The Devil's Making (31 page)

‘Did it not strike you,' I burst out, ‘that with McCrory dead, when he had said he would see her every week, and with you deserting her, she was left in the lurch? Don't you think you could have helped her?'

‘I couldn't get involved with her again. You're naïve if you think it's possible to see a girl you have been involved with that way, and not get back into it. If I'd let her in we would have gone and done it again, no question. But there's Cordelia! She's the only girl I think about now. Dear Cordy!' Frederick seemed near tears.

I could say nothing. I did not like my own moral indignation very much. I had never felt very close to Frederick, but had found him good company, and liked his ingenuousness. Now Frederick was not merely boyish but weak, not merely amusing but cynical.

I got down from my high stool, and walked out of the store, unlocking the door for myself, not saying a word to Frederick who hovered behind me like a ghost.

I wrote a brief report for the Superintendent and Pemberton. I concluded that Kathy had procured an abortion from Dr Richard McCrory (now deceased); that Dr McCrory had undertaken to give her a series of treatments for the nervous effects of the operation; that since the doctor was dead and she had become alienated from the putative father of the aborted child, she must be assumed to have fallen into a mental state, of extreme melancholia or hysteria (which Dr. McCrory had warned of) which had caused her to commit suicide. Insofar as the information I had received was pertinent to the death of Dr McCrory, I would summarize it in the report I was preparing on my preliminary investigation of the murder.

I knew that Pemberton, at least, would read between the lines of this, and if he decided to pursue charges, would know he could obtain the details from me. But I still thought Pemberton would let sleeping dogs lie. What would I do, if I were in Pemberton's place? The question kept me awake half the night.

20

Although I had slept little, I woke shortly after dawn. The memory of the day before, my thoughts while trying to go to sleep, and dreams from after that, compounded themselves into one nightmare. I felt an urge to exorcise myself of it. I told myself that in order to write my report on the McCrory case that day, I would have to ask a few more questions of Lukswaas. This thought made me feel lighter. I sprang out of bed, washed and dressed, and rushed out to hire a horse.

It was still very early, and there had been a heavy dew. The air was chilly, and I rode as fast as I could so that the jogging movement might keep me warm. The last stretch through the woods was dark and gloomy, the trees dripping onto my head and shoulders – I was in uniform but not wearing my helmet. It was still only eight o'clock, and I felt some trepidation as I approached the camp. I smelled smoke and heard voices. I came out of the trees, dismounted, and tied my horse to a tree.

The camp was much as usual, although there were less people visible. At least, since it was chilly, they were fully dressed. The tall Tsamti came to greet me, explaining that Waaks and some of the others had gone fishing. I asked if I could speak with Lukswaas. Tsamti pointed to a group of women nearby, working at something on the ground.

I walked over to them, and Lukswaas got up, wiping her hands, which were bloody, on a woven bark napkin. She looked far from being an Indian princess. She was wearing a worn-looking fibre blanket, with no silver bracelets on her blood-streaked arms, and brown leather leggings above bare, dirty feet. She was still, however, wearing her abalone earrings. I did not dare smile at her in front of the others, and she did not smile at me. Her face was extremely beautiful, as always, but it had an intense, strained look.

I told her that I needed to ask her some questions. She nodded and said that she would go and wash her hands first. She went over to one of the fires where there was a big pot of water from which she dipped with a ladle and began washing her hands and arms. I looked down at the women beside me. I recognized Wan, who glanced up at me shyly. They were gutting and plucking about a dozen waterfowl – geese, ducks and coots.

Lukswaas returned and led me over to the edge of the forest. She sat down on the ground, crossing her legs under the long tattered fringes of her blanket. I sat down opposite her, leaning on one arm. I looked into her eyes. They seemed worried.

Chinook, as always, reduced my thoughts to their most simple form. I said I wanted to see her because when I talked to her she said things which helped me. Then, since she still looked worried and I felt it would be wrong to conceal myself from her, I said I liked seeing her. I liked seeing her in the woods. But I liked talking to her also.

I realized with a shock which made me stop talking for a moment, that if I were speaking English I would reassure her by telling her I loved her. But that could not be true. Instead I changed the subject and told her brusquely that I had to ask her some questions about the dead man, McCrory. After that, we could talk of other things.

She nodded her head, her face still serious.

I began to reiterate the story of McCrory going into the forest with Lukswaas. Lukswaas had said McCrory had asked for herbs to make a man powerful in loving, herbs to make a person sleep, and herbs to give long life. Had he also asked for herbs a woman could take so as not to have a baby when she had been with a man?

‘Ah-ha', Lukswaas nodded. She blushed slightly, with that natural innocence of hers which seemed to belie what I knew of her. Then she said that she had told McCrory the truth, that Tsimshian women did not take herbs for that purpose, and she knew of none.

I felt surprised by this. I went on to ask if McCrory had enquired about herbs that a woman could take, when she was carrying a child in her body (I pointed at my abdomen) so that the child would come out dead.

Lukswaas nodded. The doctor had indeed asked her about such herbs. But again she had told the truth, that Tsimshian women know of no such herbs.

Again I was surprised. I had read that quinine was used for such purposes among the South American Indians. I had imagined the Tsimshian might have an equivalent. These questions had seemed important to me, when I woke up in the morning, because of the nightmares of the previous day. Asking them was part of the purpose of, as Lukswaas herself had put it a few days before, ‘getting into the skin' of McCrory. But now I felt no further ahead in my case. Out of curiosity I asked what a Tsimshian woman would do if she lay with a man and did not want to get a child.

Lukswaas replied that most women knew from the feeling in their body, (this time it was she who pointed to her abdomen), when they could get a child. And at that time they might decide to be with a man, or not, depending on whether or not they wanted a child. But of course there were sometimes mistakes.

I wanted suddenly to ask her if she had risked having a child by me. But I didn't dare. Instead I asked more generally, what happened when a woman had a child and she was not married. The word in Chinook for ‘married' was ‘malie', which came from the French ‘Marié'. I knew nothing of marriage customs among the Tsimshian.

Lukswaas replied with her usual seriousness that among the Tsalak, at least, if a woman had a child then she would say who the father was. If the father was a chief or a rich man he would either provide for her, or marry her. Some men had two wives, she added. The child, at any rate, would be known as his, and the child's standing depended on who the father was as well as who the mother was. If the father was of low standing or a bad man, then the child would have no standing, although of course the mother would look after it. And sometimes such a child might grow up and become known for beauty or great deeds or gathering goods or money.

I asked if a woman who had had a child but was not married to the father could marry another man.

Lukswaas frowned, as if puzzled. Of course the woman could. But it depended on her standing.

Clearly, I reflected, there were social barriers among the Tsimshian as among the whites – by the sound of it as well defined as in England. But there did not seem to be a moral barrier. I thought of asking her if a Tsimshian woman could marry two men. But that would be too close to the bone … And I had never heard of such a thing among Indians – only of men having several wives.

I asked if it was a good thing for a young girl to lie with a man if she did not want to be married to him.

‘Wake'. Lukswaas shook her head vigorously, and seemed upset. She said it was best for a young woman to keep herself for the man she wanted to marry.

I was baffled by this statement, as rigid as any to be heard from an English girl's lips. It was not fair of me to ask Lukswaas all these questions without explaining why. She would take everything I said as an oblique reference to our own love-making. But I felt, inexplicably, as if I wanted to confide in her.

I told her, slowly and carefully, the whole story of Kathy Donnelly, and my work in finding out what had happened – though I did not mention Sylvie or the Windsor Rooms, out of delicacy. Delicacy, in talking to a ‘squaw'…

Lukswaas listened carefully, making no comments except to get the meaning of a word clear from time to time. When the story was finished she said in Chinook that it was a story to make a person cry. It showed that when a girl had two men at once it led to trouble.

It was my turn to look puzzled.

Lukswaas went on to say that if the woman knew which man was the father of her child, then she could go to that man and say: this is your child. Then of course he would have to provide for it, or marry her. Lukswaas said she could understand how the young man in my story would not want to marry the girl, if the child might be that of the old man. In a case like that, among the Tsalak and other Tsimshian, the two men would provide for the child. But it would be an unlucky child and an unlucky woman. Every child should know its father. But it was terrible that McCrory had cut the child out of the woman. The result was worse than an unlucky child, it was a dead child. Or were the King George men so cruel that it would be worse for the girl to have the child?

I admitted ruefully that yes, it would be worse. I felt ashamed.

It was worse still, that the girl had killed herself, Lukswaas added. Were the King George men always so cruel to their women?

I replied that since the girl had been of low standing in society she had had no power – no ‘skookum' – so of course it had been worse for her. But I felt that was a lame excuse.

Lukswaas asked as abruptly as the repetitions of Chinook allowed, what I myself would have done if I were the young man?

I said, meaning it, that if I loved the girl I would marry her. But if the child was by the other man, I would feel ‘tum tum sick'. Perhaps if I loved the girl very much I would want to be with her anyway. If she loved me, I added. But it would be very difficult, I said, trying to be honest. In all this I had used ‘tikegh' the nearest Chinook word to ‘love', though it also meant pleasure and liking.

‘Nika tikegh tikegh mesika'. (I love love you), Lukswaas said, looking intently at me.

I felt a wave of emotion run through me and said back to her: ‘Nika tikegh tikegh mesika.'

But this was impossible. I felt a sudden reaction, almost a sickness. I scrambled to my feet. She did the same and looked at me questioningly. I said I was sorry, but I had to go, since I had much work to do that day. I thanked her, and said I would see her the following night. As I said this, I almost melted with the desire which I had somehow managed to put aside during our conversation. But I looked away from her eyes.

‘Kloshe', she said. (‘Good'). Then she asked if I was going to find who killed McCrory.

I looked back at her, and said that I hoped so. I explained that, as she had said to me before, I was trying to get into the skin of everyone who might have killed McCrory, and of McCrory himself.

Lukswaas looked concerned. I marvelled at the transparency of her expressions, which I could always read without difficulty – as it seemed she could read mine. She said that I should be careful to come back inside my own skin. This was why, she said, it was necessary for me to see her.

The simplicity of this was too much for me. I turned away.

But Lukswaas spoke again. She said that if there were several people whom I thought might have killed McCrory, then probably there were some whom I wanted to be the murderer, and others whom I did not want to be. I should be sure that those feelings did not stop me from seeing clearly. I would only see who the murderer was when my heart (or mind or soul – the ‘tum tum' again) was clean.

I smiled and said I agreed. I said I felt sad to be going.

We clung to each other with our eyes for a moment. Then I went over to my horse. Lukswaas was already walking away to join the other women.

When I got back to Victoria just before noon, I was pleased to find that Rabinowicz had been prompt in his search for the book by John Humphrey Noyes: he had sent it by messenger to the courthouse, where its title,
Male continence: Self Control in Sexual Intercourse
(on the front of the book where I had not seen it: Noyes's name was on the spine) had attracted the interest of Parry and Wilson, who had each leafed through it. Parry said it was a ‘damned perverted tract', and Wilson that its title should be
Self-Gelding.
But Parry, as he handed it over to me, added, ‘it shows McCrory was up to mischief', which I hoped meant he was becoming tolerant of the investigation.

After a quick lunch on a cheese sandwich and a glass of ale, I retreated to my office with the book. It was not much more than a pamphlet really, although McCrory had had it bound in leather, privately published at Oneida, New York, in 1866. It was not only well thumbed, but full of McCrory's own notes, in the margin and sometimes on pieces of paper which had been gummed in like extra pages. These notes, in a larger, messier and more childish hand than that of an educated Englishman, added comments which must have come from McCrory's own experience at Oneida, beginning with such statements as ‘According to Noyes…', or ‘JHN says…' There were also enlargements of the pamphlet's points, and notes on a few new topics.