The Devil's Making (20 page)

‘Very funny. Anyway, who cares where I got it?'

‘There are no signs on your face yet,' I said. ‘I thought it spread. Didn't the Jacobean Dean of St Paul's, Dr Donne, write a treatise on “Why doth the pox so undermine the nose?”'

This was too much. Firbanks scrambled to his feet. ‘I don't have
syph,
' he said indignantly. ‘I have clap – gonhorrea. It's less severe, although it can be the devil to get rid off. And just you wait until clap or something like it gets you. You'll burn in hell too one day.'

‘Hellfire! Don't you realise what an evil religion Christianity is? It condemns swathes of people to eternal fire if they don't do what they are told. Have you ever read Ensor's
Janus on Sion?
Christian morality enforces itself through threats of eternal vengeance – chanting that “God is Love” all the while.'

‘How dare you talk to me like that?' Firbanks exploded, but his voice sounded thin and nasal. ‘If you ever turn up in my church again I'll put you out the door!'

I had overdone it. Ensor's old warhorse of a book had been on one side of the pincers – Darwin being on the other – which had snipped off my Christian faith. ‘Did McCrory help you?' I asked, still sprawling on the ground.

‘I think so.' Firbanks became calmer, his voice urgent. ‘You won't believe this, but the immediate symptoms went away. Of course they do from time to time. But there's something in this animal magnetism business. There really is a kind of force. One feels it in the treatments.'

‘You mean you were allowed to touch McCrory's organs of generation?'

‘What? Are you mad? Of course not. What kind of a mind do you have? You are more evil than anything in Christianity.'

‘Just ‘magnetic passes' then?'

‘And an infusion of herbs, which I'll take until I run out.'

‘None of the usual medical treatments – mercury or what not?'

‘Mercury doesn't work in my case.'

‘And are you celibate now?'

‘None of your business.'

‘You could pass it on.'

‘There's no need for you to continue with this gratuitous prying.'

‘Where were you last Wednesday afternoon?'

‘Here. I come to pray and study.'

‘What other patients of McCrory's do you know about?'

‘None. He was discreet in his appointments.'

‘How about the Somervilles?'

‘Patients? That's hard to believe. They're not ill.'

‘Melancholia.'

‘You mean Aemilia? She's just an old maid in the making.'

‘And you're paying court to Letitia. Are you sure you should?'

‘Shut up!' Firbanks began to pace back and forth. ‘Now, of course, you can wreck me', he said between clenched teeth, ‘by telling people. But you don't know what it's like. I live in hope. You wouldn't understand that.'

‘It's just the hypocrisy I don't like.' I stood up. ‘Why be a priest at all if you're going to do such filthy things?'

‘A priest must experience life', Firbanks said sanctimoniously, ‘in all its squalor. He must share the humble dishes of the poor, walk among them, and yes if necessary, give into their entreaties. He should be unafraid of congress with them at any level. These Indian girls have lived like beasts since childhood, they can only be redeemed from brutality by the knowledge of something higher. Besides: better to marry than burn. Although I'm not married yet I can't pursue my mission for God if I'm burning up with filthy lust: I must get rid of it. How can I give the sacraments if my mind is polluted with these thoughts?'

I supposed this fell under the heading ‘the greater the sin, the greater its redemption.' For a moment I thought of my father – that decent clergyman. Or was he like this? Did he have such a secret life? Was he fornicating with the young girls in his parish? No. It was not in his character. This was nothing to do with Christianity, or even hypocrisy. It was all character.

‘I hope you don't spread the disease around', I muttered. Then I thought of something. ‘Sheaths', I said. ‘Does it help to use a sheath, to avoid contracting or passing on a disease?'

‘You're naïve, Hobbes. Of course they are prophylactic in that sense. But why would anybody want to use one? I understand they're only used by some American husbands and wives so as to cheat God of his due while amassing material possessions. Contraceptics are profoundly unnatural – against the law of nature, in fact, and the law of God.'

‘So you've never used one.'

‘Of course not.'

‘I suppose that's enough for now. I may talk to you again. Who do you think killed McCrory?'

‘That Indian Tyee of course. McCrory got into his woman, that's all. The Tyee might not have minded at first, if McCrory was bringing money or trade goods. He could always drop the wife later, or demote her to number two by marrying a new one. But I assume something went wrong. McCrory must have been too open about it, offended the Indian's pride – something like that. I don't blame McCrory though. She's a peach, that girl. Ladylike almost, though underneath she'll be as foul a slut as the rest of them.'

‘Shut up.'

‘I see you don't know them, Hobbes – quite the outraged gentleman, eh? They're not ladies, Hobbes: they're devils. They're like the leech in
Solomon.
They'll suck the life out of you. They say that once you've been with a squaw you can never leave them alone. They're filthy, ugly as sin, and as soon ready to kill you as couple with you – but you can't give them up, Hobbes. No.' Firbanks' mouth had developed an ugly twist.

All I wanted to do was leave. I had been doing a good job, I thought, until the subject of Lukswaas came up. Now I was aware of an intolerable sensation, a gnawing pain in my heart and guts. I had been carrying out my interrogations like the clockwork policeman I wanted to be, and as long as I kept talking and listening I could keep this sensation at bay. No, my mind went back to the first time Lukswaas looked at me and my heart stirred, and to her trembling hand as she gave me the purse with its eight silver dollars. I clenched my jaws tight. What a bloody fool. Was this lust? She was another man's wife. Was this love? For a squaw!

‘You whited sepulchre!' I said to Firbanks with all the contempt I could muster. But I didn't care a damn for Firbanks and his squalid little life. I turned away, scrambled down the bank, and walked around the edge of the graveyard to the West end of the church, where my horse was standing listlessly at the rail in the shafts of sunlight, which struck down at an angle between the branches of the oaks.

14

Yes, I thought of whether my anger at Firbanks harked back to my anger – or was it jealousy? – at that cursed curate, Aubrey, who had seduced my mother. Or had she seduced him? My head was spinning. No, Firbanks was not at all like Aubrey. By comparison Aubrey was a decent chap – frivolous, but not wicked. Not a fallen angel at least. Should never have been a curate in the first place. But he had a conscience. No, he probably killed himself simply because he could not have my mother. Could I kill myself? I doubt it. I like the world around me too much. I like pursuing this case. I like birdsong, flowers, even the gloomy Douglas firs, the peculiar greenish sunsets behind the serrated mountains to the West of Victoria. Could I kill someone? I could almost kill Firbanks – on impulse, he is such a despicable squirt. But I could hardly plan such a thing. What about
mens rea?
The
mind in the thing.
Whoever killed McCrory could not be convicted unless it was shown that he had the deed in mind. Otherwise he would be committing man-slaughter. Or under the McNaughten Rules, House of Lords, 1843, he would be counted insane. No one I have met so far in this investigation could be called insane. Least of all Wiladzap. If he killed McCrory he must have known he wanted to. Who else could have wanted to?

*   *   *

I rode slowly down the hill from St Mark's, following Cedar Hill Road along the edge of the so-called Plains – too rough and densely wooded to be a plain by English standards – then after half a mile or so up and along a ridge between the oaks. There were the usual brilliant flowers, the song of robins, and not a soul to be seen. It was much hotter than last week, though the sun was becoming lower so its light struck slantwise through the trees. The woods became thicker as Mount Douglas rose on the left, and I passed along the mountain's dark, sunless side. It was not so cold and clammy as when we had come to find the alienist. The air was pleasantly cool. Here and there small white lilies had sprung up among the mossy rocks and ferns. There was a smell of fir and cedar bark. Now and then from far above in the treetops came the piping of some kind of thrush, but there were no other sounds except the gentle pounding of the horse's hooves, and the trickle of the occasional stream through a culvert under the path. I passed the other path that struck off to the gully where McCrory had been found. I was keeping my mind busy – and the heart-sickness at bay – by reviewing my conversation with Firbanks, but it only made me feel leaden and disgusted. I turned down the path that led to the Indian camp.

Then I saw Lukswaas, sitting by the path on a rock backed by a clump of ferns. She was examining the sole of her foot, which she had crossed on the other knee. She looked up and I thought she smiled – or at least her face seemed to lighten.

I reined in my horse and swung off. ‘Mesika klemahun?' (‘You hurt?')

She pointed at her foot. I looked around for a handy branch, found one, and looped the horse's reins over it. I stood over Lukswaas. Her moccasins were placed neatly side by side on the path. She must have been carrying them: the sole of her foot was brown with dust. There was a streak of blood from a sliver of cedar bark, which had entered the skin at what looked like a deep angle. I knew, clear as day, that she wanted me to take the splinter out. She must have heard me coming for ages – the Indians had ears for such things – and sent her companions ahead, then stuck the splinter in. Or what? I felt confused. Had Firbanks' vile thinking got into my mind? She couldn't be as innocent as this! I knew I should not under any circumstances lay a finger on her. But I crouched down beside her and took her foot in my right hand, looking at the brown dusty sole, the top of the foot, coppery light brown, the little half-circles of pink at the base of each small-padded toe, her heel cupped soft and warm in my left hand – then the smooth brown skin and rounded calf of her leg, and under it the slim thigh of the other leg on which it was still crossed, then between her thighs the woven fibre of a short kilt or apron, under which.… I glanced up to the dull grey blanket wrapped tightly around her upper body in spite of the heat, and to her face. She was looking at me with shining, intense eyes. I clenched my teeth and returned to the foot. I took hold of the end of the splinter between the nails of my forefinger and thumb and plucked it out with a quick jerk. It was quite long and her whole body winced. A large drop of blood formed.

She could have taken it out herself, I thought. I felt a heart-sick longing to take hold of her legs and bury my head in her lap. Madness. I thought of Firbanks again. I dropped the foot abruptly and sprang to my feet. Lukswaas looked up at me with a questioning expression. As if she was innocent! I felt like yelling down at her: harlot, slut, adultress, filthy, seductive squaw! But she looked like none of these. I turned away mutely toward my horse. I could hardly mount and ride down to the camp leaving her behind. I glanced back at her. She was getting to her feet, bending down to put on her moccasins. Without looking at me, she set out off down the path, hobbling slightly on the injured foot. Well, of course it was not seriously injured, but it might hurt a bit for a while. The more fool her, if she had put the splinter in herself to entrap me.

Leading my horse, I caught up with her. She stood aside to let me pass. I could not. Too much the gentleman, I told myself ironically. But if I was a gentleman, what should I do? The other night I had walked her home five miles. So now I made a gesture that she should mount the horse, meaning I could lead her on it. She looked at me a moment, then up at the horse. Her eyes widened, and she shook her head.

I was invaded by a sort of enthusiasm which always came naturally to me. Why not get on a horse? I pointed at the stirrup, set my foot in it for a moment to show her, then stepped down again. ‘Mesika mamook', I said. (‘You do.') She smiled. Quite gracefully she swung her left foot into the stirrup, standing effortlessly on her right foot. I reached down, grasped her right ankle in both hands, and heaved her straight up. She flung her leg over the saddle. ‘Good!', I said, moving forward. She was balancing perfectly, but I reached up, took her hand, and placed it on the pommel. Then I let go and moved to the horse's head. But when I looked back I found that Luskwaas had moved forward, to the very front of the saddle, and taken her feet out of the stirrups. She glanced behind her as if to see how much room there was. I felt utterly stumped. She had understood she was to sit in front of me! Trapped again.

I made my best, as I put it to myself, of the situation. I took the reins, stepped back, set my foot in the stirrup and swung myself up behind her. I settled into the back of the saddle but of course there was not much room and there I was with Lukswaas's back in its blanket pressed against my chest, her naked legs in front of and touching mine, and her hair just below my chin. I reached around her with the reins and flicked them. The horse started lurching down the path. Lukswaas was holding the pommel, out of sight between her legs. Neither of us said a word. I could smell wood-smoke from her hair. It was coarse and black but with bronze and reddish flecks – perhaps from the sun. Her braids were tied with leather thongs. I held her to me with my upper arms, breathing in the wood-smoke and resisting an impulse to nuzzle her hair.