Put on the Armour of Light (2 page)

C
harles
was full of questions, but Setter had walked briskly out of his office and then disappeared down a set of stairs. Charles gave Maggie a severe look to make sure she didn't follow and hurried after Setter. The stairway led to the basement where the cells were located. He caught up to the sergeant as Setter was asking the on-duty constable to show them to cell number 11. They walked down a narrow central hallway with cells on either side. Charles sensed rather than saw that most of the cells were occupied. It took a moment or two for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. The constable stopped at number 11, inserted a key in the lock, and swung the door open, gesturing for Charles to enter. Setter remained in the hallway.

Charles felt an inexplicable pang of fear. The figure lying on the bottom bunk had been startled from sleep by the sudden opening of the door. He was shambling to a seated position. The voice, when it came, was a like a dry reed.

“I'm afraid there isn't any place to sit, Charlie. Would it be possible to bring Mr. Lauchlan a chair?” This was addressed to Setter, who turned and spoke quietly to the on-duty constable.

Something was tickling at the back of Charles's brain. “I'm afraid I don't …” The accused man rose from the bunk and his face broke through into the glare of the sputtering gaslight from the hall outside the cell.

“Peter? … Pete!”

“Hello, Charlie.” The words came out quietly, the eyes bright and huge in the thin face, the spare frame pulling itself erect as if preparing to fend off a blow.

Pete and Charlie.
Peter had been Charles's roommate at the University of Toronto. “Madman McEvoy” they had called him behind his back, a nickname earned after he had spent three full days and nights constructing a model of a building that was so unlike anything that then existed on the streets of Toronto that fellow students who wandered into their room had just gaped and shook their heads. Flushed with pride, Peter had tried to explain the structure and how it worked and what had inspired it, but his listeners just looked at him blankly. Two days later he had returned drunk and sullen after curfew and, before Charles could stop him, had demolished the model with two not very deft kicks.

As his closest friend, it had fallen to Charles to mediate between Peter and a world that did not understand him.
Charlie and Pete.
In spite of his best efforts, Charles couldn't achieve for Peter the accepting comradeship that he himself had gained so easily. How often had a group of roaring lads run by their room, calling for Charles to join them? Charles would say, “Right, grand! Hang on till I get Pete.” No one would say anything but Charles could read the looks.

That kind of thing just made Peter more determined to steer into the wind. Famously, he stood up in one of Dr. Skene's Sunday afternoon Bible study classes and declared that the Westminster Confession may have suited the believers of 1646, but, since he had read Darwin and Huxley he could not, in good conscience, subscribe to it. With this he quietly left the room, packed up his effects, and had left the university before Charles had even realized he was gone. And that was the last Charles had seen or heard of Peter McEvoy until this moment.

Charles gripped Peter by one elbow, grabbed his hand, and gave it a thorough shaking. “Pete, for goodness' sake! After all this time — it must be fifteen years. Why didn't you write? I tried and tried to find you but nobody had a blessed idea where you were.” Behind this bonhomie, Charles was fighting an urgent desire to get out — down the hall, up the stairs, out the door, and into the sweet evening air.

“It's good to see you, Charlie,” Peter said, his head bobbling as he tried to withstand the handshake. “Yes, I know, I should have written, I suppose. It's just that I was doing a lot of travelling. Seeing a lot of things, never settled enough to have an address for long. You understand.”

Charles didn't understand anything but he said, “Well, yes, I suppose, but … well, it's good to see you; how have you been keeping?” The absurdity of that question was instantly apparent to both of them. He tried again. “When did you get to Winnipeg?”

“Oh, well, not that long ago, really. Ah … about a year, I suppose.”

“A year! And you never called on me? And I've never run into you on the street?”

“Well, Charlie … we probably don't move in the same circles.” Peter made a sweeping gesture with his arm to refer to his current residence.

“Ah, right. Yes, I see.” He forced himself to look around the cell. “Mind you, it does remind me — uncannily — of our old room.”

Peter gave an obedient laugh. “Minus the view, however.”

The on-duty constable returned with a chair, which Charles took and carefully placed as far back in the cell as he could manage without actually having the chair back touch the far wall opposite the bunks. Charles looked in Setter's direction, waiting for him to leave, but Setter remained leaning against the frame of the open cell door. Peter resumed his sitting position on the bunk and Charles sat on the chair.

There was a silence that both tried to end by speaking at the same time. Then Peter said, “I suppose you're hoping this is some kind of mistake.” He let the air out of his lungs, sighing deeply. “I'm hoping that too. They're trying to say that I killed him, Charlie.”

“Asseltine?”

“Yes. I was there, I know. I can remember that. And I saw him there on the floor. But I didn't kill him. At least I don't think so.” He cleared his throat and looked Charles directly in the eye. “I'd had a few drinks, you see.”

Charles took in the shabby suit, bagged at the knees and elbows, the smudged shirt, the hair that hadn't seen a barber for about three months, the four-day beard. A sour smell wafted off of Peter.

“Forgive my appearance. They don't let you have razors in here — for obvious reasons.” Peter's hands were shaking. He reached down and gripped the straw mattress. “Just hear me out. I need to tell you what I remember. I've played cards with Asseltine a number of times; he wasn't a very good player, but he was keen. Always looking for a game at the Metropole or the Express — any backroom setup he could find. He'd bet on anything, too. Horses, dogs, lacrosse matches, boxing. He had enough cash, I guess, to cover all his losses. Anyway, he owed me some money and I had pressed him for it a few days ago. He had said to come to his office late because he kept cash in the office safe, so that his wife wouldn't know about it. I was playing cards at the Metropole to put in the time before my appointment with him. Then everything gets confused. I've got little snatches of things, like lantern slides — only faster. I was there, in Martland's office. Asseltine was on the floor and I couldn't make out why he was there. Some man in overalls was kneeling over Asseltine and shouting at me. Someone was slapping my face. There were policemen … that's about all I remember, until I woke up here.”

“You mean you can you make a living playing cards?” Charles couldn't quite take in what Peter was saying.

“No … yes. Look Charlie, you've got to listen to me. The last thing I wanted was to drag you into all this. But I'll be frank; my back is to the wall. Can you help me get out of here? Is there a chance of bail? Do you know a lawyer who could help me? I don't have any money at all and I've lost touch, you could say, with any family I have, but if I could get a loan —”

“Pete, I'm not … — there's —”

“I know you don't have much, but you know people, well-off people who —”

“Well … Pete … I don't know about that. It's not that easy.” Charles turned to Setter. “Is there a possibility of bail?”

“It's a bit unusual in murder cases but bail is sometimes granted. There would be conditions.”

“What kind of conditions?” asked Charles.

“The court would likely require a sum of money to be put up — perhaps several thousand dollars and someone — probably you — would have to stand surety for him,” said Setter.

“‘Surety'? What does that mean?”

Setter looked uncomfortable. “Because of Mr. McEvoy's … tendencies, the judge may fear that he wouldn't appear for his trial, or that he would turn up in an unfit mental state. Someone who stands surety would have to guarantee his appearance in court and be liable for the fee if he didn't appear.”

“Several thousand! I couldn't put up even a fraction of that. I don't have any assets. My God, this place — Charlie, you can't imagine. They won't even give you a lamp when it gets dark …” Peter put his head in his hands.

Charles was in turmoil. Where was the long-ago comrade of the rugby field, that worthy adversary in late-night arguments on ridiculous subjects, that fellow contestant in the bewildering rites of manhood? Charles couldn't find him in this dishevelled stranger. He was appalled that he had been calculating the extent of his obligation to Peter — and even more appalled that he had been asking himself what Maggie and her father would think of his friendship with a person like Peter. Even if they could deliver the bail money, could Peter be relied on to turn up for his trial sober? Why not step back and let the law do what it would; if Peter was really innocent, surely evidence would be found to prove it. Charles made an effort not to remember various texts he had quoted from the pulpit as he looked at Peter, who now sat miserably with his head bowed. His hands, as they hung over his knees, trembled.

“Pete?” Charles said.

“Yes.” He did not look up.

“I — I can't promise you anything, but I'll try. I'll see what can be done.”

Peter raised his head. “I'm telling the truth, Charlie. If I killed him, I think I would feel it.”

Charles said, in a rather flat voice, “Then I think, Sergeant, that I should start — right away — looking for someone capable of putting up the bail money. And I'll have to find a lawyer.”

Setter immediately moved to clear the doorway. “We can go over the technical details of the bail application upstairs.”

“Thank you,” Charles said as both he and Peter stood. Charles was afraid that Peter would weep and he held his hands suspended on either side of Peter's arms, bracketing rather than touching — as if to hold him together. “Pete, I'll do my best. Try not to worry. I'll come back and see you as soon as I can.”

Peter, his jaw and throat working hard, simply nodded.

M
aggie
had been pacing slowly in Setter's cubbyhole of an office.
Two steps, turn, two steps, turn.
She was wondering if Charles ever took her seriously. In spite of the fact that she was now a student at the university and had just celebrated her nineteenth birthday, he treated her in a familiar, off-hand way, the way one would act toward a younger sister. It was annoying. She had known Charles since he had been a student himself and she had been prepared to make allowances for him. But his picture of her seemed to be stuck in the time when they had all lived in Toronto — when she had been a little girl and when Mother and Ralph were still alive. She had made a concerted effort not to be stuck in that time herself. And because there was just the two of them now, herself and Father — and, of course, Aunt Jessie — Maggie had needed to grow up quickly. Surely, Charles should be able to see that. He was still her favourite partner for japes and fun, but that didn't mean she was a floss-headed little ninny, incapable of holding up her end of a serious conversation.

Setter's sudden entrance with Charles startled her. They seemed full of purpose; Setter almost bowled her over as he reached for a file on his desk. The two men ignored Maggie while they discussed the technicalities of the bail application.

Then Charles said, “Maggie, will your father be at home when we get back to your house?”

“I'm not sure.” She looked at the watch that she wore pinned to her dress. “The prayer meeting should just be over. He'll probably have reached home by the time we get there.”

“The prayer meeting! I'd forgotten all about that.” Charles smacked his forehead with his open palm.

“Don't worry. Father was there and he's perfectly capable of leading a prayer meeting. Who wanted to speak to you down there? What is this all about?”

“Oh … an old friend … well, not — yes, an old friend. One I haven't seen in a long while.” He explained, as delicately as he could, about Peter and his predicament. Maggie was an extremely bright girl but she was, after all, still a girl and he felt compelled to shield her from the details exposing the kind of life Peter had obviously been leading. Charles sometimes wondered if he had been wise to let her to read some of the books and pamphlets he had ordered from the United States.

“Father will know someone who can put up the bail money,” said Maggie.

“Yes, er … that was what I was thinking, too.”

“Charles, we have to do everything we can to help Mr. McEvoy. Did you get him to tell you exactly what he remembers? Did you take notes?”

“Well, no, come to think of it.” Charles, a little late, caught up to Maggie. “Now listen, there is to be no ‘we' about this. ‘We' are not going to help Mr. McEvoy.
I
am going to work on this and
you
are going to work on your German and see to whatever vile potions you have brewing in the chemistry laboratory.”

“Taking notes is my department, Miss Skene.” Charles and Maggie had almost forgotten Setter was in the room with them. “And as it happens, now that he's more himself I will be interviewing him at length about what he remembers; how he got to the crime scene and so on. Members of the public do not conduct murder investigations and I would ask you to remember that.”

“Well, no, of course not, Setter. We'll leave that to you. But isn't it a little premature to charge Peter if your investigation isn't more advanced than that?”

“Well, now, that's a fair question, Mr. Lauchlan.” Setter sat down on the edge of his desk and looked down at his boots for a second. “I asked the inspector that same thing. The chief seems to be of a mind that it's an open-and-shut case. Mr. Asseltine's taste for gambling was well known to us. The one coherent thing Mr. McEvoy said last night was that he had gone to Asseltine's place of business to collect on a gambling debt. Maybe Mr. McEvoy saw his opportunity to get more money out of Mr. Asseltine than what was owed to him. In his inebriated condition a struggle took place during which Mr. McEvoy inflicted the blows that led to Mr. Asseltine's death.”

“Who found Peter there? Did they actually see him inflicting harm on Mr. Asseltine?”

“It was the janitor. He lives in the building and was making his last round for the night. And no, he did not see Mr. McEvoy attack Mr. Asseltine. McEvoy was sitting with Mr. Martland's whisky decanter cradled in his arms, ‘like the dearest infant,' as the janitor described it. He locked McEvoy in the office and got his boy to run for the police. By the time he returned to the scene, McEvoy had lost consciousness altogether.”

“Well, if no one saw the struggle, doesn't that mean there is no conclusive evidence that Peter was the one who killed Asseltine?” Charles said.

“That's correct — for the moment. The whole matter requires further investigation,” Setter replied.

“And how do we know that Mr. Asseltine didn't attack Mr. McEvoy?” said Maggie. “Mr. McEvoy might simply have been defending himself and the whole thing was a terrible accident.”

“It might have happened that way, right enough. We just don't know at this point until I conduct more inquiries. My inspector has decided that McEvoy's presence at the scene is grounds enough to charge him and he so recommended to the Crown.” Setter looked down at his boots again.

Charles gave Setter a long, appraising look. “Sergeant, you don't think it's an open-and-shut case, do you? Otherwise you wouldn't be telling us as much as you have.”

“Mr. Lauchlan, all I can say is, do all you can to get your friend bail and a lawyer.”

“But, Setter —”

“No, Mr. Lauchlan. I've said more than I should already. Now if you don't mind, I have notes to prepare for Inspector Crossin.”

“Very well, thank you, Sergeant Setter. Thank you very much.” Charles extended his hand and Setter shook it firmly and saw them to foyer of the station.

Setter watched as Charles shouldered open the front door and conducted Maggie through it.
Well, that's done,
Setter thought.
Seems a good enough fellow. If he can save McEvoy from whatever lazy incompetent the Law Society Charitable Committee sends over it will be worth a dressing down from Crossin.

He took out his watch as he walked back down the hall to his office. Smithers was fifteen minutes late, which surprised Setter, since the boy was, if anything, too hurried and inclined to rush to conclusions without sufficient thought. Setter wondered if he should have interviewed the cleaning staff at Martland and Asseltine himself. As if on cue, he heard quick, brogue-clad steps in the hall, and Smithers almost fell through the doorway.

“There you are. Have you finished with the cleaning ladies? What did they say?”

“Sorry, Sergeant — ran the last six blocks — knew you'd be waiting.” Smithers flipped open his notebook and tried to catch his breath before beginning. “Right. The cleaning staff consists of the janitor's wife — a Mrs. Orelia Fuchs — and another woman — Mrs. Alice Gillespie, a neighbour.” He stopped to breathe again. “I spoke to them both. They clean the whole office every second night, after supper when the offices are closed, including sweeping the carpets. They cleaned the office last night before the — um — alleged murder. I replaced the button right where you found it, near the leg of the desk. Neither of them recognized the button and Mrs. Janitor said — and she was definite — that she had used the carpet sweeper around and under Mr. Martland's desk last night and if the button had been there, she would have seen it and picked it up.”

“So they cleaned the office a few hours before Asseltine died?”

“That's right.”

“And Mrs. Janitor swears the button was not there when they cleaned?”

“Right again.”

“Did Mrs. Janitor seem a credible witness?”

“Well, sir, she reminds me of my Aunt Florrie. She is a woman who knows her own mind and yours, too, if you know what I mean.”

“Good, that's grand.” He looked at his desk calendar and made a note on it. “Bring them along in the morning and I'll take a formal statement from Mrs. Fuchs. You can do the one for Mrs., Mrs? —”

“Gillespie, sir. That's all fine. What's next?”

“Well, we keep trying to find the person who belongs to the button, I suppose. It didn't come off of either McEvoy or Asseltine, at least not from what they were wearing last night. And the janitor was wearing overalls and a flannel shirt, so he's out, too.”

“What about Mr. Martland?”

“Oh, well, after you had escorted him off the scene the inspector and I went back with him to his house to ask him a few more questions and I searched his closets.”

“Well, sir, I hope he was a little more pleasant to you than he was when I supervised his search of the safe and the office.”

“Not really. Hated the fact that I wouldn't tell him what I was looking for, of course, and didn't bother to hide how he felt about me searching through his closets and drawers. Probably sent the works out to be cleaned after I had left.”

“Oh, well, uh, hmm. Was there anything there?”

“Nothing like the button we found. I expect we're going to be royally sick of buttons by the time this investigation is through.”