Let Darkness Bury the Dead

by Maureen Jennings

  He tapped lightly on the door. It seemed a long time before it opened slightly. A pair of brown eyes peered up at him.

  “I’m a friend of Percy’s,” Jack whispered. “He told me I could drop by.”

  The eyes continued to stare at him.

  “Sorry it’s so late,” continued Jack. “He said I could come at any time. Is he awake?”

  The eyes disappeared abruptly and the door opened a little wider.

  “Please enter,” said his host, who turned out to be a young Chinese boy, perhaps not more than ten years old. He was dressed in a traditional black silk tunic and trousers with a round black cap atop long hair that was braided into a queue. He gave a look outside and, presumably satisfied that Jack was alone, he stepped back and closed the door behind them. For a moment the two of them stood close together in the pitch-darkness. Then the boy struck a match and lit a candle that was on a nearby ledge. He gave Jack a little bow.

  “Come please, your friend upstairs.”

  He led the way through to a room at the rear that was jammed with washing paraphernalia. Jack could see huge metal vats on one side, and on the other, rows and rows of hanging ghostly white sheets that reached to the ceiling. The air was warm and moist. The boy opened another door at the far end and proceeded up narrow, uncarpeted stairs. Now Jack could hear muted voices and a sudden louder burst of laughter. A felt curtain hung at the top of the staircase and the boy pushed it aside, at the same time blowing out his candle.

  Beyond the curtain was a large room lit with oil lamps turned low. The air here was smoky and pungent, and Jack had to struggle to suppress a cough. His child guide called out something in Chinese and four men standing around a table all turned to look at them. Whatever they had been doing, they stopped abruptly. Nobody moved or spoke. Jack saw Percy sprawled on a narrow cot in a shadowy corner. He was wearing only his army issue combination underwear. He was in the process of drawing smoke from an opium pipe. When he saw Jack he raised the pipe in a kind of salute.

  “Jocko. I was hoping you would join me.” He flapped his hand at the other men. “It’s all right, friends. This is my friend Jack. He is a good man. Explain please, Mr. Lee.”

  There was a rapid exchange in Chinese among the men, then one of them stepped away from the table and came over to Jack. He was older than the others, and his thick, iron-grey hair was pulled back from his forehead and plaited into a long queue reaching to his waist. He put his hands together and bowed his head slightly.

  “Welcome, sir. Please come in. My name is Ghong Lee. May I offer you some refreshment after your long journey?”

  Other than the rather quaint expression, his English was good, only lightly accented. He waved his hand in the direction of a dresser behind him. It was lacquered black and beautifully embellished with gold inlay. The boy lifted a long, carved opium pipe out of a case.

  “Don’t take that unless you fancy a little trip to paradise,” Percy called out. He was still lounging on the cot and he thrust out his arm and spread the fingers of his outstretched hand.

  “Look, Jack. What do you notice?”

  “You’re not shaking.”

  “Bang on. That’s the opium for you. No coughee, no shakee. Ghong and I have an arrangement. I will help his workers with their English and he will give me a pipe a day. More than that and I have to pay. Business is business.”

  The boy held out the pipe to Jack.

  “Would you like to smoke, sir?” Ghong asked. “This one is complimentary.”

  Jack hesitated. “I, er…Perhaps another time.”

  Ghong nodded at the boy, who immediately returned the pipe to the dresser.

  “In that case, you simply must try some baijiu. It is an ancient Chinese drink. Very popular with soldiers.”

  Percy propped himself up. “Be careful, Jack. That stuff will take the stitches out of your darning.”

  Before Jack could respond, Ghong again nodded at the boy, who picked up an amber-coloured ceramic bottle. He poured some clear liquid into a small handleless cup and gave it to Ghong, who in turn offered it to Jack.

  “A sip at first is recommended. It is not accustomed to Western taste.”

  Jack looked over at his friend, who was grinning at him.

  “What do you think, Percy? Shall I?”

  “Why not? It’s the best thing for chasing away melancholy I’ve yet encountered. Never mind what old Ghong says about taking sippee. Chug it down in one gulp.”

  Jack took the cup. The liquid had a slightly vinegary smell.

  “One, two, three, down the hatch,” chanted Percy.

  Jack obeyed. My God, he felt as if he had just poured liquid fire down his throat! He started to cough violently.

  “It’s worse than being gassed,” he spluttered.

  “It’ll feel better in a minute,” answered his friend. “Give him another, Ghong. Put it on my bill.”

  Still coughing, Jack managed to wave away the second cup.

  “No, thanks. I’ve just destroyed my stomach.”

  He could see that the Chinese men at the table were giggling behind their hands.

  Percy pulled himself upright and put the opium pipe on the floor beside him. The boy picked it up immediately and returned it to the dresser.

  “The fire in the belly will eventually subside and you will feel like Chinese tiger,” said Ghong. “In the meantime, may I invite you to join us for a game of fan-tan? We can easily accommodate another person.”

  He spoke to one of the men, who moved to one side, indicating to Jack he could take his place.

  Again Percy was the intermediary. “It’s a good game, Jack. Better than Crown and Anchor, if you ask me. Less chance of being crooked.”

  “All right,” said Jack, who could still hardly speak above a whisper after his encounter with the “ancient Chinese drink.”

  “Are you going to play too?” he asked Percy.

  “Not this round. I’m out of money. I’ll watch.”

  “Allow me the instructions,” said Ghong. “At the table there is a simple square piece of cloth. The side closest to the wall is considered north, or number one; to the right is east or number two, opposite is west, number three, and below is south, number four. Very simple. You choose a side and place a wager. Whatever you wish.”

  Jack fished in his pocket and took out two quarters. The other man beside him pointed at the cloth and Jack put the money on the east side.

  “That is to the value of two,” said Ghong. “In other words, if two beans are left in the pile you will receive a return on your money of two to one.”

  “Less commission,” called Percy. “Don’t forget the 5 percent commission.”

  Ghong smiled. “Of course. But this first round we will forgo the commission. It is complimentary.”

  “Carry on,” said Jack. “I still don’t have a clue what you’re doing but I’m in.” His stomach and throat were now pleasantly warm. He felt ready for anything.

  “Perhaps before we commence I should introduce the other players. They do not yet speak English but Mr. McKinnon has promised to correct that soon.”

  “Darn right,” said Percy thickly. “And I’m going to learn Chinese.”

  Again Ghong smiled. Jack was starting to think him a most agreeable fellow.

  “Immediately to your right is my number-one son, Hong Lee.”

  The young man made the hands-together polite bow. Jack bowed his own head in response. He was getting the hang of this quickly.

  “I refer to them as my sons because they are essential to my well-being, but in fact we are not related by blood.”

  “Quite so,” said Jack.

  “At the head of the table is my number-two son, Gipkon Mak,” continued Ghong. “And across from you is their cousin, Jiango Lee.”

  The Chinamen looked to be about Jack’s age, though smaller, and all with the ubiquitous braid hanging down their backs.

  Ghong beckoned to the boy. “Oh, I almost forgot my grandson, Ying. He is
truly of my blood, and he understands some English.”

  There were what appeared to be some white beans on the table, and Ying took a curved bamboo stick and swept them up into a silver bowl. Ghong took both stick and bowl from him.

  “Place your bets, if you please.”

  He gestured, and the three Chinamen immediately placed coins on the cloth. Ghong waited for a moment, then his grandson rang a tiny silver bell. The sweetness of the sound reminded Jack of the bells he’d rung at mass when he was an altar boy.

  Jack winked at Percy. “This is my lucky night, I know it.”

  Ghong upended the bowl and a pile of beans spilled onto the cloth. Ying handed him a second, smaller bowl and he scooped up some of the beans into it. The remainder he pushed to the far end of the table. Moving very rapidly, he upended the second bowl and the beans tumbled out. Using the curved stick he first fanned them out and then, still moving with both grace and speed, he began to separate them, pushing them into straight lines.

  “They are always in groups of four,” he said to Jack. He repeated this action and, within minutes, the fan was diminished.

  “Whatever number of beans remain is the winning number.”

  Before Ghong had completely finished, Jack could see that four beans remained. Ghong scooped them away.

  “Ah, what a pity,” said Ghong. “Nobody is winner this time. Nobody bet four number.”

  The other three men pushed the coins that they’d put on the table in Ghong’s direction. He slipped them into a silk purse that was attached to his waist.

  “So sorry, sir,” he said to Jack. “But please let your money ride for another round. As I said previously, this one is complimentary.”

  “Watch it, Jack,” called Percy from the cot. “You can get hooked on this game if you’re not careful.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I can hand…handle myself.” His words seemed to fall out of his mouth the way the beans had fallen out of the silver bowl. He had another couple of dimes in his jacket and he added them to his bet.

  “And I’ll take another cup of that ancient Chinese drink, if you don’t mind, Mr. Lee.”

  Ying trotted over to the dresser and returned with a cup of the baijiu. Jack tossed it back, again to the covert smiles of the other Chinese men.

  “Let’s play, gentlemen. I’m quite capable of taking on a pile of beans.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  IT WAS SEVEN O’CLOCK WHEN Murdoch woke, and a grey, thin light was just creeping in below the window blinds. He got out of bed, listening for any sound from the next bedroom. All was silent. Then he saw a note had been slipped under his door.

  Hi, Pa. I seem to need to sleep. Just leave me. I’ll be fit for human company soon, I promise.

  J.

  Murdoch debated ignoring the request and waking his son but he knew that wasn’t fair. It would only satisfy his own need, not Jack’s. He dressed and went downstairs to the kitchen, where he wrote his own note.

  There are some eggs and bacon in the icebox if you want them for your breakfast. Come over to the station if you feel up to it. Pa.

  He propped the note against the cup he’d put out for Jack’s morning tea and added the packets of cigarettes. He thought about putting out the bottle of brandy, too, but decided against it. He wished he could stay home, but two detectives were off on sick leave, and as senior detective it was his responsibility to make sure there were enough officers to handle the tasks of the day.

  At the door, he paused, but there was still no sound from upstairs.

  Outside a steady, chill rain was falling. He debated for a moment whether to walk to the station or to use his bicycle. There weren’t many days, even in winter, when he didn’t bike. Faster and easier. Bike it was.

  When he opened the shed door, he noticed that not only was his bicycle not in its usual position, but the frame was flecked with globs of dried mud. He took a closer look at Jack’s bike. Ah. That explained it. The front tire was absolutely flat.

  Murdoch kept his bicycle outfits handy on a peg. On a rainy day like today, he didn’t want to arrive at headquarters looking like a drowned rat, or to spend the entire day in damp discomfort. He’d acquired one of the rubber capes issued to the constables and he usually wore that. He took it off the peg. It was dry to the touch and clean. He added the serviceable Persian lamb wedge cap, also police issue for the winter. He appreciated the way the flaps came down over his ears. Finally, his own acquisition, a pair of raccoon-skin mitts.

  Feeling ready to tackle anything, he wheeled his own bicycle out to the street. Sodden leaves swirled around his feet; the bare trees tossed and shook in the wind. And as it was wont to do sometimes during his quiet morning rides, a memory assailed him.

  His second child, a girl, had been born on just such a chill November morning seventeen years ago. The infant had survived for only four hours. And on that same day, his wife, Amy, had died. How many times had he relived those moments? He’d lost count. Jack had been sent to stay with a kindly neighbour down the street when Amy’s labour began. When Miss Dorsett finally brought Jack home, his first question was where was his mother? Murdoch had no idea what to say to him. Miss Dorsett, a devout Baptist, said, “She’s gone to be with Jesus.”

  “When is she coming back?”

  “Your father can answer that, Jack.”

  The little boy frowned at Murdoch. “When is Mother coming home? We haven’t finished the story we were reading.”

  Desperate, Murdoch answered, “I don’t know when she’ll be back, son. Probably not for a long time.”

  “She said I was going to have a little brother or sister. Have I?”

  “Yes, a sister.”

  “Is that where Mother went? To fetch her?”

  “Yes, yes, that’s where she went.”

  “Where is she, then? Is she upstairs? Can I see her?”

  “No, you cannot.” Murdoch’s voice was too sharp. His son flinched.

  Miss Dorsett took the boy’s hand. “Tell you what, Master Jack. Let’s go back to my house. We won’t bother your father right now. He has a lot on his mind.”

  “Will we come back home tomorrow?”

  “Yes, we will.”

  “Will my mother be here, and my new sister?”

  Again the woman looked to Murdoch for guidance.

  He could not bear the knowledge that there would be no Amy, no new sister. “Perhaps they will, Jack. Let’s see, shall we?”

  And they had waited, both of them, until they’d finally accepted the fact that Amy and the baby he’d named, Suzanne, would never return.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A MOTOR CAR ZOOMED PAST Murdoch on Albert Street, flinging up a shower of muddy water from the gutter. His slicker protected him, but Murdoch was irritated and tempted to make an un-policeman-like gesture at the thoughtless driver. Motor vehicles had proliferated in the city in the last few years, and, despite the outcry from those of a more traditional point of view, Murdoch was sure they were here to stay. They were also the bane of the policeman’s existence. Anyone who could afford a motor car was permitted to drive one, whether they had taken proper instruction or not. Reckless boys were forever stealing them and going for joyrides, frightening the horses that still trotted the streets. And splashing bicyclists.

  Police headquarters were located in the northeast corner of the first floor of the magnificent city hall. The building housed all the departments necessary to run a bustling big city like Toronto. Sometimes the place reminded Murdoch of a railway station with all the comings and goings, although it usually lacked the excitement. Like all the other detectives, except the chiefs, Murdoch used the rear entrance. The chief inspector, Kennedy, had requested they do this. “Criminals are hanging around here all hours of the day, no reason they should become familiar with your faces. You can do better work if you’re anonymous.”

  Murdoch was inclined to agree with him, and it suited him to get into his office without fanfare. He liked to arrive early and lea
ve late.

  He dismounted and parked the bicycle against the curb. Theft was not unknown but rare, especially this close to the august authority of the police department.

  Murdoch headed inside. He took the stairs two at a time. Doing things like that kept him fit, and he was rather proud of the fact that he was only slightly breathless when he got to the second floor.

  He stepped into the hall. To one side was the telephone desk. The constable on duty sat up straighter, stifling the yawn that was threatening to take over his head. Murdoch removed his cape and his hat, shaking them vigorously to get out the rain.

  “Morning, sir.”

  “Morning, Wallace. How was the night? Any reports?”

  The young constable whistled through his teeth. “Apparently it was very active, sir. There was a barney at a house over in the Ward. One of the neighbours fetched the beat constable, Mogg. Nothing seems to have developed further. Constable Mogg gave his report to Detectives Fenwell and Rubridge, who were on reserve.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “Detective Rubridge left about half an hour ago as it’s his day off. Detective Fenwell is in his office writing up his report. He was waiting for you to come in.”

  “I’ll talk to him right away, then.”

  The constable reached underneath the desk and handed Murdoch a piece of paper.

  “Here’s Sergeant Allen’s latest move, sir.” He gave Murdoch a rather cheeky grin. “How’s the game coming?”

  “Early days yet, Wallace. Early days.”

  “I know you won’t let us down, sir.”

  “I hope not. Allen’s a sly fox.”

  Wallace lifted the barrier to the desk.

  “I’ll go and make you a pot of tea. I’m sure you could use one. It’s right miserable out.”

  Murdoch hung his overcoat and hat and slicker on the coat tree by the door and proceeded down the hall. His office was at the far end. According to an unstated law of the universe, rank determined office size and order. The most important people got the largest, and the others diminished in size the farther down the hall they were. Murdoch was content with that. His faced onto James Street which meant he had a view, and although the room was hardly big enough to turn around in, it did have a door, which was more than his alcove at number four station had had.