“I could get used to this,” Jake said.
Tretheway refilled his glass from the pewter ice bucket. “What are the poor people doing today?” he mused.
The evening meal followed. With Beezul concocting small delicious gourmet treats and Tretheway’s knack for getting the most out of cooking simple fare, they ate well. Jake worried at different times about the extra weight he was sure they were all putting on, but said nothing. Beezul inveigled his housekeeper, Elsie, a grey-haired family retainer whose age no one, herself included, knew, to be the fourth at euchre. She proved a surprisingly good player. Her aces hit the card table every bit as aggressively as Tretheway’s. Just before bed, they carried a Blue, wine, or Scotch outside for some lazy educational star gazing. The cycle began again the next day after an eye-opening dip. Seven days passed quickly.
Chapter Ten
Tretheway, Jake and—after Labour Day—Beezul, arrived back at their desks in a spirit of optimistic enthusiasm. They looked as good as they felt. Their complexions showed the flattering result of the sun, although Tretheway’s was on the red side. The three were well prepared, they thought, to face whatever the devils of Fort York had in store for them in the fall season.
In September, Italy officially surrendered; the allies landed at Salerno; Australian and U.S. troops invaded New Guinea and Zulp, fortunately for him, did not renew his promise of resignation for the thirteenth of the month, a Monday. Tretheway got the call shortly after midnight.
“It’s a fire,” Wan Ho said. He sounded excited, or at least as excited as a Sergeant of Detectives ever gets.
“Do you know what time it is?” Tretheway asked.
“Sorry. I thought you’d want to know.”
“About a fire?” Tretheway said.
Jake appeared beside Tretheway. “What’s up?”
“Wan Ho’s got a fire.” Tretheway didn’t bother to cover the mouthpiece.
“That’s nice.”
“Sorry,” Wan Ho said again. “Perhaps I should explain.”
“Good idea.”
“About twenty minutes ago I got a phone call from the dispatcher at Central. A house mother at the University said two of her students noticed a glow just outside their dormitory window. Turned out to be a large bonfire. About a hundred yards from the residence. Half hidden by some trees and small knolls. At the edge of the campus by the ravine. One or two people were spotted running away. You with me?”
“Go on,” Tretheway said.
“The fire was deliberately set, albeit prematurely. It was supposed to be lit on the weekend. Some sort of initiation ceremony.”
“End of Hell Week.” Jake listened ear to ear with his boss as Tretheway bent over and held the receiver upright. “Freshman hazing,” Jake remembered.
“It’s still just a fire,” Tretheway said into the mouthpiece.
“Pieces of wood, logs, old desks, combustibles of all kinds were piled around, for want of a better word, a stake. At its top, were the stake is exposed, maybe twenty feet above the ground, a person was tied. Securely.”
Wan Ho paused. Neither Tretheway nor Jake spoke.
“It sounded like a woman, they said.”
“Sounded?”
“She was singing.”
“We’ll meet you there.”
Tretheway and Jake got there just ahead of Wan Ho. A soft, late summer drizzle had been falling since sundown. Closer to mist than rain, it had done little to impede the blaze. A large crowd made up mostly of resident students still huddled under their umbrellas around the smouldering pyre. The firemen had wetted down the bonfire enough to pull the unrecognizable body carefully from the smoking cinders. It rested now under a tarpaulin, waiting for Doc Nooner.
Jake held high a large striped golf umbrella he kept in the car. It covered him and most of Tretheway. They stood beside Wan Ho as he officially questioned the two witnesses. A house mother hovered in the background. Both the young coeds were wide-eyed first-year students fresh from the farm fields of Northern Ontario.
“I’ll never forget it,” the first girl said.
“Neither will I,” the second one said.
“I understand you saw someone running away,” Wan Ho began.
“That’s right. Two of them.”
“When we went out.” The second girl nodded vigorously.
“Could you tell who? Man? Woman? Any idea of age?”
“No. Too dark.”
“It was raining.”
“Where did they go?” Wan Ho asked.
They both pointed over Wan Ho’s shoulder to Chegwin, a nature trail behind the Science Building that led into the ravine.
“There.”
“Down the woods.”
“And the fire?” Wan Ho said.
“Just started.”
“About halfway up the pile.”
“It was supposed to be for a party Saturday.”
“Some party now.”
“And you mentioned singing?” Wan Ho asked.
“That’s what I’ll never forget.”
“Me neither. At the top of her voice.”
“Her?” Wan Ho asked. “You’re sure it was a woman?”
“We could see better then. With the fire.”
“She had a uniform on.”
“Do you remember what she was singing?” Wan Ho asked.
“Every word.”
“She sang it over and over.”
The two of them started to chant. ‘ “The devil and me, we don’t agree. I hate him and he hates me.” ’
Wan Ho looked at Tretheway and Jake.
“Then the singing stopped.”
“The flames got higher.”
“Then she screamed.”
“She screamed forever.”
“Okay,” Wan Ho rested his hands on the girls’ shoulders. “You’ve both been a big help.”
Tretheway signalled the house mother. She put her arms around the girls and led them back to their dormitory.
The three men stood in the mist and stared mesmerized at the firemen sifting through the charred debris. Most of the students returned to their dry dorms. Two policemen in rain slickers patrolled the site.
“Well, there’s not much doubt about it, is there?” Tretheway said.
Jake shook his head.
“Doesn’t look like it,” Wan Ho said.
“She was always singing that song,” Jake said.
“I’d never heard all the words before,” Wan Ho said.
“I had,” Tretheway remembered. “I talked to her once about it. It was her favourite. A very old Salvation Army hymn.”
“And then there’s the uniform,” Jake said.
“The clincher,” Wan Ho confirmed.
When they heard the sirens and squealing of tires that heralded Zulp’s arrival at the front of the building, Wan Ho left to report. Tretheway and Jake ducked into the shelter of one of the many covered Gothic archways that graced the campus. From its shadows, they watched as policemen darted through the drizzle and smoke into the woods at Zulp’s raucous commands.
Doc Nooner found them. “Where’s Wan Ho?”
“I imagine he’s joined the search,” Tretheway said.
“Oh?”
“An hour too late.”
“In the rain,” Jake said.
“Down trails that are unfamiliar,” Tretheway added.
“In the dark,” Jake added.
“I take it you two don’t hold out much hope for the search?” Doc Nooner said.
“None whatsoever,” Tretheway said.
“Did you find out anything, Doc?” Jake asked.
Nooner shook his head. “Pretty burnt up.”
“No identification, then?” Tretheway asked.
“Nothing medical yet. Can’t tell till later. The autopsy. Skin tissue. Teeth. Teeth can tell you a lot.”
Jake winced. “For God’s sake, Doc!”
“But you must have an idea,” Tretheway persisted.
“Oh yes,�
� Doc said. “Probably the same as you. The uniform. The singing. It pretty well has to be, or had to be, Patricia Sprong…”
They stared out at the darkened campus. A fresh wind rattled the ivy covering the rough grey walls.
“She was a nice lady.” Tretheway puffed life into half a cigar.
“I liked her too.” Jake glanced at his boss. “What now?”
“I think it’s time we joined the fight.”
“Eh?” Jake looked at Tretheway. So did Doc Nooner.
“It’s time to stop the killings. Time to figure out who did it. And get him. Or her. In short, we must logically and sensibly proceed. Investigate.”
“I thought you were supposed to stick to ARP work,” Doc Nooner said.
“That’s right,” Jake started. “Zulp said…”
“I deem this an emergency. There’s an immediacy here that overshadows waiting for incendiary bombs to fall at King and James. In the words of the Bard, ‘necessity’s sharp pinch’ forces us to act.”
Tretheway’s cigar resembled a spinning fiery pinwheel as he flipped it into the wet night. “Let’s go, Jake. There’s lots to do.”
Jake smiled—nervously, but still a smile.
Chapter Eleven
For the rest of the month, Tretheway was as good as his word. He found lots to do. Sometimes he included Jake, but most of the time, Jake just drove and dropped his boss off at seemingly haphazard spots of Tretheway’s choosing. They visited Cynthia Moon, Wan Ho, Luke, the hotel, the RFY Botanical Gardens, the FY Street Railway car barns, the extensive morgue of the FY Expositor, the University, the Yacht Club, the barber shop, and it seemed to Jake that every other trip ended at the central library or one of its branches. All this time, Beezul, Zoë Plunkitt and, sometimes Jake, held down the ARP fort.
Tretheway spent his evenings alone in his quarters except for trips to restock his ice box. More than once, Jake or Addie asked if they could help or do anything, but Tretheway’s polite, if monosyllabic answers, warned them away. They both—particularly Jake—knew from experience that Tretheway would bring them up to date when he was ready; that he would even insist on it. He was ready the first week in October.
“Jake. How’d you like to join me upstairs for some nut brown ale?” Tretheway phrased his invitation casually, so that it would not sound like a command. Jake knew better. But he was also eager to know what was going on.
“Love to.” Jake nodded at Addie and some students as he and Tretheway passed through the kitchen. Jake followed his boss up the narrow back stairs, stopping at the dark oak door, now open, that separated Tretheway’s domain from the rest of the house. Tretheway ushered him in. Jake was struck, as always, by the comfortable aura that surrounded him when he entered the bright, high-ceilinged room. The fireplace glowed with a small fire lit to fight a dip in the early fall temperature. A quiet ballad was playing on the radio. An untidy but homey pile of books and papers lay on Tretheway’s roll-top desk. Photographic milestones and accomplishments from his uniformed past hung on the opposite wall. Fat Rollo didn’t look so big on the huge bed. There was a pleasant mixture of the smells of shoe polish and cologne. In the centre of the room stood an out-of-place easel supporting a large manila pad.
Tretheway made immediately for the corner ice box, hidden discreetly by an exquisitely decorated Chinese screen (gift from Wan Ho). He popped two Blues.
“You want some cheese?” Tretheway asked.
“Sure.”
Tretheway took a two-pound sliced wedge of four-year-old Canadian cheddar out of the ice box, and put it with some crackers on a side table close to Jake. He handed Jake his quart of beer, then drank half of his own from the bottle. Jake pulled a footstool up in front of the easel and made himself comfortable. He had been here before.
From the easel tray, Tretheway took a jumbo pencil with the words “Souvenir 1938 Canadian National Exhibition” emblazoned on its length and, without preamble, drew a large “W” on the pad.
“That’s who we’re after,” he said.
“W?” Jake said.
“W for witch.”
“A woman?”
“Not necessarily.” Tretheway took a deep breath. “I’ve done a lot of research these past weeks. Most of it on witchcraft. There is a school that applies the word ‘witch’ to man or woman. Let’s leave it at that. Let’s not get into the differences between white witches, warlocks, wizards or sorcerers. It’s too confusing. And you’ll always get an argument.”
“Okay with me.” Jake pulled on his quart.
“And on witches, our W springs directly from black folklore. From the world of broomsticks coursing across night skies.” Tretheway advanced slowly toward Jake. “From the world of demonic hares, strident spying crows, malevolent spiders, hemlock harvested at midnight, evil spells cast at crossroads, black cats that foretell bad weather, eye of newt, toe of frog, toad spittle.”
By this time, Tretheway was bent over and only inches from Jake’s face. Jake leaned away. The hackles rose on his neck and shoulders.
“Surely you’re joking,” Jake said.
Tretheway straightened up abruptly. “Jake. Where’s your imagination? We have to get into the mind of an evil spirit. Think like a witch. Act like our W. But at the same time,” he shook his big pencil in the air, “keep both our feet on the mortal, solid ground of law enforcement.”
Jake felt slightly reassured. “Right.”
“Now, through a combination of research, intuition, process of elimination, intelligent assumption and just straightforward common sense, I’ve put all the pieces of the puzzle together, or almost all, in one big logical picture.”
Tretheway deliberately put a piece of cheese in his mouth and followed it with a cracker. Jake waited patiently while his boss chewed—longer than necessary, he thought.
“Assume one thing,” Tretheway continued. “W had a plan. It went a little bit off track. But W had a definite scheme.”
Jake looked a question.
“To do away with one person.” Tretheway drew a numeral one on the pad beside W. “Only one.”
“Do you know who?”
“Yes.”
“Then…”
“Patience.” Tretheway held his hand up as though Jake were a speeding truck. “Let’s go back to the start. Remember?”
“Hickory Island?”
“That’s right.” Tretheway drew a line underneath W and the number one. He wrote in “Hickory Island, Jan. 13” and drew another line underneath. “W was alone. Probably drugged. Conducting a ceremony. One W obviously believed in. Incantation, black mass, reading from the devil’s book. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. You saw the symbols. The pentacles. The circle. Smelled the brimstone.”
“And the number,” Jake added.
“That’s something else.”
“Eh?”
“It didn’t fit.”
“What did it mean?”
“I don’t know.” Tretheway paused. “But it was important to W. And it was a date. The year 1692. But let’s get back to Hickory Island. The melted wax. The bronze bowl. And pins. All part of image magic. W was probably sticking pins in our victim’s effigy before melting it. And the witch’s ladder. A perverted rosary. Also used in casting spells. Remember Cynthia’s words? ‘An impish presence bent on malevolence’.” Tretheway shook his head. “Now I believe her. And W didn’t expect company. This had been planned for the thirteenth. Don’t forget the blackout was a surprise. No one would’ve noticed W’s fire if all the lights had been on.”
“And we scared W away,” Jake said.
“To fight another day.”
“Which would be Mary Dearlove,” Jake frowned.
“Don’t forget the rabbit.”
“That’s part of it?”
“Very much so.” Tretheway scrawled “Rabbit’s Foot, Feb. 13” on the manila pad. “W indoctrinated an assistant that night. A necessary helper. W needed an Ygor, a hunchback, a junior partner in sorcery. Preferably someone
fiercely loyal, physically strong who W could easily dominate mentally.”
“Luke?”
“Yes. W formed a bond with the impressionable Luke by having him take part in a midnight ritual. More incantations, I’m sure. And magic rabbit lore. There’s no need going into whether the rabbit was dead or alive when they cut off its leg.”
Jake winced.
“This incident is important because it led directly to the next one.”
“Now Mary Dearlove.”
Tretheway nodded.
“Was it murder then?”
“Yes.”
Tretheway wrote, “Mar. 13, Mary Dearlove” on the pad under “Rabbit’s Foot”. He connected the two with an arrow.
“Mary Dearlove somehow connected the rabbit episode to Luke and—although she didn’t know it at the time—W. Maybe she saw Luke with it. Maybe he bragged about it. Mary could be very charming when she was after a story.”
Jake nodded.
“A meeting was arranged. Time and place, of course, chosen by W. Midnight. Roof Garden.” Tretheway pointed the pencil at Jake. “You were there.”
“At exactly twelve o’clock.” Jake remembered the chimes.
“Not really,” Tretheway contradicted. “I checked with City Hall. The janitor. Janitors know everything. That day and night the big clock was five to seven minutes fast.”
Jake thought for a moment. “Which would give W and Luke time to get downstairs for the balloons.”
Tretheway nodded. “Remember Addie said no one we knew was missing at twelve?”
Murder on the Thirteenth Page 10
