The Drowned Man Page 11

  “And Lowndes’s explanation has not satisfied you?”

  “His report describes ‘abrasions’ and ‘bruising’ around the neck and face. Also, there was scraping of the pads of the fingers. I don’t need to see the body. But you restored the face. I assume you also attended to the hands.”

  Parrish appeared to agree with everything Peter said, happy to have someone empathize with his challenges. “Yes, we do that. Especially in cases like this, when we are shipping a body overseas. The law requires us to perform the full embalming in Canada, in order to be able to issue the final burial permit. We never know what customs prevail in the receiving country, or how the grieving family wants the body displayed at the funeral rites. It would be a shock to have the family open the coffin and find residual markings on the corpse. In the case of Monsieur Carpenter, an open coffin will be suitable, if the family wishes it.”

  “Tell me about the face,” Peter said. “That very much interests me. Tell me about the bruises and the scrapes you had to cover up.”

  Cammon and Parrish stood by the long mahogany chest as they talked, Carpenter a haunting presence inside the case.

  “By the time I get to the cosmetics, the face and its wounds have evolved. Not swelling, though everybody thinks of that. In fact, the draining of the blood and the embalming process reduce bloating. But the body has aged just that much more when I get it. We work closely with the coroner to understand the trauma to the deceased but, frankly, his needs and ours are a little different. After the autopsy, there was a delay of only two days before the body reached me. Néanmoins, I could discern that someone had applied fingertip pressure around the neck. Not all the way around the neck, but on both sides.”

  “As if someone choked him?”

  “The bruising originally was subcutaneous. Lowndes saw it, yes, but the separate finger marks emerged more visibly after an extra two days. I cannot say for sure that he was choked. It could have been someone was trying to help him. Perhaps the Good Samaritan who pulled him out of the water.”

  “But someone gripped him around the neck, probably before he died.”

  “Yes.”

  “What about the fingertips of Mr. Carpenter. Did you see anything unusual?”

  “The fingertips, oui.”

  “In what respect?”

  “The long fingers on both hands were éraflés. Scraped. Some of the abrasions were on top of the grass stains, if you know what I mean.”

  Peter was confused. “He tried to crawl up the sides of the canal?”

  “No, no. I think the sad Mr. Carpenter made it to the sidewalk by the canal, and that’s where he collapsed. The scraping was from cement, not rough stones.”

  Peter envisioned a scenario where the killer caught Carpenter at the paved path and threw him into the canal. The young man made a last effort to resist. He — or she — really had killed Carpenter twice. Carpenter hadn’t made it into the water unassisted.

  But Parrish had more speculation to offer.

  “There was something else unusual. How should I put it? There were small marks, a few cuts, and other small bruises that made no sense to me.”

  Peter let him work it through.

  “It was as though the body was abused. Like someone hit him. I know, I know, he hit the ground hard and then crawled across the grass, but even so, I think he was . . .”

  “Manhandled?”

  “Yes. Malmené. Attacked in a frenzy.”

  Parrish furnished Peter with a bundle of documentation but retained the coffin key. The package contained an official certificate of death, a copy of the Burial Permit, the Canadian Burial Transfer Permit signed by both Parrish and Lowndes, a copy of the funeral home’s facture — already paid by the British consulate — and the original of the conveyance report signed by the coroner.

  “The coroner’s statement itemizes the body parts provided by his office to me,” Parrish said. “When the coffin reaches the Air Freight office at Trudeau tomorrow, they will place the body in what they call an air tray, labelled ‘human remains.’”

  “I assume that container will be locked,” Peter said.

  “Yes. They know what they’re doing.”

  There was little more to discuss. They moved back up to the main office and prepared to say goodbye. Parrish placed the stack of documents in a plastic portfolio that had the funeral home’s logo stamped on the side.

  “I’ll walk you out,” Parrish said.

  Upstairs, as the two men exited into the early afternoon sun, the ancient mortician turned to Peter. “Did you know that they once used lead coffins for international shipment? They sealed them and pumped out the air. The coffins were incredibly heavy but they did the job. Homeland Security ended the practice after 9/11. Crazy Yanks.”

  Parrish seemed reluctant to end the conversation. He led Peter down the front steps. The architecture of the Parrish Funeral Home was restrained and dignified but the director pointed along the avenue to a much different building three blocks away. Peter could make out its white pillars and a pastel-blue domed roof. It belonged in a fantasy of ancient Athens, or on the Las Vegas Strip.

  “Chief Inspector, do you see that edifice down there? It is another funeral home, the Caparza. Much favoured for mafia funerals.”

  Parrish smiled. But he saw from Peter’s raised eyebrow that his statement might be misinterpreted. “No, Monsieur, I am not a competitor for its trade. I only mention it because of Inspector Deroche’s obsession with la Cosa Nostra. He has spent much time at the Caparza Funeral Home. Or, at least, outside watching it.”

  Peter now suspected where he would be sitting most of the night.

  Renaud had not yet turned up, and Peter was content to wait for him in front of the building. Parrish was in no hurry. Peter thanked him again and reiterated his promise to take good care of Carpenter.

  “Chief Inspector,” Parrish said. “I know nothing about the American Civil War but do you know of General Wolfe?”

  Peter registered the allusion to Renaud’s book. He also remembered from school days the death of General James Wolfe, victor at the Battle of the Plains of Abraham over the French General Montcalm at the climax of the Seven Years’ War. And he recalled the lurid novels of G.A. Henty from his boyhood. Both Wolfe and Montcalm had expired in the battle. He acknowledged the reference.

  Parrish smiled. “They shipped him home in a pickle barrel. Preserved the body nicely.”

  Pascal Renaud pulled up to the entrance. He got out of the car but remained at the driver’s side. He kept his sunglasses on and merely nodded to the funeral director. He smiled when he saw the portfolio with the logo stamped on it. In his own black suit, Peter might have been the mortician.

  Parrish held out his hand. “Good luck, Chief Inspector. I hope that you find Mr. Carpenter’s killer.”

  Both men were conscious of the likelihood that some clues remained locked inside the mahogany coffin with the body of John Fitzgerald Carpenter. Peter hoped that they did not include a letter signed by John Wilkes Booth.

  CHAPTER 11

  “Let’s have lunch in Old Montreal and I’ll show you John Wilkes Booth’s itinerary from 1864,” Pascal Renaud said as they entered the flow of midday traffic downtown. Renaud seemed hyper to Peter and he suspected that the professor had consumed a drink or two already. But Peter was content to sit in the passenger seat and enjoy the old city. Renaud parked and led the way through the cobbled streets of Old Montreal. They had almost passed an old church when Pascal gripped Peter’s shoulder and turned him around.

  “No! Let’s do the church first, then we’ll eat.” As he turned, Peter caught the view down the adjacent alley all the way to the waterfront; the church would have been visible to sailors a long way up and down the great river. Peter stopped by the main door to read an inscription that identified the building as Chapelle Notre-Dame-de-Bonsecours; it had
been in continuous use since 1655. The inscription further described it as the “Sailors’ Church.” A statue of the Virgin Mary presided in a niche above the central door; she was identified as Our Lady of the Harbour. Above her, a narrow spire with a modest bell tower stretched high into the summer sky. Peter was eager to enter, recognizing that the church had provided refuge for thousands of seamen who had landed in Montreal over a period of five centuries.

  Before he could open the heavy door Renaud stopped him for a brief history lesson. “There is no evidence that Monsieur Booth actually went into the chapel during his ten-day visit, but he must have seen this church. Booth was on the lookout for Confederate sympathizers in Montreal to help him with his kidnapping plan, and he would have found them in this area. They all lived in this neighbourhood. We know for certain that he stayed at the St. Lawrence Hall Hotel over on Great Saint James Street. Unfortunately, it no longer exists. The old Donegana Hotel, also long gone, served as another hangout for Confederate agents in Canada.”

  They entered the quiet chapel. A few women knelt in the pews and prayed silently. The atmosphere was subdued. At various points flanking the central aisle along the nave, lamps in the form of small sailing ships hung from the ceiling. Booth might have come here, Peter agreed, but he doubted that the assassin stayed long. It was not a place for men consumed by hatred.

  Out on the bright street, Renaud gestured vaguely ahead and stated, “I want to take you to the site of the St. Lawrence Hall, where Booth stayed, and the Notre Dame Basilica nearby, but first let’s have lunch.”

  In the rich gypsy gloom of a Russian restaurant in a basement on Crescent Street, surrounded by scarlet velvet and oak carvings, they were welcomed by the rotund owner in his sash and embroidered outfit, possibly a Cossack uniform. It seemed an odd place for lunch. Only one other customer inhabited the restaurant and he merely anchored the bar. Even so, the flamboyant Russian gave them a secluded booth at one end of the room. They knew Pascal here and he drank down the complimentary vodka shot almost before the glass could touch the table.

  “I am feeling guilty,” Renaud stated, fussily straightening the cutlery and making room for the booze that Peter had no doubt was coming.

  “I don’t understand why,” Peter said.

  “I want to show off my city, give you a tour of what Booth saw, but it would be under false pretences to continue unless we first finished discussing the letters.”

  Peter nodded. He certainly wanted Pascal’s expert views on the documents. As long as the letters remained hidden, their mythical effect grew. They had become Nicola Hilfgott’s Grail; she appeared far too exercised about the letters as historical treasures. Saddest of all, the theft of the documents seemed to him a feeble motive for killing Carpenter.

  They toasted their health with tumblers of Ruskova.

  Renaud adopted the Socratic method, which had never been Peter’s favoured mode of interrogation. “Why do I believe Booth didn’t write that letter?”

  “Tell me,” Peter said.

  “Because he was a loser. Un raté. The Confederate commissioners and all those others were losers too. None of their schemes had a chance of changing the direction of the war. I confess that Booth was full of sly, nasty ideas, including kidnapping the president, but had neither the sophistication nor the interest to approach the British commander about a French insurgency.”

  “I’ve seen fragments of the letters,” Peter said.

  “From what I have heard, Peter, and what you have told me, the letter signed by Booth claims that he was authorized by Jefferson Davis to deal with the Canadians. There has been recent scholarship showing that Booth was more connected to the Confederate spy network than previously believed. It was called the Confederate Signal Service. Booth came to Canada to make contact with agitators and spies who could help him carry the kidnapped President Lincoln through the swamps of Maryland towards Richmond, the Southern capital. So, Booth was well connected to the South. but there is no evidence that President Davis ever met the actor.”

  “Maybe he simply bullshitted in his letter to Sir Fenwick Williams.”

  Pascal’s voice rose. “Ah, but there is another reason to believe that John Wilkes Booth would not have contacted the British governors in Canada. Booth had his eye on only one prize, the taking of Abraham Lincoln. Booth was unstable. He was his mother’s favourite — had vowed to her never to join the army. Lonely and bitter, he was searching for a dramatic gesture to prove his manhood. He was indeed a fanatic, as the histories have portrayed him, and his mania only got worse over the six months after Montreal. Booth would have despised old fellows like Jacob Thompson, the primary Southern rep in Canada. He would not see any merit, this late in the war, in trying to stir up the British or the French-Canadians.”

  Renaud paused to sip his vodka. “There is one more reason to believe that he didn’t compose that letter to Williams.”

  Peter had to laugh. Renaud conducted an argument like a military campaign. “Okay, let’s hear it.”

  “You have the expression ‘a perfect storm’?” Renaud continued. “Bien, Mr. Booth came to Montreal at the moment when many forces were converging. The tragic raid on St. Albans, Vermont, by Confederate soldiers happened the day he arrived, and the newspapers were full of headlines accusing the Canadians of supporting treason. It was a good time to keep your mouth shut. The constitutional talks among the Canadian colonies were going on that week in Quebec, and Montrealers were excited about playing host to the delegates the following weekend. And guess where the banquet would be held?”

  “The St. Lawrence Hall?” Peter suggested.

  “Yes. Everyone was too busy to listen to the rants of an out-of-work thespian. He stayed here for ten days before folding up his theatrical costumes and going home. He had no inclination to wait for replies to your phantom letters. His trunk was later recovered from the bottom of the St. Lawrence River and handed over to his brother, the actor Edwin Booth. We know that the trunk contained some costumes and a sword, but no letters. Another reason to believe that the letters are forgeries, non?”

  As much as Peter wanted to continue his friendship with the ebullient professor, he wouldn’t allow Pascal to forget that he was a policeman. Renaud remained a key witness, though perhaps not a suspect.

  “Were the letters ever offered to you?” Peter asked, finishing his second tumbler of Ruskova, while Pascal worked on his third.

  “No.”

  “Did you try to find them?”

  “No. You forget, Peter, I do not believe they are real.”

  “It occurs to me that the letters, at least the Booth one, could be quite valuable,” Peter persisted. “Enough for Greenwell to kill for?” The question was half rhetorical and Pascal did not reply.

  The moustachioed Russian kept the vodka and the seven dinner courses, including borscht and “pre-Bolshevik” delicacies, flowing to their table.

  Renaud continued his history lesson. “The Civil War did little to encourage those who hoped to win Quebec’s separation. In fact, Confederation in 1867 was not entirely a disaster; we gained official status for the French language and some provincial powers over culture and our economy. No, the French never supported the Confederates for long. Quebec leaders already knew the downside of societal isolation, and the Confederacy, it became evident, was an example of a government heading nowhere. Also, the evident strength of the modernizing, industrial North showed us that we French had to change to keep up with the rest of the world and do it in spite of, not because of, the great British Empire.”

  The Russian food proved messy, replete with pickled dishes and many sauces, but Pascal ate everything without getting a drop on his clothes. Such was Gallic elegance, Peter mused.

  “Ah, Quebec independence! Jump ahead a hundred years, Peter. My book will bore you enough without my telling it all now. The Quiet Revolution of 1960 was accurately named. After two cen
turies of complaining, we finally did something for ourselves. For the first time, the indépendentistes saw hope. The newly elected premier had promised ‘national liberation’ for the province. By the way, it is significant that we Québécois use many different terms to describe our utopia. You know the cliché that says the Inuit have a hundred words for ‘snow’? The Québécois have a hundred words for ‘independence.’ You will hear ‘sovereignty,’ ‘sovereignty association,’ ‘distinct society,’ even a ‘conflict of races.’ We have our militants, who talk about ‘pure laine.’ We are no less isolated than we ever were, my friend, but we have more terms to justify it. The desire for purity for our little province reminds me of the expression popular in the Civil War: a ‘last ditch stand.’”

  Renaud paused in his drunken narrative to check that Peter wasn’t drowsing off, and to slide another oyster into his mouth. Peter watched him. There was a bit of the voluptuary to Pascal, a male Scheherazade.

  “Then came 1970 and the FLQ Crisis . . .”

  He looked up. Peter indicated that he was still interested.

  “You know about James Cross?” Pascal said.

  “Some,” Peter answered. “Scotland Yard was called in — discreetly — on the kidnapping. Cross was our man.”

  “Yes. James Cross was the British trade commissioner in Montreal, kidnapped by the FLQ. And don’t think Nicola Hilfgott ever forgets it.”

  Peter was quite willing to explore Nicola’s perspective on the FLQ affair but he was far more interested in getting Pascal to follow through on the events of 1970. He detected something personal lurking in the background.

  “The Front de Libération du Québec was a radical group that openly admitted to being terrorists. Some of them were students at UQAM, the Université du Québec at Montreal. The FLQ were true radicals, with all the confused thinking that goes with being a soi-disant revolutionary. John Wilkes Booth would have fit in nicely. Anyway, by 1970 these radicals had placed bombs in mailboxes and maimed and killed innocent people. You see, by detonating the mailboxes, they were attacking an institution of the Federal Government. That gives you a picture of their mentality. It all hit the fan on October 5, 1970, when a cell of the FLQ kidnapped Mr. Cross. The FLQ were Marxists and Cross lived on Redpath Crescent; I always look for small ironies in history.