman are finished?”

Crossin consulted his watch. “Should be done by now, sir.”

“I'll just get dressed and go. Ethel, some coffee for these gentlemen. Trevor, you finish dressing and come with me.” Martland started up the stairs, followed by the young man.

“Wait, Frank —”

Martland stopped and turned.

“The thing is, Frank, one of my men will have to be with you at all times while you're on the premises today.”

“What? But these are my own offices. Are you saying I can't set foot in my own office without a constable following me around like a dog?” Martland advanced on the chief.

“That's exactly what I'm saying, Frank. For the rest of today, while we are conducting our inquiries, no one will be admitted without our authorization. I've posted a constable at the door to turn your employees away this morning.”

Martland paced up and down the foyer. “But all our most important legal documents are in that safe. And a certain amount of cash and bank information. I've got to make sure it's all still there.”

“And we need you to do that as well. It's just that you'll have Constable Smithers for company. Just a formality, you understand. Why don't you have a bit of breakfast and we'll take you to your office in my carriage.”

Martland scowled but, finally, heaving a resigned sigh, he motioned for the men to follow Ethel into the kitchen.

“I
'm
going to cast you forth into outer darkness.”

Charles picked up the blue croquet ball and cradled it against his own red ball, which he steadied with his foot. The mallet struck the braced ball with a mighty
thwack
and the blue ball ricocheted away, scudded across the lawn and came to rest in the far Caragana hedge.

“I thought you were a nobler man than that,” Maggie said.

“I was, until you did the same thing to me in the last round. Revenge!” Charles capered nimbly around the girl, then tapped his ball through two hoops in a row, hit it again toward the next set of hoops and was just taking aim when the front gate creaked open and then sprang shut. A policeman was walking across the shade-dappled lawn toward them. He looked uncomfortably warm in his dark navy serge and did not hurry but walked deliberately, tugging with one hand at the white- and blue-striped arm band to make sure that the silver service number pinned to it was at the proper angle to be seen. He touched the hard peak of his helmet and briefly inclined his head to each of them in turn.

“Good evening, sir, miss. I'm Constable Gillies. Are you Mr. Lauchlan? The Reverend Mr. Lauchlan?”

Charles looked around for his suit coat as he rolled down the sleeves of his shirt and straightened his clerical dickey.

“I'm Lauchlan, Constable, and this is Miss Skene. How did you find me?”

“Your landlady told me I could find you here, sir. You're wanted at the station house on an urgent matter.”

“What kind of urgent matter?” Charles was trying to find the sleeve of his coat as he spoke, slowly rotating backwards while Maggie danced around him, holding the sleeve taut in her outstretched hand.

“One of our prisoners wants to speak with you; I can't say anything more than that until you attend at the station, sir.”

Charles did not hide his puzzlement. “Urgent? Look, I've got to lead the prayer meeting tonight. It's the last before the fall. Can I come along after that?”

“Well, sir, my orders were to collect you and bring you back direct if at all possible.”

“Aha. Yes, well in that case I'll come right away. Maggie, tell your father I'm obliged to leave and thank your Aunt Jessie for a most excellent meal. Where's my hat? And could you send a note over to the church that I'll be late to the prayer meeting? Grand. Shall we go, Constable?”

“I'm coming with you.” Finally she managed to stuff his arm into the sleeve.

“No, you're not. A police station is no place for a young girl. Isn't that right, Constable?”

“Oh, we get plenty of young women, sir, and our new station house has some of the most modern facilities in Canada to keep them while they wait their turn with the magistrate.”

“You see, Charles. Mrs. Doolittle says that women need to see what's really happening in the world; not be shielded from the least unpleasantness.”

“Well, my respects to Mrs. Doolittle, but she's a mature woman with children whereas —”

“Exactly. And how do you suppose she got all that maturity if not from a certain amount of experience. Aren't you always telling us in Bible study that we should take our faith out into the world? And anyway, stop acting as if you're called to the police station everyday because to my certain knowledge this is the first time and you don't know what to expect any more than I do.”

Before he could be firm with her, she had disappeared into the house to tell her father that he should be prepared to lead the prayer meeting and that she must be spared to take advantage of a Maturing Experience. To Maggie's delight, they did not have to take a streetcar to the station. Constable Gillies handed her up into the police department's newest horse-drawn van, its sombre navy blue paint still fresh and smelling of polish with
WINNIPEG POLICE
stencilled in white on the side. She insisted on sharing the driver's seat with Gillies while Charles was wedged into a kind of pull-down seat behind them. Gillies shook the reins and they drew away from the curb at a stately trot.

“Look, Charles. There's Mrs. Dowdall.” Maggie pointed in the direction of a plump lady pressing a Psalm book to her bosom and striding purposefully toward the tram stop at the head of the street. “Good evening, Mrs. Dowdall.”

Charles smiled wanly and tipped his hat to the wife of his clerk of session.

This will hardly mend my fences with Dowdall,
Charles thought. He pictured the woman describing the scene to her anxious, methodical husband. “Making a display of himself by riding in a paddy wagon — with Principal Skene's daughter, of all things. And the prayer meeting to start in less than forty-five minutes!”

From his perch in the police van, Charles watched the sights of Broadway roll past. Streetcar rails bisected the wide avenue and the elms alongside the tracks — just saplings, really — did little to impede his view. After the mansard roof of the legislature on Kennedy and the red sandstone turrets of the new law courts building to the north came the ample houses of the city's first magnates. He named them off to himself as the van passed by:
Ashdown, Brydges, Robinson, Schultz. Funny how these homes, so impressive only a few years ago, now looked a little behind the times
. There was talk that the lots that were still open closer to Main Street would be taken up with blocks of apartments for the newly married young lawyers and real estate executives.

Charles tilted his face upward into a breeze that was scented with honeysuckle.
Could there be anything finer than an evening in June?
He thought.
Especially if you could spend it in Winnipeg, where we're busy giving the cities of old Canada a good shaking up
.

But then he was not out for an inconsequential evening drive. Maggie was right; he was not in the habit of “attending” at the police station. Who was the prisoner that wanted to speak with him? His church was in what the professional men and business owners of his congregation called “a bad section of town”: on Dufferin Avenue, near the grease and soot of the Canadian Pacific Railway line. He thought about the young railway and factory workers, with their rough hands and slicked-down hair, who sat in pews on the other side of the aisle from the businessmen. He would have been surprised if it were one of them. As long as they were employed they had little time to get in trouble with the law.

What about the Ruthenian families who increasingly populated the neighbourhood around the church? Many of his parishioners expected the worst from them and — to his shame — he had shared their sentiments. When raising money to build the church, he had written articles for the newspapers and given lectures at the YMCA, thundering against the stealing, bootlegging, drunkenness, and prostitution that went on near the rail yards. That was before he had been inside the shanties and tin sheds some Ruthenians had built for themselves. Using cast-off packing materials and anything else they could scrounge, their ramshackle homes occupied fetid alleyways and barren road allowances. If he had been forced to live like that, he might well be selling illegal liquor, too, or fencing stolen goods, or worse. And then the families who attended the English classes given in the parish hall had surprised him with their eagerness to learn, pushing their children into the front seats so that they could hear better. Had the summons to the police station come from one of these poor souls?

Once they had passed through the stone portico of the police station, Gillies led him up the stairs to the main floor, down a hallway, and into a cramped office in which an officer in plain clothes sat huddled over a desk covered with papers and files. He was about forty and as he murmured a distracted greeting and rustled among the papers, Charles was struck by the singularity of his features. The high bridged nose, flatter and wider at the nostrils, and the burnished expanse of cheek bone suggested native Indian blood, yet his eyes were blue, and his hair was wavy as it fell heavily in a chestnut-coloured swatch over his forehead.

Charles introduced himself and Maggie.

The officer belatedly sprang to his feet to acknowledge Maggie, his face betraying some surprise. He shook Charles's hand and bobbed his head to Maggie. “Miss Skene, how do you do? Setter. Andrew Setter. I'm sergeant of detectives for the Central Division. I'm sorry for all the secrecy Mr. Lauchlan. We haven't released the news to the papers yet. Reporters have been sniffing around here all day hoping someone would let something slip.”

“Let what slip? Sergeant Setter, what is this all about? Why have I been sent for?”

“At approximately 11:30 p.m. last evening, Mr. Joseph Asseltine was found dead in his place of business, apparently the victim of foul play.”

“Asseltine!”

“You know him then?”

“Yes — no. I know
of
him. His partner, Mr. Martland, is a member of my congregation.”

“As it happens Mr. Asseltine's body was discovered in Mr. Martland's office. The suspect was apprehended there as well.”

“The suspect?”

“Yes, soon to be the accused. That's why we called you in. He wants to speak to you. Come this way please. Miss Skene, please make yourself comfortable here until we come back.” This last was an order rather than an invitation.