Put on the Armour of Light (9 page)

O
n
Friday mornings Rosetta went to the university to photograph botanical specimens. She had told Setter, with a certain glow of satisfaction, of how she had filched the contract out from under the nose of Crooks and Feyer. It did mean that Mrs. Harbottle had to cover for her in the studio Friday mornings, a prospect that took some of the edge off the triumph. That was why Mrs. Harbottle came to be at the desk that morning, reading a novel instead of taking inventory of the frame stock. She was jolted into awareness by an airy tinkling of the bell that announced the arrival of a customer.

Erling Eklund, dressed in a rather garish window-pane check suit, was approaching the counter. Either the fashion in men's clothes had changed considerably or the suit was somewhat too short for him, both in the trousers and sleeves. He seemed all too aware of this and pulled at his cuffs as he walked.

“I've come to pick up some photographs.”

“Oh yes, sir. And what is your name?”

“Brochmer. William Brochmer.”

After asking him to spell it out for her, Mrs. Harbottle stepped over to the box of prints and framed photographs marked for pick-up that day. He was now standing close enough to her that the red wine birth mark across his nose was hard to overlook. If she noticed it, she was making an effort not to stare at him as she flipped through the contents of the box once, and again more slowly. Then she went over to the oak filing cabinets and checked several files of contact prints and negatives.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Brochmer. I can't seem to find them. Are you sure Mrs. Cliffe said to pick up today? She's usually very efficient.”

“Yes. It was today. I'm sure she said today. Is there somewhere else you can look?”

“Well, I can look at the order book in the back.”

“I would be obliged.” He moved around the counter and stood in front of the oak filing cabinets. “Would you mind if I had a look? She may have put them under my company name.”

As he was standing right in front of the cabinets, it was difficult for Mrs. Harbottle to refuse. She nodded assent. As soon as she disappeared into the back room, Eklund, keeping a furtive eye on the back room door, located a drawer, pulled it open, flipped through, pulled another drawer open and stopped at a file containing a number of contact prints and a heavy packet of glass negatives. He paged through the prints.

“No, Mr. Brochmer,” She called from the back room. “I don't see any order for you either.”

He pulled a print out of the file, folded it in two quickly and stuffed it into his inside jacket pocket a quarter second before she reappeared.

“I can't think what's happened. Mrs. Cliffe is very organized. She scares the willies out of me, quite frankly.”

“I'm sure there must have been some mistake. I'll have to have a word with Mrs. Cliffe myself. When will she be back?”

“This afternoon about two o'clock.”

Eklund furrowed his brow and made quite a show of pulling a small appointment book out of his inside pocket and consulting it. “Too late, I'm afraid. I have to be on the 1:30 p.m. train for Calgary this afternoon.” He sighed deeply. “I suppose I'll have to write to her.”

“I'm very sorry for this, sir. I'm sure Mrs. Cliffe will want to make it up to you in some material way.”

“Don't fuss yourself, dear lady. Probably an honest mistake. Thank you for your trouble.” He tipped his hat and left the store, tugging at his jacket sleeves.

H
at
in hand, Charles banged the heavy brass knocker on the front door of the Martland house. It was an attractive house, certainly, but he had heard that the Martlands' new house across the river would be much grander, with an upper floor room big enough to hold dances. He imagined such events would be referred to as balls, not dances, given the resplendent surroundings.

A girl, plainly dressed, answered the door and Charles gave her his card, and asked if Mrs. Martland was receiving. The girl launched into what sounded like a rehearsed speech when Agnes Martland herself walked briskly into the hallway, stopped, looked for a quick exit, and realized one was not to be found.

“Oh — I thought it was the draper. Well — Mr. Lauchlan, how nice to see you. I wasn't — please — please come in. Unfortunately my husband is at the office. So many things to attend to with the — the death of his partner.”

“How are you, Mrs. Martland? It was actually you I came to see. We haven't seen you at church lately and, what with Mr. Asseltine's unfortunate death, I wanted to see if there was anything I could do for you. Trevor mentioned that you've been a little unwell?”

“Oh, Trevor is exaggerating. I'm perfectly all right. Well — of course — I have had some trouble with my hip.”

“Oh, your hip. And Trevor said your knees too?”

“My knees? Oh well, yes. My knees are not what they were. It's age, I suppose. Nothing is what it was.”

Charles could well believe that; she said it so sadly. But he did not believe that he was hearing the real reasons for her absence from church. Agnes Martland was an extremely pretty woman, despite her claims of decrepitude. Delicate-looking, she was, with a slender, graceful frame, and an oval face with a lustrous head of auburn hair, only lightly touched with grey, piled up high but with curled tendrils close around her cheek bones and forehead. And Trevor's tale about the dressmaking must certainly be true, for she was dressed expertly and expensively in shades of lilac-coloured silk that both hugged and flowed around her and rustled as she moved. But her dress made no allowance for the unseasonable heat; she was covered from the ruffles about her chin to the long sleeves banded at her wrists.

“Won't you come and sit down? Ethel, some tea — and some biscuits, please.”

She lead Charles through a set of pocket doors into the parlour, a large comfortable room with a bow window facing onto Carlton Street and a grand piano in its own alcove. Charles had never seen one outside a concert hall. She motioned him toward an overstuffed settee and sat down herself in a low brocade-covered chair with no arms that allowed her to spread her skirts elegantly. This accomplished, she sat very erect, hands folded tightly in her lap.

“There must be many things for you to attend to what with your new house and all.”

“Yes, yes. So many things.”

He waited in vain for her to enlarge on those many things.

“I gather your daughters are away at school?” he said.

“Yes — well, no. School is out just now. We send them to the Trafalgar School in Montreal. At the moment they're visiting friends in New York.”

“It must be a comfort that they are so near your family in Montreal.”

But she looked anything but comforted and her left hand crumpled the fine stuff of her skirt. He was about to try yet another subject when she almost spit out. “They — they do not see them.”

“Not see them? Are they —”

“My relations — my parents and my sister and her family —” She looked down and then toward the window, anywhere but in his direction. “They are Catholic, you see. I haven't seen them myself since we moved to Winnipeg.” She forced herself to turn back to him. “I had hoped, with the girls so near …”

“I see. That must be very difficult for you.” As a response it was pathetic and inadequate but for now he sensed that she needed something else to concentrate on or it would be a very short visit.

“Say, that's a beautiful instrument. I understand that you've studied music a great deal, Mrs. Martland.”

“Oh, yes. I played reasonably well when I was young. And I gave piano and singing lessons when we first came to Winnipeg. We needed every penny then, of course.”

“I'd very much like to hear you play.”

“Oh, no, Mr. Lauchlan. I never play for people now. Just for my own pleasure.”

“It's such a fine piano. Could I try it?”

“Yes, of course. Here, I'll open it for you.” She walked over to the piano and lifted the wooden cover from the keys, pushing it back into the recess above the keyboard.

Charles sat down and played a few random notes and arpeggios. The sound echoed, bright and resonant, off the high ceiling. He started into a simple arrangement of “Danny Boy,” softly at first but playing out more, gaining confidence even though he hit several wrong notes. He was not a good player yet he could see that she was following the tune, singing it in her mind. She walked over to him, almost in spite of herself, placing her hand on the piano at the point where it curved inward. She swayed slightly as he hit the soaring conclusion.

“I'm sure you know the words,” he said, playing the introduction of the song again. When she began to sing softly, he smiled and nodded encouragement. At first her voice was a little thin but soon she was burnishing her phrases with a honeyed vibrato — in the mezzo range, surprisingly — at odds with the delicacy of her frame.

When the song was finished, she laughed with pleasure. “Oh, I enjoyed that. I expected you to play a hymn, though.”

“Well, hymns are grand, of course. But my sister needed an accompanist for musicale performances and I was the only one of my brothers who could play at all. So if you like Robbie Burns songs and the like, I can accommodate you.”

“Do you know, ‘Annie Laurie'?”

“I do. I can even sing the harmony. But my talent doesn't run to playing and singing at the same time.”

“Oh, I can play.” He surrendered the piano bench to her and she began the introduction to the song. She nodded to indicate the entrance and began to sing. He had to go searching for the correct pitch for the harmony, but soon found it, matching his light baritone to the lilting curve of her phrases above him.

Halfway through, “My Heart's in the Highlands,” the maid brought in the tea things. At the end of the song Mrs. Martland performed a dazzling arpeggio, running up the keyboard and ending with two decisive, ringing, chords. They both laughed.

“Do you sing on all your pastoral visits, Mr. Lauchlan?”

“I may from now on, Mrs. Martland. If there was more singing — and more tea and biscuits — the world would be a happier place.”

The tea wagon had been set beside her chair. She sat down there and motioned for Charles to sit on the settee beside her. Just as she was starting to serve, a gust of wind blew open the French doors to the verandah.

“We really will have to fix these doors before we sell. They're always blowing open.” The wind caught her hair, blowing the tendrils off her face just for a moment before she got the doors closed. Something jarred in the back of his mind, but that was all, for she came back and was so much more relaxed that he was sure it was nothing.

Once she was finished serving, he said, “You sing so beautifully. I wish you would sing for us at church.”

She faltered and looked down at her cup. “No, no, I don't have the confidence, I'm afraid.”

“Is it confidence? Or is it that you're a little uncomfortable, still.”

She looked up at him. “A little of both, I suppose.”

“You know that if there was anything I could do to help you or set your mind at ease, I would be glad —”

“That's kind of you. And for Frank's sake, I know I should try harder — to fit in and learn and do my part, I mean. I've been such a disappointment to him.”

Charles wasn't sure that they were still discussing church matters. “I find that hard to believe. Look at this house and your family. You've raised a fine young man and two lovely girls.”

“The children were no trouble, no trouble at all. They've been my mainstay, really. But I'm afraid Frank should have married someone more outgoing. Someone who could entertain more, find the right people and cultivate relationships with them. But I really don't enjoy that sort of thing. Sometimes I don't blame him for losing his temper but that makes it worse because then I get rattled and I can't think …”

She had been twisting a delicate napkin between her fingers. Her face said — something — he couldn't quite name it. He put down his cup and folded his napkin slowly. “Would you like to pray with me, Agnes?”

She looked almost shocked; but then she nodded slowly. He leaned slightly toward her, bowing his head, and began, softly. “Lord, hear our prayers and let us draw near to you. Father, you know our inmost thoughts even before we give voice to them and there is no place so lost or remote that you are not there with us. But sometimes the sound of our own troubles din so loudly in our ears that we can't hear you; we can't feel the comfort of your presence. Be with us in our trembling. Help us to find the peace that is in your promise to us for we ask it in Christ's name.”

She murmured “Amen,” with him and then they were perfectly still. Agnes remained with her head bowed. Then there was a sound from somewhere at the back of the house, a door closing. She sat up in her chair, alert like a doe scenting the wind. Then she folded her napkin quickly and placed it on the tea tray. “Well — it was so kind of you to call, Mr. Lauchlan.” She rose from the couch and extended her hand. “But now I'm afraid I must get back to some details for the new house.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you for the tea and the music, Mrs. Martland. I enjoyed it very much.”

“I did, too. Very much. Oh — and can I ask?”

“Yes.”

“Do you still need used clothing? At the church, I mean.”

“Yes, we're always looking.”

“I have a boxful. I'll send it over tomorrow.”

Charles nodded his thanks and took his leave. The intimacy of the visit had vanished abruptly with this sudden dismissal, yet he knew that he had broken through some kind of barrier with her. It was a start.

M
illicent
Asseltine received Setter in what the maid called the drawing room. The maid was, of course, dressed in black — as was Mrs. Asseltine. Something about the sculptured bodice of her dress — with dagger-shaped jet beads dangling at regular intervals from its black lace gathers — and the dramatic pose she struck in front of the fireplace made Setter think that there were aspects of widowhood that Mrs. Asseltine was rather enjoying.

“Good afternoon, Sergeant. I wasn't expecting to see you again.”

“I have just a few more questions, Mrs. Asseltine, if you would be so kind.”

She arranged herself on the settee, leaving Setter standing. “Well, let's get on with it, then. I've been unable to complete final arrangements until the coroner releases my husband's, er, remains. Do you have any idea when that will be?”

“I think very soon. The post-mortem report has been completed.” He told her the results, which she received calmly, having visibly braced herself. She got up from the settee and walked to the window.

“My husband had his failings, Sergeant. But he didn't deserve to die that way.” She made a handsome figure but she seemed less aware of being on display now.

“I am sorry for your loss, Mrs. Asseltine.”

She turned to look at him as if he were a canker worm on her best roses. “What I can't understand, Sergeant, is why you people continue to bustle around with your questions. That awful man killed my husband. And —” She broke off as if she had just remembered something else. She crossed the room and pressed a button concealed by the flocked pattern of the wallpaper.

“I think some refreshment would be best. You'd better sit down.”

Setter pricked up his ears and, after looking around at his options, lowered himself into a tufted leather wingback chair. The maid came to the door and was duly dispatched. Mrs. Asseltine sat down again opposite him and fixed him with a steady gaze.

“I wanted —”

“No, Sergeant. My questions first. What do you know about Trevor Martland paying that man's bail — and his legal costs, too?”

It caught him unawares. “Well, nothing really — that is, Mr. Lauchlan was looking for someone, I suppose. Someone capable of putting up the bail and young Mr. Martland volunteered.”

The maid reappeared. Not with tea things, to Setter's surprise, but rather with brandy, a soda dispenser, and two glasses.

Mrs. Asseltine picked up the brandy bottle. “Sergeant?”

“Oh — that's kind, Mrs. Asseltine, but unfortunately, not while I'm on duty.”

“Oh. Very well, then.” She poured a generous glass with a short dash of soda for herself and then returned to the matter at hand.

“I call what Trevor did peculiar — decidedly peculiar — and I do not appreciate it.” She rapped on the arm of the settee. “If that man doesn't hang, I will never forgive the Martlands. And now you're poking around here again. What the devil is going on?”

“I am as eager as you to find the answer to that question, Mrs. Asseltine. Sometimes things are not as they appear. Even a policeman knows that.”

She sat back in her chair and, for the first time, smiled at him. “So — we're both intent on penetrating mysteries. Are you married, Sergeant?”

“Ah, well — hem. No. Not at present.”

“Well, if you ever get married you will see that wives know all about appearances, too. For instance, I knew when Joe told me he was having dinner with a client, that the ‘client' would have a deck of cards or a racing form in his pocket.”

“Then you —”

“Oh, yes. I knew about Joe's diversions. Most of the time, they were harmless enough. I would have put a stop to them if they had been a serious drain on our finances.”

“What about the finances of the firm? Did your husband ever mention any arguments between himself and Mr. Martland?” He was determined to gain the offensive again.

“I'm afraid my husband never discussed his business affairs with me. We were always on good terms with the Martlands socially — at least I thought so until this last development. Now, what were you going to ask me?”

Blast the woman,
thought Setter. “I, er, well, the fact is, I need to look through your closets — if you don't mind.” Oh Lord. A constable on his first day would have sugared the pill better than that.

“First Joe's closets and now mine!” She sat up bolt upright. “Sergeant, if you have found a fan or a glove in Frank Martland's office, I can assure you that it does not belong to me. Frank was very careful about the people he let into that room. He wouldn't even let Joe have a key.”

Setter ruffled the pages of his notebook so as to gain time to think. “Really? Well — of course — but wouldn't the cleaners need a key?”

“That's what I mean. The cleaners had a key but his own partner did not.” She took a gulp from her glass and took a deep breath. “Mind you, I think it was the whiskey.”

“The whiskey?”

“The whiskey was bought by the firm to entertain clients and investors but Frank insisted on having it in his office.” She put on a prissy expression. “Frank doesn't drink, you see. But Joe does — did. The impertinence!”

“I expect that was why your husband chose that particular night to meet with McEvoy, then. The cleaners would have been cleaning Mr. Martland's office between eight and nine o'clock.” And he thought to himself that there was a little added indignity for Asseltine, knowing that the company safe was in a room to which his partner controlled access.

“Yes. That's right. He left here at seven-thirty — some work to do on the Bates building project, he said. That would put him at the office by eight. Of course, he could have asked Mrs. Fuchs for the key at any time. She lives in the building, after all.”

“Ah, no. Because, you see, he wouldn't have wanted to attract undue attention to himself. He thought — wrongly — that his gambling debts were a secret.”

“Yes. So he simply told the cleaners that he would lock Frank's door after they left.” Setter reflected that Mrs. Asseltine would've made a fine policeman, and this added to his discomfort. He flipped his notebook shut. “Well, um, this has been very pleasant, Mrs. Asseltine. But I'm afraid there is still the matter of your closets.”

She leaned back against the cushions of the settee and tilted her head to the side, fixing him with a look so direct that he had to fuss with his pant leg to escape it.

“I must say, you have the most extraordinary duties. What is it you want with my clothes?”

“You know I can't tell you that, Mrs. Asseltine.” He stood up with as much authority as he could muster. “Now, if you would be so kind.”

She gave a little puffing sound with her lips and raised her eyes heavenward, then lifted herself from the settee, glass in hand. “Well, come along then. I'll have to show you the way. Gertie is busy in the kitchen.”

Setter would wince at the memory of the next twenty minutes for a long time. He stood in her dressing room at the door of her closet, pulling hangers across, checking the buttons on a dizzying array of dresses and suits with her distinctive scent warm in his nostrils. She sat on a dainty satin-covered chair throughout this performance, sipping brandy. He was proud, nonetheless, when he looked back on it, that in spite of the sweat rolling down his neck and sinking into his collar, in spite of the blushing and the fumbling, he had checked every damned button in the closet.