“You must do good work then, Miss Webster,” he said and mentioned his own name. “Has she ordered mourning wear from you?”
“Not a stitch.” The seamstress met his eyes boldly. “Do you think it’s true she’s in the hospital?”
“Hospital?” Harris repeated in astonishment. “Who says so?”
“Her husband, Mr. Crane. I’ve seen she’s not at home, at least.”
“I know nothing about it. Her condition . . . ?”
“Bad, I suppose.”
Harris knew of no condition bad enough to warrant placing a woman of Theresa’s means in such an institution, but he didn’t get to pursue the subject. Just then a red-haired man, dressed rather for a country auction than for a funeral, pushed through the crowd and took Marion Webster by the upper arm. Between the frayed cuff of his coarse-weave jacket and his dirt-caked nails, his thick fingers pressed lightly into the flesh beneath her black bombazine sleeve. Without freeing herself, as she easily might have done, the young woman directed towards him a frosty look, which seemed not to displease him. His hooded eyes twinkled. His warty, oval face broke into a sardonic grin.
“You have something for me,” he said. “Let’s go where we can talk.”
“Miss Webster is favouring me with her conversation at present,” said Harris, betraying less resentment than he felt—both at the interruption and at the rude handling of the young woman.
“That’s all right, Mr. Harris,” said Marion Webster. “I’ll go with Mr. Vandervoort.”
“John Vandervoort, Mr. Harris. Procurement officer for the Garrison. I must speak to Miss Webster concerning the . . . ah . . . the new battle colours she is stitching for the Wiltshire Grenadiers.”
Harris knew for a fact there was no such regiment at the Toronto Garrison, or for that matter in the British army.
He assessed Vandervoort as muscular enough to cause even a strong girl much annoyance if he chose, but past the height of his vigour. Fond of his comforts. His nose was brightly veined, and a tin flask protruded from a side pocket of his check jacket. Harris saw no reason to cringe before him.
“You’re sure, Miss Webster, you don’t require assistance?”
“Oh, quite. I’m in no danger. Excuse me.”
Vandervoort, his hand now at the back of her waist, ushered Marion Webster out of the square. Powerless to detain her, Harris watched with misgiving until they were lost to view, then made his way to Crane’s side.
“So, there you are, Isaac. We’re next. That’s all right, Oscar.” Brisk now as Harris could desire, Crane opened the door to his brougham before the coachman had time to jump down.
Mystery seemed to be piling on mystery. As Harris settled into the plush, pearl-grey upholstery, he wondered why Crane—always so avid for the ear of politicians—should choose on this occasion to send them on ahead in the coaches reserved for the chief mourners and himself ride to the cemetery in his own conveyance with no better company than a bank cashier.
Crane settled into the seat beside Harris and pulled the door shut. The confined space smelled of new leather and of Crane’s soap. What was it? Something oriental, Harris thought—sandalwood perhaps.
“It’s a warm day for a closed carriage,” said Crane, mopping his forehead with a black-bordered handkerchief, “but it gives us a chance to be by ourselves for a bit.”
Through the front window, the coachman up on the box could be seen flicking the horse into motion with his reins. Four well-oiled wheels rolled smoothly forward.
“Mrs. Crane is rumoured to be in the General Hospital,” said Harris. “I find that hard to believe.”
“I really should have thought of something better,” Crane replied. “The fact of the matter is she has disappeared.”
The word shocked Harris. His entire body seemed to clench. Even the gentle forward motion of the carriage became oppressive, and he would have had the driver stop had they not been in the middle of a funeral procession. Doubly oppressive was the presence of the other man, Theresa’s husband. His voice was so even that he might have been making a heartless joke, or merely putting out another lie for public consumption.
Harris forced himself to study Crane’s pink, clean-shaven face. It was firmly fleshed, smoothly handsome, dignified, amiable despite small eyes, and otherwise unexpressive. Harris remembered, though, an incident during the funeral service.
Theresa’s husband had read from the third chapter of Ecclesiastes. Harris thought of Henry Crane as having a glib tongue and heart, but nothing could have been less glib than his performance on this occasion. From the moment he had stood up, the substantial man of business had shown untypical diffidence. He had moved slowly to the reading desk.
A lamp there had already been lit to supplement the daylight slanting into the church through plain glass windows. The gas flame shone off the pink bald patch in the middle of Crane’s head as he inclined it over the Bible. Around the ears, his straight sandy hair was clipped short. This habitual if unfashionable cut appeared in the context almost monkish.
“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.” His toneless voice reached to the farthest member of the hushed congregation. “A time to be born—”
Here Crane stopped as if paralyzed. The mourners held their breath. The silence lasted too long to be a mere rhetorical flourish. If Crane had at this moment wiped his eye or sat down or given any other sign of incapacity to continue, Harris would have doubted his sincerity instantly. But the voice at last continued in the same steady key: “—and a time to die.” Crane completed the reading without further interruptions, then walked quietly back to to his seat.
Harris thought of that halting reading and wondered what more was behind Crane’s show of emotion than had appeared at the time. Again the industrialist seemed hesitant.
“Disappeared?” said Harris, finding his own voice with difficulty. “How can she have?”
“She’ll likely turn up safe,” said Crane. “What happened is she went for a ride Sunday afternoon and didn’t come back.”
“She went alone?”
“Yes. I was busy with funeral arrangements, but she said she needed air and exercise. I thought they would do her good considering the heavy blow of her father’s death.”
“Please continue.”
Crane continued, calmly reasonable. “She often rode alone. My wife is an excellent horsewoman—as you know. I was concerned, but didn’t overrule her.”
“And her horse?” said Harris. “I take it she was riding Spat. Has the animal not found its way home?”
“No, Isaac. Look, I wanted to ask you whether she has communicated with you in any way. Has she?” Crane’s voice sharpened suddenly, as if he suspected Harris’s surprise might be feigned.
“She has not.”
“Neither before Sunday nor since?”
“There’s been no communication between us,” Harris flatly declared, “direct or indirect, since before her marriage.”
His hazel-brown eyes becoming even smaller, Crane held Harris’s gaze. The question still hung between them.
This was not the Henry Crane who—with never a look behind—had wooed Theresa away from the disastrously diffident Harris. Rolling up Yonge Street past the many crape-hung shop windows, Harris reflected on the change.
He