Moberly poured his and added a little milk from the service. “I’m afraid that the cakes may not be the freshest. Mr. Jimmy has been with me, of course, on the Columbia, and has had to dip into our stores. I think you’ll find them favorable to the hash served in the mess tent.”
Durrant took a small round cake in his left hand and bit into it. Indeed, it was very good. He nodded appreciatively.
“You’re curious about Jimmy?”
Durrant sipped his tea and made eye contact with Moberly. “He’s Indian?”
“Tibetan.”
Durrant put the teacup down and regarded the man.
“I was in India for some time, Sergeant. This was more than thirty years ago now. I worked out of Calcutta on the rail lines running north towards Delhi and into the mountains. I left this employ after the rail reached Allahabad, and went north, with an interest in exploring the cultures and landscapes of the Himalaya. That is when I met Mr. Jimmy. He worked for me while I was employed by the High Commissioner in Rawlinpindi. We’ve been together now these twenty-five years . . .”
Moberly paused a moment. “They are little-known, Sergeant Wallace, the people of the Tibetan Plateau. They are among the last people on earth yet untouched by the clutches of progress. Mr. Jimmy is a Buddhist. They are a very peaceful people.”
“But surely there are more interesting mysteries afoot, sir,” Moberly added.
Durrant took a sip of his tea. It was simply the finest tea he had tasted since arriving in the west eleven years ago.
“First, Sergeant, I am anxious to learn something of the man himself. Tell me about yourself before we sink into the banalities of this prosaic crime.”
“There is very little to tell,” said Durrant, suddenly uncomfortable.
“I simply do not believe that.”
“You may have to.”
“No man would take an assignment at the end of steel in the deepest winter and arrive on one leg and with one hand and have only a mere lad in his employ, and a mute at that, and not have a story to tell.”
“There may be a story, but it’s not for the telling.”
Moberly laughed. It was not the bark that Durrant had grown accustomed to in Fort Calgary or here at the end of steel; it was a cultured laugh, one that came in consort with the subject, not at the expense of him. It put Durrant at ease and he forgot for a moment that he was the investigator.
“Come now, you won’t deny me the opportunity to hear of your travels across these great North West Territories, will you? I doubt very much that I shall have such an opportunity to hear first-hand of the March West and other adventures again.”
“What leads you to believe I was on the March West?”
“Were you not?”
“I was.”
“So tell me something of it.”
“It’s already been romanticized in the eastern press,” Durrant found himself saying. “The reality, however, is somewhat different. How quickly we like to forget.”
“I can only surmise,” laughed Moberly.
Durrant found himself enjoying the sound of the man’s voice. It was the first civilized tongue he’d heard in the year since leaving Regina, with the exception of his friend the doctor.
“Tell me, Sergeant, what made you join the force in the first place? You seem to me an educated man, one at least with a decent upbringing. Not a farm boy, for certain.”
Durrant looked down at the teacup in his hand. “No, not a farm boy. My father was a merchant; he owned an import and export company and a warehouse complex on the Quay in Toronto. He was born in that city when it was still York Town. I was destined to take over that business, it seemed. I studied the law and was preparing for the bar, in fact. My father had raised me for that; I learned to read and write and do mathematics and to think: he sent me to school for several years at Upper Canada College and also the University of Toronto.”
Moberly watched him. “A prestigious school, for certain, Upper Canada. The royal family has a stake there.”
Durrant just nodded, his face suddenly pale. His left hand clutched the teacup tightly.
“But something happened,” Moberly said after a moment’s silence.
“I signed on with French in 1874 is what happened. I decided the city wasn’t for me. It was many years ago now. A decade has passed,” Durrant said, seeming to grasp the passage of those years for the first time.
“The secrets men keep,” said Moberly his eye dark and piercing. Then he straightened and said, “So tell me, do you have a suspect for the murder of Mr. Penner?”
Durrant remained lost a moment, his own eyes not seeing the confines of the room around him but instead searching the far reaches of his memory for something now long gone—the motivation for the sudden about-face in his life. Then he said, “I have a number of suspects,” without much conviction.
“Ah, indeed you must. Do each of these men have a motive, a means, and an opportunity?” Moberly inquired, leaning forward in his chair.
Durrant stiffened. He considered both the question and the man seated eagerly before him.
“Sergeant, I do hope my prying isn’t considered inappropriate. You see, in addition to my time spent in Her Majesty’s service overseas, I have spent a fair amount of time in the service of Her Majesty Queen Victoria on the home front. I am, after all, Moberly, and as such have a long history in the service of the Royals. Some of that time, Sergeant, has brought me in close contact with New Scotland Yard. You may have heard of them?”
“Yes, in fact, several of our Mounted Police have spent time there.”
“Not yourself, sir?”
“I’m afraid not. My posts have lacked such sophistication. I’ve been more aligned with the Cypress Hills than Cypress Way, London.”
“Touché! Well, nevertheless, I will admit a fascination with the investigative procedure that New Scotland Yard and the Metropolitan Police Force have been, I dare say, pioneering.”
Durrant became aware of the precarious position he found himself in. As of yet, the North West Mounted Police’s role was to bring law and order to the Dominion Territories. They did not employ a dedicated squad of investigators as the police force in Toronto and Montreal did. The Mounties’ role was to make peace and enforce treaties with the Indians and to disrupt the illegal trade in whiskey and rum. While they had a strong presence in places like Fort Calgary and Winnipeg, as yet the limit of their investigative process was to unhand an assailant from his smoking gun at the scene of a crime. In short, thought Durrant, he was in uncharted ground here at the end of steel, in more ways than one.
“Let me clear up a few matters, first, if you don’t mind, Mr. Moberly.”
“Of course, Sergeant.”
“How long have you been away from Holt City?”
“It’s been three weeks and a day that Mr. Jimmy and I, along with my survey team, have been down in the Columbia,” he answered matter-of-factly.
“And there are those who would testify to that?”
“Yes, including our Mr. Wilcox.”
“Very good. Now, about Mr. Penner. Did you know him?”
“I’d say better than most.”
“When did you meet the man?”
“I arrived at The Summit on December 1 of last fall. I was asked by Mr. Van Horne to assist in the proving of the survey down through the Kicking Horse Canyon, where it meets with the Columbia; it’s to be one of the most ambitious sections of the rail, you see, and very treacherous. Mr. Charles Aeneas Shaw, a proud Scot like you, Mr. Wallace, completed the trial line down this section in the summer. The lads back in Montreal sent him on a wild goose chase up to the Howse Pass in the fall. They were still hoping to find a line where the grade was more reasonable, and the cost per foot of steel wasn’t so steep. The Howse provided them with an option, but the distance was much too far, and believe it or not, there is more snow in that country to the north than there is here on the Kicking Horse! The decision was made to stick with Roger’s original ro
ute, as improved by Shaw. My work has been to complete the location survey for the sections that Shaw didn’t finish before being sent north.
“As Mr. Penner was the foreman for the contract handling all the explosives work both on the Big Hill and in the Lower Canyon, he and I made a trip all the way down the Kicking Horse shortly after work ended here on December 8. We spent two weeks together assessing the munitions requirements of various grades and routes. I found him to be a very knowledgeable professional, as well as a decent fellow and an affable travelling companion.”
“That’s saying a lot, I would imagine. What struck you about the man?”
Moberly took his teacup in his hands, and Durrant noticed for the first time that the man was missing the small finger on his left hand. Moberly sipped his tea thoughtfully and finally said, “His honesty.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mr. Penner was as honest as the day was long. He was loyal to his employer, but never once did he suggest a course of action where the intent was to enrich his own self or those whose charge he carried. For example, there are many places on the Big Hill, and down through the lower Canyon, that even small changes to the survey of the line would mean hundreds or thousands of extra cubic yards of material being blasted and removed from the grade. The contractors get paid by the yard and by the type of material they are removing. Deek Penner would never entertain that as a consideration for a change in the location survey. If it meant compromising the safety for the men who would be doing the blasting, or an increase in the cost to the public purse, he would hear nothing of it.”
“It was suggested?”
“Of course, but not by me; I have no need for such considerations. Sergeant Wallace, I have made a small fortune in my life, and my family is of considerable means. We’ve worked for kings and queens for many hundreds of years. I have no need for further material wealth, but there are those here that do. This railway will bleed your young Dominion dry, and there are a great many that will not rest until they have swindled the Canadian Pacific of its remittance.”
“Did Mr. Penner have enemies?”
“I should say a few.”
“Like who?”
“Anybody who might have fallen into the class of swindler, I would say.”
“And that’s a fair number of men, you believe.”
“Who do you suspect, Sergeant?”
Durrant regarded the man. Durrant guessed him to be at least fifty, maybe fifty-five, but he appeared younger than himself.
“Sergeant,” Moberly said as Durrant studied him. “You’re wondering if you can trust me.”
“I’m wondering if you are a suspect.”
“I had no opportunity, as the Yard would put it. I was two hundred miles away. Nor did I have a motive. Deek and I have never quarrelled, except maybe to insist that the other have the last biscuit some cold morning down on the Columbia.”
“You have means.”
“Ah . . . yes, the knob-kerrie. Mr. Wilcox mentioned that Mr. Penner had his skull caved in with some form of bludgeon.”
“The top of his skull, yes, but also his face.
“And you’ve not recovered the murder weapon?”
“We did, in fact.”
Now it was Moberly’s turn to look up in surprise. “Really?”
“Yes.” Durrant quickly retold the tale.
Moberly studied him. “So you needn’t examine it for evidence?” Moberly said, nodding toward the knob-kerrie. Durrant looked at the mace-like club on the man’s wall. Moberly stood and took the shield from its nail and then removed the knob-kerrie. He handed it to Durrant, who remained sitting while he looked it over. “It has been used to kill men, Sergeant. Many, I would guess. Some of them my countrymen, I dare say, but it wasn’t used to kill Mr. Penner, and certainly not by me.”
“Your cabin is locked while you are away?”
“The finest Yale lock.”
“And there was no sign of entry?”
“None whatsoever.”
Durrant looked over the club, purely out of curiosity. He handed the weapon back to Moberly, who replaced it on the wall, followed by the shield.
“I’d say right now that Frank Dodds is my number one suspect,” Durrant said when Moberly had sat back down.
The Englishman poured them both more tea. “Mr. Dodds is a crude and boorish man.”
“I believe that he and Deek may have quarrelled over a game of cards the night that Mr. Penner was killed.”
“I told Deek on several occasions that his weakness for cards would be his undoing,” said Moberly, shaking his head.
“Well, it may have been his weakness for justice and honour that led to his untimely end,” said Durrant. “I haven’t any proof yet, but I believe that Deek Penner was onto Dodds’ moonshine operation. I believe that he was going to fink on the man, and that Dodds may have killed him to keep him quiet.”
Moberly was silent a moment while he contemplated this. He sipped his tea. “He had a clear motive, then,” he finally said. “I have heard that Dodds was making moonshine and would be selling it to every bloody hand who stepped off a train from Fort Calgary come the start of work. He stood to profit a great deal from this.”
“He also had the means,” said Durrant. “He could have used the star drill to bash in Mr. Penner’s skull. They are easy enough to come across. From what I understand from my inquiries, Penner left the card game after a row with Dodds. Stories vary, but I think that Dodds could have taken leave of his own cabin when the game wrapped up and sought out Penner to kill him.”
“So why wasn’t Penner found dead in his cabin? As I understand it, he was killed along the Bow River.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know why Mr. Penner was out where he was, when he was, or how Dodds might have come across him where he was found by Mr. Christianson.”
“John found the body?” asked Moberly.
“He did.”
“That’s interesting.”
“How so?”
“Well, what was John doing out so late?”
“He was at the card game too.”
“If the game broke up earlier, what cause would John to have to be on that track?”
“He claims he was delivering a wire to Deek himself.”
“Did he produce this wire?”
“Not yet. I’ve asked him for it,” said Durrant, feeling embarrassed that he hadn’t followed up on this loose end. It also reminded him of the coded correspondence from the mysterious Kauffman. He decided that he would need to gauge Moberly more before he revealed all his evidence. Durrant started, “You think John . . . ?”
“I can’t see John Christianson committing such a crime. I don’t believe the man has the stomach for it; such a mousey little fellow. The fact that he found the body is interesting,” said Moberly.
“And what about Dodds as a murderer?”
“That I can see. You have others, through, don’t you?”
Durrant nodded. “The Mahoney brothers for the same reason as Dodds. Grant McPherson as he has now taken over Deek’s position as foreman.”
“I expect that there is much more to these explosive contracts than what we can see on the surface of things. There is a great deal at stake, in terms of money, and in terms of men’s lives. Remember what I said, Sergeant, Deek Penner was a moral man, and a fine leader of men. He would not have condoned a course of action that would have put his men’s lives in greater danger than was necessary from the nature of their already hazardous work.”
“You think that Deek might have been mixed up in the explosives contracts?”
“Or that he knew of some nefarious undertaking that might cause alarm.”
The two men were silent for a moment. Moberly sat forward, “What of physical evidence?”
“I was just considering that myself,” said Durrant.
“I don’t suppose the star drill had a name etched upon it?” Durrant shook his head. “I thought not . . .” said Moberly.
> “What I do have,” said Durrant, “is blood.”
“Do tell!”
“Saul Armatage and I . . .”
“Ah yes, the good doctor; he’s performed a post mortem, no doubt.”
“Of sorts.”
“I imagine more could be done if we were at Fort Calgary or Regina,” said Moberly.
“Yes, but we do know that whoever killed Mr. Penner was likely covered with his blood. It would have been very difficult to commit such a crime without getting at least a little of the man’s blood on you.”
“Unless you wore something over your clothing and then disposed of it . . .”
Durrant looked up. He hadn’t considered that possibility. He said so. “Like what?” he wondered aloud.
Moberly thought a moment, “Well, some sort of tarpaulin would be best, but that would be impractical.”
“The next best thing,” mused Durrant, “would be a cape. Like what us Red Coat’s wear over our coats, even a greatcoat itself that could be burnt afterwards.”
“Yes, that would do it.”
“My lad Charlie found a buckle burned in a trash barrel, but nothing more,” Durrant said, feeling suddenly impatient. He reached for his crutch.
“You aim to take your leave, Sergeant?”
“You’ve been a generous host,” said Durrant. “The tea and cakes were very nice and the conversation useful.”
“We’ve not discussed the spy as yet,” said Moberly. “Hep Wilcox went out of his way just this morning to tell me of it. He suspects someone on Deek Penner’s crew is spying for the Grand Trunk and aims to disrupt the spring work to cause delays and add costs to our undertaking. I certainly think there is a spy, just as the CPR has agents inside the Grand Trunk. This is the eighties, sir. We are in the age of information. My only question is the zeal with which Mr. Wilcox presents the intelligence, and why if he’s so convinced of the wicked intent of this spy, he hasn’t rousted him yet. It can’t be that difficult.”
“I was curious about that myself.”
“I would let that curiosity carry the day, Sergeant.”
Durrant pushed himself to standing. He pulled his coat closed and readied himself for the outside world. “I have one last question, if you don’t mind, Mr. Moberly. It’s of personal nature.”
The End of the Line Page 18
