“Hello. Who’s there, please?”
He squinted towards the stage. No one answered. O. Pitts stepped on something soft. He jumped back. Looking down, he saw several purple flowers, daisies with yellow centres, scattered over the floor. His gaze followed more daisies down the aisle and onto the stage. He inched his way toward the strange twosome.
“Do I know you?”
Still nobody answered.
When O. Pitts got close enough to stop squinting, he saw that the man sitting on a chair had a large sword in his grip. The blade was stained a deep red and appeared charred. For the first time, O. Pitts noticed the acrid smell of smoke. He switched his attention to the man flat on his back. It was obvious, even to O. Pitts, that the man was dead. Congealed blood from what looked like a stab wound in the stomach covered the area around the body. The shirt around the wound was badly stained.
“Who … who …” O. Pitts stammered.
Alderman Morgan Morgan rose and pointed the sword at Lucifer Taz, his fallen comrade. “Lucifer,” he whispered. “Lucifer …” Morgan sat down again.
O. Pitts’ eyes lifted to the stained-glass window in the background. It depicted St. Michael, greatest of the Archangels, a glory round his head, in a suit of shining armour with his flaming sword raised to the heavens. The fallen Devil lay at his feet.
“Shit,” O. Pitts said.
At the very same time Tretheway was listening to Addie explain the legend of Michaelmas Day, O. Pitts pulled himself together enough to scream and run outside the chapel to call for help. When his index finger steadied down long enough to dial the operator, he called the police; then the Tretheway household. As luck would have it, Zulp was the first one to arrive in a Flying Squad car. He sized up the situation immediately.
“Alderman Morgan. You’re under arrest.”
Morgan hadn’t moved since O. Pitts had fled. He still sat clutching the stained sword and didn’t appear to have heard Zulp.
“Did you hear me, Morgan?”
Morgan turned toward the voice. Questioning wrinkles lined his forehead. He didn’t speak.
“Constable. Disarm that man,” Zulp ordered. “I don’t think he’s quite right.”
Morgan gave no resistance. He handed the sword over to a policeman when asked and followed him obediently to a quiet corner of the chapel, where he sat for the next half hour—still without speaking—while the investigation proceeded.
As it worked out, Zulp was correct about Morgan not being quite right. Dr Nooner confirmed this. He arrived shortly after Tretheway and Jake. Wan Ho and a small army of investigators, fingerprint men, photographers and uniformed men who were no longer the novelty they had been on Father’s Day, made up the group.
“Shock. Severe shock,” Nooner said. “Some sort of traumatic experience …”
“Like killing someone?” Zulp interrupted.
“Possible. Resulting in a loss of speech. Probably temporary.”
“But he has to answer some questions.”
“He can’t talk.”
“Hm. Awkward. When will he be all right?”
“Can’t say. He should be in the hospital.”
“Yes. Quite right. Just a formality anyway.”
“Sir?” Tretheway entered the conversation.
“Well, we all know what he’s done,” Zulp explained.
“You mean this killing?” Tretheway said. “Lucifer Taz’s murder?”
“Certainly.” Zulp clasped his hands behind his back and began to rock back and forth. “On the scene. Murder weapon in his hand. Covered with blood. Too shocked by what he’s done to escape. Incoherent. No doubt about it.”
“What about the other murders?” Tretheway asked.
“I would think so. Yes. He’s the one. My opinion.”
“But what about the motive?”
“Come, come, Tretheway. I know we don’t have all the facts. But I’m sure there’s a motive out there.” Zulp gestured toward the bustling policemen. “Somewhere. Don’t be afraid to admit the old Chief was a step or two ahead of you. Eh? Unless you have a more likely candidate?”
“Not really.”
“Well then. That’s settled. Don’t worry about it.” Zulp frowned suddenly. “What are you doing here anyway? How did you find out about this?”
“O. Pitts,” Tretheway said.
“What?”
“O. Pitts,” Jake explained. “The student who found Taz and Morgan. He boards with us.”
“He called us,” Tretheway said. “Wouldn’t say what it was over the phone. Just said to get here.”
“Oh. All right. I suppose.” Zulp shook his head. “Back to work. Good thing to have over. Have people sleep in their beds again. Safely.” He strode toward the investigating group already capably headed by Sergeant Wan Ho.
“Walk us to the car, will you, Doc?” Tretheway said.
“Sure thing.” Dr Nooner yawned. “I’m going back to bed anyhow.”
The three of them went down the stairs and out into the fresh sunlight. They skirted a group of early worshippers. Pious, indignant shock fought with excitement for control of their expressions, while a professor explained why the morning service was cancelled. The trio stopped at Jake’s Pontiac.
“Nice car, Jake,” Dr Nooner said.
“Looks good with the top down,” Jake said.
“What year?”
“ ‘Thirty-three. Seven years old.”
“Great shape.”
“I look after it.”
“Did the sword kill him?” Tretheway said louder than conversational level.
“What?” Dr Nooner said.
“The sword!” Tretheway flaunted his disinterest in cars by continuing his interruption. “Is it the murder weapon?”
“Ah … I think so,” Dr Nooner answered. “Can’t say for sure but it looks like it.”
“Where’d it come from?”
Nooner shook his head.
“Probably from the school,” Jake suggested. FYU was Jake’s alma mater. “There are three or four suits of armour around the University. I’ll wager one’s without a sword.”
“Right.” Tretheway accepted Jake’s explanation. “And the burn marks are from the sword.”
“Just like Addie said,” Jake agreed.
“Probably dipped in gasoline.” Tretheway nodded. “Although if I know Morgan and Taz, it was probably brandy.”
“Would you two please tell me what the hell’s going on?” Dr Nooner demanded.
“The legend of Michaelmas,” Tretheway said. “Didn’t you notice the stained glass window?”
“What about it?”
“That’s St. Michael,” Tretheway explained, the story fresh in his mind from Addie’s telling. “He’s honoured on Michaelmas Day. September 29. Yesterday. He’s the greatest Angel of the Lord. Delivered the commandments to Moses. Knows the secret of creation. And he’s mentioned in the Book of Revelations. There was a war in heaven. The Archangel Michael and all his angel friends cast out the Devil and his followers. And this is how he’s usually shown. With his flaming sword smiting the Devil. Or …” Tretheway held up a fat finger for emphasis, “as we sometimes call him, Lucifer.”
“I’ll be damned,” Dr Nooner said.
“What about the flowers?” Jake asked.
“Symbolic. Michaelmas daisies. Named after the same St. Michael. Once again, neat. A pattern.”
“Except for one thing,” Dr Nooner said.
“Eh?” Tretheway asked. Jake raised his eyebrows.
“This time the killer was caught.”
Tretheway’s thin lips pursed together.
“Well, he was caught. Red-handed, too,” Dr Nooner continued. “Surely there’s no doubt in your mind …”
“It looks bad, all right,” Tretheway admitted.
“Bad?” Dr Nooner blurted. “More than bad. Sitting there with the sword. Time of death is right.”
“Hang on.” Tretheway quieted the doctor by the tone of his voice. He waved hi
s finger in the air again. “Justice. Innocent until proven otherwise. His actions for last night will have to be checked. What was his motive? And what about the other murders?”
“This is the one he’ll be tried for,” Dr Nooner persisted.
“I know,” Tretheway agreed. “All the same, if he’s found guilty, wouldn’t you feel more comfortable if he’s placed at the scene of the others?”
“I guess so,” Dr Nooner admitted.
“I’d feel a lot better,” Jake said.
“And I want to hear his side of it,” Tretheway said. “A confession would be better than him playing the clam.”
“You can’t tell when he’ll talk, I guess,” Jake asked the doctor.
“Not for sure, Jake. I’m sure he’ll come round. Maybe tomorrow. Or next month. Maybe another good shock’ll do it.” Dr Nooner started for his car. “Let’s hope it’s all over.”
“See you, Doc,” Jake said.
“Let’s go, Jake.” Tretheway lowered himself into the passenger seat of Jake’s car.
“Right.” Jake slipped into the smooth leather seat behind the wheel. He pushed the starter button and let the engine idle while he adjusted the choke.
“You suppose Addie knows about this?” Tretheway said.
“I doubt it.”
“Who’s going to tell her?”
Jake pulled the gear shift noiselessly into first. “Well, I suppose … maybe I …”
“Good boy, Jake.”
OCTOBER
Fort York settled down to normal, if wartime, living. The invasion of England was not considered imminent, as it was two months before; the war savings bond drive was going well; the practice blackouts were successful—more fun than frightening—and gas rationing, food shortages and meatless Tuesdays were becoming accepted facts of life.
An early cold snap accelerated the changing colours of the leaves. The lush green of late summer turned magically to gold, orange or scarlet in the metamorphosis of another year. V’s of Canada geese became common sights in the fall skies. And the time for giving thanks drew near.
With the news of the Holiday Killer’s (FY Expositor journalese) capture, the emotional pendulum of Fort York’s citizenry swung back past the norm to the point where everyone, perhaps too fervently, expected worry-free holidays from now on; almost everyone.
“When’s Thanksgiving this year?” Addie asked.
“Fourteenth, Addie,” Jake said. “A week next Monday.”
The two of them were sitting in the warm fragrance of Addie’s comfortable kitchen, sipping tea and watching Tretheway out in the back yard trying to send Fred home.
Since suppertime, Tretheway had been uprooting frost-killed plants and foliage for his compost heap. Fred the Labrador had followed him all over the garden. She sat down to watch while he tore out offending growth and trotted at his heels when he carried an accumulation of these future nutrients to the fenced-in pile. Tretheway had spoken kindly to the dog and even patted her head once or twice during the evening, but when the air turned cool and crisp in the waning light, he thought it was time to go in. He stood now, like an ancient and noble statue, pointing theatrically to his neighbour’s back yard. Fred sat at his feet, unmoving. From where Jake and Addie sat, they could make out the futile commands forming on Tretheway’s lips.
“You can tell that dog’s not a policeman,” Jake said.
“Or a relative,” Addie added.
They shared a giggle.
Tretheway sprinted suddenly toward the back porch. The dog followed. Tretheway took the steps three at a time, slipped nimbly through the screen door and slammed it quickly behind him. Fred thumped solidly into the lower wooden half. Addie and Jake looked disapprovingly at each other. When Tretheway turned and came into the kitchen, he was whistling silently.
Jake and Addie picked up where they’d left off.
“Then what’s today?” Addie asked.
“Friday. The fourth,” Jake said.
“The Feast of St. Francis of Assisi,” Tretheway said. He turned on both taps at the kitchen sink.
“St. Francis of Assisi?” Addie repeated.
“Feast? Never heard of it,” Jake said.
Tretheway rinsed the rich loam from his hands. “And you probably didn’t know that Missouri Day was the first Monday in October. That’s the seventh.”
“No. Not really.” Jake wrinkled his brow at Addie.
“And how about the ninth? Wednesday.” Tretheway dried his hands on a couple of Addie’s flowered tea towels. Addie frowned.
“You have your choice of two,” Tretheway continued. “Feast of St. Denis, patron saint of France. Or Leif Ericson Day. That’s got a nice ring to it. Landed in Vineland about 1000 A.D. The very day before Chinese Independence Day. That’s the tenth. Then Columbus Day two days later.”
“Albert,” Addie interrupted, “what are you going on about?”
“That’s my list. My holiday list for October.”
“But we don’t have to worry about those holidays.” Addie looked worried. “Do we?”
“You’re right, Addie,” Tretheway said. “We don’t have to worry about them. And I’ll bet money we can enjoy Thanksgiving weekend. Also Yorktown Day on the nineteenth. And did you know there’s another bloody feast coming on the twenty-fourth for another bloody Archangel? St. Raphael.” Tretheway felt in his pocket for a cigar. Addie frowned again, this time at Tretheway’s language, but pointed to a humidor on the kitchen counter. Tretheway grunted and took a cigar.
“Did you also know that someone called St. Crispin and his brother have a feast on the next day? You know what they’re the patron saint of? Shoemakers!” Tretheway looked at Jake. “Is there anyone on Council that’s a shoemaker?” He felt for a match. This time, Jake pointed at a large box beside the humidor. Tretheway took one and easily struck it on the top of the door jamb. He puffed deeply several times without inhaling. It seemed to soothe him.
“American Navy Day on the twenty-eighth we can forget. And I can’t get too worked up about Czechoslovakian Independence Day, the twenty-eighth.”
“You say we don’t have to worry about those holidays, Albert?” Addie said.
“Not if Morgan’s the guilty one,” Jake said.
“Whether he’s guilty or not, Jake,” Tretheway said. “It doesn’t matter.”
“I don’t quite follow,” Jake said.
“If he is guilty,” Tretheway explained, “obviously nothing’ll happen on those holidays. But if he isn’t guilty …”
“Oh, Albert,” Addie said. Jake laid his hand on her generously-sized shoulder.
“Take it easy, Addie,” Tretheway said. “But all we found out is that Morgan was at a party with most of the city fathers on Saturday. He and Lucifer Taz left together at about midnight. We don’t know what happened from that point on until O. Pitts found them.”
Jake nodded in agreement.
“Now I’m just supposing,” Tretheway went on. “But supposing the killer got a phenomenal break? Suppose Morgan blundered into the picture at just the wrong moment? Everybody says he’s the killer. The chase is off. The real killer’s out of danger. He can pick any holiday he wants.”
“I thought he always did,” Jake said.
“Not really,” Tretheway said. “Think back.” He was leaning backwards against the counter, facing Jake and Addie, arms folded, puffing on his cigar. An ash fell on a wrinkle of his green sweat shirt in between the words “City of Verdun” and “Hammer Throw Champion.”
“The first three were pranks. Done on obvious holidays. Valentine’s, St. Patrick’s Day and April Fool’s. Firecracker Day, though more serious, much the same thing. June, Father’s Day, the first serious one. But still a fairly obvious holiday. Right?”
Jake nodded. Addie just stared and looked uncomfortable.
“So now,” Tretheway continued, “everybody is on guard. Everybody’s second guessing about July. What’s the obvious holiday? The first. Dominion Day. But what happened? Nothi
ng. When did he strike? St. Swithin’s Day. A surprise.” Another ash fell onto Tretheway’s stomach. “Threw everybody off balance. Nobody knew what to expect for August. Some obscure Saint’s Day again? No! He hammers us right on Civic Holiday.”
“You don’t think that was an accident?” Jake asked.
Tretheway shook his head. “No. It was a perfect set-up. Inviting. All those people. The excitement. It wasn’t an accident.” He held up his hand to stop Jake from interrupting. “I know what Zulp said. All that did was help the killer. Took the pressure off.”
Tretheway puffed on his cigar and plowed on. “Remember Labour Day? Everyone half expecting something to happen? When it was all over, they relaxed. Then he gets us on Michaelmas Day.” Tretheway shook his head. “Michaelmas Day. Hardly a popular holiday.”
“So in October?” Jake asked. “I mean, if…”
Addie frowned.
“October?” Tretheway recrossed his arms. “I think it would’ve been Navy Day. Or Chinese Independence Day. Or whatever. But not now. Not if the killer’s still running free. With nothing to fear. He’ll pick the obvious holiday.” Tretheway took several small puffs, then plucked the cigar from his mouth and pushed away from the counter. All the ashes fell from his shirt to the floor. “Hallowe’en,” he said with confidence.
“Oh, dear,” Addie said crossly. “I wish you wouldn’t do that.”
She was upset only partly because of the ashes on her clean floor, but, like most of the citizens of Fort York, Addie wanted to believe that the murders were solved, over with, a thing of the past. If Morgan was guilty, she reasoned, she could sleep nights and enjoy holidays once again. Addie had pushed the thought of more violence into the dark corners of her mind; when Tretheway had prodded it out into the bright light of possibility, she was scared and resented it.
“I’m sorry, Addie,” Tretheway said. “But don’t forget it’s still guesswork. Just thinking out loud again.”
“I don’t care,” Addie said. “It’s still upsetting.”
“I know, Addie.” Jake reassured her. “Ninety-nine chances out of a hundred nothing’ll happen.”
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