Put on the Armour of Light (19 page)

“Recognize him? Any idea what he wanted?”

“Never saw him before. But — hold on, I think this may have something to do with it.” He was trying to extricate the papers, which with all the exertion had worked their way some distance down the back of his trousers. “Where'd you come from, anyway?” He inspected the package for damage.

“Been trying to find you. Conscience bothering me. What's that you've got?”

“This — believe it or not — is the package Trevor was going to show you this morning.”

“Well, I'll be damned. Where did you get it?”

Charles explained about the key and described the contents of the envelope.

“If we can go to your office, you can look them over.”

“No.”

“No? No! I just risked life and limb to get these to you, you know. The least you could do is look at them, for pity's sake.”

“I know, I know. That was what I wanted to explain to you — why it was I couldn't lend you a hand with the chief today.”

“Well, I certainly could have used one. But I thought you didn't believe me — like the others.”

“Not at all. We — the inspector and I — thought there was definitely something to your story.”

“Well, why the devil didn't either of you speak up?”

Setter pushed his fingers slowly through his hair, pulling it off his forehead, and looked past Charles to a point down the street. “The thing is, it's pretty clear the chief is seeing this case from a particular point of view — and he seems blind to any other view.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just before you arrived at the police station this afternoon, I saw Frank Martland leaving the chief's office.”

S
mithers
was taking his turn on the night desk, something he didn't mind since it allowed him time to catch up on his assignments. At Sergeant Setter's suggestion, he was taking classes two nights a week to gain his senior matriculation certificate. Nellie was proud of him but it meant he was only able to see her on Sundays. Just as he was counting out the scansion on
Horatius at the Bridge
, the front door of the station flew open and banged against the door stop. Rosetta Cliffe appeared in the doorway and called back to someone as yet unseen.

“Don't hang back, Mr. Fescue. This will only take a minute.” She held the door open.

“But — Mrs. Cliffe — it's the police station. Would it be too much trouble to tell me what in hell we're doing here?”

“Everything will become clear very soon, Mr. Fescue. Now please just come in. We haven't a moment to lose.”

A young man with dark curls falling into his eyes stalked through the door and followed Rosetta up the steps to the night desk looking equal parts exasperated and wary.

“Mrs. Cliffe? Good evening. What brings you here?” Smithers took in the thin young man outfitted in a floppy bow tie and a vest in a contrasting colour to his jacket. The whole effect was pleasing though it became apparent that the clothes had not been intended to be worn together and that his shirt was on the edge of threadbare.

“Good evening, Constable,” Rosetta said. “Is Sergeant Setter here?”

“He was, but I'm afraid he's gone out. Can I help?”

“I hope so. This is Desmond Fescue. He does artwork for me when I need it. Lettering, background painting, and layouts — that sort of thing.”

“I am a professional artist, Constable,” Fescue said. “A painter.”

“You mean — like, painting pictures?”

“Yes. I mean painting pictures, though in this miserable backwater no one would know a good painting from a sack of flour and I've had no commissions — unless you count the portrait I made of Homer Allison's prize sow.” He swept his hand toward Rosetta. “Hence my resorting to Mrs. Cliffe's soul-destroying piece work.” He added, with a sigh, after Rosetta had glowered at him. “Which, nevertheless, has been most welcome.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Fescue. Has there been some difficulty? Do you want to report a crime?”

“Not in the least, Constable,” said Rosetta. “Look at his jacket.”

“What, oh! My lord. Where? — Just a minute. Mrs. Cliffe, take him into Sergeant Setter's office, just there, around the corner — and don't let him get away.”

“Now, wait a minute. I've done nothing wrong. I protest this violation of my rights as a British subject —”

“Oh, for heaven's sake, Fescue. We're not arresting you. Just your jacket. Now come along.” Rosetta took Fescue by the arm and led him, still protesting, down the hall to the small office Smithers shared with Sergeant Setter.

Smithers ran around the end of the counter, shouting, “Archie? Archie! Come up here and take the desk for a minute, will you?” There was a faint acknowledgement from the basement and Smithers joined Fescue and Rosetta in the cramped office.

“Right. Let me see them up close.” Smithers sat on the edge of Setter's desk and grabbed the front of Fescue's jacket, pulling him forward in his chair. Smithers stared intently at the buttons. “Mrs. Cliffe — centre drawer of the sergeant's desk — could you fetch me the picture?”

Rosetta pulled open the desk drawer, scrabbled around briefly, and came back with her own photograph. Smithers held the photograph up against one of the buttons on the jacket.

“It's perfect, isn't it?” Rosetta said. “It's a perfect match. And see, there's one missing on the cuff. Imagine my luck. He just came walking into my shop.”

“Look. I didn't steal it, if that's what you're implying.”

“Mr. Fescue. This is very important.” Smithers still had him by the lapels. “When did you come by this jacket?”

“Whose bloody business is it of yours when I got it? And while you're at it, let go of my damn lapels!” Smithers let go and Fescue sat back in his chair, pulling his jacket back into shape.

“Mr. Fescue,” Smithers said. “Your answers to these questions may make the difference between a man hanging or going free. Now, what do you say? Tell us when, how and where you came by this jacket.”

“Well, why didn't you say that in the first place, Constable.” He gave a final tug to the sleeves of his jacket and adjusted his bow tie. He looked around the office. “I just hope my old mother in Lincolnshire never has to hear about how I was forced to admit to wearing another man's cast-off clothes.”

“Come to the point!” Rosetta cast her eyes to the ceiling.

“Very well. Just because a man is down on his luck doesn't mean he can't present a dashing figure to the world. I've made it my business to know where the finest second-hand apparel can be found. On Mondays, they always have fresh things at the church and on my regular pass through there yesterday, I found this — if I may say — very stylish coat there.”

“Which church?”

“Dufferin Avenue Presbyterian,” Rosetta said, in triumph. “It's Mr. Lauchlan's church.”

“Well, what do you know!” Smithers rose from Setter's desk with a small, excited, hop. “I wonder if they keep track of where their used clothing comes from?”

“The only way to find out is to go to the church,” Rosetta said. “Pity it's so late. I suppose it will have to keep until the morning.”

“No it won't. Mr. Lauchlan is living at the church while he's minding McEvoy. I'll go right away.” He grabbed Rosetta's hand and shook it vigorously. “Mrs. Cliffe — on behalf of Sergeant Setter and myself — you've been a great help and I thank you most sincerely. And Mr. Fescue. My thanks as well.”

Fescue gave a bemused smile, which faded when Smithers began to strip him of the jacket. “Hey!”

“Sorry, sir. But I'll need to take this with me.”

C
harles
and Peter busied themselves making tea and toast, trying to create as little noise as possible in the high-ceilinged church kitchen while Setter sat at the kitchen table, engrossed in the contents of the manila envelope. Occasionally Setter made a slight “ah” noise or a “ha” and a brief nod to himself as he turned the pages of the account book and ran his finger down them, matching the loose sheets to the small, neat entries. Then he closed the account book, arranged the papers into a tidy sheaf and stuffed them back into the envelope.

Charles and Peter sat down with their mugs and waited for Setter to speak.

“Yes, well.” He patted the envelope. “Looks genuine — and if an accountant confirms our suspicions — definitely incriminating. Martland would have every reason to try to prevent us from seeing this.”

“And every reason to get rid of his partner, too,” Charles said.

Setter sat back in his chair, tilted his head to one side and looked at Charles through half-closed eyes. “Now. What makes you say that?”

“Well, put two and two together,” Charles said, pulling his chair closer. “Asseltine and Martland hadn't been on the best of terms for some time. Add to that the fact that Asseltine was drinking and gambling more. What if he inadvertently disclosed something about the fraud?”

“Well, yes, Asseltine was probably worrying Martland, but — how do you know all that?”

“Well, um. I made a — sort of — condolence call on Mrs. Asseltine — while she was at her husband's office,” Charles tried not to blush, but that made it worse, “ — and it just came out that there was some kind of friction between Asseltine and Martland. I think Asseltine was afraid Martland was trying to force him out.”

“This came out during a condolence call?” said Setter. “You might have told me, you know.”

“I was busy being beaten to a pulp. And your attitude in the chief's office was not encouraging of further disclosures.”

“All right, all right.” Setter put up his hands. “You have a point. I wish I knew what the woman is playing at, that's all. You say she was at the office? What was she doing there?”

“Checking through the books of Martland and Asseltine with the finest of tooth combs, apparently. And I can tell you, Martland doesn't like it one bit.”

“You saw him, too?” Setter ground his teeth.

“But wait a minute,” Peter said. “If Martland was trying to force Asseltine out of the company wouldn't Asseltine go right to the police with evidence of the fraud?”

“That's what I've been wondering about,” said Setter. “But Asseltine would have to incriminate himself in the process. Maybe that was Martland's little insurance policy. Maybe he was just trying to force Asseltine into a more minor role — you know — trying to limit his ability to give the game away. Asseltine wouldn't have much leverage to prevent it.”

“But it would be so much tidier and surer to kill Asseltine outright, don't you think?” Charles gave a flourish with his hands, setting the scene. “I can see how he did it. He has Asseltine watched. Martland knows the drill; he knows that Asseltine needs to get into the safe in his office to pay off some card sharpie. All Martland has to do is get to Asseltine before said sharpie arrives. Bob's your uncle, Pete turns up right on schedule to take the blame.”

“Yes, that's right. It makes perfect sense,” Peter said.

“And after what Martland did to me — and other things he's done — why would he stop at murder, if the stakes were high enough?” Charles said.

“Well, yes, but …” Setter sat back in his chair and pulled at his collar where it irritated the skin of his neck. “The problem is, I don't think that Asseltine was deliberately killed. I didn't think so that night when I saw his body. And I don't think so now. It just doesn't —”

Before Setter could finish, there was the sound of a door slamming and footsteps in the hall.

“Charles? Where are you?”

“We're in the kitchen.”

Her voice preceded her into the room. “Wait till you hear. It wasn't Trevor! He wasn't on that train — oh? Sergeant?”

Setter got up and nodded in her direction. “Miss Skene, hello.”

“Setter's been reading the papers — and we've figured it all out. Pete's off the hook for sure!” Charles was giddy and swept her off her feet, twirling her around. Peter and Setter watched them, Peter with a small, nervous smile. It didn't take long for the larger view of things to settle back in like a chilling mist. Charles spun out his theory for her.

“Then it was Mr. Martland that Peter heard before he went into the office?” Maggie said.

“I think so,” said Charles. “Asseltine must have put up quite a struggle.”

Setter started to say something but Charles cut him off. “What did you say when you came in? What did Mrs. Morosnick say?”

“She said that a man got on the train for Rat Portage with fishing gear but it wasn't Trevor.”

“Would she recognize him? Was she sure?” Setter piped up.

“Yes. Completely sure. She's met Trevor.”

“Then he's likely still here in town.”

“Oh, Charles.” Maggie put her hand to her mouth. “On the promenade. Mr. Martland must have suspected that Trevor knew something about the murder! That's why he was interested in whether Trevor was with me that night. We have to find Trevor right now!”

“What did you tell him?” It was Setter.

“What? Who?”

“Martland. Was Trevor with you that night?”

“No. At first Mr. Martland thought that he was, but I told him he wasn't.”

“And that was the truth?”

“Of course! Don't you see that we have to find Trevor right away!”

Charles grabbed her hand. “We'll find him. Won't we, Setter?”

Setter did not answer right away. He had pulled out his watch and was cleaning imaginary dirt off its face with his thumb.

“Setter?”

Setter suddenly came to life and shoved the watch back into his vest pocket. “I've got to go back to the station and organize a search party. Chief be damned. You three will stay out of it and leave it to me. This is still police business.” He put his hat firmly on his head and as he was walking by Maggie, he paused and said, quietly. “Try not to worry. We'll find him. I was never so sure of anything in my life.” He marched down the hallway with the envelope under his arm and called back, “I'll send word when I know something.”

The three left in the kitchen felt suddenly like actors dressed for a performance that have just been told the production is cancelled.

“Look, there's nothing more we can do tonight. You heard Setter. It's for the best that the police are taking over now,” Charles said.

“But suppose he can't manage a proper search?” said Maggie. “Suppose he can't get enough men? The police have other things to do besides this case. I still think we should be doing something.”

“But they know how to do these things and they've got warrants to give them legal access. They'll find him faster than we would.”

“I have to hope so,” said Peter. “Imagine. Me urging the police on.” He made a face. “But it's my only chance, isn't it? If they find Trevor and make Martland talk, I could be in the clear.”

“I think Setter's going to be able to make a case against Martland, Pete. We've got a lot of hope tonight that we didn't have yesterday.” He patted Peter on the shoulder. “Could you lock up, while I walk Maggie home?”

“Right. Of course.”

Maggie was not totally convinced but she put on her shawl and seemed resigned to being walked home. Just as Charles was putting on his jacket, there was a pounding noise, insistent, echoing throughout the wooden building.

They hurried down the hall and through the door to the sanctuary. The noise was coming from the front doors of the church. Charles threw the bolt on the middle door and opened it cautiously.

“Yes? Who's there? Can I help you?”

He saw a solitary woman in a plain dress, carrying a small leather valise. She was in shadow.

“Mr. Lauchlan. You've got to help me. Please.”

“Mrs. Martland!”

“Please, you have to help me find him.”

“Come in. Come in and sit down.” He took her arm and gently pulled her through the door, and led her through the narthex and into the sanctuary. She sank down on a pew. Charles lit one of the gaslights. As he adjusted the flame, her face was revealed.

“Oh!” Maggie said and came to sit by her.

“Mrs. Martland, what's happened?”

Whatever fury had possessed her outside the church now seemed to die away. She seemed wary of the light. One of her eyes was blackened and there was a fresh cut on her lip.

Her voice was flat. “I'm sure he's there. I know Frank is holding him there.”

“Trevor?”

“How could I have believed him? I've been living in a fool's paradise, I'll never forgive myself.”

“‘Believed him'? Mrs. Martland, do you know where Trevor is?”

“I offered up my suffering to God as a sacrifice. But He turned away from me.” She hid her face with her hands.

Charles grabbed her by the shoulders, turned her toward him and gave her a shake. “Agnes! Look at me. Tell me where Trevor is.”

She looked at Charles as if from a long distance away, and tried to focus on him. “At the millwork shops — Bainbridge Millworks. Frank's company owns it.”

“Are you sure that Trevor is there?”

“Yes. Tonight after dinner I heard Frank asking cook to pack up some food. For a sick friend, he said.” She gave a small sniff of derision. “Frank has no real friends let alone sick ones. I knew right then. So many lies I've swallowed. I'm choking on them.”

Charles had to turn her face toward him again. “But how did you find out where Trevor was?”

“After that I listened outside the library door. Frank was having a telephone conversation with one of his men. He said, ‘Make sure that Bainbridge stays down in his office.' So I knew it had to be the millwork factory. I waited until Frank left the house. Then I packed a bag and came straight here.”

“I'm taking you to Mrs. Cliffe's.”

“No! You have to go and help Trevor!” She was suddenly fierce again.

“We'll get word to the police —”

“There's no time. You — please! You have to go right away.”

“All right, Agnes. All right. I'll go.”

She grabbed his hand. “Please. Please go now. Frank is not himself. I don't know what he may do.”

“Maggie can you take Mrs. Martland to Rosetta's?”

“I'll get her settled at Mrs. Cliffe's. We can send over for her things in the morning,” Maggie said.

“No,” Agnes said flatly. “No. I will not take one more thing of his.”

They did not argue with her. “I'll hire a cab for you and Mrs. Martland from Krafstadt's. You can fix her a cup of tea while you wait.” Maggie helped Agnes out to the kitchen.

Charles called after her. “Make the cabman wait for you at Mrs. Cliffe's. When she's settled, take the cab home. I'll send word to both of you the moment I know something.”

“You promise? No matter how late?”

“No matter how late.”

Peter turned to Charles and said in a hushed voice, “We should get word to Setter somehow. He only left ten minutes ago. I can find him if I go right away.”

“No. You'll break your curfew. I'll telephone the police station from Krafstadt's.”

“Waiting till you can get to Kraftstadt's just wastes time. If I run, I can catch up to Setter. And as for my bail conditions, they may not matter now.”

Charles hesitated, and then nodded. “All right. When you find Setter, tell him to come to the Bainbridge Millworks with some extra men as soon as he possibly can.” Their eyes met and each found on the other's face the same jumble of emotions: fear mixed up with a kind of boyish elation.