Put on the Armour of Light (6 page)

“Yes, tighten away — I suppose he might not have been alone?” Eklund picked up some sawdust from the floor to dry the sweat from his hands.

“Yes, I wondered myself whether Peter had brought someone else with him.”

“So, he said he was alone then?”

“Yes. He said he'd come to collect a gambling debt from Asseltine. No mention of anyone else.” Charles was taking a grip on the saw handle again, waiting for the other man.

“Still, an open safe would be an awful temptation. Probably tried to take more than he was owed,” Eklund said, taking up his position.

“Well, I don't think that's what happened, though. All the police found on him were some drafting pens, a train schedule, and an empty old wallet. It's pretty awful, really. He as much as told me all he had in the world was what he stood up in.”

“And you believe him?” Eklund said.

Charles suddenly felt a little offended on Peter's behalf. “Pete's clearly made some bad choices but yes, I do believe him.”

“Sorry, Mr. Lauchlan, it's none of my business, really.” They lined the saw up on the pencil line. “Everybody around the work yard has been talking. You know how it is.”

“That's human nature, I suppose. Ready?” The saw teeth ripped through the pencil line and deep into the wood, sawdust dropping lightly to the floor as the two men pushed and pulled back, pushed and pulled back.

Kauffmann returned and the three men were wrestling the new supports into position when a boy of about fourteen, in knee breeches and a cloth cap, appeared at the back of the church.

“Excuse me. Do you know where I can find Mr. Lauchlan?” The boy dragged his cap off his head.

“I'm Lauchlan.”

“Mr. Jessup says come to the police station right away. There's a prisoner to be released.” He held out a folded piece of paper to Charles.

“Just a moment,” Charles said and handed Eklund the sledge hammer he had been using to tap the new support posts into place. He took the note from the boy and read it quickly. Jessup's small, neat script told him that the court had released Peter on bail, with Dr. Skene and he listed as sureties. Peter was to be released into their care upon Charles presenting himself at the police station. The judge had instructed Charles to keep Peter “under close supervision.” With a guilty, fluttering sensation just under his rib cage, Charles realized he had made no firm plans about what to do with Peter, should he be released. Indeed, he hadn't really believed that Peter
would
be released.

“H
ave
this filled at Bannerman's. He'll put it on my account. It's a tonic. Mr. McEvoy is undernourished, as I expected. It will also help with the headaches and the insomnia. I'm afraid I can't do much about the shakes, McEvoy. Mind you drink plenty of water.” Dr. Herzinger turned again to Charles. “Let me know if the withdrawal symptoms are severe. I can prescribe a mild sedative, but I'm loathe to do it — unless he really needs it. It only encourages the dependency.”

“I'll get that filled right away, Doctor. Thank you for fitting him in on such short notice.”

“Yes, thank you, Doctor.”

Charles and Dr. Herzinger were a bit surprised when Peter piped up. Until then he had been quiet and hang dog as Charles steered him from the clothing depot — where he picked out several shirts and sets of underwear — to the clinic, where Herzinger had given him a brisk once-over. Peter jumped at every sound and seemed to be two beats behind everyone around him.

They left the church with the new clothing wrapped in a bundle and began walking to Mrs. Gough's. The fresh air and light did little to revive Peter's spirits.

“Just like old times, isn't it Charlie? You bailing me out of a scrape.”

Charles sidestepped the remark. “Cheer up, Pete. We're going to get to the bottom of this. I can't imagine that these charges will hold up.”

“You haven't had much to do with the police, have you? If you lived around the tracks, you'd learn that the policeman is somebody's friend
—
but he certainly isn't yours.”

“Oh, I don't know. That Setter fellow seems all right.”

“Yes, he's not bad. At least he listens to what I have to say — such as it is. I don't think he believes that I just don't remember.”

“He's got to ask you questions about it, doesn't he? You shouldn't blame him for doing his job.”

“Well, it's not helping. I've been trying and trying to pull something back. It's still just a jumble of pictures and sounds.”

Charles thought it best to drop the subject, for now. Something Eklund had said earlier came into his mind and he tried to push it away. If Peter didn't remember something more about that night, it might be because it was convenient not to. They walked the rest of the way in silence. Charles was still running over the details of the bail and surety in his mind. Either he or Dr. Skene was to see Peter a minimum of once a day and Peter was to report to the police station once per week. Peter was to abstain from drinking alcohol of any kind. He was not to enter any commercial establishment where liquor was being served or sold and would be required to obey a curfew of 11:00 p.m. He was not to take part in any card games or gambling of any kind. The judge made it clear that if he was in default of any of these conditions, his bail was forfeit and he would return to jail and Charles and Dr. Skene were obliged by law to report any breach of the conditions that they personally observed.

They had gone straight from the police station to the church and he had not had time to ask Mrs. Gough whether Peter could stay with him in his rooms. He would not have thought twice about it, had he been bringing any of his other friends home. She was fond of him, he knew, and gave him latitude that even extended to letting his friends from out of town stay at the house for a few nights as paying guests. But this was different and he regretted not being able to talk with her about it beforehand. He rather hoped she was out so that he could spirit Peter upstairs and directly into a bath. But as they came in the front door, she was carrying a load of laundry down the stairs from the second floor.

“Oh — ah — good, good — Mrs. Gough, I would like you to meet a friend of mine from university days. This is Peter McEvoy. Pete, my landlady, Mrs. Emmeline Gough.”

He could see Mrs. Gough's smile slacken, just for a moment, as she took in Peter's unshaven face, matted hair, and shapeless, dank-looking clothing. Then she smiled harder than ever.

“Well, now. How d'you do, Mr. McEvoy? Always a pleasure to meet friends of Mr. Lauchlan.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Gough.” Peter took little furtive glances at her through the hair falling across his eyes and extended a tremulous hand which she shook warily. “Um … it's a nice place you have here.”

“Yes, yes. We're quite cozy here, aren't we, Mr. Lauchlan.”

“Yes. Yes indeed. If you don't mind, Mrs. Gough, I thought Peter could take a bath and change and then I'll take him for something to eat at the café on the corner.”

“Yes. Yes, certainly. Make yourself at home, Mr. … Mr.?”

“McEvoy.” Charles and Peter spoke at once.

“Mr. McEvoy, yes. I'll just get you a fresh towel.” She looked Peter over. “Or maybe two.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Gough. That's very kind.” Charles hustled Peter up the stairs. It was a bad sign that she hadn't insisted on feeding them supper, but perhaps it was just that she was busy with the laundry. Had she had time to read the paper? She usually read at least the headlines with her afternoon tea. While Peter was getting cleaned up, he would take her aside and tell her the particulars of his situation. Of course, he would have to pay for Peter's board until — until what? It occurred to him that if Peter was convicted, he would not long be a burden on his pocketbook — or on the state's for that matter.

Peter emerged from his ablutions less skittish and smelling considerably better. He put on an old suit of Charles's that was slightly too long in the pant legs and a bit big at the shoulders. Nevertheless, noting Peter's washed and combed hair, Charles found him quite presentable though his now clean-shaven face was lined and pale, a fresh dew of sweat already forming on his brow. While Peter had been in the tub, Charles had gathered up his things and, trying not to inhale or look too closely, had taken them to the back yard and hung them on the line. He had wanted to burn them, frankly, but Peter had been unexpectedly shocked at the whole idea and said, whether true or not, that Sergeant Setter had expressly forbade him to dispose of any of his clothes.

“Sorry, Pete. But they are in pretty awful condition, you have to admit.”

“Maybe so. It's just that they're mine, that's all. We've been through a lot together.”

On his way back from hanging the clothes on the line, Charles had found Mrs. Gough alone in the kitchen and, taking a deep breath, he had laid out Peter's story factually, dispassionately. But she was, as he feared, more than slightly taken aback at having an accused murderer so near at hand.

“Dear Lord, Mr. Lauchlan! Och — my heavens! Oh —” She clutched the cameo at her throat. “I thought the name was familiar. Dear, dear. But the paper said the murderer was in jail?”

“He was granted bail this afternoon. On the condition that Dr. Skene and I supervise him closely. I know this is very short notice and I'm asking a lot, but if Peter could stay with me here, I can keep an eye on him. He's quiet and shy by nature. I'm sure he wouldn't be a bother to you.”

“Well, according to the paper, he was more than a bother to Mr. Asseltine!” Then she looked ashamed to have raised her voice to him in that way. She beckoned him to come closer and spoke more softly. “I've the children to think of, Mr. Lauchlan. And there's Mr. Krause.”

“I know that, and I understand how you feel. But you've seen Pete. He's as frightened of you as you are of him. I know what kind of person he is and I think when the police do their work, the charges against him will be dropped.”

“Well, I don't know, Mr. Lauchlan. I'm all at sea —”

“Mrs. Gough, you've known me a long time haven't you?”

She hesitated for a moment, and then nodded.

“If you could just see your way clear to try out this arrangement for one day,” Charles said, “I would be extremely grateful.”

He could see that she was far from easy in her mind but, finally, she agreed. It made him uncomfortable to have made it an issue of loyalty to him. He could only hope that Peter would catch on to the rhythm of the house and move with it, a rhythm he himself knew so well that he could take it for granted.

S
etter
peeked around the half-closed door of Crossin's office. “Progress report on the Asseltine case, sir? Is this a good time?”

“Come in.” Crossin put the cap on his new-fangled fountain pen and dropped it into a tarnished silver lacrosse trophy on his desk. “I'll try to tear myself away from my monthly statistical report.”

Setter took a seat in the chair in front of Crossin's desk and laid out his notes on the only space available that was not occupied by Crossin's files. He placed a manila envelope beside the notes and laid his hand on it briefly, and inwardly told it to wait for the proper moment.

“Right,” he said, and launched into a review of what had been found at the crime scene, of the subsequent interviews with Peter, the janitor, Martland, the office staff, the two cleaning ladies, and ending with the various wardrobe searches. Crossin leaned forward on his elbows, concentrating hard during the sergeant's account of the button searches.

“So we're throwing our net wider on the wardrobe searches to include young Martland and other family members,” Setter said. He looked up from his notes. “And that's the way things stand at the moment, sir. Frankly, the more I look at it, the more questions I have about what actually went on in that room. For instance: why didn't McEvoy just run off after the struggle with Asseltine?”

“Too bloody drunk to do it, maybe?” Crossin cocked his head to one side, the better to cogitate. “There's Asseltine dead on the floor. McEvoy sees the whiskey decanter. At first he thinks, ‘just one for my nerves.' In short order, he can't form the intention to take the money and leave.”

“Mnmm.” Setter shook his head. He got up and began pacing. “Well sir, you've been drunk and I've been drunk. But — supposedly — McEvoy's just killed a man, for God's sake. It's not likely something he does every day.” He looked pointedly at Crossin.

“All right. Agreed. He doesn't seem the type.”

“So why didn't the shock of that burn right through the alcohol? By rights he should have grabbed the money and staggered out as fast as his legs could carry him.”

Crossin leaned forward, picked up the stub end of a cigar and stared at it. “And instead he stayed put.” He picked up a box of matches. “Didn't even try to get out after the janitor locked the door on him.”

Setter leaned on the desk. “Exactly. All he had to do was break the glass in the door.”

Crossin fished in the box of matches and took one out, not striking it but flipping the match over, rolling it backwards and forwards across his undulating fingers. He seemed mesmerized but Setter, who had seen the trick before, waited impatiently.

Crossin snapped back to reality. “What have you got in the envelope?”

“Ah, well. Some photos of the button. They're —”

“No. Don't tell me. Hell's bells, Setter —”

“Sir, before you get up a head of steam, I can explain. They'll actually save us time, if not money in the end, guaranteed.”

“How, pray tell?”

“Smithers and I can divide up the list of tailors and gents clothiers between us, thus completing the searches faster and making more efficient use of staff time.” He nodded toward the monthly report on Crossin's desk. “Besides, if I hadn't asked Mrs. Cliffe to make the photographs, I would have missed — er — the woman's point of view.”

Crossin's drew his eyebrows together. “Which is?”

Setter sat down again and pulled the photographs out of the envelope. “Up till now I've assumed that this button came off a man's clothing. But Mrs. Cliffe said there's a chance it belongs to a woman. That means we'll have to widen our search to include the female staff members, any female clients who visited the office that day, and Mrs. Martland and Mrs. Asseltine — to be absolutely thorough.”

“Well.” Crossin leaned back slowly in his chair and smiled coyly at his sergeant. “By all means be thorough.”

“Yes, certainly. I intend to, sir.” Setter tried to ignore the heat that had crept up his face.

“Give me the receipt for the photographs.” The older man was back to business. “I'll pass it through somehow. We can only pray that this is not just a trip down the garden path —”

“I wouldn't suggest this expenditure of department time if it wasn't absolutely essential, sir. We need to confirm whose button this is and when it was dropped in Martland's office.”

Crossin pursed his lips and nodded. “Agreed. Oh, by the way, I persuaded Smithers to drop his transfer application.”

“His transfer? — I didn't — is that right? —”

“Blast. He didn't tell you, did he?”

“Well, sir,” Setter began quickly gathering up his notes, “There's no requirement for him to tell me. Things like that are entirely his own business.” He tucked the sheaf of notes under his arm and headed for the door.

“Steady on, Setter. The point is the lad wants to stay with you. There was just —”

“No. Really, sir. No explanation necessary. Shall I have these notes transcribed for the file?”

“Look — yes. Go ahead —” Setter was out the door before he could finish. Crossin sighed and looked at a framed portrait on his desk. “Mrs. Crossin, your husband needs to think before he speaks.”

The brethren milled around folding their aprons and helping themselves to strong tea from three large, squat teapots. The worshipful master had more than once wondered if such an early meeting caused the members to yearn more for their dinners than for the perfection of the Masonic craft. Still, the men of Northern Light Lodge no. 63 often had business to attend to later in the evening and an early meeting time was their decided preference. The master had been rewarded tonight with a most commendable turnout. He saw Frank Martland's greeting from across the room and responded with a dignified and condoling inclination of the head.

Martland reciprocated and tucked his regalia case under his arm. He caught a glimpse, through the crowd, of the dark, military-style frogged tunic and peaked cap of the chief constable and steered in his direction, shaking a hand here and receiving a solicitous pat on the shoulder there. The news about the murder had been leaking out to an ever-widening circle and had finally furnished the headline for the late afternoon edition of the
Free Press
. The chief, too, was working his way through the crowd. He paused for a few moments of earnest conversation with one group then detached himself and moved on to the next. Martland kept him in view and slowly gained on him.

“Good evening, Chief,” Martland said as he grabbed the chief's hand.

“Martland — Frank — grand to see you.” The chief lowered his voice slightly. “I hope you've got the wind back in your sails after that terrible shock.”

“Thank you, Angus. My employees are quite shaken, but I've got the office functioning at least. And thank you again for personally giving me the news. I know how busy you are.”

“Not at all. A crime like this — a prominent man — needs delicate handling and reassurance. Decent people need to know that they're safe in their beds at night.”

“But are they, Angus?” Martland drew him a little apart from the rest. “When I got home from the office Monday I had to put up with a visit from one of your sergeants. Setter, I think he said his name was. Indian fellow.”

The chief rumbled in his throat and nodded. “Ah, yes?”

“Asked me a lot of questions,” Martland said, “and then insisted on pawing through my closets, for heaven's sake. And now I've just heard that the killer has been granted bail! I was shocked, I can tell you.”

The chief took an involuntary step backward. “News travels quickly.” He closed the gap again. “But then perhaps you heard from your son?”

Martland sighed and nodded his head. “I know. Trevor put up the bail money. Cut me to the quick that did. But a father's wishes don't seem to count for much when there's a pretty face involved.”

“Oh, was that it?” The chief smiled. “An angel of mercy, I suppose. Well, Frank, children go their own way these days. But if it had been up to me the fellow would have stayed in my jail until the call from the hangman.”

“Quite right, too. There's more of these kinds of people coming into the city every day. And Jews — and now these people from Galicia.” Martland looked around to see if others were listening. “Shite from the manure pile of Europe, Angus. We have to make a stand for British justice or they'll swamp us. People want this McEvoy fellow to pay for what he did and believe me, we appreciate your leadership in these matters.”

“Thank you, Frank, I'm just trying to do —”

“No, no, you're too modest.” Martland took the chief by the elbow and drew him into the empty cloak room. In a hushed voice he continued. “You'd make a fine mayor, Angus, and I'm not the only man here that thinks so. There are seven or eight of us who would back you to the hilt.”

“Well, Frank, I don't know what to say.” The chief's chest expanded, and the ribbons trailing from the frogs on his tunic stirred. “I really haven't given the matter much thought. But I suppose if you and the others feel I could make a contribution —”

“The election is six months away — plenty of time — and I'm sure we can run a strong campaign for you.”

The chief looked pained. “The thing is, Frank, I would feel duty-bound to resign my present position in order to run. And then if I lose —”

“If you lose, which you're not going to do, every man here would jump at the chance to use your talents. I'd like to speak to one or two of our friends about this, if you'd allow me. Get a committee rolling, that sort of thing.”

The chief leaned in closer to Martland and his voice dropped almost to a whisper. “I have had conversations with one or two people, just in a hypothetical way, you understand —”

“Good work, Angus,” Martland said. “Now, the next step is for you to get this McEvoy business settled. Let the city see you at your best.”

The chief drew himself up to his full height. “Well, I've always been four square for the law, Frank. We won't have quiet streets unless we can demonstrate to the criminal classes that we are prepared to deal firmly with them.”

“That's what we've been waiting to hear. Keep talking like that, Angus, and the mayor's gavel is as good as yours.” Martland grabbed the chief by the shoulders and looked him in the eyes. The chief found himself caught in the intense blue gaze of the other man.

“I know you won't let us down,” Martland said.

After taking his leave the chief walked down the steps of the Masonic hall slowly, feeling for the next step with his outstretched foot. At the bottom of the steps he smiled and lifted his face up to catch the early evening sun. He set out for home, walked several paces, stopped, and then turned back toward the Central Police Station.