What Kills Good Men

by David Hood

  The kettle spit droplets of boiling water onto the stovetop. They hissed and popped like tiny fireworks. He filled a teapot on the table and put the kettle on the back of the stove. He turned the water in the saucepan with a fork. He tapped an egg and with a surgeon’s touch eased its contents into the boiling whirlpool. The albumen gathered round the yolk and formed a perfect little island. Seabrook created a second island then reached into the pocket of his dressing gown for his watch. 7:18. He liked a three-minute egg. He set out a plate, some bread and orange marmalade, and ate in silence, alone in the small kitchen looking out the window at the young maple in his backyard, the last of its red-orange leaves baking in the morning sunshine. It looked as though the city was in for another day of Indian summer.

  Good weather or bad, the story would eventually come out, some version of it anyway. There would be scandal and outrage and for a few weeks the city would be shrill with talk of what the world was coming to, all the worse if this fracas with the Boers turned out messy. There would be a rash of new bylaws and cries for more policing to keep everyone safe from the dangerous classes, and themselves. Seabrook chewed slowly through a mouthful of egg. If he was caught up in the mess at least Millie would be spared. He’d hired a woman to come in twice a week, not for himself. He did it out of respect for her. Millicent Seabrook had always prided herself on the state of their home: silverware spotless, rugs beaten, and curtains evenly drawn. She might have lived longer if she had spent less time overseeing the work of her domestic help and rested more. Near the end her clothes hung off her like sails, no matter how much she took them in, which seemed to bother her more than the sickness itself. Still she went about the house inspecting table polish and floor wax. To read of his disgrace in the papers would likely have killed her even if she hadn’t been ill.

  He glanced at the paper once more, at the story on the upcoming anniversary. He had been a young man during that war. A good many like him had gone off to fight, just as they would soon go once again. That time they had not been called. They went anyway. Some went for adventure, some for the money. Seabrook remembered a conversation he had had with a fellow by the name of William Archibald from the Musquodoboit area, a series of communities thirty miles east of the city. William said his father had died in 1860, left him the family farm. Somehow it wasn’t enough and William found himself in America fighting on the side of the Union come 1863. Seabrook had met him on his way home two years later. William didn’t say so, he just looked as if he had seen horrible things. His only injury had been an accident. He caught his rifle in a tree branch. The shot grazed his scalp. As for enemy fire, William said God was watching over him. The Union was right. Secession was wrong. No more to it than that. William had no opinion on slavery. He finished his tea and left. Seabrook never saw him again.

  Back then, Archibald was the exception, not the rule. Halifax was not in the war, only close to it. Close enough to gather up a collection of blockade runners, pirates, ex-soldiers, deserters, diplomats, spies, and provocateurs. They schemed and profited, told stories and lies, and traded in rumours. For a time, as Seabrook remembered it, the seamier sides of life were irreproachable if not respected. In that Halifax, no one noticed a few gentlemen in a brothel. Those days were gone, and this little war would not bring them back. The reformers would see to that. One had to appear proper. It was expected now. Of course, food on the table remained the more important consideration. Seabrook rinsed his dishes and set them neatly by the sink as years of marriage had trained him to do, then went off to dress for work.

  As James Seabrook was digesting the morning paper along with his eggs and tea, Culligan Baxter was moving quietly around his own kitchen. He had not slept enough. Still his energy was high, for now at least, and he felt a great anticipation for the coming meeting with Wallace. He had no personal dislike for the man. He had seen him from across a room or two, noticed his carriage in the streets now and then. Nothing more, they had never met or spoken. Even if they had, it wouldn’t matter. Wallace was mixed up in a murder and regardless of who he was he needed to explain himself. If charges were warranted, so be it. Then there was the moral aspect. So far as Baxter was concerned, Wallace was wrong the moment he set foot in Clarke’s Place. Maybe his associations with McNeally made him wrong before that. Social improvement was dependent upon example, respectable example. As much as Baxter wanted the facts, he wanted Wallace to know how disappointed he was. Maynard Sinclair Wallace had failed his responsibility.

  Baxter was too wound up for a leisurely breakfast over the morning paper. He found some soda biscuits. He washed them down with jam and tea as he stood by the kitchen window shifting his weight back and forth, one foot to the other. The sun was still low in the sky, coming in from the front of the house. It had set fire to the top branches of the backyard trees, their bare branches like bright flaming clumps of tumbleweed set to roll off across the sky. In the gloom below the slanting light the gazebo floated in its tiny sea of brown grass, dozing like a child trying not to get up for school. Baxter sipped his tea. The sticks in the yard needed to be gathered up and burned. The gazebo furniture needed to be put away. And it would be best to run a stone across the scythe before it was hung up for the season. Maybe he could get to some of it this evening. He finished his tea and set his cup by the sink. He moved quietly to the front of the house. He listened at the bottom of the stairs. Only the clock in the hall broke the silence. He eased the door closed behind him. A full breath of morning air came in cool, but with a promise of getting warmer. As he stretched his arms out wide to take in more air, he felt the papers tucked into his coat. Baxter headed toward the station. He’d speak to Meagher if he was in, then make his way to the office of Mr. James Seabrook.

  Seabrook’s secretary offered Baxter a seat in an anteroom outside the lawyer’s office. “Mr. Seabrook is on the telephone, I’m sure he won’t be too long. May I get you some tea?” Baxter looked at his watch. He wasn’t trying to reflect his impatience. He was considering interrupting Seabrook. Then again it was only eight thirty. Seabrook would dance with him only a little, not for long. Might as well enjoy the hospitality of the office before being waltzed out its front door.

  “Yes please, with just a little milk, no sugar.”

  By the time the secretary came back, Seabrook still had not appeared. The woman’s day dress was silk and too well cut. Still she looked like a hotel waitress pushing the mahogany tea cart with its spoked wheels. There was a full pot of steaming tea, with milk, sugar, and a small array of breakfast sweets. The china was more elegant than Baxter was used to. “I hope this is all to your liking, Chief Inspector. Please call me if there is anything else you need.” She made no offer to interrupt her boss. She placed the cart between Baxter and the office door. He took it as a warning. She made a final survey then turned neatly and went back to her desk on short quick strides, arms in a tight little swing. Baxter watched her for a moment, admiring her efficiency and concern for protocol, and to make sure she was affording him proper privacy. He fixed himself a cup, then promptly sidestepped the cart and slipped into Seabrook’s office.

  He was mindful of his tea. The rug looked expensive. Seabrook was by the window watching something or maybe nothing at all, Baxter couldn’t tell. Baxter glanced at the desk. The telephone was set well back. It looked cold, not as if it had been just hung up.

  “Good morning, Chief Inspector, sorry for the delay. Did Helen take it upon herself to show you through?” He knew full well she wouldn’t and didn’t. He watched Baxter sip his tea from the middle of the rug twenty-five feet away.

  Baxter ignored Seabrook’s effort to scold him. He looked around a little more. A large portrait faced the desk from the opposite side wall, likely Seabrook senior, same hawk nose and cleft chin. Floor to ceiling bookcases either side of the portrait, tools of the trade. A pair of large tufted leather chairs faced each other from either end of the window. Two more in front of the desk. A small com
pany of ornate stands with crystal ashtrays stood as sentries at their posts around the room. They were sparkling clean. Nevertheless, the wood and leather of the room gave off the smell of good cigars and pipe tobacco. Despite its elegance, it was a back room, nothing more. Baxter’s work sometimes took him to these places. He was never invited. “This is a very nice office you have here, mind if I sit?” Baxter didn’t wait for permission; he took a seat in front of the desk. He placed his hat on the floor beside him and nursed his tea. He could feel Seabrook’s eyes upon him but couldn’t tell if they were more wary or affronted.

  “How can I help you, Mr. Baxter?” Seabrook turned his attention back to the window, hands behind his back now. The sound of hammers and labourers’ voices came in faintly through the glass. Maybe they were within view.

  “Tell me, Mr. Seabrook, did you help mop up the pool of blood by the back stairs? Maybe you helped get Victor’s body down to the water? Or did you just get your coat and hat and leave the dirty work to others?” Baxter’s voice was calm and sure, no malice or accusation, just simple questions waiting on simple answers. The tea was very good. He must remember to ask the secretary what brand it was.

  Seabrook cleared his throat, though he didn’t seem uneasy. “I gather the investigation has completely stalled. You’re now at the point of making random allegations, hoping someone will confess. People are right to criticize the force.”

  “I’m not here by chance, Mr. Seabrook. A witness puts you at the scene.” Baxter finished his tea and set the cup and saucer in the ashtray by his chair. He took some papers from his coat.

  “If you had a witness that was any good you’d have brought company and skipped the small talk. I’d be under arrest.” Seabrook’s voice betrayed no fear. He took his time moving from the window and easing into the seat behind his desk. He leaned forward over folded hands and faced his accuser. He didn’t go so far as to smile, still his face was pleasant.

  Baxter looked closely at Seabrook’s hands. Then he held up the papers he had taken from his coat. “Let’s move away from the scene of the crime for a moment, shall we, and talk about the struggles Victor was having.” Baxter pulled himself closer to his side of the desk and with intentional slowness laid out the IOUs in a neat line, the bottom of each page toward Seabrook. “I’m sure you have your own copies, but we can use mine, well, Victor’s actually.” Seabrook watched in silence, calm as the morning sea. If anything, Seabrook seemed to be admiring the work behind the visit. Perhaps in future conversations he would challenge those who criticized the force.

  “And what are these exactly?” Seabrook asked the question, while sitting back in his chair. He brushed at some invisible lint on his trousers.

  “Let’s not waste too much time pretending, Mr. Seabrook. As you can see, your signature appears at the bottom of each note.” Baxter pointed. Seabrook’s eyes continued to study the fabric of his suit. “What I want to know is who the other signatures belong to.” Baxter stood up and placed his hands on the desk at either end of his evidence and leaned in to be sure not to miss Seabrook’s answer.

  “Now who’s pretending, Mr. Baxter?” Seabrook’s posture remained casual, as if he were in a lawn chair at a summer social. Baxter’s glowering frame seemed no more threatening than a sun umbrella. “Let us say for the sake of good humour that I did sign those papers, then I signed them for clients, clients whose identities as well as any work I may have done for them shall remain confidential.” Seabrook was as neat and thin as his conversation with pale grey eyes that came in from a distance, but not dispassion. He stood up slowly behind his desk and delicately tucked his hands into the slit pockets of his vest. “If it should come out that Victor’s death had some ignominy about it, well, that would be a shame. It’s true that ranting on about the indiscretions of a certain class of men would entertain the gossips. And it would benefit no one.”

  Baxter held his pose for a moment or two, then refolded his ammunition and tucked it away inside his uniform. He found his hat and put it back in place. Just before he got to the end of the rug he turned and spoke in a tone that let Seabrook know he had performed exactly as expected. “The only one who wants to talk can’t, he’s dead. The rest of you think you can stay quiet too, which is wrong. Eventually you’ll talk, then at least one of you is going to jail. All of you will be dragged through the mud and you know it will matter, Mr. Seabrook, it will matter a great deal.” Baxter saw himself out. He forgot to ask the secretary about the tea.

  Squire was slow to get up after a night of tossing and turning. He had been too hot, then too cold. He awoke in the centre of his small bed, wrapped around a ball of sheets and blankets. He stayed there for a while, staring at Betty’s note which he had tacked to the wall beside his bed. He would miss her around the house. He’d eaten the last of the pie. It would be slim pickings for breakfast this morning. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been to the shops. Josie wasn’t much of a domestic and William got fed at work.

  He found some dry bread and revived it with a bit of molasses. As he pulled the front door closed he noticed a room for rent sign in its window. “Enquire at shop, No. 47 Albemarle.” Betty’s room was bigger and brighter and only a dollar more a week. He couldn’t take it. It seemed sacrilegious in a way he couldn’t explain. He’d stay put and hope the person who took Betty’s room didn’t upset things.

  The walk to the Royal Hotel at 119 Argyle took fifteen minutes. He went round the back, found an open door in a fence. He looked in. A cart and a number of heaped-over trash barrels took up most of the small enclosure. As he closed the door behind him, a pair of well-fed rats came through a hole in the opposite side of the fence. They looked him off any confusion he might have had about who got first pickings. Then they showed him their long pink tails and fat rear ends as they waddled over to the buffet. Squire shuddered. He went the other way, through another small door, then a narrow passageway that led into a busy kitchen.

  As he came into the clatter of pots and china, he cut across the path of a young scullery maid. She was looking down, wiping her hands on her apron. When they nearly collided, she looked up with a flashing eye, set to give some clumsy cook a piece of her mind. Then she saw the cap badge and the uniform. “Oh…excuse me.” She looked down, smoothing her apron.

  “I’m sorry, miss, are you all right?” Squire held her shoulders for a second then quickly let go.

  “Yes, I’m fine.” She fumbled with a lock of hair that had fallen out of her mop hat.

  “How do I get upstairs?” Squire took a step back, and looked round the kitchen that had gone quiet from everyone not noticing the policeman.

  “Past the sinks, to the left, you’ll see the stairs.” She pointed, still trying to fix her hair with the other hand. “It was very nice to meet you.”

  Squire reached out again to touch her on the shoulder, then changed his mind and left behind an awkward wave. The door at the top of the stairs opened into the back of the restaurant. There were a couple of guests huddled over coffee waiting on food. Another young girl like the one who pointed him here was setting empty tables. She hopped about like a nervous bird.

  “Excuse me, can I…”

  The girl spoke without looking up from her arranging of forks and spoons. “Good morning. Please have a seat wherever you like. Can I get you something to drink?” She stepped to a sideboard and reached for a stack of menus. She held one out, finally looking to see who she was speaking to.

  “That’s ok, I won’t be eating.” Not that the dry bread and molasses had given him much of a start. The girl from the kitchen came through with plates of hot food. It smelled good and his stomach growled. “I’m Policeman Squire. Can I speak with you a moment?”

  “What about?” She backed away, shielding herself with the cardboard menu.

  “Were you working here at lunchtime on Friday?”

  A wave of relief eased the tension in her shoulde
rs. She let out the breath she’d been holding as she returned the menu to the sideboard. “I was off on Friday. You can ask Simon, he’s the head waiter. That’s him over by the bar. He was working on Friday.” The girl lit out for the kitchen before Squire could say thanks or think of anything else to ask.

  Simon Perry looked as if his morning had gotten far ahead and he was struggling to catch up. His upper lip was split and swollen. He moved behind the bar as Squire made his way over. He took away an empty glass and wiped the bar with a rag.

  “You here to pick up where your friend left off?” Perry winced. He patted the lip gently then checked the rag for blood. His eyes were hot. Squire stopped short a few feet from the bar.

  “My name is Squire, I’m with the police.” He wanted to bite his own lip for stating the obvious.

  Perry let out a mocking hiss. “I ain’t blind. Look, I didn’t want any trouble last night and don’t want any now.”

  Squire held up both hands palms out as if to show he was unarmed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “This isn’t about me getting into it with your partner?” Perry had taken a step back from the bar and folded his arms across his chest.

  “Who?” Squire shrugged, his palms now turning upward.

  “The other policeman, Mackay.” For the next five minutes Squire listened to Perry tell him how he had had a long day. All he wanted to do was have a few drinks and mind his own business. Squire heard about the fiddle players who came in, one tall, one short. Everybody thought they played pretty well, except this one guy. Perry said, “I just wanted him to shut up, I didn’t know he was a policeman.” Squire listened some more about the words back and forth and then the shoving. “Next thing I know he takes a swing and we’re rolling around on the floor.” Perry paused to touch his lip once more. Squire took the opportunity to change the subject.