A Journeyman to Grief (30 page)

He felt a timid touch on his arm.

“Are you all right, Mr. Murdoch?”

“Yes, yes, quite all right, thank you, Mrs. Stokely.”

“I just wondered. You seem cast down.”

He was saved from a reply by a newcomer entering the pew. Murdoch slid over to give the woman room, then realized with a jolt of surprise it was none other than Faith. She of the no surname.

He tipped his hat to her.

“Good morning, ma’am.”

She nodded a greeting and sat down.

“Are you here for the memorial to Thomas Talbert?” he asked.

Her eyes flickered at him. “Is there one? As you’ve been told already, we didn’t know the gentleman. I’m here because I never miss church meeting if I can help it, even when I’m in a strange city.”

“How is Mrs. Dittman?”

“Not too well this morning. She had a bad night.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

She turned and looked at him straight in the eyes. “’Twas your visit what contributed to her going down.”

Her anger was palpable, but before he could respond, a door at the back of the church opened and the pastor entered. He was tall and thin, younger than Murdoch had expected, dressed in a black suit but no vestments. The organist, who was tucked away out of sight to the side, hit some chords and right behind the pastor came a choir singing loudly and vigorously. Murdoch looked around quickly to see what the ritual was and stood up with the rest of the congregation while the singers filed into place on each side of the altar. All around him, people were clapping their hands in harmony with the hymn that was unfamiliar to him but so lively in tempo he almost started clapping too. After two or three verses, the hymn ended and everybody sat down. The pastor held up his hands. “Hallelujah. The Lord is our Saviour.”

“Amen, amen,” chorused various members of the congregation. Faith spoke particularly loudly.

“My dear friends in Christ,” said the pastor. “Welcome to you all. We have many prayers to request this morning. Mrs. Mabel Forester is not well, suffering bad in her legs and she asks for your prayers.”

“Praise the Lord, Jesus saves.”

“Our good friend Charles Compton is in sore need of employment and asks for your prayers that he might find work that will help him support his family in the knowledge and love of our Saviour Jesus Christ.”

“Amen, Lord.”

“But, particularly, this glorious morning, I must ask for your prayers for our dear brother, Thomas Talbert, who has been so cruelly snatched from the world.”

Somebody in the congregation sobbed.

Reverend Laing raised his voice. “The Lord shall smite down our enemies yea even as they hurt and revile us. We are in Jesus’ hands and he loves us, every child, every man, every woman, no matter how black with sins our souls have become, the blood of Jesus will wash us clean and on the Day of Judgment we will stand before him and if we have taken him into our hearts, our souls will be as clean as the driven snow.”

His speech was punctuated by startlingly loud, sporadic cries of “Amen,” “Yes, Lord,” and “That’s right!” from the congregation.

The pastor retired to a chair beside the pulpit and the organist began to play. One woman stood up in the midst of the choir and began to sing. This time it was a hymn Murdoch had heard before. Her voice was so beautiful, it made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.

Nearer my God to thee…

Tho’ like a wanderer,

The sun goes down,

Darkness be over me,

My rest a stone.

When she had finished, there was a moment of appreciative silence among the congregation, then the pastor launched into an impassioned prayer that went on for a long time and was often overwhelmed by exhortations from his flock.

Finally, he concluded and faced the congregation, stretching out his arms.

“Welcome, dear sisters and brethren in Jesus. I see that we have some visitors here today. Will you be so good as to stand, tell us your name and where you’re from.”

Almost as one, the congregation turned to look at Murdoch and Faith. She actually smiled and stood up.

“Thank you, pastor. I am Faith and I usually reside in New York City.”

There was a muttering of “Welcome, Sister Faith,” “Good news,” and she sat down again. Murdoch felt a gentle prod in his side from Mrs. Stokely and he had no choice but to stand.

“My name is William Murdoch and I live here in Toronto.”

As with Faith, there was a chorus of “welcomes” and he could see friendly smiles all around him. He spotted Elijah Green sitting in the front pew, his wife and children beside him. None of them was smiling.

The pastor spoke again. “Welcome to you both. Now brothers and sisters, let us show our visitors what sort of welcome our church puts out for any of those who come to our doors. Remember our Lord, who said, ‘I was a stranger and you took me in.’”

“That’s right! Amen. Yes, Lord.”

Murdoch sat back down, but all around him people were standing up and shaking hands with one another. On each side, his neighbours, including Mrs. Stokely, reached out their hands to him and Faith. In the melee, however, she avoided shaking hands with him. Finally, the hubbub subsided, although Murdoch would have sworn almost everybody in the congregation had come over and greeted him.

The pastor raised his arms again. “The deacons will come among you with plates. Do not hesitate to offer whatever you are able to. Remember the widow’s mite, which was acceptable to our Lord.”

Murdoch was glad he had a dollar left in his wallet and he placed it on the silver plate that was passed along the row. Faith put on a five-dollar bill. That done, the pastor stood again at the
podium. “Thanks to our brother, Councillor Hubbard, we have sufficient hymn books now to go around. Whether you can use them or not, let us raise up our voices and sing out joyfully, ‘What a Wonderful Saviour Is Jesus my Lord.’”

Mrs. Stokely leaned to Murdoch. “That’s hymn number fifty-three.”

The woman in front turned, holding out her hymnal. “Here, take mine.”

Murdoch accepted the offer. There was more prayer, more singing, another offering to which he could only contribute fifty cents, and it was time for the pastor to give his sermon. A rustling of taffeta skirts, little clearings of throat, and soft “Amen, Lords” as he went to the podium. The congregation settled in.

Pastor Laing’s message was simple: Turn the other cheek to those that hurt and abuse you. Murdoch had heard many a variation of this and had long ago dismissed it as an impossible text, noble in theory, but impossible in a real world permeated with injustice and violence. Nevertheless, as he sat in the midst of people whose lives he knew were not so long ago racked with terrible hurt and abuse, he was moved in a way he had not been in a long time. There seemed to be no rage or indignation in the pastor’s voice but no servility either. This was what the Lord Jesus taught, and he was going to live by it. Murdoch watched Elijah, head bent, apparently intent on what was being said.

The pastor concluded his sermon and Murdoch heard a particularly loud “Praise the Lord’s word” from Faith. Mrs. Stokely was quiet, and Murdoch wasn’t sure how much she was actually listening.

“Let us leave today by singing together a hymn that I know was a particular favourite of Thomas’s. His voice ringing out for the Lord is forever in my heart.”

“Amen. Amen. That’s right.”

The choir stood up and launched into a song that quickly had everybody on their feet, clapping and swaying together.

“Oh! Oh! Oh! What He’s done for me.”

This was repeated three times and followed by “I never shall forget what He’s done for me.”

In spite of an initial self-consciousness, Murdoch was soon moving to the rhythm with everybody else. Faith was singing and swaying enthusiastically beside him. She had a lovely, vibrant voice and he would have complimented her afterwards if he hadn’t thought she would spit in his face.

The song ended.

“Go in peace,” said the pastor, hands uplifted. Released, the congregation burst into chatter. Mrs. Stokely shook hands with the woman beside her, and the woman in the front pew who had lent her hymn book turned to Murdoch with her hand outstretched.

“The Lord bless you,” she said.

He wasn’t quite sure what the correct response was, but he mumbled, “And the Lord bless you too.”

Faith left immediately without acknowledging him or anyone else. Murdoch escorted Mrs. Stokely outside. The pastor was on the steps, greeting his congregation. When it came to Murdoch’s turn, he gave him a warm smile.

“Welcome in Jesus’ name, sir.”

“Thank you,” said Murdoch awkwardly. “I apologize for intruding on a place of worship, but I am actually a police officer. I am investigating the death of Thomas Talbert, and I wonder if I might have a word with you?”

The pastor showed no surprise and Murdoch suspected that the entire congregation knew from the moment he walked into the church who he was.

“Will you come back at a later time, Mr. Murdoch? I must finish my duties, but I will be happy to speak to you if it will in any way facilitate your inquiries. Thomas was a most valued member of our church.”

His words were cordial enough, but once again Murdoch could sense his wariness. He was getting accustomed to it. The police asking for a word about a murder case usually didn’t bode well for a coloured man, even a man of God.

CHAPTER
THIRTY-NINE

M
urdoch spent the rest of the afternoon alone. Charlie was on duty and Katie had taken the twins to the Toronto Islands for the day. Amy was visiting one of her students who was ill, she feared with the consumption. In the late afternoon, feeling restless, he decided to drop in at the station to see if any of the constables had come up with new information. Then, on impulse, he turned along Queen Street to St. Paul’s Church. He had been in another church this morning, an apostate one, and even though it was a visit conducted in the line of duty, as it were, he knew Father Fair would assign him a penance if he heard about it. Not that he was looking for absolution, but something drew him to St. Paul’s, some need he could hardly articulate.

As he was arriving, a flock of birds swooped around the bell tower, twittering frantically, and landed in the big maple tree that grew in the front yard. The din continued as Murdoch walked up the steps. The light was growing softer as the day began to wane and he was finding it hard to shake off his mood. He’d dealt with
other cases before that were soaked with tears, cases where people of blameless lives had been murdered, but this latest death had affected him. Talbert was an old man and had surely not deserved to be killed violently and certainly not to have his body treated with such indignity.

Murdoch pushed open the heavy oaken doors and entered into the vestibule where the smell of incense from morning mass hung in the air. A bank of votive candles flickered, and a woman was kneeling at the prayer rail. Whatever she was saying a novena for absorbed her completely, and she didn’t glance up when Murdoch took up a taper and lit a candle. He, too, dropped to his knees.
Dear Lord, I ask your prayers for the soul of Thomas Talbert. May he be with you in eternity. I ask this in Jesus Christ’s name. Amen.

There were so many candles burning they were giving off heat. He regarded them for a moment, each tiny flame representing a plea to Almighty God to intercede or perhaps to give thanks for a prayer heard. He crossed himself and got to his feet. The woman didn’t stir. Her rosary was threaded through her fingers and he could see her lips moving silently. Her face was careworn and her clothes shabby. There was something about her that reminded him of his mother, perhaps the desperation with which she told her beads. He’d seen his mother do that many a time, trying to find solace in her faith, and he remembered how intense his own feelings were, a mix of anger and helplessness. Anger at the source of her unhappiness, his father, and helplessness because he was too young to do anything about it. As he found himself doing so often, Murdoch wondered where Harry was.

He reached for a taper, dropped a nickel in the box, and lit another candle. He didn’t kneel this time but said quietly, “Help me to find forgiveness in my heart, Lord, for those I perceive as having wronged me and those I loved.”

The candle flame danced in its red dish, as if it were mocking him.

As soon as he walked into the station hall, Murdoch knew something had happened. Charlie Seymour and a young constable third class, the stenographer, Bobbie McCarthy, were the two officers on duty. Charlie greeted him. His face was alive with humour as if he’d just been exchanging a joke with McCarthy.

“You look like the cat that got the canary,” Murdoch said to him.

“I feel as if I ate a pigeon, not the canary,” Charlie replied. “You will too when you see who’s here.” He grinned. “Go down to your office. He’s waiting for you. Oh just a minute, there’s also a letter come for you. Don’t ask me who from because I don’t know, some urchin brought it in then took off like a rabbit seeing a fox. It must have been the sight of McCarthy here.”

The stenographer laughed, not minding the teasing that was often directed at him. He was a country boy, apple-cheeked, hardly a frightening figure even to the half-wild boys of the city poor, who were ever wary of the frogs.

“Who’s waiting for me?” Murdoch asked Charlie.

“It’s a surprise. Go on. He’s been here at least half an hour.”

Murdoch put the envelope in his pocket and went through the rear door to his cubicle. He pushed aside the reed curtain. At his desk, leaning back comfortably in his chair, arms behind his head, was Inspector Brackenreid.

“Murdoch! Come in.”

“Well, I, er…”

Brackenreid stood up. He was not in uniform but was wearing a fawn suit that anticipated summer. He had put a stylish bowler on the desk.

“Do you want your chair?”

“No, that’s all right, sir. I’ll sit here.”

He took the sagging chair that served for visitors.

“I couldn’t wait to get back to the station, Murdoch. I think I surprised our duty sergeant out of a year’s growth.” He frowned in the old, familiar way that was something of a relief. “A bit much, if you ask me, I’m not exactly Lazarus returned from the dead.”