by David Hood
Squire had lit the stove. He came back to the table with a single cup, knowing the chief inspector would not be staying. “And when they ask questions?”
“Perhaps she fell.”
“The newspapers will…”
“Newspapers are often wrong.”
“You are telling me to lie?”
“I’m telling you things are already bad enough. Ask them about her. Listen, then leave them to their grief.” Baxter looked to the window, feigning concern for the weather. If Squire knew too much there would be no point in sending him. He would not be able to conceal the fact that the family had lost more than a daughter.
“Where am I going?” It was the right question and Baxter was relieved.
“Antigonish.” Baxter stood and Squire handed him his hat and coat. “The desk sergeant will have funds for a ticket and a room. There is no return train until tomorrow.”
“I remember.” Baxter paused for a moment then went on with his buttons. He had forgotten that Squire would pass by his hometown on the way to Miss Riley’s. Perhaps seeing his own family would help him get over seeing hers, or perhaps it would be a second hardship.
“Send a telegram if you are going to be longer.” Squire gave no answer. He was busy looking out the window. The kettle began to whistle. He took no notice. Baxter nodded and showed himself out.
The station lay at rest, regaining its strength. The men on night patrol were still out. The day shift and the office staff were yet to arrive. When news of a woman’s body had come in, Mackay had Meagher take over for him. He was propped up on a stool behind the front counter, the back of his head against the wall, mouth open, eyes shut. Meagher’s snoring was loud enough to mask his chief inspector’s approach and passing.
Baxter made an entry in the ledger then returned it with the lockbox to a desk drawer. He sealed the money in an envelope then returned to the front counter. Meagher’s hands were folded in his lap. His respirations remained steady and peaceful as the envelope got wedged in place.
Baxter sighed then stepped quietly back to his office. He closed the door and stripped to his skivvies and socks. A reflection would have shown vulnerability, drawn comparisons with Victor and Miss Riley on the slab. The uniform was hung neatly, a blanket taken from a shelf and the wardrobe door that had no mirror got gently closed. The chairs in front of the desk became a sit bed. An arm reached out and the desk lamp switched off. Soon Squire would arrive, then leave.
Meagher would reprimand himself. He didn’t expect to sleep. He hoped only that his mind would let him rest for an hour or so. Then he had a real estate agent to visit and funeral to attend.
Eventually enough noise filtered in from the outer office to wake him. There were a few moments of befuddlement, then a frantic digging to find his watch, nearly nine o’clock. He got on his pants and shoes then stopped. He sat at his desk trying to find the number in his head. Then he began pulling drawers looking for the list of the few he used. Then it came to him and he reached for the telephone.
“Baxter residence.” He could hear the hurry and anxiety in her voice and he kicked himself again for falling asleep.
“How are you?”
“Tired.”
“You didn’t get back to sleep.” Of course she hadn’t but he could think of nothing else to say.
“Where are you? The service starts in an hour.”
“You go when you’re ready. I’ll meet you there.” There was no time to explain or apologize or reassure, to wait for her voice to soften as he tried to dig his way out. “Is…”
“No…Grace has left already. She didn’t mention where she was going, which she didn’t have to. I think we both know.” Her voice stopped short and Baxter knew his wife was considering, and being considerate, her tongue held firmly against the roof of her mouth until she added, “She certainly does.”
“Grace is eighteen. She…”
“Cully, I have to get a move on or I’ll be late.”
“I’ll meet you outside the church.” As he was placing the receiver back on its hook it occurred to him that Jane could have called to look for him. Of course if he had had that thought a moment sooner he would be in more trouble. He would have been told that a lady did not go hollering after her husband all over town. Grace would have been quick to make the call, if she had wanted to. Baxter rushed out of the station no better for the rest.
The two men had never actually met. Baxter knew of Edgar Nevers by reputation only. His real estate ads were a constant in all the papers. His placards were glued to fences and walls all over town. You could think the place belonged to him.
In 1869 the city had opened its new post office and customs house; Renaissance-style stonework, complete with grand columns and an ornate cupola. Nevers was next door in an old wooden building with stooped shoulders and rough grey skin. A clean window with fresh stenciling did what it could to ward off the worst impressions, “Edgar Nevers, Real Estate Agt.” Baxter couldn’t see anyone moving about behind the letters. He could see a light on. He pushed the bell. A male voice called him in. Baxter closed the door and waited. Across the room, the top of a small desk was completely covered with stacks of papers. Several “For Sale” and “For Rent” signs bearing the company name leaned against the far wall. The handles of shovels, rakes, a scythe, and who knew what all else made a teepee in the corner to the left of the door. The only picture on the wall was a young Victoria in profile. The place was full to overflowing, but there seemed to be an order to it all. Baxter expected the place to smell like a basement. He was wrong and surprised. There was a hint of lilac in the air. The place was almost cozy.
“Edger Nevers, how can I help you?” He had come down a hallway that ran back from the right side of the desk. Edger Nevers was not a large man but he had a full round face. A fresh corona-size cigar bounced in the corner of his mouth as he spoke. Nevers followed his hand across the room. Baxter brought forth his own. If he hadn’t, he suspected Nevers would have done it for him.
“I’m Chief Inspector Baxter.”
“Yes, I know. You have a lovely place on Dresden Row, blue, two storeys, fenced backyard with a small gazebo. The house could go another year maybe two. You should paint the gazebo this summer I think. I can make arrangements for that if you should like.” Seems that won’t be necessary, Baxter thought to himself.
Two, maybe three times in his life, he had been laid low by a flu. Still he managed to get out of bed long enough to shave. Nevers didn’t look sick, but he had not been near a razor in at least three days. The band of grey hair below the bald plateau was wild enough there could be anything nesting in it. Yet the shirt was crisp and radiant white, the dark pants sharply pressed and the shoes polished bright, not even a hint of dust in the welts. “You seem to know a great deal about me, Mr. Nevers.”
“Only what I see in the papers now and then, Mr. Baxter…May I call you Mr. Baxter? What I know is real estate. I know every property in this city and whether or not it’s worth having. Are you in the market?”
Baxter unfolded the sheet of paper he’d taken from Woodside yesterday morning and handed it to Nevers. “I’m told you manage these places. I need you to tell me about that.”
“Why…is something wrong?”
“Just answer the question, Mr. Nevers, and quickly please, I’m pressed for time.”
Nevers held the paper at arm’s length. The cigar in his other hand now a pointer, he followed its end down the list of addresses. “All right, well, they are all in good shape.” He tapped the paper then nodded to himself. “This one will soon need a new roof. They are all fully rented. What do…”
He needed to give Nevers some time. He could not give him too much. “How long have you been looking after these places?”
“Coming up on eight years.”
“All of them.”
Nevers looked up then turned the pap
er so Baxter could see the address identified by his thumb. “Just this one at first.”
Baxter took a breath and let it out slowly, still impatient though he was getting where he needed to go. “Tell me how it started.”
Nevers handed back the list then moved both hands through his bird’s nest. To Baxter he seemed to be looking for the truth not a lie. “A well-dressed man came in one day. Said he was a lawyer representing certain interests. When he gave me the address, I suggested it might be easier to sell if it were vacated. He said he was looking for someone to manage the property, not sell it. I told him I wasn’t interested.”
“Until he mentioned your fee.”
“All I had to do was collect rent and see to repairs.” The indignation in his voice was mild but clear. The cigar was back in his teeth.
Baxter raised an eyebrow. It was a weak excuse. For a man who did so well selling for a living, Baxter had expected a better pitch. “And later there were more buildings and more fees and it was all just good business.”
Nevers bristled at the further attack on his character. His indignation turned to defiance. “I’ve done nothing wrong,” he shot back, taking the cigar from his mouth and pointing it at the chest of the chief inspector.
Baxter thought otherwise. Sin once or twice removed was sin nonetheless. Pretensions were proof enough of that. The city had started off with too many shiftless sods from London’s lower orders. What few industrious souls there were took the paths of least resistance and the greatest profit. Brewers and distillers, smugglers and privateers, brothel keepers, victuallers who overcharged the army and the navy and government men from home and far away who paid high prices only so they could use the place now and then to defend greater interests elsewhere—this was Halifax. The mob that had grown up within the upper streets over the past century and a half, what chance had they to learn better habits with minions like Nevers and their masters living off their baser instincts? Baxter kept all this to himself. He had no time to argue. “I’m not your priest, Mr. Nevers, I’m only interested in the owner.”
His hackles relaxed in the momentary ease of seeing he was not the target of Baxter’s investigation, whatever it was all about. Then the eyes widened and the fists clenched as Nevers realized he had been cornered. “I never met the owner. I reported to the lawyer at first. Then a new man every other year.”
Baxter smiled, not in mockery or meanness, nor in sympathy or triumph. It was a wry smile at how often desperation tried to pass for loyalty. “You knew which house was mine, the colour of my gazebo, and that it needs paint.”
Small beads of perspiration had sprouted on Nevers’ upper lip. His palms were in the air. “I don’t want to make trouble for anyone.”
The smile disappeared. “The trouble will be yours if you keep me standing here any longer.”
Nevers’ eyes went round the room, to the loud signs, the shiny window, and finally to the Queen Mother on the wall. Was he looking for salvation or waving goodbye? Baxter couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter so long as the man spoke, and finally he did. “In this business it helps to know who to approach, who owns what, that’s all.” Baxter stepped forward. Nevers stepped away, hands now waving in surrender. “Yes, yes, all right. I have a friend in the assessment office. All the buildings are currently assessed to Chebucto Enterprises.”
Baxter took another step forward and reached out as if to take Nevers into custody. He scampered away behind the desk. Baxter pointed and he froze, eyes abulge, nose twitching. “But it wasn’t always that way was it, Mr. Nevers?”
“No.” The head shook just in case the voice that had gone faint was not heard.
Baxter did not come any closer. What he did do was make sure the look on his face told Nevers he would if he had to. “I need to hear you say it, Mr. Nevers.”
The wall seemed to reach out and take Nevers more than he leaned against it. He looked around again, this time as if he expected a cigarette and blindfold. “When I started with the first building it was assessed to Mr. Wallace.”
Baxter followed Nevers’ gaze, until he was forced to look him in the eye. Then Baxter spoke his question in three clear drum beats. “Maynard Sinclair Wallace?”
Nevers closed his eyes. “Yes, him…Maynard Sinclair Wallace.”
“He was the owner?”
“Correct.”
“Very good, Mr. Nevers. We are nearly done. Now tell me, when you started, who occupied the building?”
Nevers opened his eyes. His cigar had slipped from his grasp. He stared at it for a moment then stooped to pick it up. “It was the same business then as it is now, if that’s what you mean.”
“Run by the same man?”
“Yes.” There was a small wastebasket at the side of the desk. Nevers tossed his cigar then pulled out the chair and slumped down.
“Thank you, Mr. Nevers.” Baxter pointed a shoulder toward the door then held up. “One last thing. What was the lawyer’s name?”
Nevers was massaging his face. He looked out between his fingers then laid his hands on the desk and pushed himself up. It seemed a great effort. “Seabrook…Mr. James Seabrook.” As Baxter retreated slowly down the little hallway he added, “Could you lock the door on your way out?”
The air was still and dry and cold. There were no signs of yesterday’s rain or the warmth of the days before. Mourners gathered on the sidewalk in threes and fours, buttoned to the neck, hands deep in the pockets of their coats. Only now and then did clouds of condensation appear. No one seemed to have much to say before making their way inside.
Baxter knew these people. They were used to saying goodbye. Fishing boats, merchant ships, and passenger liners or trains headed west and south in search of work and better times. For them it was more a matter of routine than sadness. They had faith in the sojourner’s return and letters in the meantime. Yesterday had been different. A goodbye to a soldier might be a farewell. And in the meantime the postman would be met with trepidation.
There would be no trepidation along the home front, however, when the boys came marching home, or were carried by their mates. The dead would be laid to rest with honours and the brave sacrifice of their families would be mentioned in sermons and memorials and whenever the city needed a shot in the arm for years to come. For the rest of their lives the wounded would be stared at by those with no idea of combat and a gulf of awe and horror and vicarious thrill and a desire to forget would forever keep them at a distance, but not apart.
The city kept a place for those who went off in uniform to fight. Baxter knew this, just as he had known many who left in civilian clothes. They hadn’t gone to march or pull a trigger. They went to hammer nails or work their way up some office ladder. “Go on,” they were told, or told themselves. “There is more for you there than here.” When they did as they were told they never meant to say this place was less worth having. He could have left, and Baxter felt more could have stayed just as he had done. How could the city become a better place if it could not count on the people it needed most?
Of course no one coming through the doors of Saint Matthew’s church had to think twice about forgiving Victor Mosher, not today. He had come up rough and poor. He was bright enough and determined enough not to let that hold him back. He had done well, more importantly, he had done well in Halifax, and helped others along the way. Still and all he was a middling toad in a small puddle, not deserving of a state funeral. True perhaps. Just as it was true that looking back the city might regret not having said a grander farewell.
The church eventually filled to half. Catherine, the children, and Carmine and the rest of the immediate family filled the first two rows. Military matters kept the premier of the province from attending. The mayor, the chief of police, and a good many other men in office and their wives were able to attend and filled the next three rows. Even if he had arrived earlier, Baxter would have heeded Tolliver’s warni
ng to stay clear of the mayor. He and Jane sat near the back.
The service opened with the usual platitudes of loss and shock. Nothing insightful or specific, that was the essential magic of all warm comforts. Carmine stood and took the hand of the bereaved and walked with them in the footsteps of his brother’s life. Not a word was missed. No one could look away though most eyes had spilled over by the time Carmine stepped down from the altar. The choir led three simple hymns sung back to them in strong voice without the need of hymnals. The small procession to the graveside was almost martial in precision. The minister led a final prayer. Just before it was lowered away, Catherine came forward and placed a hand on the casket and spoke in private to her husband. The crowd pulled back to the cemetery gates then lingered, the course of bearing witness not quite at its end.