by Mark Lisac
The hand pointing to the medal had risen into the same position as the hand of Adam reaching out to touch the finger of God in Michelangelo’s painting of the Creation in the Sistine Chapel. Or was it straighter, more like God’s hand?
The fingers were long and narrow. They should have belonged to a piano player. The skin on them looked taut and paper-thin. Hints of blue showed in the skin’s whiteness. The fingernails were broad and long, age-yellowed nearly to the colour of tobacco stain and heavy with a faded glossiness like old varnish. The hand stayed up and the index finger kept pointing at the medal. Asher saw the insistence in the gesture. He was meant to look at where the finger was pointing. He thought that was one of the secrets of the Parson’s career: be stubborn, insist.
“It’s a great honour, you know. I said so to the Queen.” Manchester had resumed talking after Asher had finally gazed respectfully at the medal. “London is a stage for honours. Simply to walk the same streets and look on the Thames exactly where Horace Walpole and Benjamin Disraeli walked is an honour. William Gladstone. John Milton. Some might throw in Samuel Johnson but he was a wanton cynic, although not as bad as Oscar Wilde. Johnson’s biographer was even more wanton, although in a plain and forward way. His biographer knew about London streets all right, and the women who walked them at night.”
Asher knew he would have to wait out the preliminaries. He kept looking Manchester in the eyes. The monologue was wandering unexpectedly, though.
“Loose women and gambling make for good stories, but they are no habits to live by.”
Manchester was looking at Asher now. He didn’t bother asking Asher’s opinion on bad habits.
“Well, young man, I understand that you would like some information.”
“Yes sir. I’d like to know why Victor Turlock would have taken it into his head to kill John Apson. He was never the most reliable man or the clearest thinker. But he had never even threatened anyone with physical violence before, as far as I know.”
“Ah, you start from a wrong premise. He was a reliable man. I could count on him always to support me, which is more than I could say about some others. He was loyal.”
“But not really a clear thinker.”
“Not necessary in a party man, or even a cabinet minister. All he had to do was follow the road I laid out for him. And he had deputy ministers to keep him from crossing too far out of his lane and into a ditch. He was prone to enthusiasms, you know. I remember hearing from one of the party people in Barnsdale about an occasion on which Mr. Turlock was invited to speak at a fiftieth anniversary celebration. He apparently did mention the happy couple once. He said they were an example of steadfastness. Then he launched into a long defence of the monarchy and a lament for the trading in of the Canadian Ensign for the maple leaf flag. I applauded the sentiment but have always found that people attending celebrations are more interested in cake than in politics.”
Asher said, “Steadfastness and loyalty are admirable. Turlock set great store in being loyal to you. I’m not so sure that Apson did. I’m wondering if that had something to do with what happened.”
“You are asking out of curiosity? You know what curiosity did to the cat. This is a strange hobby, young man.”
Asher could guess where the next turn of the conversation would go, but knew he had to slog through it.
“Professional curiosity, Mr. Manchester. On behalf of a party with a professional interest. The premier.”
“Oh, the premier. He is a curious fellow. He does his job in curious ways. It’s curious how he keeps the public’s confidence. It’s curious how he has taken the party away from its traditions.”
“That may be. But there’s no tradition of cabinet ministers murdering people, let alone members of their own constituency executive. The premier understandably wants to know if he should be aware of something more than came out in court.”
“Aware? Or beware? What do you think, Morley? Is Mr. Karamanlis calmly tidying loose ends or is he frightened?”
“I think the premier is a client who has asked Harry to perform a task,” Jackson said. “His state of mind is secondary.”
“Hmmph. Not secondary. Second-rate. That is his state of mind. Why does he want to bother with this? Turlock is in prison and he’s been replaced in a by-election.”
Asher said, “He killed Apson for a reason. We don’t know what that reason was. If it died with Apson, that’s one thing. If it’s still out there, that’s another. It would be like leaving an explosive sitting in a field and hoping no one stumbles across it.”
“John Apson was a busybody. That’s a name for someone who makes a habit of being too curious. He should not have been surprised to suffer the consequences.”
“The consequences? Isn’t that harsh? No one deserves to be murdered. No one deserves to die just for asking questions. John Apson was a human being. He had feelings. He had a wife.”
“Yes, the grieving widow. The world is full of them. This one may be feeling less grief than most, from what I understand.”
“How do you understand that?”
“Curiosity again, young man. One hears things.”
“You seem to know a lot for someone who’s suspicious of curiosity.”
“People tell me things. I do not seek them out. I have never sought information about people. It has come to me since I was a young man, younger than yourself, learning the political trade from Tom Farber.” Manchester was concentrating hard on Asher now. “Tractor Tom taught me many things, including the uses of a nickname. Oh, I know what people call me. Some of the shallow-minded thought they were mocking me. In reality, they were helping me. Little did they know. It was advertising. Tom said that people have to know who you are if you want them to vote for you. Having a nickname helps them feel surer of you.”
“I’ve read about Tom Farber and I’m certain he knew how to communicate with voters, Mr. Manchester. I’d like to stick to the business at hand, though. I’d like to know more about Victor Turlock and John Apson if you have anything to help us.”
“Apson. Apson. Apson was a mingy gossipmonger.”
Manchester’s eyes were lighting up now. A hard glitter was breaking through their rheumy surface.
“In Tractor Tom’s day, we had no truck with people who played at politics. The party was built with people who believed. And Tom Farber did not play games, either. Oh yes, people laughed at him for being a farmer who thought he could deal with the Toronto bankers and Dallas oilmen. They laughed. After they found they could no longer laugh at him, they snickered. They wanted to believe they were better than he. They did not seem to realize that they were snickering at him, and then at me, in the same way that the high and mighty in Toronto and Ottawa were snickering at the whole province. The local cynics were themselves being dismissed as amusing provincials by the bank executives and federal politicians and CBC dilettantes in the east. They were not so much cynics as supercilious fools. Tom didn’t care about them. He cared about the real people.”
“Was John Apson one of the real people or a fool?”
“John Apson was a minor nobody who could not keep his mind on his own business. His business was running a one-man accounting firm and insurance agency and keeping the books for the party constituency association. He preferred to spend his time nosing about in other people’s affairs. An insurance agent, even a part-time one, should have known that would put him into a high-risk category.”
“Do you have any idea what Turlock had against him?”
“Young man, these are minor affairs. Minor affairs involving minor nobodies.”
“Turlock was a cabinet minister.”
“Most of them are minor nobodies.” Manchester said it matter of factly, not bothering with a slight sneer or knowing smile. “They think because someone has given them a title and someone to carry their briefcase, they have become important and smart. When I was premier, it was less of a problem. We didn’t have people to carry ministers’ papers. They barely had papers. It was a personal business.”
He focused on Asher, lecturing now.
“Oh yes, the practice of politics is a personal business. It is if it’s done right. Tom knew that. Tom taught me that. He could teach some of the modern nobodies with their assistants and their electronic devices a few things if he were still here. Tom knew that politics is really about people. He taught me the most important thing about dealing with the people. It doesn’t matter how much you love the people or how much you want to do for them, Tom said. He said the people are like a woman. You have to persuade them that they love you. You have to give them a reason to want you.”
Asher was looking at Manchester’s eyes, the glitter in them shining through the light filminess on their surface. He noticed flecks of spittle gathering on Manchester’s lips. The old man must have felt them too. He licked his lips.
Asher felt the talk slipping and said, “Sir, Mr. Manchester, I think we’re getting a little off track. What do you think was happening down around Barnsdale? I understand Apson didn’t think much of Turlock. Turlock must have hated Apson, considering the way he killed him.”
“Ah, hatred. Political matters inspire hatred as well as love. You can’t have one without the other. Victor Turlock and John Apson were probably incapable of either. Apson was not well known to me. Turlock was. He was a clinger. He was incapable of going out on his own. He had to be carried. I don’t think he was capable of hatred. Petulance, certainly. Extreme annoyance, frequently. But real depth of feeling? No, for that you must have a hardier and more substantial soul. I fear the people who have that hardiness and substance, not the Victor Turlocks of the world.
“The substantial people are the dangerous ones. Like the ancient Romans. Yes, the Romans knew how to hate. A gang of deluded haters slew Caesar. Antony had Cicero killed and had his head and hands displayed at the Forum. And poor Sextus Pompey. It was his bad luck to be the son of the most talented Roman general of them all. He was a threat to Antony and Octavian because of his heritage and his talent. They hunted him down, hunted him down. Oh, yes. They hunted him down even as he defended himself by entering an alliance with traditional Romans and with pirates. Sextus Pompey could have been the greatest Roman of his time. Even he was no match when his enemies banded together like a troop of jackals. I know about dealing with jackals. They are around us. They are around us. They reproduce endlessly. They travel and hunt in packs. They are ravenous and pitiless. Coyotes are friendly pets compared with jackals.”
“Mr. Manchester. Mr. Manchester.” Asher spoke quietly. Manchester stopped talking but seemed to be staring at something outside the room walls.
Jackson said, “George. George. Do you have a reason to be afraid?”
Manchester stared at him. Jackson repeated the question.
“Fear?” Manchester said at last. “No. No. Jackals can smell fear. One must never fear, even while walking through the valley of shadows. Hah. Fear? When did you know me to be afraid, Morley? I merely kept my eyes open to know who was with me and who was not. One doesn’t last twenty-seven years in the premier’s office living in fear. Make the others afraid.” He turned back to Asher. “I imagine your Mr. Karamanlis hasn’t learned that. That’s why he has watered down the principles of the party. That’s why he has sent a pet terrier sniffing around the Turlock case.”
“I won’t take talk like that, Mr. Manchester.”
“Well. Well. No need to get your back up, young man. I take back the word pet. I assume you have less objection to being compared to a terrier. They’re good at killing vermin. You want to know what I think about the Apson case. I have thought about it, since Turlock was first arrested.”
That got Asher listening even more closely.
“Apson was an accountant. Turlock evaded being held to account. He used his modest celebrity and whatever influence he could muster to do deals in which the numbers didn’t add up or were off the books. Negotiating minor pieces of land developments. Little discounts on work on his home. Gifts here and there. Who knows how many things? It started when he was young and I gave him his first appointment. You will ask me why I put up with it. Because he was loyal, and because I knew his peccadilloes were always small, like his character. Who among us is without sin, eh, Mr. Asher?”
“Not many of us are murderers.”
“Not in fact. But in our hearts? How many murders have been committed in imagination? Turlock had no imagination, aside from however much was needed to keep himself as rich as his neighbours. When he wanted someone dead, he had to do the deed for real.”
“If he kept out of trouble, with one or two minor exceptions, despite years of questionable deals, why would he need to kill Apson? Surely he didn’t leave paper trails for a nosy accountant to stumble across.”
“Perhaps you should be asking him.”
“He killed a man and he refused to say why. The only reason that makes sense to me is what you’ve already talked about — his loyalty to you. The overriding story of his life.”
“You are forgetting his passion for money. He needed small amounts of it coming in regularly like some men need a drink every day. I was under no illusion, young man. His loyalty to me reflected some dim appreciation for what this province needed, yes. It was also a way to ensure that he would have access to constant infusions into his bank account. Look into the money if you want to get to the bottom of things. For the love of money is the root of all kinds of evil. First Epistle to Timothy. I hear my housekeeper coming in, gentlemen, and I am tired.”
* * *
Out on the sidewalk, Asher said, “He calls his nurse a housekeeper. I think he probably gives her as many of those jobs as he can. Makes it easier to pretend to himself. He isn’t someone who gives in easily to reality.”
“If he did that,” Jackson said, “he would never have become premier or stayed in the office for as long as he did. He would never have joined Tractor Tom. He’d rather make his own reality.”
“Do you think we got anything out of that nonsense?”
“There was usually a core of sense in whatever the Parson said. Whether you could tease out the important parts and understand what he was trying to say between the words was what kept people up nights.”
“I think he’s a bullshitter. He was a bullshitter from the day he started working for Farber and he stayed one until he retired and by then he couldn’t tell the difference anymore.”
“Life is full of uncertainty. It’s still a serious business. You can’t escape the contradiction. It has to be managed. The most serious business can hinge on trivialities or accidents. Clausewitz wrote that out of the whole range of human activity, warfare most resembles a game of cards.”
“I think it’s time I saw a few more laid on the table.”
10
BLUE COULD HARDLY BEGIN TO DESCRIBE THE SKY. IT WAS too soft a hue to call “electric blue.” Words like “azure” or “cerulean” fell short. The air had a crystalline quality but words like “crystal” or “sapphire” didn’t allow for enough life. Asher thought liquids came closest when he searched for comparisons — perhaps subtropical seas or certain streams falling out of the Rockies. Yet the absolute clarity that made days like this extraordinary depended on lack of moisture. Snow capped the fenceposts neatly, as if melting were an impossibility. Every cloud had been wrung out of the sky. Out of all the descriptions Asher had ever read of such a sky he thought
the word caustic came closest because it suggested something clean and bleached. Even that was an approximation. The washed-out quality was more apparent on summer days. The word did not capture the richness of winter blue.
The blue would change in a few hours. By mid-afternoon the low sun would radiate an orange-yellow light. Spruce trees, looking like green shadows outlined by mounded branches of white snow, would be bathed in what looked like a warm candle glow.
He had taken a short walk by his riverfront condo before setting out on the road. He had wanted to see as much of the indefinable blue clarity and mystery as he could, feel the astringent dryness of the air in his nostrils and throat. He had kept the walk short, though, to avoid getting tired before the drive.
Now he was whipping down the highway to Barnsdale. Life stood still in the ditches and in the fields. Snow balanced on tree branches. Frost defined the lines of fence wire. Beyond the fences, the stubble stems of the year’s crop stuck out of the shallow early snow cover like hands of people drowning. Powdery drifts swirled at the road’s shoulder in the wake of each vehicle. Some snow occasionally drifted snake-like across the driving lanes. Nothing else moved except the traffic.
Hardly anything was as beautiful as the bright silence of early winter. But for someone who strayed too far with too little clothing, hardly anything could be as deadly. Asher wondered again at the combination. Absolute clarity came at the price of silence, at submission to being covered by a substance that looked soft and beautiful but was actually crystalline and pitiless.
He realized the bare lines of dry snow undulating across the road were absorbing his attention. This was how people got into trouble, wide awake but mentally asleep. He switched on some music and brought himself back to the case.