Put on the Armour of Light (3 page)

M
aggie
was full of questions on the way home on the streetcar, but Charles was only half listening to her and after a few moments she gave up in disgust, spending the rest of the journey with her head resting against the frame of the open tram window, letting the breeze stir through her hair and play on her face.

Charles was busy working out how to frame Peter's situation when he talked with Maggie's father. He found himself at the Skene house often, dining with the family at least once a week and dropping by at other times with the easy assurance of a warm welcome. He felt completely at home in the large, bright house, which, though modestly furnished, provided more creature comforts than his cramped suite of rented rooms on Edmonton Street. He was a particular favourite of Miss Jessie Skene, who stuffed him with food and pricked up her ears at the mere mention of any unmarried ladies he had met; news which he dangled in front of her and then playfully withheld.

The confidence to be on teasing terms with the family had only come with long association. With one or two other theology students, Charles had become a fixture at Sunday lunch, or tea, when Dr. Skene had been minister at St. Andrew's in Toronto. Over the crumbs of buttered scones, Charles had nervously voiced his idea about setting up an itinerant mission for the miners and lumbermen along the railway between Prince Arthur's Landing and Rat Portage. It was an idea that for many of his elders smacked suspiciously of Methodism. If Dr. Skene had not seen the value of taking the church to where the miners and lumberjacks actually lived, and had he not pushed for the scheme in synod and general assembly meetings, Charles would never have been able to carry out his plan. It was the same when Dr. Skene had become principal of the new college in Winnipeg, where Charles was struggling to persuade skeptical church authorities to found a mission for railway and factory workers. That was the beginning of what was now Dufferin Avenue Presbyterian Church. He owed the older man a great deal and was a bit ashamed of being more intent on pleasing James Skene than he was at pleasing his own father.

That was why it was terribly important to demonstrate that Dufferin Avenue was worthy of the dearly won resources the church had devoted to it. And so, from morning till late at night, he busied himself setting up and running the soup kitchen, the clothing depot, the English classes, securing a doctor and nurse for a weekly free clinic, and finding books for the free library. That was in addition to the regular duties of sermon writing and leading the Sunday services morning and evening, Sabbath school, weekly prayer meetings, confirmation classes and Bible study, Young People's Society meetings, session meetings, and taking part with his clerical brethren in presbytery and synod. In six years he had established a full-fledged congregation, which included a growing number of influential but reform-minded parishioners like the Skenes and a small number of wealthy businessmen whose patronage was essential to the continued operation of the church and all its programs.

The Skene residence on Balmoral Street was a large and rambling house of yellow brick with an octagonal turret, a bow window, and a broad, ivy-covered verandah that embraced both the front and the side of the house. The college owned the house and provided it for Principal Skene and his family; it was understood that prospective board members would be courted there and, in its comfortable parlour, Presbyterian businessmen would be gently turned upside down and all the money shaken out of their pockets. This was as important as anything the Reverend Dr. James Carmichael Skene might do at his office on the second floor of the barely completed St. Giles College building on Colony Street, a building for which the principal was still anxiously soliciting donations. With the help of Jessie and Maggie and the services of a part-time cook and full-time hired girl, Dr. Skene kept a good table. A dinner invitation to the Skene house was as valued as any in Winnipeg although, of course, there would be no sherry before dinner and no claret with the Sunday joint. For that, one needed an invitation to the Archbishop of Rupert's Land's drafty residence at the foot of Machray Avenue, overlooking the lazy brown current of the Red River.

When Charles and Maggie arrived at the house, Aunt Jessie was on the verandah having just settled with her mending. A young man had been sitting on the porch steps toying absent-mindedly with a croquet mallet and engaging her in conversation. He stood when he saw Charles and Maggie coming through the front gate.

“Here she is, Mr. Martland,” said Aunt Jessie. “Maggie, Mr. Martland was kind enough to bring us home from the prayer meeting in his carriage. He wanted to return those books you lent him.”

“Hello, Trev. You won't believe where we've been! What happened to Mr. Asseltine is simply awful but wait till I tell —” These words were no sooner out of her mouth than Maggie remembered with horror whose partner the dead man had been. “Oh, Trev, I'm sorry! But maybe you haven't heard?”

“It's all right, Maggie. The police informed my father early this morning. There was some cleaning up to do and the office staff had to be told not to come in to work until tomorrow. Good evening, Mr. Lauchlan.” Trevor extended his hand to Charles.

“Please convey my condolences to your father, Trevor,” Charles said as he shook hands. “The circumstances must be particularly shocking for him.”

Maggie sat down on the steps with Trevor and launched into an account of their experience at the police station while Charles looked on, content to let Maggie relate the news about Peter, which now seemed all the more awkward considering the relationship of the Martlands and Asseltines.

In fact, Charles was vaguely annoyed at seeing Trevor Martland. This was the second time in as many weeks that he had found Trevor at the Skene house. Not that he disliked the boy; Trevor had the makings of a fine young man if he settled down and resisted the distractions all too common in the lives of wealthy families. Trevor's clothes were always in the latest style — or so Charles supposed, since he himself knew little of such things. Trevor had not one but two horses: one to pull his carriage and another stabled outside the city to ride alongside other fashionable young people on picnics and in impromptu races. There was even talk of organizing fox hunting, of all things, out among the prairie chickens and wheat fields. Trevor was also good-looking, a fact Charles had to acknowledge; whenever Trevor was at Bible study there was a palpable vibration among the females and Charles had to use all his best tricks to lure them back to the mysteries of text explication.

Trevor was listening intently to Maggie's story, sitting as close to her as propriety allowed while Aunt Jessie wielded her darning needle and strained to hear the grim details. “And he honestly doesn't remember coming into the office?” Trevor said.

“No,” Charles said. “The only thing he remembers is being there and looking down at Mr. Asseltine. Everything else is jumbled in his mind.” The whole topic was uncomfortable; Trevor seemed to be feeling the same. Charles attempted to change the subject. “Say, Trevor, how is your mother? We hardly see her at church these days. I hope her lumbago is improving?”

A bit disconcerted at that turn, Trevor popped up from the steps in order to be on the same level as Charles. “Oh, well, the lumbago is better but now she's having some difficulties with her knees.”

“That's bad luck. I'll be sure to drop by and pay her a visit this week.”

“Well, I'm sure she would appreciate that, Mr. Lauchlan. Just one thing though; she might not be receiving callers when you arrive. She's having a lot of dresses made for the winter season and, well, she seems to spend an awful lot of time with fittings. You know how these things go.” Trevor smiled charmingly and some colour came into his face. “And, of course, there are endless details to do with the new house.”

“Well now, the ways of ladies and their dressmakers are a mystery to me but I take your point about the house. I'll be sure to drop off a card before I call.” Charles turned to Maggie. “I'll just go in and see your father.”

“He'll be in his study,” said Maggie. “Be sure to tell me everything you discuss.”

Charles started to say something to her, stopped, and simply wished Trevor goodnight.

T
he
house was cool and still as he made his way down the hall to Dr. Skene's study, which overlooked the small garden in back. James Skene was writing a letter when Charles knocked on the door frame and entered. The study was filled with bookshelves and tidier than Charles could ever hope to keep his own cramped office. Skene greeted him warmly, despite his unexplained absence from the prayer meeting.

“Assuming that you led the meeting in my absence, sir, thank you, — most sincerely — and I'll try to explain why I left you in the lurch.”

“Not at all, Charles. As a matter of fact, I rather enjoyed leading the responses tonight. Don't get into the pulpit much these days.” Skene moved to a reading chair beside the small brick fireplace and motioned Charles into the chair opposite. “Now, tell me where you've been.”

Charles related the details of the murder and of Peter's predicament.

“McEvoy. Yes, I remember him. A good, keen mind — but troubled. I wish that he had come to me with his difficulties. There was no need to remove himself from all his friends and from the university just because of some views he had come to hold.”

“I'm not sure it would have helped. I think Pete needed an excuse to leave the college. He was never comfortable there. Never comfortable in his skin either, I suppose.”

“Well, if what you tell me is true, he and his skin are still warring.” Skene paused to fill his pipe and light it. He leaned back in his chair, drawing in carefully on the old briar. “It seems far from clear what really happened between Mr. Asseltine and McEvoy. But drunkards in my experience are all drunk in their own way; there's no two alike.”

Charles looked puzzled. Skene gave a slight, snorting laugh. “I see that I confuse you. What I mean is a man who is drunk is still himself. He may exhibit coarser, more hidden parts of his nature; he may do something in drink that he would restrain when his mind is clear. But he will not do something, drunk, that is completely outside his nature. You and Peter were close once. Do you think him capable of deliberately harming another person?”

Charles thought before he spoke. “I want to say ‘no'. But I don't know what has happened to him in these last few years. I'm not sure that he really is the same person I knew. If he was desperate — like a cornered animal — he might be capable of violence. Perhaps nothing is outside our nature at those times.”

“Well then, we've nothing much to go on, I'm afraid, except the benefit of the doubt.” He took another contemplative puff. “At the least, Peter deserves our help in securing a full defence. I suggest we decide who to approach about the bail money and payment for a lawyer. Blakeley Campbell owes me a favour. Perhaps he has a fine young lawyer in his firm who wouldn't mind taking a lesser fee if the case were interesting.”

Their plan was quickly formulated. They named three men who were likely to help, divided the list between themselves, and agreed upon the tenor of the approach to each one. Dr. Skene would address the need for legal defense by asking Blakeley Campbell to lunch with him the next day. Skene walked Charles to the door and they greeted the others, who were still relaxing on the verandah.

Maggie said, “I'm glad you've finally come out. All our problems are solved. Trevor has agreed to post the bail money and pay for a lawyer.” She made a triumphant gesture toward Trevor, who was now standing, hat in hand.

“Good gracious, Mr. Martland,” Dr. Skene said. “We couldn't ask this of you. If Mr. McEvoy is less of a man than we think he is, you might be out of pocket. And anyway, won't your father look rather askance at your paying for the defence of someone who is accused of murdering his business partner?”

“The money in my trust fund is my own to do with as I please, sir,” said Trevor, his face now flushed. “I've studied the presumption of innocence and the right to a full defence. They shouldn't just be abstract concepts, should they?”

“No, though too often they are. But are you sure, Trevor? Your father won't object too strenuously?” Charles said. The boy had a funny look on his face for a second that was quickly replaced by a roguish smile.

“Well, sir, my father is always pressing me to take my legal studies more seriously. This may not be exactly what he had in mind, but I'll certainly have some stake in Mr. McEvoy's appearance at the bar of justice. And anyway, Maggie says there's no evidence that Mr. McEvoy intended to kill Mr. Asseltine. It may all have been a terrible accident.”

“That is certainly our hope,” Charles said as he exchanged a glance with Dr. Skene. “Well then, Trevor, if you're absolutely sure, we accept your offer. It's extremely generous, really. I can't thank you enough. I suppose the first order of business is to find a lawyer. Dr. Skene will be seeing Blakeley Campbell about that tomorrow and perhaps we should both join him.”

“I'm at your disposal, Dr. Skene. Just let me know when and where,” said Trevor.

They arranged a time for lunch the following day, to be confirmed with Blakeley Campbell. Charles felt that Peter's condition was sufficiently fragile that they should proceed with the bail application as soon as a lawyer could be assigned, tomorrow afternoon if possible. When the discussion had concluded, Trevor bid them all goodnight in turn, leaving Maggie for last and whispering something to her that the others could not hear.

As they watched Trevor step up into his trim, four-seater phaeton and glide away from the curb, geeing softly to his horse, Aunt Jessie asked Maggie to come inside and help her settle on the menus for the next three days. The girl complied, after a reluctant glance at Charles and Dr. Skene. The two men were alone on the verandah as dark blue clouds enveloped the last traces of pink in the western sky.

“Well, that was rather a surprise. Imagine young Martland riding to our rescue,” said Dr. Skene.

“Yes. You don't suppose …”

“Suppose what?”

“Well, you don't think he did it to please Maggie, do you? He's been buzzing around her a lot these last few weeks; why, I don't know. He should be spending time with his law books and not lollygagging on verandahs with girls who are too young for that sort of thing.”

“Charles, you've suddenly aged about forty years,” Dr. Skene said, laughing. “They're just friends. They discuss everything from suffrage reform to the finer points of lacrosse. I'm sure Maggie enjoys the attention and all the trappings that a wealthy young man brings, but it doesn't amount to much more than that.”

“Well, that's just the point, sir. He'll turn her head with his carriages and clothes and oyster suppers and then he'll be on to the next flower and she'll be left alone and disappointed.”

“I'm sure Maggie would be delighted with the bee analogy, but to extend it further, she may well be disappointed — but only until the next bee happens along.” Dr. Skene clapped him amicably on the back. “No, Charles, if Maggie has tender feelings for Trevor Martland, I'm sure I would know about it.”

Thinking back to what his own parents had known of his doings as a young man, Charles was not reassured. He bid Dr. Skene goodnight and began the walk back to his rooms, pulling his hat low over his eyes and stuffing his hands in his pockets. A thin crescent moon had risen in the southeast over the Assiniboine River. As he passed by the rows of tall, narrow houses, some with their curtains still open, he saw a quick series of little dramas: shadowy figures in conversation on a verandah, a hand languidly sweeping a fan, the sudden brightening red dot of a lit cigar; in a foyer through a screen door he glimpsed a child who couldn't sleep being cajoled back to bed by her mother; at a dining room table, a tired man stripped to his shirt and suspenders reading the newspaper by lamplight. There was the distant sound of dishes being stacked for the next day, the fizzy hiss from the filaments of the electric lamps at street corners, the satisfying musical ring of his heels on the wooden planks of the sidewalk.

The sound of a door opening high above his head made him look up. Someone, a woman in a light-coloured dress, had come out onto the balcony above the verandah three houses ahead. He slowed his pace. She was leaning on the railing, with her head thrown slightly back, taking in the scent of lilac. Pretty; maybe very pretty. As Charles came closer, a dark shape materialized behind her, which resolved itself into a man.
Now he's spoiled it,
Charles thought.
Now she'll go in
— and sure enough, she did.
Watch out, there, Lauchlan, my lad. Or you'll have to recite Psalm 100 backwards again.
Last time it had been the hired girl bent over the laundry tubs, the intoxicating movement beneath her skirts as she scrubbed. Better stop it right there. If it was marrying or burning, he would have to choose the latter for a while yet, no matter if he was thirty-two. Because with marrying you got a wife, infants, in-laws, mortgages, and other encumbrances that he didn't have time for right now.

As a distraction he began to review the evening's strange events in his mind, sifting through the information he knew while crossing the bridge over Colony Creek. He took the shortcut across the driving park, opposite the ornate wooden facade of the Fort Osborne Barracks drill hall where he heard the occasional snuffling of the army horses in their stalls.

Charles rented part of the second floor of Mrs. Gough's two-and-a-half-storey cedar shake and clapboard house at 315 Edmonton Street, just north of the dusty, track-rutted breadth of Portage Avenue. He had a bedroom and a small sitting room that he also used as a study. He shared a bathroom with Mr. Krause, the third-floor tenant, and took his meals, when he was there to share them, with Mrs. Gough and her children, Bertie, Hilda, and Dottie. If, as was more often the case, he arrived home late in the evening, his landlady kindly warmed something for him and hovered, telling him the news of the neighbourhood as he ate. He got a slight discount on his rent by cutting kindling for the stove and, in the winter, giving the furnace its final filling with coal before he went to bed.

He swung open the wrought-iron gate at the end of Mrs. Gough's walk, having progressed in his thoughts to the finer points of his sermon for the coming Sunday — and found himself pushed roughly sideways into the enveloping boughs of Mrs. Gough's prized Mock Orange bush. As he was struggling to right himself, he heard the sound of hastily retreating footfalls but, when he got back to the street and looked down the sidewalk, he saw no one. He thought better of his first response, which was to run after the individual. Instead, he dashed up the steps of the house and through the unlatched door. He almost tripped over a package on the hall rug, grabbed it quickly, and went in search of Mrs. Gough, who was found folding laundry in the dining room.

“Are you all right Mrs. Gough? Has anything happened?”

“Why, bless you, Mr. Lauchlan, what do you mean?” Mrs. Gough seemed startled by the intensity of his expression.

“Well, someone just bowled me over trying to get through the gate. I thought he might be a burglar or worse. I've had such a night.”

“I did hear someone on the verandah. It sounded as if he pushed something through the mail slot. I was just going to check after I finished the laundry.”

Charles remembered the package in his hand. He looked at the large envelope, somewhat scuffed by being folded and crammed through the slot. “Oh, it's addressed to me.” Something about the whole business made Charles cautious about opening the envelope in front of Mrs. Gough. “Well, whoever it was may just have been in a great hurry.”

“Isn't that the way of it these days, Mr. Lauchlan. People are just going and going and where it will end I don't know.” Casting a glance at the package, she said, “Sit down now and I'll fix you something to eat.”

“Oh — thank you — but I've already eaten, Mrs. Gough. I ate at the Skenes' earlier. I think I'll just collect the rest of my mail and go upstairs.”

Picking up the small stack of mail on the hall table, he sorted through it half-heartedly on his way up the stairs, knowing that he would open the mysterious envelope first. He had one armchair, a little threadbare, but comfortable for reading, which he sank into after lighting the coal oil lamp on the nearby table. When he opened the envelope, he discovered that it enclosed yet another envelope — but there was a loose sheet of paper on which he found a note.

I trust you to keep this for me. For the sake of your own safety don't open it and don't show it to anyone else. And don't tell anyone that you have it. Just keep it for me until I ask for it back. You are the only one that I can trust and I need your trust in return.

The note was unsigned. Charles stared intently at the unfamiliar handwriting, but the hastily scrawled sentences refused to reveal anything more. He rolled the sealed envelope between his fingers. Papers, that was all he could feel, no other objects. Who could the owner of this package possibly be, and why had he entrusted it to Charles?

The package rested like a dead weight in his hands. Should he take it to the police — in spite of what the note said? The sender might be some unfortunate madman suffering from delusions. If he opened the package would he find blank sheets or scribbled nonsense? Or, was it all a joke? Would Sanders or Whitman reveal themselves as the perpetrators sometime next week, after he had suitably made a fool of himself? He had only the vaguest recollection of the figure running past him on the sidewalk. Just the impression of a long coat, inappropriate for the warmth of the night, and a hat pulled down low. Whoever he was, he plainly did not want to be recognized. And then there was the note. The person who wrote it seemed painfully in earnest.
You are the only one that I can trust.

Members of his congregation sometimes confided things to him that they told no other living soul and, consequently, keeping that trust was a sacred duty. Mind you, he couldn't be sure that the man who had knocked him into the orange bush was someone from the church. It was all too quick. But if he wasn't a parishioner, did that really make any difference? Just because he didn't know the identity of the writer of the note, did that make it any less necessary to keep his confidence? He tapped the package against his knees.