by Seán Haldane
I glanced up, then looked back to her.
‘Where did you learn it?’
‘Comox.’ She was referring to the place her family had once settled in, some 150 miles up the Straits, beyond the Gulf Islands we could see from where we were sitting. ‘We had to use Chinook in trading with the Indians. We would have liked to employ them for farmwork but they think themselves too good for it. They are a shiftless lot.’
‘I understand the settlement, er, failed.’ This was dangerous ground, in view of what had happened to her father.
‘Oh yes, it did indeed fail, Mr Hobbes. It failed. In a rotten, bloody way.’
‘Bloody’, even in the literal sense, was not a word supposed to come from a young woman’s lips.
‘Yes. I had heard that, vaguely,’ I remarked.
‘No need to be so polite. Not to mince words, three of the settlers in our little pioneering village were massacred, Father being one of them. If it had not been for the timely arrival of Her Majesty’s Ship the Trident, whose guns razed the Indian village to the ground, we should all have been killed. My father had sent a message to Victoria. He knew trouble was brewing. They were smiling and childishly simple, the Comox; in that way Indians have which seems to have charmed you so, Mr Hobbes. But every now and then they would let a remark drop that we were only having the use of their land. It was not ours, no, not even though we cleared it with the sweat of our brow, and made fruit and vegetables and grass grow where formerly was miserable, gloomy forest and swamp. The women worked as hard as the men. Myself, between ten and fourteen years old, for four years, and who had known nothing more in the way of hardship than the savannah lands around the Columbia River, I worked like a boy. It was a dream for us all. Foully ended in a treacherous and vile attack by the Indians to whom we were introducing the benefits of civilization. One of them came up behind my father – I saw it myself, with these eyes, Mr Hobbes, and I screamed, but too late – and he pulled an axe from his blanket and struck my father down, just as you might fell a tree. From behind, Mr Hobbes. They like to attack from behind. So remember that when you turn your back on your Indian.’
Not surprisingly, Aemilia was trembling with agitation as she said this. But she shook her head abruptly, as if to cast drops of water from it, and said, ‘Enough. I don’t need to bore you with that old story.’
This was, of course, far outside the realm of my experience. ‘I’m very grieved that you had to live through that, Miss Somerville.’
‘Keep it in mind, Mr Hobbes. Keep it in mind when you deal with Indians. If you can’t learn from your own experience, then you must learn from that of others.’
I winced. Goodness, she had a sharp tongue. I could not resist saying: ‘But Miss Somerville, I’m sure your heart is not without charity towards these people. I mean, in your own household there is the little Indian boy of the Joneses – a nice looking little chap he is too, and I’m sure you don’t think ill of him.’
‘That’s none of your business,’ Aemilia said sharply. She rose to her feet, in a swift movement which had more strength than delicacy. ‘He is indeed a nice little boy,’ she added, ‘adopted by Mrs Jones as a mere infant, I believe, and therefore uncontaminated by the society of his own people. But if I were Mrs Jones, I should wonder about the blood coming through, and I should worry a great deal.’ She turned to look for the others, and rose to her feet. I scrambled up, but maintained a respectable distance as we walked in the direction of Frederick’s voice, which could be heard from within a group of dwarf oaks. But Aemilia stopped again and looked at me, her eyes steady and not at all emotional. ‘All the same, you believe your Indian will hang.’
‘In short order, I’m afraid. He’ll be tried within a few weeks, and on the present evidence found guilty. Then no doubt he will be hanged in the public square within a day or so afterwards. Then his band will disperse, and we shall have no more trouble with these particular Tshimshian.’ I felt almost relieved to abandon all hope, and present the stark facts.
‘Good,’ Aemilia said. We went to join the others.
Aemilia and I were both silent on the way back to the farm, although Frederick and Cordelia chattered inanely. Beaumont and Letitia, who although they did not seem particularly excited by each other, seemed to get on well enough, occasionally added comments. I could not identify my feelings for Aemilia. I had begun the day in a state of romanticism about her, which I now realized had been forced, although I still felt there was an affinity between us. Only this affinity seemed to extend itself to a capacity to irritate each other, in an intimate way. Although our language had been formal, we had got to the point swiftly, and our conversation had not been empty like – I thought unkindly – that of Frederick and Cordelia.
But although I acknowledged to myself that the affinity between me and Aemilia still existed, I did not feel able to revive it this afternoon. We had said enough. Aemilia’s bluntness had made me articulate, more clearly than ever, how dangerous Wiladzap’s situation was. This might require desperate measures, and I was ready to abandon politeness and caution.
So when we arrived at the Farm, and climbed down from the buggy to the sound of the usual polite murmurs of assistance from the men, and the giggles of Cordelia, I announced that I would have to take my leave shortly, since I was on duty that evening ‘in the courthouse’ (meaning the jail). But if Mrs Somerville was not indisposed, I should like to have a word with her.
This caused a slight flurry as the younger girls looked questioningly at me and Aemilia as if perhaps a hasty proposal of marriage was in the works. I found myself blushing with embarrassment, but Aemilia walked off to the house in a demonstration of indifference, if not hostility. Then the others looked at me as if pityingly … ‘Aemilia does have her moods,’ Cordelia whispered to me. ‘I shall go and fetch Mamma so that you can have your talk with her on the veranda.’
Since the sun had moved around to the other side of the house, the veranda was in the shade. It was really a simple wooden ‘porch’ with hanging baskets of flowers, and wickerwork chairs. Pleased not to be going inside for a stifling ‘tea’, I stood waiting until Mrs Somerville arrived, carrying a small bottle of smelling salts, as if she expected at any moment to be overcome.
‘I’m very sorry to bother you,’ I said. ‘But I have to ask you a few questions, in my official capacity.’
‘Oh, it’s quite all right. I shall survive, it’s only a small headache. And Mr Quattrini will be well looked after by the girls. Did you enjoy your “promenade” on Mount Douglas?’
‘Indeed yes. I had never climbed it before. The prospect is magnificent.’
Mrs Somerville sat down in a wicker chair. I took the chair beside her and shifted it so that I could partly face her. Her chest was heaving in short, sharp breaths: she was much more nervous than her words would admit. But I did not feel sorry for her. I realized that her nervousness and over-refinement were shields. She was in fact a robust-looking woman, with penetrating eyes, an unlined face, and a solid although rather plump body. She was not merely ‘well preserved’, but a woman not very far past being young.
‘It’s of course about Dr McCrory,’ I said. ‘I do understand that under the circumstances, anyone who knew him well must tend to deny it. His medical approach was so original that it must be hidden from prying eyes, so that anyone who became his patient must do so in strict confidence. And why should such confidence not be preserved after his death?’
‘Are you implying I was a patient of his?’ Mrs Somerville asked, with a sharpness similar to Aemilia’s.
‘I’m certain of it.’
‘Certain of it? Well, I must say, young man, both your information and your judgment are wrong. I was never his patient.’
I felt stumped. I had indeed been certain that, like her friend Mrs Larose, Mrs Somerville had been the alienist’s patient. She had then, I thought, become more intimate with him. But now she seemed too righteous to be lying.
‘In that case,’ I said, �
��I am wrong for having misinterpreted the facts. Your relationship with him must have been of another kind.’
‘Mrs Somerville’s breast began to heave, and she clutched her smelling salts. ‘What an unspeakable accusation. Are you saying I had an improper relationship with the Doctor?’
‘I don’t know what your relationship was.’ I felt too clumsy to be able ever to get at the truth. ‘But that it was a close and intimate one I have no doubt.’
‘Intimate?’ Mrs Somerville suddenly put aside her nervousness and became angry. She leaned forward and thumped me on the knee with her bottle of smelling salts. ‘Listen to me, Mr Hobbes. You’re using a variety of words – “relationship of another kind”, “intimate” – in a quite disgusting “double-entendre”. I will not allow you to talk to me like this.’ Like Aemilia she tended to stress certain words heavily when agitated. ‘About a dear friend of this family!’ She reverted suddenly to her usual sentimental upset. Now she took a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes, although I could see no tears.
‘I don’t mean to be offensive,’ I said. ‘But Mrs Somerville, do make an attempt to understand me. Dr McCrory was foully murdered. It’s thought by many to have been by the Indian who has been charged with the crime. But our investigations have revealed a world – a whole world – of bizarre and even vicious entanglements of the Doctor. It’s more than possible that it was the hand of someone from this other world – or of a patient in an excess of nervous derangement – that struck the Doctor down. Anyone who knew the Doctor well may be in a position to enlighten us about this other world in which he lived. If you knew him well, you may know the names and circumstances of others who wished him ill. Do you not see that?’
‘These are wild words, Mr Hobbes. “Bizarre. Vicious”. You’re too carried away by your zeal in this case. And you do not stop short of slandering the dead! I’m appalled at you. Of course the poor man will have had deranged patients. He was an alienist. He was not afraid of the deranged, the obscure, the hidden in people’s lives. But it seems you know very little about them. Who were these patients? I’ll wager, from your manifest confusion, that in almost all cases you don’t know. All you can do, to feed your conjectures, is to come and ask a lady who received the doctor into her house, on quiet Sunday afternoons, what she knew about him. It’s disgraceful, Mr Hobbes. I must ask you to leave.’
She sat looking at me haughtily, and I realized I was no match for her. For one thing, she was more intelligent than she normally allowed to appear. For another, if she had in fact been McCrory’s patient she must be fortified by her knowledge that he did not keep records. But perhaps she had not been the patient. It must have been Aemilia! Why had I not asked Aemilia these questions? Because I had even less information to go on than in the case of Mrs Somerville. Perhaps Mrs Somerville could be so adamant because she was protecting her daughter’s reputation. Yet as I looked at her, I still suspected her. When revealed in all her strength, she was a dominant woman. I found myself thinking, sordidly, that if any woman in the family was to have McCrory to herself, Mrs Somerville would make sure it was she.
‘You must leave, Mr Hobbes,’ she said. ‘You are no longer welcome in this house.’
Beaten, and angry at myself, I rose to my feet, restrained the instinctive urge to apologize, and left.
* * *
On my long walk home I stopped at St Mark’s to see if Firbanks was there. He was, fussing around the empty church in his vestments, preparing for Evensong.
‘I thought I’d see you at the farm this afternoon,’ I said.
‘I thought I’d give it a miss. Not sure I like some of the company they receive.’
I resolved not to be drawn into the nastiness of our previous conversation. ‘Just a small question,’ I said. ‘Or rather a confirmation you can help me with. I know I asked you about this before and you denied it, but,’ I shrugged my shoulders, ‘I thought I’d ask anyway. I have reason to believe McCrory supplied you with contraceptic sheaths. I assume this was to prevent transmission of disease to any young lady you might be with. Am I right?’
‘You insolent…’
‘Wait!’ I interrupted, with a gesture to remind Firbanks that we were in church. ‘Give the dead their due, at any rate. It was a very decent thing of him to do.’
‘’All right, all right. Yes, you’re correct. He was most concerned about such matters of hygiene. Now does that satisfy you?’
‘One more thing. Did he ever subject you to a “criticism”?’
Firbanks’ waxen cheeks flared red. ‘None of your business.’
‘Thank you.’
On the long walk into Victoria, I reflected that it had indeed been decent of McCrory to want to protect prostitutes and ‘squaws’ against the curate. It had served no use to my investigation of the murder, to establish with Firbanks the truth about sheaths. But it had served some use for myself. It was part of getting into McCrory’s skin – no pun on lambskin intended. What an odd man McCrory had been. I could not understand him. Who had understood him? Perhaps no one. His whole life seemed to have been devoted to the understanding of others, although not, as I saw it, from the best of motives. He knew so many people’s secrets, yet they must not have known his. The end result must have been a sort of delusion in McCrory. He could not possibly have understood himself.
* * *
But did anybody I had interviewed? With the exception of the morbidly joking pharmacist, everybody else had been so sure of themselves, so certain of their positions. Even the snivelling schoolmaster Hadley, or Frederick when confronted with the locket, or Quattrini who had slept with his servant girl. Each fully justified themselves. Even Sylvie had her story, her excuse for what must be really a soiled and dirty life. She was the proverbial whore with the heart of gold – really! Her warmth was real. She was true to type. But weren’t they all? Or rather, each was a type containing a sort of opposite other type. Hadley was the timid and fussy schoolmaster – but he drank. Frederick was the jovial young man about town – but he was an opportunist. Quattrini was the busy and pious merchant – who bought and sold people. Beaumont was the clock-work soldier, the man of power – who had a secretly humiliating life with women. Firbanks – the whited sepulchre. Mrs Somerville, the silly and pretentious widow – who was hard as nails when it came to a confrontation.
Who was it said ‘character is destiny’? Heraclitus? A cliché. But it seems to be true. I feel these people are all acting out themselves. What they are is what they do. What they do is what they are. They all seem so unshakable. I can extract information out of them, or they can spill it out to me because I am a good listener, but all they are giving is themselves. It comes easily.
I am a good listener from listening to my mother. I too am what I do, do what I am. But I cannot see myself from outside. Am I as rigidly bound in the system of my character as these others? My character, like theirs, is my history – extending from the past through the present and perhaps even into the future. Do we have free will at all?
Shut up, Chad. This is an introspection, if anything is. But I am now leaving it in the story. After all I am part of the story.
Some characters I have not mentioned. Aemeilia. I don’t understand her. She is quite fluid, less stamped out from a mould. Or rather, her mould is unique. Are some characters unique while others are not? Or is that uniqueness just coming from my interest in them? But one thing that is different about Aemilia is that she confides her own thoughts and feelings – as about her father at Comox. She is not pretending. No, that’s not true. She is pretending, I know she is. But I am not sure when she is and when she is not.
And McCrory? I am beginning to understand him. But I am putting a picture together of him piece by piece. He is already in the past tense, he is part of history. He can be defined – eventually. But he must have been complex when alive. Perhaps, as with Aemilia, there were moments where genuine light shone through the veil of the character as presented to the world.
And last of all: Lukswaas. I tremble with adoration for Lukswaas. She is to me, of all the people in my list, the most true. Yet she is betraying her husband! And I am too!
23
The following afternoon I walked out Cedar Hill Road to what I was determined – again – would be my final meeting with Lukswaas. I knew however, that we would make love one more time. Only afterwards could I have the resolution to break with her. I hated myself for calculating this, but called it necessity.
The previous night I had visited Wiladzap in his cell. Wiladzap had been eating some of the smoked salmon which had been brought to him, of a sort so hard and dry that it preserved well. He would not speak, but smiled slightly at me, as if he knew there was a special relationship between us – which there was, in the sense that I was working to try and exonerate him, but also in the sense that Wiladzap did not know about: that while he lay on his paliasse in his bare brick-walled cage, his wife had been giving herself to me, out in the wild forest.
When I arrived at the usual meeting place, I stopped and looked around. There was a rustle in the bushes near the path, and Lukswaas stood up. I went toward her, and her tawny cheeks blushed. She looked confused. She reached out and stroked my light grey frock-coat. I realized it was the first time she had seen me in civilian clothes. She would understand nothing of these clothes – that they were in English taste rather than American, or as I saw it, in good taste rather than bad. She was only curious. I felt the gulf between us: me, used to living in layers of civilized concealment, she living with that nakedness which came most naturally to her and which now I desired. But first I held her by the shoulders and looked at her handsome chilcat of light blue and black patterns, clasped over her breasts with a carved wooden pin; her arms with their silver bracelets; her hair with its central parting and neat braids hanging behind her ears with their abalone earrings; at her face, brown but flushed, wide-cheekboned but refined in its length and the firmly cut mouth; her teeth scrubbed whiter than those of most white girls I had seen; her nose fine and straight; her black almond eyes quick and sensitive. ‘I love you’, I could not help saying in English as I stooped and kissed her and held her to me, feeling her hand stroking my back.