Put on the Armour of Light (11 page)

“Hey, mister! Would you mind moving your arse out of my way?”

Charles looked up and into the cavernous nostrils of a dray horse whose breath, not entirely unpleasant, now lifted his hair slightly. “Sorry — excuse me!” He sprinted to the far curb. The wagon, laden with tight bundles of lathe, and its glowering driver, moved on past him and down the otherwise quiet length of the avenue.

The realization that Maggie would marry someday, perhaps soon, had come to him rather late. She was a young lady now, a fact that everyone except Charles had acknowledged. Yet, instead of the happiness he expected to feel for her future with Trevor or with some as yet unknown man, he felt only an ache — the exact location of which eluded him. He took a deep breath and turned again toward the Skene house, walking a little faster this time.

“I
ch
ginge, du gingest, er ginge
— oh, what's next? Oh, yes —
wir gingen, ihr ginget, sie gingen.
” She tapped the end of her pencil on the table in triumph and waited. And waited.

“Charles?”

“What?”

“The next verb, please.”

“Oh, sorry.” He had lost his place in the grammar text.

“Are you tired? If you're tired, we can do this another time.”

“No, no, it's fine.” He turned back to the text then put it down again. “I went to see Mrs. Martland today. Trevor particularly asked me to see her.”

“That's funny. I had the impression that he was trying to discourage you the other night.”

“Yes, I did too. But then yesterday he was anxious for me to see her.”

“Is she ill?”

“No. She seemed fine, really. Well, except —”

He could see that she was waiting for him to finish the sentence but he was still groping toward a conclusion.

“Except?”

“Well — it's just a feeling I got — I couldn't quite put my finger on it while I was with her. But I've been thinking about it. When she talked about her husband, she built him up to the skies and chopped herself down. There was something —”

“What kind of something?”

“At first I thought she was just deferring to him. But — no — I know that wasn't quite it. She was afraid of him. I'm sure of it now. And ashamed of herself in some way.”

“Afraid of him? What, exactly, did she say about him?”

“Nothing that specific. It was more the way she said it. He is overbearing — I've been on the receiving end of some of that myself. I mean, he seems pleasant and jovial but there's something he's angling for behind it all.” Charles sighed. “I know we owe a lot to Frank Martland — and we'll continue to owe him a lot, I hope — but I just can't bring myself to like him.”

Maggie made a
hmmn
sound and furrowed her brow even more. “Go on.”

He was in the Martland parlour again. The joy Agnes took in the singing, the pleasure he took in singing with her. And then that briefest moment when the wind blew the hair off of her face. Had he really seen it? It had jarred so much at the time that he had half persuaded himself that he had imagined it. A bruise, faded now, but clearly it had been darker, angrier.

“Sometimes it's a lot easier to skim along the surface of things, like a water bug,” he said.

She was puzzled. “You mean, with the Martlands?”

“Yes. And with everybody else. When you go under, down to the muck of the pond bottom, it's confusing and frightening. Water bug longs for the smooth, bright surface. But he knows that all the really important things that happen in the pond go on there in the murky half-light.”

“Are you sure you're all right? It isn't like you to use zoological references.”

He laughed. “I can never take myself too seriously when I'm with you. I think I could probably tell you just about anything and you'd hear me out and give me that little ‘hmmn' sound. It always reminds me to spare the dramatics and just work at the knot, whatever it is.”

“Yes. Except you haven't really told me anything, have you. I am up to it, you know. I won't faint or scream. Or talk about it to anybody else.”

“I know that.” He righted his coffee cup in its saucer and turned its handle just so. “But I came very close to betraying a confidence — inadvertently — today. So this water bug had best swim alone.” He made a melodramatic waggle of his eyebrows. “Where were we? Right. ‘
Sagen.
'”

“Now I'm going to be wondering all night about whatever it could be.”

“Sagen,”
Charles said, more insistently and with his best German accent.

She sighed and began.
“Ich sagte, du sagtest, er sagte, wir sagten, ihr sagtet —”

There was a knock at the door and Maggie, eager for a distraction, called out to her aunt, “I'll get it.”

When she opened the heavy door she found Sergeant Setter standing in the long shadows, fingering the brim of his hat. “Ah. Good evening, Miss Skene.”

“Sergeant Setter — Come in. I'm sorry if you've come to see Father. He's still at the college.”

Charles came into the hallway. “Setter, how are you?”

“Oh, Mr. Lauchlan, Good evening, sir.” Setter continued to fidget with his hat. “Actually, it was you I came to see. Mr. McEvoy said you were here. Could I have a word with you, er, in private?”

“Yes, um, of course.” Charles looked at Maggie. She arched her eyebrows slightly, nodded, and shifted her gaze to Setter.

“I'm sure Father wouldn't mind if you used his study. And when you're done, come out for some tea and cake.” She held out her hand for Setter's hat.

Handing it over, Setter said, dutifully, that he couldn't put her to such trouble but Charles could tell that the siren call of cake had enchanted a fellow bachelor. Once they were in the study, Charles closed the door and motioned to Setter to sit in one of the chairs by the fireplace while he took the other.

“Well, Sergeant?”

“In a way, I can't believe that I'm asking you this. It's hardly standard procedure. But the fact is, we don't have much time, or I would find another way.”

“Much time? I'm afraid you've lost me.”

“Yes, sorry.” He brushed the heavy thatch back from his forehead. “I've been living inside this case so long — McEvoy's case, I mean — that I expect people to read my mind.” Charles continued to look confused. Setter leaned forward in his chair. “Here's the nub. Asseltine's dead and can't tell us how he died. I've got a few bits of evidence that could mean something but I'm running short of time. Unless McEvoy can remember something — something substantial that will help us interpret those bits and pieces — I'm afraid that appearances will carry the day and he'll be convicted.”

Charles pulled back in his chair. He had almost convinced himself that Peter's exoneration was just a matter of fair play and right reasoning. Cold water. “What can I do? Is there something?”

“Here's the thing. McEvoy is not comfortable with me. I've tried to gain his trust, but, well, he shies like a skittish colt. He trusts you, though.”

“But he doesn't remember —”

“I know, I know. But there's something. It's as if part of him wants to remember and part of him would rather not.”

“Yes. Yes, I've felt that too.”

“The drinking complicates things, of course. But I'm convinced — based on some articles by a French doctor — that those memories are still in his head somewhere. It may just be a matter of getting him in the proper frame of mind to find them again.”

“I see.” Charles picked up Dr. Skene's tobacco pouch from the small table by his chair and absently squeezed the leather between his fingers. “But how would I go about that?”

“That's where I can't help you. McEvoy trusts you and that's the first step. Put him at his ease, I suppose, and then get him to go over what he remembers in a methodical way.”

Charles blew air slowly out of the sides of his mouth. “I don't know, Sergeant. I have tried to talk to him about that night. But he resists thinking about it.”

“Yes, but you can try different approaches with him. I can't.” Setter paused. “It's a chance — maybe a long chance.”

“Yes.” Charles met the other man's eyes. “Yes, all right. Leave it with me. I have some ideas.” They were quiet for a moment. Then Charles slapped the tobacco pouch back on the table and stood up. “Cake?”

Setter brightened. “Well, only if you're having some.”

“Never miss an opportunity to try some of Miss Skene's lemon pound cake, Sergeant. How the woman has remained unmarried all these years, I don't know.” Charles opened the door and motioned Setter through.

“One last thing.” Setter dropped his voice and moved closer to Charles.

“Yes?”

“If McEvoy remembers something, send me a note at the station or at my boarding house — here, I'll give you the address.” He fished in his inside pocket and handed Charles a card. “I'll meet you somewhere convenient.”

“It isn't a problem for me to drop by the station, you know.”

“I understand, but, well, it's better if we meet somewhere other than the station for the time being.”

Charles cocked his head and shrugged, “Whatever you say.”

Setter preceded him out the door. “You know, Setter, I wanted to be a policeman when I was a boy.”

“Is that right? What changed your mind?” The aroma of burnt sugar and vanilla met them in the hallway as they walked toward the dining room, talking comfortably of boyish things.

T
he
next day, being Saturday, was a half-day for articling clerks at Stobbart and Long, and Trevor usually found it hard to concentrate on civil procedure or the dog work of case law research while anticipating the pleasures of the rest of the day. This morning, however, he was oblivious to the outside world, reading intently and making notes almost fiercely. At the stroke of noon the other students clapped their case books shut and vacated the office for cooler and more pleasant pastimes in the grotto bar at the Marriagi. Trevor listened as the sound of their larking and stamping down the stairs ended with a definitive slam of the front door.

He slowly put his work to bed and set out for the warehouse on Amy Street, near the docks where the Martlands stored the family boat for the winter. On the way he bought a ham roll and coffee at the Leland Café and dawdled over them until he was almost late. He had promised to help his father clean and set up the boat for its first launching of the season the following day. It was something they had done together every year since he was about sixteen, usually on the first Saturday after he arrived home from boarding school or university. The plain but well-made rowing skiff of his boyhood had been succeeded by a highly varnished low-riding motor launch, the latest thing in pleasure boats, with a sun canopy that looked like something from the Arabian Nights. What hadn't changed was his father's pleasure in the job of getting the boat river worthy. Martland could easily have paid someone to do the job for him but he loved to clean and prime the motor and wash the boat, reserving his most loving attention for a careful polishing of its varnished top deck and brass hardware.

When Trevor rounded the corner of James Avenue and Amy Street his father, dressed in overalls, had already pulled the boat on its trailer out of the warehouse and onto the concrete apron. He was stripping off the tarpaulin, in which the boat had been tightly wrapped. Trevor hurried to help free the boat from its canvas shroud.

“She's not looking too bad, Trev. Not much harm taken by sitting all winter.”

“That's good, Father. How's the canopy?”

“I had it cleaned after last year. It's in the garage at home. We'll put it up tomorrow when we take her round to the club.”

They folded the light canvas tarpaulin between them, feeling the pleasure of pulling it taut and then folding, pulling again, and folding again, until it was a compact rectangle. Trevor took off his suit jacket, his vest, and his necktie, laying each over the weathered fence next to the warehouse. Then he put on the overalls that Martland had brought with him from home. They washed the boat inside and out with rough brushes and soapy water smelling of pine resin. They stripped the engine down with the tools from Martland's box, putting each part down in order on a chamois cloth, then cleaned and oiled the parts and put them back in place. They removed and cleaned the propeller, reinstalled it on its drive shaft, and filled the tank with gasoline. Martland motioned to Trevor to stand clear. He climbed into the boat and sat at the controls. There was a sluggish cough, then silence, then another, more throaty cough. And then a roar, at which father and son gave a whoop of delight. Then they turned the motor off and settled into the final and most pleasurable task, waxing and polishing the warm, dark mahogany of the bow, stern and gunwales.

Martland smoothed on the wax in broad swipes. “Now, Trev, I wanted to talk to you about this McEvoy fellow.”

Trevor missed a fraction of a beat in his tight swirling of wax across the grain of the wood. “All right, Father.”

Martland was jovial. “You might not credit it, but I was young once myself. An innocent bit of fun and suddenly you're out of your depth. If you needed money to settle a card debt and that fellow was pressuring you, why didn't you come to me?”

“It wasn't like that.”

“If he has you under some kind of obligation, if he has something on you, this isn't the way to handle it, you know.” Trevor said nothing but paid rapt attention to a fold in the grain of the wood. Martland pressed on. “I mean, why pay his lawyer and give him a chance to come after you again?”

Trevor pushed harder on his rag, his face almost touching the gleaming surface. He did not look at his father. “As a matter of fact, I don't even know Mr. McEvoy.”

“You didn't meet with him the night of the murder?”

Both rags were still. They looked across the gunwales at one another.

“No, I've told you I don't know him.” A bead of sweat rolled down from Trevor's temple to his jaw before dripping onto the collar of his overalls.

“Well, where were you on the night of the murder?”

“I think that's my business.”

“Just tell me. I'm your father, damn it!”

Trevor bent down over his rag, “I was with Maggie — with Miss Skene.”

“All evening?”

“Yes. All evening.”

Martland didn't seem to know where to let his eyes rest. He finally chose the brass bowsprit ornament on the boat, which he began to buff gently. He smiled but the planes of his face seemed to resist and something shiny in his eyes caught the sun.

“That's good. That's fine, Trev. Just trying to understand why you're bankrolling that sod. No offence, boy. A commitment to justice. That's good. Especially if you go into politics. People like to vote for someone high minded. That's why I've spent my life making the money that allows you to be high minded.”

Trevor looked miserable as he continued to polish away, raising a high gloss from the cloudy wax swirls.

“You're a bit soft, Trevor. I've always known it. Not much good in a back alley punch-up. I've watched you box. You could never deliver that final punch. The one to use when the other fellow is just getting up off his knees, the one to finish him off. But it's all right. It's all right because I've fixed it so you won't have to do the kinds of things I've had to do.”

“I didn't ask you to do those things for me.”

“No, but you've been happy enough to take the money, haven't you!” It was a shout and when it left his mouth, Martland looked around quickly, to see if anyone else had heard. He dropped his voice to an anguished whisper. “And now, I'm not good enough for you?” His hands were splayed over the deck as he leaned over them and thrust his face toward his son.

“Let's just leave it, Father,” Trevor said. “Let's just leave it alone now.” He walked around the boat giving it a thorough look-over and ran his hand slowly over the warm wood. “That's it. It's done.” He turned back to face his father. “She looks fine, but you may have to re-paint her next year.”