The Tenderness of Wolves (5 page)

‘Near Caulfield?’

‘Yes, I believe he lives on a small farm or something, the place is called something River … a bird or an animal, some such name.’

Sturrock remembers the name perfectly well, but he wants to hear it from them.

‘Dove River.’

‘Yes, that’s it. Dove River.’

The man glances at his companion. ‘This trader. Is he a Frenchie?’

Sturrock feels the coldness of shock clench his spine. The two men see it in his face. Nothing more needs to be said.

‘A Frenchie trader in Dove River was murdered. I don’t know if there’s more than one such there.’

‘I don’t think there is. You didn’t … hear a name by any chance?’

‘Not that I remember off the top of my head–something French, is all I recall.’

‘The name of my acquaintance is Laurent Jammet.’

The man’s eyes light up with pleasure. ‘Well I’m sorry, I truly am, but I think that was the name that was mentioned.’

Sturrock falls uncharacteristically silent. He has had to deal with many shocks in his long career, and his mind is already working out the repercussions of this news. Tragic, obviously, for Jammet. Worrying, at the least, for him. For there is unfinished business there that he has been very keen to conclude, awaiting only the financial means to do so. Now that Jammet is dead, the business must be concluded as soon as possible, otherwise the chance may slip out of his reach for good.

He must have looked very shocked indeed, because the next time he looks down there is a cup of coffee and a chaser of bourbon standing on his table. The commercial travellers are looking at him with great and genuine interest–a violent and dreadful piece of news is exciting enough, but to stumble across someone directly affected by the tragedy–what could be better? It is worth several dinners in cold currency. Sturrock accordingly reaches out with a trembling hand for the liquor.

‘You look like someone walked over your grave all right,’ remarks one of them.

Realising what is required of him, Sturrock hesitatingly tells a sad tale of a present promised to his sick wife, and a debt unpaid. He is not in fact married, but the travellers do not seem to mind. At one point he leans on the table, his eyes following a plate of chops on their way past, and two minutes later a hot roast dinner lands in front of him. Really, he thinks (not for the first time), he missed his vocation–he should have been a writer of romances, the ease with which he conjures the consumptive wife. When at last he feels he has given them their money’s worth (no one could accuse
him of not being generous with his imagination), he shakes them both by the hand and leaves the coffeehouse.

It is late afternoon and the day is fleeing over the western horizon. He walks slowly back to his lodgings, his mind working out how he is going to find the cash for a trip to Caulfield, for that is what he will have to do, to keep his dream alive.

There is probably one person left in Toronto whose patience he has not entirely exhausted, and if he approaches her in the right way, she might be good for a loan of twenty dollars or so. Accordingly he turns his footsteps right at the end of Water Street and heads towards the more salubrious districts along the lake shore.

When I could no longer pretend it was night–long after the sun came up–I gave in to exhaustion and climbed upstairs to bed. Now it must be midday but I can’t get up. My body refuses orders, or rather my mind has given up issuing them. I stare at the ceiling, mired in the certainty that all human endeavour, but especially mine, is futile. Francis has not come home, thus adding weight to the argument that I am utterly without talent, courage or use. I am anxious for him, but my concern is overwhelmed by the inability to take a decision to do anything. I am not surprised he has run away from such a mother.

Angus got up just as I was coming upstairs, and not a word was said. We have had difficult conversations about Francis before, although not under such dramatic circumstances. Angus tends to repeat that he is seventeen and can look after himself; it is normal for boys of his age to take off for days on end. But he is not like normal boys, I try not to say, but in the end always do. The unspoken words press on me in the small room: Francis is gone; a man is dead. Of course there can be no connection.

A voice in my head wonders if Angus would not grieve too much if Francis did not come back. Sometimes they look at each other with such venom, like sworn enemies. A week ago Francis came in late and refused to do one of his chores. He would do it in the morning, he said, treading on thin ice as Angus had just had a fruitless argument with James
Pretty over the boundary fence. Angus took a breath and told him just what a selfish, ungrateful youth he was. When he said the word ungrateful I knew what was coming. Francis exploded: Angus expected him to be grateful for giving him a home; he treated him as an indentured servant; he hated him and always had … Angus withdrew into himself, betraying nothing but a thin glimmer of contempt that chilled me. I shouted at Francis then, my voice trembling. I wasn’t sure how much he included me in his anger; it was so long since he had looked me in the eye.

How could I have prevented it coming to this? Probably Ann is right to deride me; I am incapable of raising a family, even though I used to despise women who thought it was all that mattered. Not that I have produced anything else of worth.

A sort of waking dream haunted me through my vigil; I had been reading a gothic story about an artificial man who hated the world because his appearance inspired terror and loathing. At the end of the novel the creature ran away to the Arctic where no one could see him. In night-induced delirium I saw Francis being pursued, like the monster, who is a murderer … In daylight I can see how silly this was; Francis can’t even kill a trout. At the same time, he has been gone for two days and nights.

Something occurs to me in the tangle of sheets, and eventually forces me to go into Francis’s room and pick through the chaos. It is hard to tell what is there and what is gone, so it takes me some time to find what I am looking for. When I do, I go into a frenzy, pulling things out of cupboards, scrabbling under the bed and then tearing through the rest of the house in a desperate search. But it is no good–because I am praying for things not to be there when they irrefutably are. I find his two fishing rods and the spare rod Angus made for him when they were still on speaking terms. I find tinder-boxes and sleeping blankets. I find all the things he would
have taken on a fishing trip. The only things missing are a set of clothes and his knife. Without thinking I take his favourite fishing rod out the back and break it in two, and bury the halves in the woodpile. When I have done that I am breathing heavily. I feel guilty and dirty, as if I have accused Francis myself, so I go inside and boil pans of water for a bath. Luckily I don’t get into the tub straight away, for Ann Pretty marches into the kitchen without even a knock.

‘Ah, Mrs Ross, what a life of leisure you lead! Bathing in the middle of the day … You ought to be careful with hot baths at your age. My sister-in-law had a seizure in her bath, you know.’

I do know, as she has told me at least twenty times. Ann likes to remind me that she is three years younger than I, as though this were a whole generation. For my part I refrain from pointing out that she looks older than her years and is shaped like a bear, whereas I have kept my figure and was thought, in my youth at least, something of a beauty. She wouldn’t care anyway.

‘Did you hear they are investigating? They have brought in Company men. A whole troop. They are asking questions up and down the river.’

I nod, non-committal.

‘Horace came up from the MacLarens’ and said they’d been there talking to everyone. I expect they’ll be here soon.’ She looks around her in a predatory fashion. ‘He said Francis hasn’t been around since yesterday morn.’

I don’t bother to correct her and say it was longer than that. ‘He’ll get a shock when he comes back,’ I say.

‘Didn’t he hunt with Jammet?’ She looks sly, her eyes raking the room like a bird of prey; a rosy-faced, broad-beamed buzzard, looking for carrion.

‘A few times. He’ll be sad when he finds out. They weren’t great friends, though.’

‘What a business. What are we all coming to? Still, he was
a foreigner. They’re hot-blooded, Frenchies, aren’t they? I know when I lived in the Sault they were always at each other’s throats. I expect it was one of them come to do business.’

She is not going to accuse Francis to my face, but I can imagine her doing so elsewhere. She has always thought of him as a foreigner too, with his dark hair and skin. She considers herself a well-travelled woman, and from each place she has been to, she has brought away a prejudice as a souvenir.

‘So when’s he coming back? Aren’t you worried, with a murderer running around?’

‘He’s fishing. Probably not till tomorrow.’

I suddenly want her to leave, and she takes the hint and asks me for a loan of tea–a sign that she thinks there is nothing else to be had from me. I give her the tea more willingly than usual, and add some coffee beans in a fit of generosity which ensures she won’t be back soon, as backwoods etiquette dictates you bring an equal offering with each visit.

‘Well … Best be getting on.’

And yet she still doesn’t go, looking at me with an expression I don’t think I have seen on her face before. It disturbs me somehow.

Hot water has a beneficial effect on me. Bathing is not de rigueur in November, but I see it as a more civilised alternative to the shock baths they used to give us in the asylum. I only experienced the douche twice, in the early days, and although excruciating in anticipation and duration, it left you feeling remarkably calm and clear-headed, even exhilarated. It was a simple device whereby the patient (in this case, me) would be strapped to a wooden chair in a thin cotton shift while a large bucket of cold water was raised above your head. An attendant pulled a lever and the bucket
tipped over, drenching you in icy water. That was before Paul–Dr Watson–took over as Superintendent and instigated a gentler regime for the mad, which meant (for the women at least) sewing, flower arranging and all sorts of nonsense. I only agreed to go into the hospital in the first place to get away from that sort of thing.

Thinking about my time in the asylum always cheers me–the advantage, I suppose, of a miserable youth. I must remember to share this pearl of wisdom with Francis when he comes home.

He introduces himself as Mr Mackinley, factor of Fort Edgar. He is a slight man, his thick hair cut short so that it looks, appropriately, like fur. Something about me surprises him–I think my accent, which is more cultured than his and probably seems out of place here. His manner becomes slightly obsequious at this, although I can see him fighting it. All in all, not a happy man. Not that I’ve got anything to shout about.

‘Is your husband in?’ he asks stiffly. As a woman I’m obviously not supposed to know anything.

‘He is out on business. And our son is on a fishing trip. I am Mrs Ross. I found the body.’

‘Ah. I see.’

He’s a fascinating case–one of those rare Scotsmen, whose expression reveals his mind. Assimilating all this information, his face changes yet again, and on top of the surprise and deference and courtesy and mild contempt is a keen interest. I could watch him all day, but he has his job to do. And I have mine.

He gets out a notebook and I tell him that Angus will be back later, but was in the Sault until yesterday afternoon, and Francis left yesterday morning. This is a lie, but I have thought about what to say and no one knows any different. He seems interested in Francis. I say he has gone up to
Swallow Lake, but may move on if the fish aren’t biting.

I say they were friendly. He takes notes.

I thought hard about what to say about Francis and Jammet and their friendship. It has occurred to me that Jammet was perhaps his only friend, even though Jammet was so much older, and French. Jammet persuaded Francis to go hunting, something Angus had never managed. There was also that time earlier this summer when I was walking to the Maclaren place and passed his cabin. I heard a violin playing–a bright, infectious sound totally unlike Scottish fiddle music–some French folk tune, I suppose. It was so attractive that I veered towards the cabin in my urge to listen. Then the door burst open and a figure spilled out, limbs flailing, then dashed back inside, in some sort of game. The music, which had stopped, started up again, and I walked on. It had taken me a couple of moments to realise that the figure was Francis. I hardly recognised him, perhaps because he was laughing.

He’s not stupid, this one, despite his revealing face. But perhaps it is all an act–it throws you off the scent. Now, strangely, his expression is quite different–he looks at me almost kindly, as if he has established that I am a poor creature who can be no threat to him. I am not sure what I have done to give him this idea, but it annoys me.

Through the window I watch him walking up the road to the Prettys’ farm and think of Ann. I wonder whether the expression I saw on her face was pity.

Donald quickly learns some facts about Caulfield. For one thing, when he knocks on the door of a house the occupants panic–no one knocks in the normal run of things. When they have established that no members of their immediate family are dead, injured or under arrest, they drag him in to ply him with tea and pump him for information. His notes are a chaos of cross-references: the first family have seen nothing but send for a cousin, who turns out to be the husband of another woman, whom he awaits for an hour before realising he has already met him. People surge in and out of their houses swapping stories, theories and excited, doom-laden prophesies about the state of the country. Trying to make sense of it is like trying to gather the river in his arms.

It is dark by the time he has completed his allotted round of questioning. He waits in the parlour at Knox’s house and tries to draw conclusions from what he has heard. His notes reveal that no one he spoke to saw anything unusual–he discounts the atypical squirrel behaviour seen that morning by George Addamont. Donald hopes that he hasn’t let the others down by missing something obvious. He is tired and has been fed a great deal of tea and, latterly, whisky; has made promises to revisit several households; but he has not, he is fairly certain, met a murderer.