Let Darkness Bury the Dead

by Maureen Jennings

  He turned on his heel and left.

  THE CHOSEN

  I don’t understand why I was the one got through

  And not you.

  As far as vice and virtue go

  We were about the same.

  Although I thought you had the edge

  In the goodness game.

  You sent away for improving books.

  You were the first to pet

  The bone-thin dogs

  Left behind in the villages we passed on the way.

  “Is there anything you can say?”

  I asked the padre.

  “An explanation of some kind?

  You supposedly being in the know.”

  “We cannot see what’s in God’s mind,”

  He replied.

  “You must trust in the Divine Plan.”

  A lot of blokes believe the shell’s got your name on it

  Or it doesn’t.

  If it’s your time, so be it.

  I’ve seen men with their number

  On so many bullets.

  They ended up in pieces.

  I suppose that’s considered certainty.

  So if I go over the top will my fate find me?

  Or if I stay here

  At the bottom of this stinking pit,

  Will the artillery do it?

  “You’re being stupid,” says my pal.

  “You can’t think like that.

  Just keep your head down,

  Dive low when you have to

  And kill all the Krauts you can.”

  “Is that considered a plan?”

  I asked.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  MOLLY WILLIAMS HERSELF ANSWERED the door. For a moment she looked at Murdoch in bewilderment, then she broke into a smile.

  “As I live and breathe, it’s Will Murdoch. I can’t believe it’s been such a long time since we saw you. Come in, come in.”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t stay, Molly. I wonder if Fiona is at home.”

  “Oh no. She’s at work. She’s a telephone operator at Eaton’s.”

  “Was she at work yesterday?”

  Molly frowned. “She was.”

  “What time does she get off?”

  “Six o’clock. Now, Will, you can’t come dropping in like this after so much time and start asking questions about my daughter. I do know you’re a detective, after all. Has Fiona done something wrong?”

  Murdoch was still standing on the doorstep. Molly hadn’t changed much since he’d seen her last. A little stouter perhaps, her hair a little grey, but she had the same brown eyes her daughter had. He remembered how much he’d always liked her.

  “Molly, I do apologize. I ran into Fiona at the train station recently. I wanted to follow up on some incidents that have occurred.”

  “To do with the war, I imagine? She’s got strong opinions has that daughter of mine.”

  “Precisely. I can come back later.”

  “She won’t be home this evening. She’s participating in a Red Cross fundraising event at Shea’s Theatre.” Molly smiled. “Would you believe she’s a ventriloquist? The only girl in the country, more than likely.”

  “Will you tell her I’ll come by another time?”

  “Only if you promise to stay longer.”

  “I promise.”

  He left. In spite of the circumstances, he felt warmed by the encounter.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  IN SPITE OF THE BEST EFFORTS of both Ruth and Peter Fenwell, Murdoch thought the dinner party was a dismal failure. There were just the four of them: Murdoch, the Fenwells, and a Miss Grace Cotterill. She was a friend of Ruth’s, and Peter had mentioned her before: “A nice woman, very devout.” As his intention to matchmake was pretty obvious, Murdoch was not surprised that Miss Cotterill had also been invited to dinner. She was middle-aged, neatly dressed and coiffed, and by no means unattractive. She appeared, however, to have only one interest in life, other than the Church itself, and that was the priest she tended to. She introduced his name at every opportunity.

  “Father Philip gave a wonderful homily on just that subject,” she said after Fenwell had (ill-advisedly) raised the issue of conscription.

  “Is he for or against?” Fenwell asked.

  “Most definitely for,” said Miss Cotterill, emphatically. “He considers it the sacred duty of our young men to take up arms against those devils incarnate.”

  “Are the Germans truly devils?” Murdoch said. “I am sure many of those young Germans dying in the trenches are devout Catholics, not to mention true patriots. Their priests are probably exhorting them to kill as many of us as they can. Aren’t we all brothers in Christ?”

  Miss Cotterill shook her head. “Father Philip thinks not. The Huns do not deserve our charity. They are barbarians. The barbarians were the ones who killed our Lord. We must root them out.”

  Murdoch saw a look of dismay pass between Peter and his wife. Miss Cotterill’s pale skin was pink and blotchy with the intensity of her fervour.

  “More custard, Will?” piped up Ruth. “There’s plenty left.”

  Miss Cotterill beamed. “Father Philip adores vanilla custard. He says it’s his one vice.”

  Murdoch couldn’t resist. “Lucky him.”

  She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “To have merely one vice.”

  Fenwell chuckled falsely. “Speaking of vices, I’d rather like to indulge in a pipe. Care to join me, Will? I usually smoke on the front porch. Ruth doesn’t care for tobacco that much.”

  Murdoch laid his napkin on the table. “Thanks, Peter, but I must confess I’m ready to call it a day. I should be getting home.”

  “I should go too,” said Miss Cotterill. “The day starts early for Father Philip, and I like to be ready with some tasty breakfast for after his Mass.”

  “I’m sure William will escort you home, Grace,” said Ruth.

  “Of course,” said Murdoch with a smile, but he groaned inwardly. How the heck was he going to get this woman to her house without offending her, or worse, murdering her on the way?

  —

  The Fenwells lived in a modest row house on Duke Street near Jarvis. The most direct route to the rectory was to walk up Jarvis and turn onto Shuter. Murdoch offered Miss Cotterill his arm and they proceeded in silence for a while. He couldn’t call it a companionable silence.

  The night was overcast and cold. Not many people were out and about, although lights shone in many of the houses they passed. Jarvis Street north of Queen was often referred to as “the widow’s walk,” as so many wealthy widows had taken up residence there. Many of them had settled into the grand apartments that lined each side of the street. He thought of asking Miss Cotterill why she thought the apartments were named “Royal” and “King” and “Marlborough,” but he wasn’t sure if she’d understand his little joke. Amy would have been the first to comment on it, of course. Feeling he was being discourteous, he searched for a neutral topic of conversation.

  “That was a delicious meal Ruth served, wasn’t it?”

  “It most certainly was. Roast pork is Father Philip’s favourite dish. He will be pleased to know I was able to partake of it.”

  Murdoch already knew that the absent priest favoured parsnip soup and cornbread, and that he liked vanilla custard, but he didn’t feel like enumerating the vegetables to determine how the man of God felt about roast potatoes and buttered carrots. Another silence fell.

  As they approached the rectory, Miss Cotterill said, “Father Philip kindly allows me the use of the parlour once a week if I wish to entertain guests.” She had turned a little pink. “I wonder if I might have the temerity to invite you for tea tomorrow afternoon. I usually serve at four o’clock.”

  “Thank you so much, Miss Cotterill. Unfortunately, I’ll have to keep the day clear. My son Jack is to be honoured at Queen’s Park. He has been awarded the Military Medal.”

  “Oh my. That is wonderful. Was there a particular batt
le? Was it at Passchendaele?”

  “No. He was wounded shortly before that.”

  “My, my. You must be so proud of him. How was he injured?”

  Murdoch groaned to himself. “To tell you the truth, Miss Cotterill, I don’t know. He’s only been home since Tuesday and we haven’t had a chance to talk about anything. He has a ruddy deep scar on his arm but I’ve yet to be informed as to how he acquired it.”

  “I see…Is he recovered, would you say?”

  “Not completely. It will take time.”

  “I shall ask Father Philip to say a special novena for him.”

  “Thank you. That is very kind.”

  They arrived at the door and she turned to look at him. “Perhaps the week following might be more suitable for tea?”

  “Thank you, Miss Cotterill. Would you mind if I don’t make any definite plans at the moment? It’s hard for me to foresee what is happening more than one day ahead.”

  “Of course, Mr. Murdoch. I quite understand.”

  He could see the wistfulness of her expression. She held out her hand.

  “That was a most pleasant evening. I do hope our paths will cross again before too long.”

  “I’m sure they will.”

  He shook hands, tipped his hat, and stood back while she let herself in.

  When he’d determined she was safely inside he turned to head for home. He knew he’d hurt her feelings, and he felt like a cad. Nevertheless, he’d have to tell Peter that under no circumstances should he and Ruth play matchmaker again.

  That is, unless they were able to link Murdoch up with some exotic pagan who wasn’t in love with her priest.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  MURDOCH LOOKED AT HIS WATCH. Not yet nine o’clock. On impulse he decided to head for Shea’s Theatre. If the mountain wouldn’t come to Muhammad, maybe Muhammad could go to the mountain. Or something to that effect. If he had to handcuff his son to a chair, he was determined to spend more than ten minutes with him.

  When he got to the theatre the show was well underway, but he insisted on being admitted, muttering vaguely about being a police officer. An elderly usher, clucking his tongue, showed him to the back row. He shuffled past the somewhat disgruntled patrons to the one empty seat.

  The theatre was packed. All around him Murdoch could make out well-dressed men and beautifully coiffed women in formidable hats. He had the sense of much velvet and silk. The air had never smelled so pleasant and flowery.

  There was a considerable sprinkling of young men in uniform. Many of the civilians were wearing black armbands.

  He had come in during one of the acts. On stage, a young girl with golden ringlets and a huge pink bow in her hair was singing “Keep the Home Fires Burning.” For a child she had an astonishingly big voice, and she sang the lyrics in such a heartfelt way that Murdoch actually felt a lump in his throat. The woman directly in front of him was crying, wiping at her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. In vaudeville style, a board at the side of the stage announced the girl was “EVANGELINE, The Singing Sensation with the Voice of an Angel.” She finished the last lines, her voice soaring to rival that of John McCormack.

  Turn the dark cloud inside out

  ’Til the boys come home.

  There was tumultuous applause.

  “That was wonderful,” whispered the woman beside Murdoch as she, too, dabbed at her eyes.

  A portly man came on stage and stood beside the girl. He was dressed in a khaki outfit that suggested an officer’s uniform without actually being one. He held up his hands for silence.

  Somebody in the audience shouted, “Encore!”

  “She’ll be back, ladies and gentlemen.”

  The call was taken up by others. “Encore! Bravo! Bravo!”

  Miss Evangeline gave a little curtsey. The man had a whispered consultation with her, then nodded at the pianist, who was obviously expecting this. The audience fell silent.

  Before Evangeline could burst forth again, a man near the front shouted, “How about ‘Tipperary’? Army version.” He started to sing, “It’s a long way to tickle Mary.”

  There was a palpable ripple of shock through the audience. Murdoch realized that the young man was sitting next to Jack. It was his friend Percy. There was a hiss of disapproval directed at him, and Murdoch could see that Jack was trying to keep Percy quiet. Fortunately, the portly man on stage was an experienced and consummate master of ceremonies.

  “Must be one of our gallant lads. He might have a bit of shell shock, folks, so let’s not take him too seriously. Maybe, given the circumstances, Evangeline will take a break.”

  “Shame,” called Murdoch’s neighbour, stirred to make a public display.

  The MC held up his hands again. “Don’t fret, you’ll hear her again. In the meantime, feast your eyes, gentlemen…and ladies, I know you will enjoy this too. The Five Fabulous Fantastic Farmerettes will do their dance number, and then we will have Miss Fiona Williams with her extraordinary ventriloquism act. So, on with the show. Let’s not forget why we’re here tonight. When Miss Williams concludes her act, we will ask you to remain in the theatre and the Farmerettes will come around with their buckets. They will encourage you to give as generously as I know you can.”

  Murdoch scanned the rest of the audience and was surprised to see that Roy Rubridge was seated in an aisle seat about six rows from the front. He was looking unusually nobby in a dark suit and white cravat but appeared to be alone.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the MC continued, “the Farmerettes are going to give you their very own version of a well-known song.” He put his finger to his lips. “It’s a tiny bit naughty but we don’t mind, do we? They will return and sing ‘Pack Up Your Troubles,’ and, by popular request, will conclude our evening with another round of ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning.’ I know you’re going to love them. Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together and give a hearty welcome to these splendid young ladies.”

  More piano music and loud applause.

  The MC offered his hand to little Evangeline and escorted her off the stage to much enthusiastic clapping. From the other side of the stage the Five Farmerettes marched out. Now Jack and Percy were half standing, twisting around, apparently engaged in an argument with a white-haired man behind them. That is to say Percy was, while Jack was clearly trying to appease him. Murdoch wondered if he should go and intervene but was saved by the entrance of the dancing girls. The two boys resumed their seats, as did the man behind, whose wife seemed to be importuning him.

  Unsettled, Murdoch turned his attention back to the stage.

  The Farmerettes were certainly a showy bunch. They wore blue, loose-fitting tunics over short white skirts and dark stockings. Each wore a straw sun hat pinned at an impossible angle to the back of her head. They were carrying buckets and pitchforks which they wielded in unison as they stamped in a line, singing “Mademoiselle from Armentières.” The young women who’d volunteered to help with the hard work of food production during the war had been given the name of “farmerettes,” but there was something about this five—the shortness of their skirts, their gestures, and the way they responded to the audience—that made Murdoch doubt they had seen much, if anything, of genuine country life. Everything about them said burlesque, not berry picking.

  She had four chins, her knees would knock,

  And her face would stop a cuckoo clock.

  They gesticulated with great animation to the audience, encouraging them to join in. Everybody responded willingly, if not with great musicality.

  Hinky, dinky, parley-voo.

  The Farmerettes did a few high kicks in unison.

  You might forget the gas and shells, parley-voo,

  You might forget the gas and shells, parley-voo,

  You might forget the groans and yells

  But you’ll never forget the mademoiselles.

  Hinky, dinky, parley-voo.

  Percy leaped to his feet. “Hear, hear!”

  He sat bac
k down heavily. Murdoch couldn’t say whether Jack had pulled him or he fell back. He was certainly acting like somebody who was thoroughly inebriated.

  The Farmerettes turned their backs to the audience and waggled their comely rear ends. Big laughter at that. Then, still singing, they marched off stage.

  Hinky, dinky, parley-voo.

  The MC bounced back onto the stage, clapping.

  “Give a big hand, ladies and gentlemen, for our gallant young women. They are doing vital work for the war effort.”

  When the applause had died down the MC waved his arm to the wings.

  “They will be back. In the meantime, here is a show you are going to enjoy. Miss Fiona Williams and her companion, the chatty Miss Happ.”

  There was more applause, and Fiona walked onto the stage carrying her dummy in one hand and a stool in the other. She sat down and placed the dummy in her lap.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce Miss Happ, whom you probably know from her ever-popular column, “Don’t Worry,” appearing in the Toronto Daily Star, wherein she replies to letters from both men and women who are in need of answers.”

  Fiona turned her head in the direction of the dummy. “Miss Happ, say hello to the audience.”

  She manoeuvred the lever in the dummy’s back that manipulated the arm and Miss Happ waved. Many in the audience waved back.

  “Miss Happ, you kindly said you were going to give us some examples of the letters you receive. Did you bring them?”

  “I did, but ye’ll have ta read them. You canna move my jaw and have me hold them at the same time.”

  That got a laugh.

  Murdoch thought Fiona was doing an excellent job of hiding any lip movements. And the dummy’s Scottish accent was funny. He could hear echoes of Molly Williams.

  Fiona had brought a satchel with her and she reached into it with her free hand and pulled out a sheet of paper.