Put on the Armour of Light (8 page)

Charles removed the napkin from his belt and walked to the front hall. He could feel the sick regret welling up in his chest. When he got to the door, he saw Erling Eklund standing just inside, cap in hand and still in his work clothes.

“Eklund, hello. What brings you here?” Charles said. Dr. Skene had followed him and he was vaguely aware of the women clattering dishes in the kitchen.

“Evening, Reverend, Doctor.” Eklund nodded his head in Dr. Skene's direction. “I wanted to get this estimate for the beam replacement to you right away. Mr. Martland has seen it.” If Eklund had overheard the argument, he gave no sign. He handed Charles a sheet of paper.

“That's really very good of you. Thank you for tracking me down.” Charles tried to cover his embarrassment. “Sorry I had to leave you to carry on by yourself yesterday.”

“That's all right, sir. I know you have other claims on your time. Do you have any idea when we might get on with the new beam? We don't want to leave those temporary supports too long,” Eklund said.

“Well, I'm trying to get a meeting of my board together tomorrow afternoon. Let's see what we have here.” Charles read the estimate while the other men looked over his shoulder. He looked immediately for the total at the bottom of the page and was relieved at both the amount and the presence of Frank Martland's scrawled signature beside it. He asked Eklund a few questions and Dr. Skene made some suggestions about the way in which the information should be presented to the board, of which he was a member.

“Charles, something's happened!” Maggie's voice was urgent. Her face appeared over Dr. Skene's shoulder.

“What is it?”

“We can't find Mr. McEvoy! He was here but now he's vanished,” she said.

He asked, but Maggie had been through the whole house. Peter was gone.

Charles raked his hand through his hair. “Idiot! Why did I lose my temper?” He looked frantically out at the street. “Which way do you think he went? I'll have to find him somehow.” He grabbed his hat out of the hall closet and rushed past Eklund, shouting at Maggie not to follow him. She made for the door anyway but her father caught and held her fast.

“No, dear. No. Let Charles go after him,” he said.

Charles loped down the street, looking in every direction when he reached the corner of Balmoral and Broadway. There wasn't a sign of Peter. He asked a man watering plants on his verandah whether he had seen Peter. He had. He described seeing a man in a somewhat ill-fitting dark suit walking quickly in the direction of downtown.

M
aggie
sat on the verandah steps with her German grammar book balanced on her knees. She had been going aimlessly over the same vocabulary list for the past twenty minutes.

“Wake up, dreamer.”

“Trev? Where did you come from?”

“The usual place. I thought you might like to go for a ride and see how the new Martland estate is progressing.” Trevor was sitting on his own bicycle and holding onto the handlebars of another bicycle, a shiny ladies' model.

“Oh, I'd like that.” Then she thought of the events earlier in the evening. “Only, Mr. McEvoy's run away and Charles has gone to look for him.” She hesitated. “I hope to goodness he finds him before … ”

“Before?”

“Before you actually end up paying the bail money.”

“Now Maggie, don't go putting a fright into Mr. Martland before we know the outcome.” Dr. Skene had been writing letters in the screened-in portion of the verandah, and had emerged at the sound of Trevor's voice.

“Oh, good evening, sir. And please call me ‘Trevor'. McEvoy's gone, then?”

“I'm afraid so. Slipped away when we weren't looking. I suppose we should have known how difficult sobriety would be for him.” He lit a match and drew the flame into his briar.

“I didn't help much by talking about drunken students in Germany.”

“He didn't need reminding, dear. You heard McEvoy. Liquor is ever-present in his mind.” He gripped the stem of the pipe with his teeth and a small, mushroom shaped puff drifted upward. “What a living hell that must be.”

“I suppose I could help Charles search for him, sir, although …” He shook his head. “If he is in a barroom somewhere, the damage will already have been done, I'm afraid.”

“I fear it's as you say, Trevor. Charles will have to handle it as he sees fit. Let's leave it to him.” He saw Maggie's face. “But why don't you see if you can cheer Maggie up?”

The frown lines left Trevor's forehead. “I'm sure I could do that, sir. I was just going to suggest she take a bicycle ride with me to see the new house.”

“Well …” Dr. Skene looked in the direction of the kitchen. “Jessie will worry about propriety. But, yes, go ahead. Real estate always has an uplifting effect on Maggie.” He looked at her over the top of his spectacles. “Mind you're back by ten-thirty at the latest or we'll both have your Aunt Jessie to deal with.”

In short order they were riding across the Osborne Street Bridge and onto the cool, less inhabited streets of Fort Rouge. They turned west on Roslyn Road, past the gates of Augustus Nanton's ample new house, still under construction and hidden from the masses by a serpentine drive through the dense forest of poplar and elm. Around the next bend in the road, Trevor turned his bicycle into a circular driveway, still composed of mud that had been temporarily gravelled to ease the way of the construction wagons. The house, which was set far back, was visible from the street with the drive passing underneath a porte-cochere that covered the main entrance. Trevor's father had considered building in Armstrong's Point on the other side of the river where several of the city's grandees had recently relocated. But when Nanton had chosen Fort Rouge, his father had changed his mind, muttering something about property values being more secure there.

They managed to ride over the bumps and ruts in the loose gravel and cruised in under the porte-cochere where the going was smoother. They leaned their bicycles against a huge packing crate with,
MARTLAND — W.C.
scrawled on the side. Maggie walked out from under and, screening her eyes, took in the full breadth and height of the front facade.

“I've never seen stonework like this, not even in Toronto. It's like a fantasy castle.” She suddenly turned in his direction. “Your parents don't mind us poking around?”

“It's my house, too.” He kicked at a clod of mud. “Sometimes I have to direct the workmen when father is out of town so I have my own key. Come on.” He bowed deeply to her. “Would you care to be escorted to the drawing room?” He stretched all the vowels to the breaking point.

“I should be utterly charmed.” She stuck her nose in the air, extended her hand and they ever-so-grandly ascended the front steps.

The huge cherry wood door swung silently inward to reveal a dark panelled foyer with built-in leather upholstered benches for removing boots. Then there were steps up to a central hallway, empty now, and almost the size of the street in front of Maggie's house. The door shut with a decisive engagement of fittings that echoed throughout the house. Halfway down the hallway the wide staircase, as yet uncarpeted, led upward to a generous landing and then up again to the second floor. They walked from room to empty room. There was a dining room that could sit thirty people quite easily although the table and chairs were not yet in place. Across the hall there was a large drawing room with fireplace and French doors that opened onto a conservatory. The plastering was not yet complete in some of the rooms and the floors not yet laid in others. They walked up the staircase and into the reception room where dances and parties would be held.

“Father had to bring in the plasterers from Boston. No one here could do these mouldings. He has to pay for their lodging and everything.”

She looked up at the plasterwork on the ceiling, which looked like a ribbon complete with an ornate bow above the archway into the hall. There was a similar ribbon around the place where the chandelier would hang. She could see that the house was three times the size of the Martlands' current house. What must it all have cost? She couldn't imagine and it still had to be filled with flooring, carpets, drapery, furniture, lamps, and all the small touches and details that made a house a home. She had expected Trevor to be proud and excited, taking pleasure in showing everything to her and so she was trying to be properly enthusiastic. But his heart did not seem to be in this particular showing.

“Don't you like the house?”

“Oh, it's fine, I suppose.”

“It's almost too big, isn't it? Still, it will seem more homelike when the furniture is in. If I lived here I might lose my way between the kitchen and the dining room.”

He didn't laugh.
Oh no,
she thought.
What if he thinks I'm trying on chatelaine of the manor for size?
She hadn't intended that at all.

Then he seemed to remember himself and smiled suddenly. “Little ninny. If you lived here, you wouldn't be working in the kitchen; the servants would be carrying you around on a cushion.”

Relief. She shoved him playfully. He stepped back and threw his arms wide. “In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure dome decree!” The shouted words hit the walls and bounced back as he turned around and around, wind milling with his arms.

The arms dropped so suddenly that there was a slapping sound as they hit his sides. “The truth is it is too big.” He walked unsteadily toward a window that looked out over the soon-to-be park behind the house. “Too big for me, anyway; a house like this, somehow you have to earn it, though how a person would do that, I don't know. This —” He gestured at the fireplace, the ceiling mouldings. “It's more like a stage set. We walk through it and say our lines. And we hope the right people are watching us.” He turned back to the window.

“Trev, is something —”

He turned suddenly. “Hey! I can't believe I forgot to show you the swimming bath off the conservatory. Come on. We've just got time before we have to go.”

He grabbed her hand and hurried her out of the room and down the stairs. Later, on the ride home, she thought about what houses mean. After Trevor had begun to call on her, she had indulged in some daydreams of being with him in a house like that. But now that she had seen the house somehow she couldn't call back those pictures.

C
harles
had begun the search by going through the hotel bars and beverage rooms, starting with the Metropole, the one Peter had mentioned. Each one had been more disreputable than the last. He tried to appear nonchalant while walking through the dark interiors of these high-ceilinged, narrow rooms with their scratched and stained tabletops, beer-soaked air, and sawdust-strewn floors. He hadn't thought about what he would do if he found Peter, only that he must find him. He did think, though, about what Peter had said to him at the Skenes'. He readily pleaded guilty to taking all the decisions out of Peter's hands, to barging ahead while thinking that he knew what was best. It was a fault that he had prayed over often. But it was the other thing that was still stinging, hours later. He had been ashamed of Peter; and he had been too busy worrying about what people were thinking about Charles blasted Lauchlan to really stand by his friend.

The manager at the Criterion said he hoped Charles wasn't there to lead a revival meeting; it was bad for business. He had personally escorted Charles off the premises. After that, he took off his clerical collar and dickey and stuffed them in his jacket pockets then undid the top button of his shirt. He was not proud of having done this but he needed to pass through these places without attracting a lot of attention. As it was, some of the regulars gave him looks that caused him to pat the inside pocket of his jacket.
Good. Wallet's still there.

No one seemed to have seen Peter, though several people said they knew him. The Vendome was next. A burly man in a bowler hat, shirt sleeves, and a checked vest said that he had seen Peter that evening. Charles rushed through the passageway to the beverage room, blood drumming in his ears. No good. If Peter had been there earlier, he was gone now.

It was close to midnight. Mr. Checked Vest, who had stubbed out his cigar and returned to the lobby, was sympathetic. He said if Charles wanted to find Peter at this time of night he should look in the after-hours places — the illegal drinking and gambling establishments. He gave directions to two of these places. Charles thanked him and started for the door. A large arm with a bicep the size of a ham barred his way. Charles looked at him, recognized the situation, and reached for his wallet. He pulled out a one dollar bill and held it out. The arm stayed where it was. He pulled out a five and the arm reached out and took both bills.

Charles visited both establishments, one in what looked like a former livery stable, in which tables had simply been placed in the stalls; the other in a private house on Annabella Street in Point Douglas. At the latter, girls in cheap silk dressing gowns were serving drinks in the parlour. He was very tired. He sat down heavily on an overstuffed chesterfield while he explained to the older woman who seemed to run the place that he was looking for his friend. While he was doing this, one of the girls sat on his lap.

“No, Miss — um — pardon me. I think you misunderstand. I'm looking for my friend.”

“We're all looking for a friend, dearie. I can be your friend, if you'll just let me.” She tapped him playfully on the nose. “Whatever you're looking for, I've got it — in spades.” With that she raised the hem of her wrap to reveal a garter around her abundant bare thigh. Stuck in the garter was a playing card, the ace of spades. She giggled and he felt the vibrations against his thighs, an unnervingly pleasant sensation.

“I'm sorry, but I really have to find my friend.” He shifted her gently but firmly off his lap and onto the chesterfield.

“That's all right, dearie. You must have come to the wrong place. The nancy boys are at number 212 down the street.” She sighed, got up and looked around the parlour for another friend-to-be.

Back on the street, he leaned against a tree. Things looked very bad. Peter had forfeited his bail and lost his opportunity to make a good impression on the judge and jury. Charles set off toward Main Street, crossed it, and trudged down Dufferin, wishing that his bed would magically appear in front of him. He could see the church ahead. When he came closer, he saw that there was a light on in the sanctuary.
Blast
. He went around to the side door. But when he got there, the dead bolt had been forced. The strike plate had completely broken away from the frame. He pushed the door inward but there was a heavy weight against the bottom on the other side. He pushed harder and the weight, whatever it was, slid along the floor with a scraping sound allowing him to enter.

Inside was silence; the hallway was dark. He bent down and felt for the weight that had held the door closed. A bag of what felt like sand. He took a deep breath and waited for his eyes to adjust to the light. Sweat pricked his upper lip. Then he remembered that the boys' gymnastic class kept their Indian clubs in a closet just off this hallway. Slowly and quietly he moved to the closet, eased open the door and felt along the floor. He gripped a club and, with some difficulty, shifted it noiselessly away from its mates. He felt its reassuring heft in his hand.
Now.
He walked down the hallway and turned the corner, heading toward the closed sanctuary door. He raised the club to his shoulder and rested it there, ready to defend himself. Then he opened the door — and stepped into a tableau from a medieval manuscript. On the pulpit platform an old door and two saw horses had been pressed into service as a desk and on its four corners, coal oil lamps were burning. In the soft light Peter sat drawing on what appeared to be an unrolled window blind.

Charles was rooted to the spot by the quiet concentration in that island of light. Utter relief and extreme annoyance careened wildly around his brain.

“Where have
you
been?” Peter said, but his eyes did not leave his drawing.

Charles was jolted back to reality. “Where have I been! Where have
I
been?” Then he began to splutter, still holding the Indian club at the ready. ”I've been at my wit's — hey! — are you responsible for that broken dead bolt?”

“Sorry,” Peter said. “But you never gave me a key so I had to break through the frame. I'll fix it in the morning. You really should have a better lock set. I'll see to that in the morning too.”

“But — do you realize I've been in every — you know, I could have been robbed or worse in some of those — do you know it's one o'clock in the morning, for heaven's sakes —”

“Oh, never mind all that now,” Peter said. “Come and look at what I'm doing.”

Charles let the Indian club fall heavily to his side and exhaled through clenched teeth. Then he remembered the reason for his frantic tour of the worst watering holes. He eyed Peter's work area and looked for suspicious bulges in his jacket pockets. In a low voice he said, “That large fellow at the Vendome. He said he saw you.”

“The bouncer? Yes, I was there.” Peter looked up at Charles for the first time. “I got to the door but I didn't go in.”

“You didn't go in?”

“No. I just kept walking and walking after that and then I came here.” Peter saw that Charles couldn't quite ask the next question. “I got here at eleven. I know that because the clock at Dingwall's store said 10:50 p.m., and it's only a ten-minute walk from there to here — maybe twelve, but you're not going to quibble over two minutes are you?”

“No, I suppose not.”

“You didn't see anyone else out there did you?” Peter furrowed his brow.

“Where? Outside the church?”

“Yes. When I turned off Main Street I thought someone was following me,” Peter said. “I headed down a lane and through some yards and then doubled back. Seemed to work. Couldn't see anybody when I got here so I wondered if he was ever there at all.” He shivered. “Never mind. Probably just the jim-jams. Look what I've got here.”

Charles climbed the steps to the makeshift desk and saw that Peter had placed a crowbar close at hand and that there was more than the usual dew of sweat on his face.

“How did you know it was me coming in and not him, whoever he was?”

“You already knew the way so you didn't stumble around in the dark looking for the right door to the sanctuary.”

Clever
, Charles thought. Then he saw the drawing Peter had been working on. It was a design for a chancel and choir loft, drawn roughly in freehand, but in enough detail to give a strong impression. Charles had never seen anything quite like it — plain, but with proportions that seemed just right. The pulpit had none of the fancy decoration he was accustomed to. Yet he could almost feel his hands gripping its smooth surface and his voice resonating outward from the handsome reading desk.

“Gives you some idea of what it would be like,” Peter said. “I can do better when I don't have the shakes.”

“No, it's good. Wonderful, really,” Charles said.

“It's simple, so it won't take long for me to build. And not too expensive if we can get most of the wood wholesale. But I will need some things — the best quality saws, planes and sanders. Really, it'll pay off in the long —”

“Pete, hold on now, I'll have to talk to my board —”

“But, Charlie. See how beautiful it's going to be. I won't ask for any pay. Just some food. I'll work on the detailed drawings tomorrow while you get this on the road. What do you say?” Peter's face was glowing, pale and intense.

In that moment Charles knew that he must use every trick of persuasion, stake his job on it if necessary, to get his board of management to approve Peter's renovations.

“I'll get you what you need. I don't know quite how, but I will,” Charles said.

Peter looked relieved, then rattled off a list of tools he would require and started immediately to weigh the virtues of maple versus cherry. Charles had to smile and shake his head.

It won't be difficult,
he thought to himself.
I just need to convince my board to house a dipsomaniac accused of murder in the church and hire him to build a chancel and choir loft. Other churches will be jealous and want to hire him, too.
He thought of his snug little suite at Mrs. Gough's, of his comfortable old armchair. Then he looked again at the ferocious concentration with which Peter was calculating board foot measurements.

“I'll get some quilts from the storage locker in the basement. We'll get some real bedding tomorrow,” Charles said.

Peter looked up from his calculations and sat back slowly in his chair, looking at the ceiling. He stretched and rubbed his neck. “Yes. Yes. I think I could sleep now.”