A Journeyman to Grief (34 page)

“You wanted to pray, Reverend.”

Somewhat stiffly, the pastor got off his chair and went down on his knees. He clasped his hands and raised his eyes to the ceiling.

“Oh Lord Jesus, who we know loves his children as a shepherd loves his sheep, I pray to you this night for guidance.”

Murdoch didn’t dare trust his legs to kneel, but he, too, clasped his hands and bowed his head. The pastor’s voice grew louder.

“Help me, Lord, to know Your Will in this matter. You who gave your only begotten son that we might have eternal life, you who know what it is to suffer, show us the way, Lord. Show me the way that I might do what is right for those of your children who have particularly suffered from the wickedness of the world and those sinners who do not know the glory of thy Love. Show me, Lord, I pray. This child is in need of a good family. May that family be presented to me by your grace.”

He was swaying back and forth and seemed almost to have gone into a trance. Murdoch waited uncomfortably. Finally, the pastor came to a halt and unclasped his hands. He remained on his knees.

Then the door opened and Green came in carrying a tea tray. Behind him was Mrs. Archer. She went over to her husband. “Look at you, you should be in bed. Enough praying for now.”

Green helped her to get her husband to his feet and back in his chair. He looked exhausted.

“Emeline needs our prayers, Leah. We cannot fail her. I have let her down once, I cannot do it a second time.”

“Never mind that for now. We will get the entire congregation
to pray for her.” She tucked a blanket around the pastor’s legs. “I want you to drink your posset and then it’s off to bed with you.”

He took the mug she handed him and drank the hot milk greedily. When he looked up, he had a white moustache on his upper lip. Gently, his wife leaned over and wiped it off with a napkin.

He replaced the mug on the table and closed his eyes. “So much sorrow, Leah. So much sorrow.” In a moment, he seemed to have fallen asleep.

Mrs. Archer stood back and addressed Murdoch. “There is a constable at the door, sir. I didn’t let him in because I thought it would upset Stanley too much.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I’ll speak to him.”

Green followed him into the hall.

“I should get back to the stable and tend to the horses, Mr. Murdoch. Is the pastor in any danger?”

“I’m still not sure. Things are falling into place, but I don’t intend to take any risks. I’m going to have a watch put on the house until we find our culprit.”

“Good. And I’ll put out the word too.” He gave a grim smile. “I am acquainted with some good bruisers. We will make sure he is quite safe.”

Murdoch put out his hand. “Thank you for your help. I apologize that I was not particularly gracious before.”

Green shook hands heartily. “I wouldn’t have been either. How are you feeling?”

“Maybe not as bad as the Chopper and Lincoln, but close.”

Fyfer was standing at the bottom of the steps and he watched Green as he left.

Murdoch beckoned to him. “Frank, I want you to patrol this street. Don’t allow anybody to approach the house. In particular, be on the lookout for a stocky, middle-aged coloured man. He
may be wearing a fedora and long mackintosh. Be careful. He is dangerous.”

Fyfer saluted. He liked this kind of assignment.

Murdoch returned to the apartment. The pastor was still asleep. Mrs. Archer looked up at him anxiously.

“What is happening, Mr. Murdoch? Elijah told me you had been attacked and probably by the same person who shot Thomas. And now you have a constable at the door. Surely we are not under suspicion?”

“Good gracious no, Mrs. Archer. But I am afraid your husband might be in some danger.”

“Why?”

“I believe it has to do with something that happened a long time ago, and that the deaths of Daniel Cooke and Thomas Talbert are connected. My attacker spoke of teaching them a lesson and that there was one more to do. He used the words
the holy one
. Elijah tells me your husband was once referred to in that way.”

“That’s right. It sounds strange to hear now.” She sank back into the chair. “Will we ever be free from the past? That terrible tragedy haunts us yet.”

Like her husband, she seemed tired, her sprightliness evaporating, and she suddenly looked old and frail, like him.

“Did he talk to you about Thomas Talbert’s daughter?” she asked.

“Yes, he did. He seemed to think I was here because she has disappeared. Abducted, I gather.”

“Thirty-eight years ago.”

“The pastor said she married Daniel Cooke.”

“Very few people knew of it. The marriage was kept secret.”

She sat down next to her husband and just as he had picked up his pipe for comfort, she picked up an embroidery sampler that
was on one of the chairs and took out the needle. She was picking out the words
The Lord is our saviour
, and the linen cloth was thick with flowers. While she spoke, she concentrated on her sewing and hardly looked at Murdoch.

“Did he tell you that he’s been asked to write his life story?”

“Yes, he did.”

“Did Stanley say what the publishing man said to him?”

“About including the misery?”

“That’s it. If that man had said it in front of me, I would have turned him out of doors. We have too many tales to pick from. Girls barely out of childhood raped by the men who owned them; women treated like brood mares, only not as well; young men mutilated because they glanced the wrong way at the white missus. My own father was whipped into unconsciousness because he himself refused to beat another slave. Which story do you want, sir?”

Murdoch had no easy words of comfort. He could only wait until she was ready to continue. She bit off the end of her silk thread and examined her work.

“Emeline Talbert was sold into slavery immediately following her marriage to Daniel Cooke. They were on their wedding tour in Niagara Falls, and an American slave trader kidnapped her. She was never seen again. Amen. Poor Thomas lost most of his hard-earned money trying to find her, but about four years after she disappeared, Daniel Cooke received a letter from a doctor who said he had been at her deathbed. So that was that. Very soon afterwards, Daniel married Adelaide Peckwith, who, I might say without implying anything, had a substantial dowry. But you said your attacker spoke of teaching somebody a lesson?”

“Yes, and I was one of them apparently. And I now believe Daniel Cooke and Thomas Talbert were also recipients.”

“And my husband might be another?”

“Yes. But please don’t worry. My constable is outside and Elijah is bringing over some men who I’m sure will have very strong arms.”

She rethreaded her needle and began to sew, fast and deft. “Thank you, Mr. Murdoch, but we are no strangers to danger.” She smiled at him, a sweet, wry smile. “On the other hand, neither my husband nor I could be said to have the strength of our youth, so I will make no protest about accepting your help.”

“I will make sure our villain is soon behind bars.”

She didn’t speak for a few moments, preoccupied with her own thoughts. A primrose began to take shape on the sampler. “Marriages between a white man and a coloured woman were rare at that time. Emeline Talbert was beautiful, she could have passed for white easily, but she wasn’t white, and I always wondered why Daniel Cooke wanted to marry her. He wasn’t that intelligent a man in my opinion, but smooth as butter around the ladies. There were many eligible white women who would have jumped at the opportunity to marry him. But he swept Emeline off her feet. Alas, even then I suspected his motives.” She sighed. “Even if I had voiced them to Emeline, she would not have listened. Thomas wasn’t rich, but he had worked hard to make money and his stable was thriving, but Daniel acted as if he were bestowing an honour on the family. A white man marrying a coloured girl.” She jabbed her needle into the cloth. “She would have made a good match without him, I’m sure. And one among her own people.”

The preacher let out a soft snore and she glanced over at him.

“Stanley has not really forgiven himself even for officiating at the marriage. He had the same misgivings I did, but he allowed himself to be talked out of them. He feared that if he refused to marry them, they would have eloped, and that would have been worse. She was a headstrong, motherless girl.”

Murdoch needed to probe further. Carefully. “The pastor thought the woman who came to see him earlier today was Mr. Talbert’s wife.”

“Did he? Well she’s long gone too, poor soul. She died before Emeline was wed and sometimes I tell you frankly, I praise the Lord, that she never knew about that wedding and what happened to her daughter.”

“I interviewed Mr. Talbert before he died and he never mentioned that Daniel Cooke had been his son-in-law.”

“No, he wouldn’t have. He was ashamed of ever giving his permission, and I know he always blamed himself. He had no reason to except that the long illness of her mother had made Emeline grow up without a guiding hand. Thomas at that time was far too concerned with becoming rich and he drank too much, so the child was left to servants to manage. I’m not saying she wasn’t a good girl at heart, I believe she was, but when Cooke came a calling, she was only seventeen and she was determined to have this man. Thomas knew nothing would stop her.” She glanced over at Murdoch, her face drawn with sadness. “He married a white woman a few years back, a widow she was. She’s a good woman, and they suited each other in my opinion, but there are those in the white world who believe fervently that the races should never mix…except illicitly when a white man has his way with a negro girl. I presume that is acceptable.”

She studied her husband for a moment.

“I should get him into his proper bed. He often falls asleep in his chair and he always gets a stiff neck from it.”

He hesitated. “Are you suggesting that somebody is punishing Cooke and Mr. Talbert for marrying outside of their race? Mr. Cooke’s marriage was many years ago.”

She gave a little shrug. “Sometimes a wound festers for a long time before it kills.”

Murdoch’s thoughts were starting to go in a different direction. “I have no wish to upset you, ma’am, but there are one or two things I need to ask you. Mr. Cooke was whipped at least thirty-seven to thirty-nine times, although he died from a heart attack midway through the beating.” He took out the drawing he had made and held it out to her. “Mr. Talbert was tied after death into this position. Are those two things significant?”

She looked at the sketch and flinched, turning her head away. “I would say they are very significant. They were both common forms of punishments for slaves. Thirty-nine lashes meted out for the most trivial of transgressions: a strange look, being too slow to come when called, singing God’s hymn when you shouldn’t.” She indicated the paper. “That method of tying was what was known as the Spanish Stoop. Slaves would be left in that position for hours. It was a way to break their spirit.”

Murdoch was still suffering from that punishment.

Mrs. Archer wiped at her eyes. “My husband and I were very active in what we called the Underground Railroad. We helped many fugitive slaves who came up from America that way. Some of them were children, infants even, sent by desperate mothers to safety.” Once again she studied her sampler, as if it comforted her. “For so many of us, Canada was the Promised Land, where the wounds would all be healed. But the Lord in his wisdom has seen fit to keep us in this valley of the shadow and I know not when we will see our green pastures. I fear it will not be in my lifetime.”

She fell silent, full of memories, and when she spoke, she did so with her head lowered. “By law, you see, we are free and equal in Canada, but true equality does not necessarily rest in law only, as I’m sure you know, Mr. Murdoch. True equality has to exist in the heart. And there are always those who do not have open hearts and think we should be in our place. Not slaves, oh my goodness
no, that is an American abomination but not equal, God forbid, never equal. Perhaps you read in the newspapers only last week, Mr. Murdoch, a coloured man was lynched by a mob in the city of Newark. He was attempting to save his two daughters who were being accosted. You could no doubt sit here for an hour or more and I could tell you similar tales and not repeat myself.”

Murdoch had read in the
Globe
about the incident but hadn’t paid much attention.

“The hope lies with the children, does it not?” she continued. “Children who are born free.” Her face was soft in the firelight. “The youngest child we rescued was barely three months old. He came to us so sickly we were afraid he might not live but, hallelujah, he did and has thrived. He was born with six fingers, you see, and somebody had tried to remove the extra finger by binding it with twine. One hand became infected and it was a miracle, the Lord be thanked, that he didn’t lose either his hand or his life. But he thrived in the love of our Saviour and he’s a grown man now with a family of his own.”

Murdoch stared at her. “I beg your pardon, ma’am, but did you say the child was born with six fingers?”

“That’s right.” She regarded him, wary now at his reaction. “It is not uncommon, sir. It means nothing. It is not a sign of the devil.”

“I apologize, ma’am. That was not what I was thinking. But this boy, do you know where he is now?”

“He was placed with a good Christian family who were themselves fugitives. Why are you asking?”

“Did you keep a record of this placement?”

He could see her fingers clenching the hoop of her sampler. “We did, but I should tell you, Mr. Murdoch, my husband holds strong views about the necessity for keeping those records
confidential. He saved many a child from shame by quietly and privately arranging for them to go to a good Christian family. Frankly, sir, many of these children were the result of rape, usually a white man on a coloured girl. Stanley believes that if it’s God’s will for those children to know their parentage He will ensure it happens, otherwise we will not interfere.”

Murdoch leaned forward, trying to temper his urgency. “Mrs. Archer, I will respect your views, but I do need some information. This child, did you yourselves know his parentage?”