Читать книгу Death in the Age of Steam - Mel Bradshaw - Страница 7

After the interment, Harris sorted quickly through the afternoon’s messages at his desk, then changed into cord breeches and riding boots and made for the Richmond Street livery stable where he boarded his horse. Banshee was a dapple-grey five-year-old with large eyes and lots of stamina. He found her picking at her bedding straw. Not for the first time, he asked if the liveryman was spending enough on feed, but avoided threats to take his business elsewhere. Randall’s was the cleanest establishment within walking distance of the bank and had the biggest stalls.

Harris saddled up without waiting for the boy’s help. He intended to spend the evening running over what he recalled as Theresa’s favourite rides to see if he could find any trace of her—someone who had seen her perhaps, or some physical sign of an accident.

The sun at five o’clock was still three hours high and scorching, the air motionless. Only by cantering through it could he obtain the semblance of a breeze on his damp forehead. Unbothered by the heat, the horse whisked him out to Gooderham and Worts’s windmill at the eastern extremity of the Toronto bay, and from there onto the peninsula.

While he rode, he forced himself to put some order into the thoughts and questions spawned by Crane’s shockingly cool announcement. Respectably married women had never been known to just disappear from this city. Accident apart, what could have happened to Theresa? Harris began listing possibilities in his head:

1. mental disorder

2. voluntary flight

3. abduction

4.

He left 4 blank for the moment.

The least likely alternative was 1. Harris expected grief to shake Theresa hard, but not to shatter her. She had a history of steadfastness in crises. When a drunken cook had hacked her own thumb off with an eight-inch cleaver, sending the housemaid into hysterics, Theresa had dressed the stump without flinching. More to the point, during an earlier—and to all appearances fatal—bout of William Sheridan’s intestinal ailment, she had brushed tears aside to discuss funeral and testamentary arrangements with him. It would surely have taken more than his death to unhinge her reason.

And yet, Harris had to admit, much could have happened to change her in the past three years. If he were to reach any meaningful conclusions, he would have to question someone like her father’s partner Jasper about her marriage. This topic he had always avoided.

Suppose—possibility 2—Theresa were hiding from her husband. In that case, Harris didn’t want to be too helpful to the official search until he had a better idea of her reasons.

They had to relate to her father’s death. That couldn’t be a coincidence. Perhaps as he faced eternity William Sheridan had told her something that made continuing her life with Henry Crane impossible. Perhaps some youthful shame that Crane had thought safely buried in the forests of the Northwest had, against all his calculations, come to his father-in-law’s knowledge. Alternatively, Theresa might some time ago have decided to leave Crane. She might only have refrained from doing so during her father’s lifetime to spare him the scandal—though if she had been able to wait for his death, why not wait two days more for the funeral?

Harris stopped at the Peninsula Hotel, situated on the narrowest part of the sandy isthmus. Neither staff nor guests could tell him anything of Theresa, and his own observations were nothing to the point. Today in daylight he noticed, as on Saturday night he had not, that a couple more of the low dunes had recently been dug away. New city regulations were not stopping businessmen like Joseph Bloor from helping themselves to this sand for their brick works. One good storm now would wash the hotel out and make the peninsula an island.

Riding on, he approached the hexagonal spire of the Gibraltar Light. Its grey stone glowed warmly in the late afternoon sun. He halted to speak to the keeper, a grizzled bachelor familiar to excursionists for his outlandish costumes, though not yet personally known to Harris. Discovered on his doorstep, Harvey Ingram proved more hospitable than informative.

Sit down, he urged in a drink-slurred burr. Have a dram. He shifted a jug from the other half of the rough bench he occupied. Surely, he knew Susan—he meant Theresa—Crane, by sight at least. He had not seen her Sunday or since. Had she bolted then? What had got into her? While he sounded sincerely anxious, his confusion over her name did little to raise Harris’s hopes. He wore a Turkish headdress and bits of military gear in apparent tribute to the recently concluded Crimean campaign—dispensing with any stock or collar, however, as he had no appreciable neck to encircle.

The banker at first declined the invitation on the pretext of making the most of the remaining daylight. Only on his darkened way back to town, after the most thorough examination of every beach and thicket, did the prospect of refreshment tempt him. By then the light was lit atop the eighty-two-foot tower and beckoned him over.

Ingram had walked out onto the sward before the tower door. He did not mark Harris’s approach. Hands on hips, the lighthouse keeper was shuffling his feet and from time to time essaying a modest kick or hop. Not falling down, at least, thought Harris.

“I came back, Mr. Ingram,” he called out as soon as he was close enough to be confident of being heard.

Ingram spun around.

“Who’s that?” he cried in a tone both peremptory and apprehensive, as if he could expect nothing good of any that came back.

“No ghost, I assure you.” Harris dismounted and walked forward into the rectangle of lamp light spilling from the tower door. “I thought I’d ask if your offer still stands.”

“Ah, you, sir. See anything? No? Fortunate perhaps.” Ingram’s round eyes, whisker-hidden mouth and short neck gave him a fixed owlish expression, or rather lack of expression, which an alcoholic glaze made even harder to read. “I was just doing a bit of a hornpipe—the solitary man’s dance, as they say. Well, let’s sit down, and I’ll tell you how I expect they’ll find this Mrs. Crane of yours.”

“You know of someone I might ask?”

“I know men’s sins. Now you take the cup. I’ve only sipped from the one side of it.”

The drink made Harris’s eyes water. A little went a long way.

“Hear the wisdom of a seasoned campaigner,” said his host. He was fingering an epaulet, of which the distinctly unmilitary adornment appeared to consist of gold sleeve-links. “They’ll find the lady only as a corpse.”

“It’s too soon to say that!” Harris exclaimed. “No more, thank you.”

“Just a drop.” Ingram poured. “I wish no harm to anybody, but there are men it doesn’t do to tempt. A beautiful woman riding alone—she’s with the angels now.”

From the deep melancholy in Ingram’s Scottish voice it was clear that this prophecy gave him no pleasure, but its authoritative and unvarying repetition with each application of the jug to his lips ended by driving Harris home to a sleepless bed. He had achieved nothing. He had not even managed to tire himself out.

“She’s with the angels now!”

Doubtless solitude and sixpence-a-gallon whisky had made the man morbid. By his own admission, old shipwrecks and unsolved murders also weighed upon his mind. Every allowance made, however, Harris still found his down mattress a bed of thistles.

Tuesday passed into Wednesday. When he rose at five, the morning was already hot, but he still had to light the Prince of Wales wood stove for coffee.

Harris lived in lavish simplicity. Lavish in that he enjoyed sole occupancy of the cashier’s suite on the upper floor of his place of work. The Toronto branch of the Provincial Bank of Canada was Greek revival in style and made of cleanly fitted pale Ohio sandstone—for, although locally produced red brick would have served just as well, people expected more opulence from banks. And the opulence extended to Harris’s apartments, which included two damask-hung salons, one large enough to serve as a ballroom. Harris thought the building reckless and admired it. Prudently, however, he dispensed with any domestic staff. It seemed more sociable, as well as better husbandry, to take his dinners at hotels than to keep a cook just for himself, and breakfast he could manage on his own.

While the kettle was heating, he chewed a day-old crust of bread and looked out one of the front windows. Below, at the intersection of Wellington and Bay Streets, the dust lay still and dry. It had not rained, a blessing if Theresa had no shelter. If what Crane said were true, and unless she had been found since they spoke, she had now been away from home three nights. The barking of a watchdog in the yard of the piano manufactory next door reminded Harris of a rumour that a rabid fox was at large in the Humber Valley. What if Theresa . . .?

Stop, he told himself. He was speculating to no purpose.

As soon as the water was steaming, he shaved and—though it was still early—began to dress for work. He had a branch to run with obligations to a staff of four, to thirty-six major borrowers, each of whom he knew personally, to 297 depositors most of whom he could at least recognize, to unnumbered purchasers of specie and bills of exchange, and through head office to thirteen directors and upwards of thirteen hundred shareholders. He could not in conscience give every waking thought to Theresa. There would have to be a balance.

With barber’s scissors he trimmed his side whiskers to just below his ear lobes. Beards and moustaches were becoming fashionable since the war, but not for bank cashiers. Harris’s work clothes, mostly black, differed little from what he had worn to the funeral—a morning coat replacing the full-skirted frock coat. And for the office he usually put on a coloured waistcoat, a dark blue watered silk this morning. He tied a matching cravat in a loose bow around the high collar of his white shirt.

What shade, he wondered, was that riding habit she had worn? A muted, vegetable-based green or one of the vivid new chemical dyes?

His toilet made, he carried his coffee down the elliptically spiralling staircase and managed to answer the most pressing of yesterday’s correspondence before his staff, all but Septimus Murdock, arrived at eight thirty. The accountant had been instructed to go straight to the docks to meet a shipment of money from head office.

Arrangements had been negotiated with Kingston in ciphered telegrams. Security from theft and punctuality of delivery were Harris’s two overlapping concerns. He wanted the notes, coins and bullion in the vault well before the branch opened its doors to the public at ten. As the steamer chosen had been due this morning at seven, this requirement should have posed no problem.

And yet the two-horse, iron-plated van didn’t pull up in front of the bank until ten past nine. The police constable engaged as a guard had been late, a winded Septimus Murdock explained as he lowered himself cautiously from his seat between the driver and his boy.

“But where is the constable?” asked Harris.

The burly accountant’s chin quivered, as did the timid imperial that adorned it. Harris waited for him to speak.

“Isaac, he insisted on being locked inside with what he called the loot.”

Sure enough, when the padlock was removed from the heavy rear doors, a sharp-featured young man leaped out, pointing his single-shot Enfield carbine in all directions. Handled this way, the short rifle was a sufficient threat to the life of any individual bystander. For the purpose of fending off a raid, however, Harris would have preferred to see a double-barrelled shotgun. While the president of the Provincial Bank liked to repeat that there had never been a daytime bank robbery in North America, Harris knew it was just a matter of time. In tandem with Toronto’s prosperity, its crime rate was on the rise.

Constable Devlin, whose school had been the city’s docks and alleys, understood the situation perfectly. As a public servant, however, he was not at liberty to say what his understanding of the situation was. It was no part of his job to spread panic. Reaching inside his unbuttoned blue tunic to scratch his chest hair, he did explain—in a tone both knowing and aggrieved—that a shotgun was too heavy to carry about in this heat. Harris smelled no fresh whisky on the constable’s breath and noted that at least one of his boots had been recently polished. This was by no means the dregs of the force.

Under Devlin’s sporadically watchful eye, it took over an hour to get the money unloaded, counted, recounted and signed for. The bars of precious metal were few and quickly weighed, but the gold coins were the usual jumble of French five-francs, British sovereigns and American eagles, plus the new Canadian pounds and twenty-five-shilling pieces. The silver coins were even worse.

The bulk of the shipment consisted of new banknotes of all denominations. When van and constable had left, Septimus Murdock gave sixteen-year-old bank messenger Dick Ogilvie one of the crisp, clean bills to hold.

“Ever have as much as fifty dollars in your hands, Dicko?” he asked.

Ogilvie admitted this was the first time, but swore it would not be the last. One of the tellers laughed.

“But if this is fifty dollars,” said the boy, puzzlement clouding his freckled face, “why does it say, ‘The Provincial Bank of Canada, Kingston, promise to pay to bearer on demand twelve pounds, ten shillings currency at their office in Toronto’?”

Murdock snatched back the banknote. “Because, my young friend,” he scolded, “that’s what fifty dollars is worth—as anyone working in a bank ought to know by now.”

Harris pointed out that they were already half an hour late in opening and that it was high time to get some of the new notes into circulation.

Later in the morning, he glanced out his office window and noticed Dick Ogilvie sweeping the back stoop while waiting for other commissions. Harris pulled up the sash and beckoned him over.

“Don’t let people make you feel ashamed for asking questions,” said the cashier. “I ask a lot myself.”

The boy’s curly brown hair would have looked very well if he had not tried to plaster it flat with water. “May I ask another then, sir?” he said.

He wanted to know why the bank could not let him keep the fifty-dollar note. It would cost them so little in ink and paper to print a replacement. Harris told him that the gentlemen who owned the bank were putting half a million pounds into it and that the government allowed them to print paper to a face value of no more than three times that amount.

Ogilvie’s lips moved soundlessly as he did the arithmetic. “So once they’ve printed their six million dollars, they can’t print any more?”

Harris nodded. “By the time you are cashier, the preponderance of north-south trade under the Reciprocity Treaty will have made pounds and shillings obsolete. We’re just fortunate that the States uses yards and feet instead of metres or we should have two systems of linear measurement as well.”

“I should like to be cashier.” Ogilvie straightened his broadening shoulders inside his short black jacket. “Only when I’m older, I’m supposed to go into business with my dad.”

“What business is that, Dick?” Harris was surprised to find he did not know.

“Undertaking—he’s quite prominent. He arranged the funeral you attended yesterday, sir. It’s just that I can’t see myself taking orders for caskets day in day out.”

“I suppose that’s what your father was doing Sunday afternoon.” Harris recollected that funeral arrangements had been Crane’s excuse for not riding with Theresa.

Again the boy looked puzzled. “Oh no, sir.”

Although Murdock had come into the office to announce a visitor, Harris was suddenly unwilling to let Ogilvie go.

“Did Mr. Crane not call on Sunday?” he asked.

“That was Saturday night.”

“You saw him then?” Harris was sure Crane had said Sunday. It was too soon to have forgotten.

“Not only that, Mr. Harris. He would not have been received on Sunday. My dad’s very strict about the Sabbath.”

“To be sure.” Harris pulled the window down to within three inches of the sill and took, without really seeing it, the letter of introduction Murdock handed him.

The sight of the president’s signature at the bottom of the page brought Harris back to the business at hand. The letter asked him to extend every courtesy to Mr. Joshua Newbiggins, whom he invited in without further delay.

The cashier’s office was well-appointed for courteous reception. Oil copies of notable European paintings hung about in gilt frames. Two deeply upholstered armchairs and a matching ottoman faced the cashier’s desk, beside which a cabinet held a bottle of vintage port and a box of tea.

Newbiggins drank neither, appearing to derive his principal stimulus from his own conversation. He was short, round, flashily dressed and talkative. He talked about the desirability of new industries now that Toronto was becoming a rail hub. At present an importer of Pennsylvania coal, he proposed setting up an iron works, for which he had already acquired a property on Front Street. Demolished the Georgian villa that had occupied it too.

Harris received his loan application and promised it the promptest possible consideration.

“I believe the president’s letter mentioned that I am a substantial shareholder in this bank,” said Newbiggins, making no move to leave.

“Yes, indeed.”

“You realize, Mr. Harris, Kingston has become a backwater. Routing the Grand Trunk railroad three miles back of the port just nailed the lid on the coffin.”

“A hard blow to be sure,” said Harris, unable to see where this was leading.

Newbiggins sat back in his armchair and laced his ring-laden fingers over his stomach. “It can’t be long before head office moves to Toronto,” he said. “You could be head cashier.”

Harris owned real estate himself, a few residential properties acquired before the current boom. Their value had already doubled and bid fair to do so again, while their sites better suited any sort of commercial venture than the site Newbiggins had picked out for himself. Harris had, in short, prospects beyond the bank. Meanwhile, he considered himself as well housed and as honourably employed as any man his age in the city. He smiled politely.

“In point of fact,” Newbiggins confided, “I plan to discuss the whole question with the officers of the bank in the next few days. It would be a great help to me if you could have your accountant show me the records of your recent loans.”

“You had best discuss that with the president, sir. He’s kept fully informed.”

“My eye might pick up some significant details that his would miss. I know it’s somewhat irregular, Mr. Harris, but I should be working very much in your interest.”

The spacious office felt suffocatingly close. Through the barely opened window slid smells of dust and horse manure. Up and down Bay Street, carters on their way to and from the docks called to their weary teams.

“Let me be candid,” said Harris. His situation was unpleasant, but not difficult. “To be appointed to my present position, I had to post a bond. I have the strongest possible interest in transactions that are regular.”

Happily Newbiggins did not persist. His patent leather boots squeaked cheerily as he got up and adjusted his boldly checked jacket.

In the course of the leave-taking, it occurred to Harris that the little man had said railroad instead of railway. “How do you find life in Canada, Mr. Newbiggins?” he asked affably.

“Very much to my taste. People here aren’t as tall as in New York, but they have almost as much culture. Why, the very first week I was in the country, I was able to hear Miss Jenny Lind sing down at the St. Lawrence Hall. What drama she put into Bellini’s Sonnambula! Were you there?”

Harris nodded. He had been there with Theresa—four years ago, perhaps five, or even six. Time with her had been taken so much for granted. Somehow he assumed Theresa would wait for his elevation to cashier, assumed he had asked her to. He never actually had.

Miss Lind’s singing should have swept him into a declaration. If only he had let it! He recalled the soprano’s heart-piercing sweetness rather than, like Newbiggins, individual selections. The only detail of the evening to come back to him was that of Theresa at his side—eyes closed, lips parted as she soared with the Swedish nightingale—holding her bracelet of silver medallions to keep it from rattling.