Put on the Armour of Light (7 page)

S
upper
at the Colony Café had not been a success. The little corner place had smelled inviting but the plates set before them contained gluey mashed potatoes and overcooked chops afloat in grease. Peter had barely touched his and, in fact, had left the table abruptly. The meal now sat like a par-boiled hockey puck in his stomach as Charles ushered Peter back through the front door at Mrs. Gough's. An evening in the parlour. A long evening. He had never had much time to sit around at home but he couldn't very well drag Peter along to his hospital visits or evening meetings. This was beginning to remind Charles uncomfortably of taking care of his younger sister and brothers.

When they walked into the parlour, Charles's fellow lodger, Mr. Krause, was seated in a tufted leather rocking chair with the newspaper spread across his lap. Mr. Krause sold plumbing supplies, as he liked to say in his scrupulously correct though heavily-accented English, “throughout the whole of the Northwest.” It was an exaggeration but not by much; his territory ran from the Lake of the Woods as far west as Swift Current in the Assiniboia country. As a result, Mr. Krause didn't spend much time sitting in the parlour either. And when he was home, he certainly didn't fit the type of the garrulous commercial traveller. Even after five years of sharing a breakfast table with him, Charles had never felt comfortable addressing him by his Christian name.

“Mr. Krause, I'd like you to meet my friend, Peter McEvoy. Pete, this is Mr. Krause, my upstairs neighbour.”

Mr. Krause rose quickly from his chair, catching his pince-nez spectacles as they fell from his nose and crushing the paper to his chest in the process. Charles could see part of a large headline:
VAGRANT CHARGED IN ASSELTINE
—”

“Ah, yes, yes, I see, yes.” The older man shuffled paper and pince-nez into one hand and couldn't seem to decide what to do next. “Mrs. Gough told me that you had a … a guest, yes.” Finally he put out a hand to Peter, and after shaking, made a determined effort not to wipe his hand on his trouser leg. “Well, Mr. McEvoy, you will be staying with us for a while?”

“Yes. Yes, just for a while until I can get things settled.”

“This is a very quiet house. I'm sure you will find it so. We all attend to our own affairs.” There was something vaguely challenging about the set of Krause's chin when he said it.

Peter reddened slightly. “Well, you can be sure I'm not going to bother anybody, if that's what you're concerned about. I actually prefer to keep to myself.” Now his chin was out.

“Now — Mr. McEvoy — don't … that is, I meant no offence … really … I was only —”

Charles groaned inwardly while Krause stammered.
Pete! Can't you see that Krause is frightened, not angry? Do you think you could help yourself a little?
He tried to lead the conversation to safer waters. “No offence meant, I'm sure. Say now, Mr. Krause, I hear you went through quite a storm west of Brandon last week.”

“What? Oh, yes, yes, quite a storm.” It was a lifeline and he grabbed it. “Lightning, wind — I had to tether my horse to a tree and hide under the buckboard. I never heard such thunder.”

“That — that must have been uncomfortable for you,” Peter said. “I've taken shelter in some pretty hard places myself during storms.”

“Yes, yes.” Krause's eyes darted toward the archway to the hall. “I expect you have.” He stuffed his pince-nez into his pocket and placed his folded paper on a side table. “Well, gentlemen. If you will excuse me — em — I have some figures to enter into my sales book.” He bobbed his head to them as he retreated from the room.

Mrs. Gough came in just as Charles and Peter were settling uneasily onto the rocking chair and the settee. “Where has Mr. Krause got to? He was going to hold my wool for me.” She hugged a well-stuffed knitting basket to her bosom.

“He said he had some sales figures to go over.”

Mrs. Gough glanced over in Peter's direction, then quickly looked down, fussing among her wool skeins. “Oh. Oh, I see. Well —”

“I'll do that for you, if you like.”

“Oh — Thank you, Mr. Lauchlan. That's a help. I've got to make a start on Bertie's winter stockings.”

She moved a petit-point covered chair to a position in front of him, sat down, and unwound the first skein into a long, continuous loop of wool. She found the end of the thread and dropped the loop over his outstretched hands. As she wound each skein into a tight ball, he tried to keep the thread moving into her quick fingers without tangling. He needed to keep his wits about him but all the while he was acutely conscious of Peter, who had the paper in his lap and was reading the article that belonged to that partially glimpsed headline.

As Mrs. Gough was tucking the neat, wound balls into her bag, Charles said, “Mrs. Gough, Peter here is pretty handy with a hammer and saw; how would it be if we made that new screen for the kitchen window I've been promising you?”

“What? Now, do you mean?”

“Yes, this evening. I've got the wood and the screening in the garden shed. With the two of us it shouldn't take much more than a couple of hours. We should have just enough daylight to finish.” As Charles said this, he looked over at Peter, whose mind was still coming to grips with this new plan for his evening.

“Och, well. The mosquitoes are starting and I would love to be able to open the window while I work. Yes, Mr. Lauchlan — if it's not too much trouble.”

“No trouble at all. Come on, Pete. I've got an old shirt you can wear.”

The work was quickly in hand. As they put together a makeshift workbench on top of the clothesline stoop, Charles could tell that Peter was distracted, likely still focused on the article in the
Free Press
.

“I gather there was something in the paper?”

“Yes. Something.” Peter compressed his lips and made an effort to steady his hand as he drew a diagram of the window frame on the back of a handbill. “Damn. I can't lay out much of a straight line.”

“Never mind that. We don't need Rembrandt. What did the article say?”

Peter clutched at his right hand, massaging it. “That reporter talks about it so matter-of-factly. As if there's no other explanation possible except that I did it.”

“Then he's not very good at his job. Anyway, you never used to set much store by what was in the newspaper. Come on, now.” He gave Pete a playful box on the shoulder. “Don't give up before we've even started.”

Peter cast a look of exasperation skyward, then pulled himself to mock attention. “Right; note to self: always look on the bright side and make sure you have a clean hanky.”

Charles was not to be turned aside so easily. “Look, we've got a fine lawyer in Jessup. According to Blakely Campbell, he's headed for great things.” Peter had begun sorting aimlessly through the hammers, chisels, and clamps in the late Mr. Gough's toolbox, so that Charles had to twist around in order to look him in the eye. “Courts deal in facts, not opinions. And the facts are on your side.”

Peter gave a grunt of acknowledgement and reached around Charles for his drawing. Leaning back on his heels, Charles sighed. The effort required to paint a bright picture was starting to wear on him. If Peter was going to make a good impression in court, he would have to dig in and find his own confidence. If he turned up looking like a defeated man, the jury would likely read that as guilt.

“So!” he said, biting back those thoughts. “Let's do lap joints. They're easier to make with the tools we've got.”

“No. Not laps.” Peter held up the finished drawing, pointing. “Mortise and tenon. Laps aren't strong enough.”

“But —”

“You know it's the right thing to do. And I'm not interested in doing the other.”

“Man of decision. Mortise and tenon it is.” They tacked the drawing to the stoop and then began to measure out the boards and saw the lengths for the rails and stiles. Peter knew exactly how long and how wide the tenons would need to be for a strong join. Just as they were carefully chiselling wood away from the ends of the rails to make the tenons the screen door of the house sprang open and a small boy came hurtling out, jumped off the steps, and started running toward the stoop.

The boy bought himself up short about four paces from them. He grabbed at one stocking that had come adrift from his knee breeches and pulled it up, considering his next move. With a sly look back at the house, he said, “Don't tell Mummy I'm here.”

Charles looked up, brushing some wood shavings off the rail he was working on. “All right, but you have to behave. Bertie, this is my friend Peter McEvoy. Pete, meet the man of the house.”

Peter wiped the sweat off his hand and offered it to Bertie. “Pleased to meet you, Bertie.”

The boy hung back, looked wide-eyed at Peter, then at Charles, who nodded encouragement. With a solemn look, Bertie walked slowly up to Peter, took the hand that was offered, shook it firmly twice then jumped back a step, as if he had been too close to a fire.

A look of triumph spread over his face. “Jeff Connolly's going to be mad when he hears that I shook hands with you.”

“Why's that?”

“Because he bet that I would be too scared. But I wasn't.”

“That's just what I would expect from you, Bertie,” Charles said. “But there's nothing to be frightened about. Right, Pete?”

“Right.” Peter went back to his work.

Bertie looked a little disappointed. He watched them working with their bright chisels for a while, the metal catching reflections from the setting sun. “Can I do that?”

Charles and Peter exchanged a look. Then Peter retrieved the sawn-off end of one of the boards. “Come here, then. I'll show you.”

The boy hesitated, but he could not resist. He moved close to the stoop and watched, with one foot absently toeing the grass, while Peter drew a square on the face of the board with a pencil, then fastened the board to the edge of the stoop with two clamps and, using the hammer and chisel, began to cut into the lines, incising the shape of the square. Then he changed the angle of the chisel and began to cut wood away from within the square.

Bertie's eyes followed every move as the wood curled up and away from the chisel, forming a neat pile of shavings that Peter periodically swept away from the hole.

“Now me!”

“All right, all right. Come over here.” Bertie moved to a position in front of Peter, who stationed him at the proper angle to the board and handed him the hammer and chisel. Then, standing behind the boy, he put his own hands above Bertie's, gently guiding the tools. They were two intent and parallel forms: Bertie squinting at his work, concentrating hard, and Peter hovering over the boy, watching the bite of the chisel and steering it ever so slightly as the shavings magically curled away.

“Bertie!”

The voice was shrill, piercing. Peter jumped back from the boy; the hammer dropped from Bertie's hand as the chisel gouged the side out of the neat square.

“Now look what you made me do! You spoiled it.”

“Come away from there. Now! This instant!”

“But I was just —”

“Never mind that. Into the house. Right now!”

“Look — Wait a minute. I wasn't hurting the boy. I was just —”

Charles grabbed Peter's arm. “Let me handle this.” As Charles rushed toward the house, he missed seeing the look on Peter's face.

Later, even when she had calmed down, Charles had known that there was no point in trying to change her mind.

“I understand, Mrs. Gough. You've been very kind. We'll find somewhere else.”

“Oh, no, no, Mr. Lauchlan, I'm not wanting to put
you
out of your rooms at all. No. You're a good tenant and good around the house. But could you not find another place for Mr. McEvoy?” she said.

Charles suspected that finding another place for Peter to stay was easier said than done. He knew that Dr. Skene would feel obliged to offer but he simply could not foist the problem onto the Skenes. The only place he could think of was the church. There was a large room suitable for a live-in caretaker, if the congregation should ever be able to afford one. Peter and he would just have to bunk in there for the time being. He tried to soften the edges of their exile as they cleaned up the scraps and returned the tools to the shed.

“Might be best, anyway. It's really too crowded for both of us here. We'll be able to spread out more at the church.”

Peter said only, “I suppose so,” and then went rather quiet. He waited silently while Charles packed his shaving kit and a few clothes into an old leather grip. He nodded to Peter, who picked up his own bundle, and headed out the door and down the stairs. With one last look around at his nest, Charles pulled the door closed and locked it.

T
he
next morning, Setter was rooting through drawers in the file room when Inspector Crossin appeared in the doorway.

“Ah — there you are. Come into my office, will you?”

Setter followed Crossin down the hall and into the office and was somewhat bemused when the inspector closed the door carefully. Crossin walked behind his desk and sank down into his chair with a tired explosion of air.

“The Asseltine post-mortem report's on the chief's desk. He asked for it to come directly to him.”

“When can I see it?”

“He seems to want it all to himself just at the moment.” Crossin pulled a cigar out of his humidor, bit the end off and spit it into a waste basket beside his chair. “Here's the gist.” He paused to light the cigar and blow out several acrid puffs. “Severe compression fracture of the second cervical vertebra, almost certainly resulting from the fall onto the fender. Severe injury to the spinal cord paralyzed his diaphragm and that was the end of him.”

“And the scalp wound?”

“Hard to say.” He removed a piece of tobacco from his tongue. “The doctor thinks it was caused by the fall, but the chief thinks he was hit on the head by something. Judging by the amount of blood, he died pretty quickly.”

“Well, if it's clear that the fall killed him we'll have a hard time proving intent won't we? Even if there was a fight between them, McEvoy might have been trying to get to the safe and just pushed Asseltine out of the way. He might even have been defending himself.”

“Chief thinks the blow to the head is what caused him to fall. If McEvoy inflicted that blow, there's an argument to be made that he used force sufficient to be deadly and that speaks to intent.”

“You saw McEvoy that night, sir. The chances of him being able to land even one blow, much less one with deadly force were, I would say, pretty slim. And besides, we didn't find anything except the fender that would cut the scalp like that. No, no.” He shook his head. “It just doesn't add up to me, sir.”

Crossin just nodded at him with a wry look, cast his eyes toward the door, and then beckoned Setter to come closer. “Look. The old man's got some kind of bee in his bonnet, so he's not seeing things right. He's bound and determined that we'll complete the investigations as quick as possible. That means we have to find something solid — something he can't explain away — sooner rather than later. I can string him along for about a week, I think.”

“Give me Smithers for a week and we'll find something. I'll stake my badge on it.”

“Done. But keep it quiet, and avoid the chief whenever possible.”

Charles and Peter had spent the better part of the afternoon making their new living space at the church habitable. The room, large and with a high ceiling but no window, had been used for storage. All of that had to be relocated except for an old chest of drawers. To this they had added two ancient iron beds, which they had carried, crablike, from the second-hand store up the street. Charles had not asked the storekeeper where the lumpy, dispirited mattresses had come from; sometimes it was best not to know. Everything that didn't fit in the dresser was piled in an orange crate — one for each of them — or tossed on the beds. A basin and ewer stood on a wooden china barrel in the corner.

Charles had to admit to himself that fitting out the room had gotten slightly out of hand. The cart was squarely in front of the horse. If the board refused them permission to live here, all this would have to be disassembled and they might have to doss down in the cart. So be it. Although he wouldn't get a chance to ask about Peter staying at the church until the meeting the next day, Charles couldn't reconcile himself to sleeping on the floor another night. He'd just have to make the board understand.

They had been invited to the Skenes' for dinner and so they began dressing, trying not to elbow each other in the eye in front of a mirror, which they had “borrowed” from the dressing room used by the choir.
Here we are again,
Charles thought. They seemed to be acting out a weird parody of their student days, sharing a room as if the last fifteen years hadn't happened. So familiar, yet so strange. Charles handed Peter a can of bootblack which Peter took to his bed and, with an old rag, began polishing the scuffed leather of his shoes.

“I've found that if you polish and then buff and then put on a second layer of polish and then buff that very lightly, the scuffs almost disappear,” Peter said, mostly to himself. “Unfortunately, it's just temporary.” He gave a final pass with the cloth and put his shoes back on. Charles was pulling at the stiff celluloid of his clerical collar. He tried not to look at Peter too obviously. Without the practical task of arranging a room to preoccupy him, the shaking and sweating was reasserting itself.

“Do I look all right?” Peter said, standing up.

“Yes, of course. You'll do fine.”

“Wouldn't it be better if I just stayed here?” Peter said. “Dr. Skene is kind — and I'm indebted to him. But he just invited me out of a sense of duty. And because I might sneak off, I suppose. The whole business is pretty awkward.”

“Don't be so worried. Dr. Skene spent five years at a church in the Gorbals. He saw worse than you every day. And as for Maggie, she'll be questioning the life out of you the minute you step over the door sill. You'll feel like a specimen in a glass jar.”

“I'm more used to people trying not to look at me,” Peter said as Charles herded him out the door.

When they arrived at the Skene house the whole family had assembled in the front hallway to greet them, everyone speaking a little louder than strictly necessary. Charles introduced Aunt Jessie and Maggie to Peter, who alternated looking at them and glancing off to the side, as if their faces were too bright for his eyes.

“How do you do, Miss Skene?” Peter said to Aunt Jessie, who murmured a shy reply, and, turning to Maggie, he said, “Very pleased to meet you, Miss Skene.”

Maggie stepped forward and took Peter's hand in both of hers. “Mr. McEvoy, Charles has told me so much about you. I — we — all of us just want you to know that you're not the one — that is, we believe what you say, even if you don't remember — er, we've never met you before, but we're sure — oh, dear — I'm talking nonsense —” she flushed and laughed with embarrassment.

“What Maggie means to say, Mr. McEvoy,” said Dr. Skene, “is that you are welcome in this house and we want to do all we can to help you through the ordeal you're facing.”

Smiling at Peter, Maggie said softly, “Yes, that's it. Thank you, Father.”

Peter shook Dr. Skene's outstretched hand. “Sir, you've already done so much for me. I'll never be able to repay your kindness.”

“I hope you like lamb, Mr. McEvoy,” said Aunt Jessie, “and there's plum cobbler for dessert.” Since it was later than their usual dining hour, she ushered them directly into the large, bright dining room.

Once they had settled themselves and the soup had been brought in from the kitchen, dishes were passed and there was a lull in the conversation as they began to eat. Peter's spoon made a somewhat unsteady trip from the bowl to his mouth. Charles wondered if he would have any appetite since he had hardly eaten anything since leaving his cell. But, to his surprise, Peter seemed hungry and the soup was extremely good. With a furtive glance around the table, Peter moved his head as close to the bowl as good manners would allow and spooned in the soup with evident relish.

“Charles tells me you've travelled a great deal, Mr. McEvoy,” said Maggie. “I would so like to hear about some of the places you've been. Germany and Austria, for instance.”

“Maggie is in love with all things German at the moment,” said Charles. “She says all the most forward-looking scientific discoveries are made there.”

“I agree with you there, Miss Skene,” Peter said. “When I was in Tübingen, I snuck into a lecture hall to hear Meyer give a talk on the Periodic Table.”

“Oh please, tell me all about it!” Maggie said. “I have his textbook. Did he look as fierce as in his photographs?”

“He was very impressive,” Peter said, his eyes lighting up. “He had an immense white beard and he pounded the desk to make a point. I had a hard time understanding what he was talking about, my German is so poor, but the fellow next to me knew English and translated a bit for me.”

“Someday I would love to study there,” Maggie said, sighing. ”Maybe by the time I get there, ladies will be able to take degrees instead of just attending lectures. I can take a science degree of sorts at the university here but things are so much more advanced in Germany.”

“I looked into studying there myself,” Peter said. “But, well, there were so many other interesting things to see, I didn't want to limit myself.”

Peter seemed to become self-conscious all at once and dropped his eyes to his plate. Charles realized that he had been staring at Peter. Had some of his anxiety about how Peter would fit in been written on his face? Happily, the lull in the conversation was camouflaged by the arrival of the lamb and vegetable dishes.

Best to direct the conversation elsewhere. “You don't know anyone in Germany, do you?” Charles said to Maggie. “Couldn't you study somewhere in Canada? Toronto or McGill, for instance?”

“You don't think I could manage by myself in a foreign country, do you?” she said.

“I didn't say that. I've been to Germany and those university towns are sometimes pretty rough. There's a lot of carousing and the streets are full of, you know, full of —”

“Full of men, you mean. Drunk and disorderly men,” Maggie said.

“Well, yes. Respectable young women need protection from that.”

“I don't need that kind of protection. While they're in the tavern singing drinking songs and inflicting duelling wounds on each other, I'll be snugly holed up in a laboratory or a library. There's more to German universities than swilling beer. Don't you think so, Mr. McEvoy?”

Peter, his mouth full of potato, nodded in the affirmative but then Maggie felt like kicking herself.

“Yes, of course, that's true,” Charles said. “There are some wonderful professors and you can study almost anything you want. I'm sure you'd thrive in that atmosphere, Maggie. I just worry that you'll get caught up by accident in some of the tomfoolery that goes on there.”

Maggie smiled, disarmed. “Charles. You think I'm worth educating?”

“Of course.” He was surprised. “Why do you suppose I've been feeding you books all these years?”

“More potatoes, Mr. McEvoy?” said Aunt Jessie. “Pass the potatoes to Mr. McEvoy and the gravy.”

As Peter took the potato dish it wobbled unevenly in his hand.

“Here, I can hold that for you.” Charles said, taking the dish. Peter tried to steady his hand as he spooned the potatoes onto his plate.

“You'll never guess what Jenkins did today,” said Dr. Skene and launched into a story, the latest in a long line, about the eccentric caretaker at the college. He was just getting to the best part, warming to his theme, when there was a crashing sound.

“Christ!” Peter had knocked over his water glass, splashing its contents over the table. In trying to save it, he had knocked the gravy boat onto the floor. With all eyes on him, his own eyes were screwed shut and his mouth was twisted. Then he let all the air out of his lungs in one long, dispirited sigh.

“Why doesn't somebody just say what you've all been thinking? ‘He's shaking like a leaf. Maybe we should hide the port we keep for the bronchitis'.”

The others all spoke at once. “No, Pete, it's not like — we're all trying to help — no harm done — just an old bowl —”

“— Do you really think you could stop me if I wanted a drink? As it happens, I've been trying to think of an excuse to go to the kitchen. Find that port or maybe some vanilla extract.”

“Pete, we're not thinking those things. We're just trying to have a pleasant meal here and make you feel welcome. Here let me —”

“And if we're all comfy cozy, I won't think about sneaking a drink?” Peter rose from his seat. “You really don't know anything about it, do you? Well, the truth is there's no trick I wouldn't stoop to, believe me. I've been thinking about that drink every minute of every hour. Most of the time I can't think of much else.”

“But why, Pete? Anyone can see that it's killing you. Why can't you?”

“You think it's just a question of
—
what? — pinpointing the problem?” Peter said. “Just reason it out and then don't do it anymore?
—
Christ! It's not the thinking, Charlie. It's the God-damned doing.” He cupped his forehead in his hand and looked down at the ruins of the gravy bowl on the floor.

“I should have stopped you — back when we were students.”

“Isn't that just like you!” The cords were standing out on Peter's neck and there were two patches of colour below each cheekbone. “You think you can manage almost anything. Manage me so that I don't embarrass you in front of your friends, more like. Well I'm not so easily managed. You may not like it, but my life is in my own hands.”

Now Charles was angry. He lurched to his feet. “Then do a better job of running it! Because, I'm telling you, you'll have to do more than just feel sorry for yourself now. You're in a right mess, boy. So if ever there was a time to take hold, this is it.”

Peter looked as if he had been slapped. Charles's angry voice echoed around the room and the others seemed frozen in place.

“Excuse me, Mr. Lauchlan.” It was Lizzie, the hired girl.

“Yes? What is it?” Charles felt a bit stunned. He wondered how long she'd been standing there.

“There's a gentleman at the door wants to speak to you,” she said.