Howard Engel: Dead and Buried

“Well, if you think I won’t stand out like a styrofoam cup with a silver tea service, I’d be happy to go in with you.”

Together we walked up the walk and climbed the curved front steps, where the door swung open without our knocking.

“Good-evening, Mr. McAuliffe,” said the man on the other side. “It’s good of you to come.”

“Good-evening, Edward. This is Mr. Cooperman who is working with me at the office.”

“You are very welcome, Mr. Cooperman. Most of the people are in the upstairs sitting-room, Mr. McAuliffe. It’s a little less formal than downstairs, don’t you think?” We climbed the stairs. I counted the shining brass rods holding the carpet runner in place as it cascaded down the curving staircase. As we reached the top, the sound of voices could be heard. We made our way in dignified silence to the sitting-room.

While my introduction into Frank Bushmill’s apartment and the wake for Martin Lyster had been unusual, it was still a million miles more relaxed than the sitting-room in the late Murdo Forbes’s house. Both men and women, many of them middle-aged or older, were standing and sitting in the large, high-ceilinged room. While no one was formally dressed, the feeling was one of formality, and in spite of a fire in the grate, I felt an icy draught reaching for the small of my back. The most dominating feature in the room was the Commander himself glowering down at us from his portrait above the fireplace. His bulk and his presence had been captured by the painter. It was quite like him to dominate his own funeral assembly. It wasn’t cheerful enough to be a wake. I didn’t get the feeling that we were here to celebrate the life of the departed. I wasn’t going to hear stories about good old Murdo. Nobody was going to sing “Bless ’em All” or recite memorable lines about losing my leg in the Nay-vee, even though there were a few present who could give an account of themselves at the Battle of the Marne, by the look of them.

“Let me get you something to drink, Benny,” said McAuliffe. He moved away from me before I could open my mouth. At my side he was a bigger comfort to me than ten drinks. I searched the room for a familiar face. My first survey turned up nothing, but panning back to where I started, I did a little better. There was Dr. Carswell with his wife talking to Harold Grier and his wife. Were the women sisters? I tried to remember. No. Grier was married to Carswell’s sister. Carswell’s wife must come from somewhere in the general population. That possibility raised my spirits marginally. Then I caught the eye of Ross Forbes, who was looking over the stooped shoulders of a voluble elderly man with his back to me. In that setting, Forbes was a friend and I grinned foolishly at him, and immediately regretted it. Two weeks ago Forbes was the man who’d bloodied my nose; today he was a familiar quarter in a mess of strange foreign money. As soon as he could free himself, he came across the room. I tried to read what I could from his face.

“I’m sorry for your trouble, Mr. Forbes,” I said as he shook my hand. “If you want me out of here, I’ll understand.”

“I can’t blame this on you, Cooperman. No matter how much I might want to.”

“I didn’t think the police would hold you. I’m glad I was right,” I said.

“I’m still their best bet. I have no illusions that it’s all over. I’ve been warned not to stray from town. They’re doing their best to put me away for good. Would you like a drink?”

“Frank McAuliffe’s getting me one, thanks.” Forbes wasn’t holding a glass and I mentioned it.

“Circumstances are not helping me to stay away from the booze, Mr. Cooperman. For instance, did you know that Teddie is engaged to that lawyer of hers? That was the big news when I got home.”

“Jim Colling and Teddie?”

“Yes, they’ll make a lovely couple. I picked a bad time to go on the wagon.”

“You didn’t try by yourself this time. I’m guessing, but it seems to me you’re getting help.”

“I suppose I won’t be able to keep it a secret,” he said. “Yes, I’ve gone underground, become anonymous. I’m Ross F., Cooperman. Funny, it’s the last thing I told my father. I’ve been pretty shy about mentioning it. Everybody’s ashamed of something.” We traded more small talk and then he was off to refill a glass for a tall woman with shoulder-length grey hair.

“You’ve been talking to Mr. Ross?” McAuliffe said, handing me a cocktail glass with a shot of rye in the bottom. We touched glasses and exchanged suitably sombre smiles. “How did he seem to you?”

“He’s tough,” I said, “tougher than I thought.” Fred was watching Forbes move in and out of groups across the room. He seemed to approve. “Fred, I wonder if you remember hinting to me that there was more to the stories about Ross and the firm’s involvement with toxic fuels than ever appeared in the newspapers. I wonder, now that the Commander is dead, whether you are any freer to talk about it?”

“It was wrong of me to have mentioned that at all.” I steered Fred into a book-lined corner where we were not so conspicuous.

“Were you trying to say that it was the Commander who had acted improperly and not Ross? Was Ross covering up for his father and taking the blame on himself?”

“Oh, more than blame, Benny!” McAuliffe was looking up at the oil painting of the old man frowning down at his family and friends. “There have been formal charges. And more will be made when the present provincial inquiry is made public.” McAuliffe shook his head. “The Commander was not keeping up with the changes in business, you know. He came from an old free-wheeling school where there were few rules and no supervision. Mr. Ross tried to make him see that times had changed. But Murdo always knew better. He knew people in the federal cabinet, he had friends in the provincial government. He wined and dined judges and senators. He was used to having his own way.”

“This came out in the book of minutes you removed from the boardroom?”

“Why yes, but I put it back later. It didn’t seem right to alter history. I couldn’t sleep until I put the pages back.”

“You’re an honest man, Fred.”

“Yes. You know, I’ve been hearing that all my life. It haunts me. Well, it’s too late to change now, I suppose. Too late to start dealing in old books and maps. I’d have liked to run a little second-hand bookstore. Isn’t that funny? That’s a little joke I’ve only shared with Miss Biddy.”

“How is she?”

“I just left her. Not much change, I’m afraid. She can’t talk or move. It’s terrible. She was trying to will me to understand her moaning. It was very upsetting. The poor woman can’t speak. What a horrible thing for a literate and sensitive woman.”

“I hope she rallies, Fred. I know you’re very fond of her.”

“For more years that I care to remember,” he said, turning away from me. I didn’t try to follow him.

I looked up at the portrait, shifting my haunches so that a highlight moved from the large disapproving face. Here was a face that might have been valanced with whiskers from the last century. Unsmiling, it judged all of us. Had the Commander ever known a moment’s doubt? Only Biddy would know that and she was unlikely to tell us.

“Getting acquainted with the Commander, are you?” It was Ross again. Some of the tension of the times was showing on his face. What would the painter see there? Nothing to hang on a panelled wall above a fireplace.

“I was also looking at some of your books,” I lied. “Your mother’s collection?”

“About half, I’d say. The rest are mine. Does that surprise you?” he asked.

“I have a low opinion of businessmen, is that what you want me to say? To be honest I shouldn’t have thought that books would mean a lot to a man like Norman Caine.”