by David Hood
They walked together, away from the death notice and the undertaker clock into the confluence of small town life. Baxter was more accustomed to city life. All small towns were alike to him, a bit foreign. The sights and sounds of business seemed confined to a small centre square. Plate glass windows with prices and help wanted signs. No market stalls and screaming hawkers, only the tinkling of bells at the opening of shop doors, the popping of paper bags. The “Come again” of a sale made and the “Try so and so’s” of one lost. The lines of streets and houses ran off the centre square. They didn’t go far and they didn’t know any strangers. He could imagine the taste of factory smoke coming in from the edge of town along with the sound of a train whistle and the screech of brakes. He could not imagine the air here ever feeling close or stifling, or being without the scent of earth and manure that seemed to linger below every other smell. And he was equally sure that the number one sound, particularly at night, would be quiet.
Baxter was bigger than most men. He seemed small next to Carmine. As they walked along, every now and then they had to step aside to let someone pass. “I haven’t got a lot of time, so I’ll be direct.”
They were at a corner, not far from Carmine’s house. He turned left and Baxter followed. “You want to know why I pretended to be my brother in that telegram.”
“What was your brother up to?”
An elderly man stepped off his yard onto the sidewalk. Carmine and Baxter stopped and gave him a wide path between them. Carmine said hello. The old man tipped his hat. Carmine watched him for a moment then turned to Baxter and said in a voice low but warning, “My brother was a good man.” Then he continued walking, a step faster than before.
As Baxter caught up, he said, “I know he was, I didn’t mean…Still, there was something going on.”
They turned right. Carmine cleared his throat and it seemed to take the steel out of his voice. He explained that a few weeks ago the school principal had asked if Victor might speak to some senior students about city government, public administration, that sort of thing. “He knew of Victor through me and before that our father.” Carmine took Baxter through his letter to Victor, and his brother’s agreement to pay a visit. When he had arrived two weeks later, Victor had seemed troubled. Then after the school visit he was all smiles. When he left the next morning his usual energy was back. He had walked off to the train station like someone finally rid of a bad tooth.
“So what picked him up?”
A wagon was coming toward them at a slow clop, the horse paying more attention than the driver. Carmine forced a smile and waved. “I have no idea.”
Out of reflex or perhaps to look less conspicuous for Carmine’s sake, Baxter joined in the wave. “Victor said nothing?”
Carmine dropped his hand and went on with his story. “Victor came down that morning. He spoke to the students. Afterward he sat with the headmaster for a while. We had dinner together in the evening. We talked about family mostly. So far as being at the school, all he said was that it had gone very well.”
They were coming onto the grounds. The school stood at the end of a wide driveway, three storeys of stone blocks with four large columns out front. Under different circumstances, Baxter would have taken greater notice of its architecture. Instead he found himself watching the shine fade off his shoes. Halfway to the school, with the dust heavy enough to begin compressing itself into a skin, Baxter asked, “What day was Victor here?”
“Wednesday last.”
“All right, Victor leaves. Then what happens?”
Carmine took his time. He led to the left, away from the front entrance, then came to a stop on a walkway that carried on around the side of the building. The two men stood facing each other, a couple of paces between them. Carmine continued, “Two days later I get a strange telegram. Victor says if anyone happens to be looking for him this weekend, I should cover for him. He would explain later.”
“Do you think he was afraid, was he hiding from someone?”
Carmine paused for a moment, then shrugged. “You mean violence…No, I think it was Catherine he was worried about.”
Baxter picked up a small stick from the grass at the edge of the walkway. He tried to bang some of the dust off his shoes. Then he put it to better use digging at a spot high up between his shoulder blades. The itch relieved, he returned to his train of thought. “So Victor tells Catherine he’s coming here, and tells you to cover for him. Has anyone looked for him?”
“Just you.”
“And you don’t know where he really went on Friday, or what he was doing?”
“He just asked me to cover for him.”
Baxter played with the stick for a few moments, going over things in his head. While Carmine appeared to watch a group of students in cadet uniforms practising their drill, Baxter was sure Carmine had no idea the students were there. He looked completely lost. Baxter thought about asking if there was a wife or grown children, someone Carmine could lean on. He guessed if there was Carmine would not have come to work. More questions would just be cruel, not that he could think of any that would help either of them. The best Baxter could do for Carmine now was to leave him be. Maybe he could get something from the headmaster. He was just about to ask Carmine where to find him when Carmine said, “The headmaster’s name is Wigan. Through the front, and to the right…My office is this way.” He pointed. “I suppose I’ll see you again at the service.” He didn’t wait for an answer, or offer his hand in departure. He just walked off, slow and a bit unsteady as if he had Victor’s body over one shoulder, refusing to leave his brother on the field of battle. Baxter tossed the stick back in the grass and headed for the front doors.
The secretary was used to dealing with contrite students and sycophantic parents. The sight of a large policeman, who didn’t seem interested in whether or not headmaster Wigan was busy, took her by surprise. She may have peed herself just a little. She showed Baxter through. He introduced himself. “Good morning, Headmaster Wigan, I’m Chief Inspector Baxter of the Halifax police. Could we have a word?” The secretary let out a small sigh of relief when the headmaster dismissed her with a nod.
Baxter stepped into the office and closed the door. The room was sparsely furnished, everything neat and straight as a pointer. A large desk sat dead centre of the room, clean except for a few papers, which the headmaster now pushed aside as he stood and extended his hand. He had gone grey except for his moustache, which was still dark and full. His voice was strong and clear, perfect for quieting a rowdy hallway or ripples of chatter across a school assembly. “Good morning, Chief Inspector, how can I help you?” When he explained that Carmine had just lost his brother to violence, the headmaster took it harder than Baxter had expected. He seemed genuinely sorry.
“I was very impressed by Victor. I can’t imagine why someone should want to kill him.” The headmaster stepped away as he spoke, moving to the window at the back of the room. He followed the flight of a small bird as it flew fast and low over a sports field at the end of the school grounds.
“I understand you spoke with him the day he was here.” Baxter removed his peaked cap and tucked it under his arm.
Wigan continued to watch the field as he spoke, as if he were waiting for the bird to make another pass. “Yes, I met him when he arrived, introduced him to the students. Later he stopped by here.”
So far the trip had not turned up anything important, and he had another train ride to face. Still, Baxter listened closely, a little over-anxious, sifting the headmaster’s story, hoping for a useful fact or better still a lead. Wigan went on in random detail. At one point he said something about photos in a hallway. Baxter was struggling to imagine some possible relevance. No, he was not aware that Maynard Sinclair Wallace had attended King’s Collegiate, though it was no great surprise. The school was known for bringing up the rich. Baxter was surprised that this fact should be of interest to Victor
Mosher. Victor had done well. He had not done so well Baxter could imagine him being more interested in inheritance than hard work.
Seeming to give up on the bird’s return, the headmaster turned slowly away from the window and came back to his desk. He looked at his chair and seemed to decide against it. He remained standing, very still, hands behind his back. “Yes, he was extremely interested. And as I said to Mr. Mosher, we are still very proud.” Now leaning forward slightly on his toes, he added, “We know the meaning of honour here at King’s.” Suddenly the headmaster looked and sounded like a freshman making a pledge.
Baxter’s eyes narrowed as he tried to make sense of what he had just heard, and the headmaster’s sudden need to justify himself. Finally he gave up. “I’m sorry, Headmaster Wigan, I don’t follow.”
Wigan glanced at the door, as if someone might be eavesdropping, making ready to break in and attack him before he could divulge what he knew. “Frank McNeally.” Now the headmaster looked like a boy caught uttering a profanity in church. At first the name didn’t register, it had been nearly three years. Baxter repeated it out loud, joining in the blasphemy that would see both men burst into flames as God unleashed his fury. And then there was a burning, a rekindling of anger and frustration, of justice denied. Of a case he had closed yet never solved. Baxter said the name once more.
“Yes, Frank McNeally. Surely you remember. That business with the bank in Maine, terrible mess. We were so relieved the papers never mentioned the school.” Wigan had regained himself. He came round to the side of his desk, directly in front of Baxter.
Now the chief inspector remembered McNeally, all too clearly. He struggled to push his feelings aside, stay in the present. “McNeally was a student here?” he managed to ask.
“Yes, same class as Mr. Wallace. They were quite close. I was a teacher then, just my second year. We were shocked. Frank McNeally was a fine student and he seemed to have grown up to be a perfect gentleman.”
“You saw him recently?”
“Yes, well, not recently, but not long before the trouble started. He came alone. Apologized for being unannounced, said he just couldn’t resist. We walked the campus, reminisced. He talked about living in Maine, being in banking, all smooth and smiles…the cheek.” Wigan looked down and shook his head as he slid his hands into his pants pockets.
“He came from Maine…Was there a class reunion?” Baxter was now marching back and forth in front of the desk, his hat still tucked under one arm, his hands clasped in front.
“No, no, he came up from Halifax. Said he was there on business. He didn’t say directly, he did give the impression it was to do with Mr. Wallace.”
“What did he say?”
“I can’t remember exactly, something about it being pleasant doing business with friends.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“No, he was here less than half an hour. Said his goodbyes and dashed off.”
Baxter had come back to his spot in front of Wigan. “And back then, Mr. Wigan, you didn’t think this was something you should pass on to the police in Halifax?” He had not meant to raise his eyebrows or let the sound of so much disbelief creep into his voice.
Wigan stood his ground. “This is not the city, Mr. Baxter. By the time we saw the Halifax papers the matter had been put to rest. The fact that McNeally was once a student here, or visited years later, has no bearing on what he did and more importantly, it has no bearing on the school.”
Baxter took a breath to check himself, then said, “Headmaster Wigan, if you really believed that, you wouldn’t have kept quiet or been so pleased that the newspaper stories of Frank McNeally the bank robber never mentioned he was a student here.” There was the tinniest twitch of the headmaster’s left eye, but otherwise he remained stone-faced. Baxter wondered if he was recalling Shakespeare and the dangers of promising too much. Better not to ask, to reveal that all he knew of Shakespeare ended after a few lines from Hamlet. Instead he offered Wigan a rough apology for questioning his actions and the school’s good name. “So why let the cat out of the bag with Mr. Mosher?”
The headmaster took a breath and gave a slight shrug of his shoulders. “I don’t know really. Victor was so interested. We spoke in confidence. Now you tell me a few days later he’s been murdered. I…”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself. We are still a long way from knowing what happened, or whether the murder of Victor Mosher had anything to do with your conversation.” Baxter said it, and he wanted the headmaster to believe it, although he didn’t believe it himself. In the end, of course, it didn’t matter what either of them believed. All that mattered was what he could prove as a policeman.
“Is there anything else you can tell me, Mr. Wigan?” Baxter asked, eyeing up Wigan as he straightened his hat. The man’s thoughts were all over his face. Had he spoken up back then or kept his mouth shut a week ago, somehow Victor Mosher would still be alive. Maybe he would speak to Carmine through his secretary, at least until he could rationalize away the worst of his feelings. He tried to say the word no. He could only manage to shake his head as he once again extended his hand. Baxter took it and held it long enough for Wigan to find the strength to look him in the eye. “Victor got himself tangled up in something. He’s not dead because of anything you did or didn’t do. You have been a big help here today. I’ll find out who did this.” Baxter left the headmaster with his thoughts. The door latch clicked softly beneath the sound of his stacked leather heels moving away at a quick march across the hardwood floor. The secretary kept her knees together and her eyes glued to her desk as Baxter blew past.
Just outside the reception area he held up. Was it possible that two men with the same name were mixed up in this? He had to see the class picture. A line of large frames began running a divide between floor and ceiling just down the hall. He followed the trail around the corner moving back in time, 1885, 1884…He passed doors on the opposite side of the hall. He could hear bits of questions and answers and the scratch of chalk on boards. No one joined him in the hall. How old was Wallace, late thirties, early forties maybe? 1880, 1879…1870. He stopped in front of a photo labelled “Senior Class – 76.” He recognized the entrance and front steps of the school. The faces were thin and clean and looking straight at the camera, into a future that family money had secured. Wallace was standing on one end of the back row. His left hand was inside his coat, as if the camera had caught him going for his watch or playing at an imitation of Napoleon. His right hand was on the shoulder of the classmate seated in front of him.
Baxter leaned in for a closer look at the young man Wallace was holding on to. The face he remembered was heavier and harder, though every bit as smug. There was only one Frank McNeally.
McNeally had stolen $300,000 from the Saco and Biddleford Savings Bank in Maine. He was believed to have taken a train to Halifax. The wanted poster hung in the station for weeks. Then one day Patrick Berrigan had asked to see Baxter. Patrick had been a bit of a drinker in his younger days. He had grown out of it. He was a decent sort. “How can I help you, Patrick?”
Baxter had had to wait for Patrick to finish wringing the life out of his cloth cap. Finally he was able to clear his throat and say, “It’s about my brother.” Thomas tried. He remained a hopeless drunk. Patrick had found his brother in an alley the night before.
“So in his stupor he told you he and Ellen Reardon are planning to rob some guest at the Aberdeen Hotel?” Baxter wasn’t trying to rush Patrick, only help him along. He told Patrick he would look into it and meanwhile not to worry. Even if there was any money, Thomas and Ellen were hopeless as thieves. Baxter had gone back to his desk. It was more than an hour later that he decided he had better do as he had promised.
No sooner did he get up the steps from the Grand Parade onto Argyle Street than the sky had opened up. It was February and the cold rain had stung his face. His eyes were down, watching for pudd
les and patches of ice.
It was the case that got his attention, black, round at the top, like a doctor’s bag. Baxter looked up. The man made a point of looking Baxter in the face as he passed, touching his free hand to the rim of his bowler. It was the smugness that had given him away, the wanted poster had had the same expression.
McNeally was just back from travelling Europe in style on the bank’s money. In the days to come readers of the local papers were surprised to learn McNeally was not off to jail. He had sailed back to Europe, escorted by a banker and two men who looked like they were hoping for an escape attempt.
Chief of Police Tolliver agreed Baxter deserved the reward. Sadly he could not force the bank to honour its word. Baxter seethed then, and he was seething now. McNeally had been caught red-handed. He should have been held and turned over to the authorities in Maine. He should still be in jail. Tolliver could have made that happen.
Baxter’s eyes moved away from the face of the young Frank McNeally. He focused now on the hand resting on McNeally’s shoulder. His gaze followed up the arm to the face of Maynard Sinclair Wallace. Before his thoughts could take him any further, the doors on the other side of the hallway began opening up one after the other as students poured into the hallway. Some of them gave him a brief once-over. Most just ignored him as they passed, chatting, glad for a few moments of freedom. Baxter checked his watch. Eleven fifteen. He started back toward the front door, moving slowly through the run of spawning salmon and the mystery of the present now thickened by the mystery of the recent past.
He was almost to the end of the grounds when he heard his name called. Baxter turned. Carmine was at the side of the building, waving. Baxter checked his watch again. He still had time to say goodbye to Carmine, do a better job of offering his sympathies. Baxter turned and watched Carmine come up the main drive. He seemed much steadier on his feet.
Squire had slept later than he wanted to. It was nearly eight when he opened his eyes. Somehow he had slept through the town clock and the morning factory whistles. Nobody in the house had bothered to get him up, they must have assumed he had the day off or were still in bed themselves. He picked up the pitcher on the small dresser in his room and went to the WC at the end of the hall. He came back with an empty bladder and the pitcher filled with water which he poured into a basin. He bathed and dressed and made his way down to the kitchen.
