Foul Deeds: A Rosalind Mystery Read online

  He’d be pushing it to go back in now. He’d have to get Rosalind to connect with Aziz.

  Chapter Eight

  After my jaunt to Crystal Crescent Beach, I took the yew branches and berries out to our regular lab for analysis of the taxine levels, then made my way home to prepare for rehearsal. I found McBride on my doorstep.

  “I suppose you’re looking for a cup of tea,” I said.

  “It can’t hurt,” he said.

  “It’s a comfort,” I said, unlocking the door.

  Over tea he caught me up on his failed mission at City Hall.

  “I wouldn’t call it a failure,” I said. “It sounds as though you likely succeeded in finding your original contact. You just didn’t get the information.”

  “Yeah, that little detail,” he said cynically. “Otherwise it was a great success.”

  “Stop it,” I said.

  “I knew if I ventured back in to look for him in the archives, I’d risk putting focus on him, and there’s no question he’s skittish, and obviously with reason. Even my going around there today may have been a mistake. So now, it’s up to you Roz to go down there, get King’s report from Staff and then try to connect with Aziz.”

  “I can easily go over to Ecology Counts instead to get King’s report. But as for the other,” I said, “the problem is that because of the many, many errands I’ve done for you on past cases, a number of people at City Hall know me. They know me in person and they know me on the phone, and they know I work with you, so there would still be the risk of someone linking you with him even if it was me doing it.”

  “You think so?”

  “How about this: Why don’t we get Sophie to call using, say, a British accent? She’s a wonderful actress, and she could call the Planning Office directly and say she’s a friend or even a relative. It would keep the focus off you or me, and it shouldn’t put him in any danger. We just need to figure out what she should say and what kind of arrangement she should make with him.”

  “Let me think about it,” McBride said. It was against his principles to involve anyone unnecessarily in a case, but he was anxious to find a way to get at whatever information Aziz had.

  “I have to go see her today anyway,” he added.

  “Oh really,” I said, raising my eyebrows.

  “I left Molly there this morning.”

  “Well, Sophie’s got rehearsal at six and she usually goes in early, so you better get cracking.”

  “Right.” He got to his feet and started to put his coat on.

  “And hey, don’t bother asking me how my day was,” I said, picking up his teacup and carrying it to the sink.

  “Okay I won’t. Alright. How was your day?”

  “Well, since you ask, I went to the King residence to get the yew tree samples this morning and I had a very interesting conversation with Daniel King, who surprised me by being there—it turns out he isn’t leaving for Ontario until tomorrow.”

  “He must have changed his travel plans. And what was so interesting?”

  “Well, he spoke quite eloquently about his father, but then he became extremely upset talking about his mother’s strange behaviour after the funeral, how she more or less cut him off emotionally, packed her bags and left for Europe. Did you know about this?” I asked.

  “No, I didn’t—I mean—he told me she had gone, but not that she was behaving strangely.”

  “So,” I continued, “I’m thinking that if we get the results I’m expecting on this yew sample—and I did get it out to the lab today—then we’ll need to twist some arms and get official permission to exhume the body ASAP. And if we can prove poisoning, then I think we’d better be tracking down Greta King.”

  “You’ve got it all figured out, eh Roz? Maybe you should hang out your sign.”

  “McBride! For heaven’s sake.”

  “I’ll take all this under advisement kiddo—see you later.” He was gone. I’d forgotten to ask him whether Andy had found anything untoward in his security sweep but I assumed since McBride hadn’t mentioned it that everything was clean.

  I had to get ready for rehearsal, so I decided not to stew about McBride’s challenged ego, or about my own surprising feelings around his involvement with Sophie. I walked over to the cat and scratched her chin. She started purring immediately—warm from lying on the radiator. She stretched. “It looks like we’re down to sharing a can of soup,” I said. “But it’s your favourite—beef with barley.”

  I put the new Cohen CD on and got a little repast together.

  “Look at me Leonard. Look at me Leonard. Look at me one last time,” I sang along.

  “So,” I said to Sophie during the break, “reiki eh?”

  “What a character,” she replied. “He’s sweet, though. I like him.”

  “Sweet wouldn’t be my descriptive choice,” I said. “Don’t forget I warned you.”

  “He mentioned this idea of yours to me this afternoon,” she said, deftly changing the subject, “of calling this person and pretending I’m his friend or his cousin or something.”

  “Just make sure to keep it between us, Sophie, ” I said, looking around to be certain we were out of earshot.

  “Don’t worry, I’m like the grave.”

  “Did McBride have a plan for what you’ll say and all that?”

  “He’s working on it.”

  “Well, make sure to let me know what the plan is,” I said to her, in case McBride decided to go ahead without filling me in.

  “We’re back, everybody.” It was Michael, the stage manager.

  For rehearsal that evening the space was set up for the play within the play, “The Mousetrap.” There was a shadow drape that hung down from a high platform. Behind it was a red flickering light. Above on the platform, in full view, stood the player who would recite “The Prologue” and play a recorder to accompany the first part—the dumb-show. Player King, Player Queen and wicked Lucianus the Poisoner would be behind the sheet creating a shadow play. Claudius, Gertrude, Polonius, and Ophelia were going to sit out among the real spectators, thus making the audience part of the court.

  As Hamlet prepares for the arrival of Claudius and his entourage, he takes his old friend Horatio into his confidence:

  There is a play tonight before the King:

  One scene of it comes near the circumstance

  Which I have told thee of my father’s death:

  He then exhorts Horatio to keep his eye on Claudius. As the court arrives, Gertrude invites Hamlet to sit with her, but he declines, moving in on Ophelia saying, “here’s metal more attractive.” The scene goes on:

  Lady, shall I lie in your lap?

  No, my lord.

  I mean my head upon your lap?

  Ay, my lord.

  Did you think I meant country matters?

  I think nothing, my lord.

  Tom was delivering Hamlet’s dialogue quite flatly, as though removed from the action. Sophie stopped the scene for a moment to ask a question.

  “Roz. Does ‘country matters’ mean what we think it does?”

  “Oh yes,” I said. “It’s an Elizabethan double entendre. He’s taunting her, purposely making her uncomfortable with lewd remarks and innuendoes.”

  “But why is he treating her like this on this occasion?” Sophie asked. Tom and the other actors in the scene were all looking at me, so I decided to go for it—tell them what I thought was going on in this key scene.

  “Well, Hamlet has finally taken action—he’s set a trap for Claudius—and he’s so wired he’s almost out of control. Look at the text. He starts the scene by answering Claudius’s benign query about how he fares, with: ‘I eat the air, promise crammed.’ In other words, he has an enormous visceral appetite for what is about to unfold. This spills over into crudity with Ophelia. Then, he can scarcely contain himself through the opening dumb-show. ‘You are as good as a chorus, my lord,’ Ophelia says to try to quiet him down. And, ‘You are keen my lord, You are keen,’ to which
he replies, ‘It would cost you a groaning to take off my edge.’

  “Next, hardly taking time for a breath, he goes after the players to stop their miming and get on with the play proper. ‘Begin murderer! Pox, leave thy damnable faces and begin. Come—the croaking raven doth bellow for revenge!’ Next poor Lucianus hardly has his devilish speech out of his mouth before Hamlet fairly shouts to the whole court: ‘He poisons him i th’ garden for’s estate. His name’s Gonzago. You shall see anon how the murderer gets the love of Gonzago’s wife!’

  “Then BOOM! All hell breaks loose. The story is a direct hit—Claudius leaps up and starts moving out of the room calling for lights, echoed by Polonius’s ‘lights! lights! lights!’ It’s as though Hamlet has set a match to a fuse and has been impatiently watching the flame travel to the explosive point. You see, Claudius’s reaction gives Hamlet indisputable proof of his guilt—he has just seen it with his own eyes! And he has corroboration from his trusted friend.

  “‘Didst perceive?’ he asks Horatio. ‘Very well, my lord,’ Horatio replies.

  “‘Upon the talk of the poisoning?’ Hamlet asks. ‘I did very well note him.’ ‘Ah Ha!’ Shakespeare writes a shout of triumph for Hamlet here because now he knows the ghost was speaking the truth. The apparition of his father might after all have been a devil’s trick or a hallucination. In the aftermath of The Mousetrap, he’s absolutely beside himself with glee, tormenting Rosencrantz and Guildenstern as they attempt, at Gertrude’s behest, to summon him.”

  Following my little dissection of the play within the play, the company tackled the scene again with new vigour. Hamlet found real appetite for the event, discovering that the hyperactive desire to expose Claudius overrode all social niceties. He was crude and rude to Ophelia, and to both the King and Queen. Following the rehearsal, they knew they had tapped into the relentless motion—the inevitability—of Shakespeare’s tragedy. The Mousetrap is the turning point in the play. There’s no going back once you catch the conscience of the King.

  “What is it that makes this so powerful?” George wondered.

  I thought for a few seconds before I replied. “I think it’s Shakespeare’s conviction that there is an undeniable morality. It’s what makes his wicked characters like Claudius so fascinating; they act out of avarice or lust for power, blindly believing they can get away with it, but deep down inside they know they’ve transgressed. Finally, they come face to face with their own wickedness and they recognize it. This raises them and makes them part of the moral tale that’s being told. In the tragedies, the recognition comes too late—everyone dies—but it’s recognition nonetheless, and it makes us better for witnessing it. Our humanity is what’s at stake. As Hamlet says: ‘Foul deeds will rise, Though all the earth oe’r whelm them, to men’s eyes.’”

  Sophie added, “I believe the play is so popular today because…just look at this world! It’s so in our face with greed and corruption that we find ourselves reaching for things that hold ancient truth and wisdom in them. Hamlet is one of those things.”

  Tom, who was playing Hamlet, said, “I think we find it meaningful because understanding the play helps us to believe we’re capable of saving ourselves from ourselves.”

  The cast went on like this for some time, exploring and trying to articulate the rich feeling that the play gave them. As I drove home, I thought about my life. What was I doing? What was I striving for? Was I capable of doing any good—of raising myself up to something worthwhile?

  While Shakespeare’s poetry could lift you and make you feel grand, the sheer scope of his accomplishments could reduce you to utter insignificance.

  When I got home, it was already after eleven. The message light was flashing on my phone. “Hello Rosalind. It’s me, Daniel. I just wanted to thank you for our chat this morning. I’m sorry I had that little breakdown, but talking to you meant a lot to me. I’m flying back to Ontario tomorrow knowing that someone cares about my father and about finding out what happened to him. So thank you and good luck. Please keep in touch. Mr. McBride has all my numbers. Oh and if you need to reach my mother, he has a London number for her—but I tried to call her today and apparently she’s gone on to Paris. I’m trying to get a number for her there. The contact name is Spiegle or something like that. Take care.”

  My mouth was open. This was too weird! Spiegle? Hadn’t I already heard that name this afternoon when McBride told me about his City Hall fiasco? I immediately dialed McBride, but to no avail. He might be at Sophie’s, but it was too late to call there. “Call me, McBride—it’s urgent,” I said in response to his message.

  I opened the back door and whistled for the cat who had gone out when I came in. “Come on,” I called, “bedtime!” Just as I was about to close the door and leave her out—she flew in—her long fur out to its fullest as she brushed past me on her way to her dish.

  I locked the door with both bolts. Can’t be too careful, I thought.

  I was pleased that I had brought Daniel a little hope that the real story of his father’s death would someday be told. But hearing his voice also made me feel anxious about whether we’d ever get anywhere. Go to bed, I thought, get a good sleep, and make something happen tomorrow.

  I was in a dead sleep when McBride called at 2:00 a.m. “Sorry Roz. You said urgent.”

  God, I thought, nothing’s that urgent. “Right,” I said, trying to surface. “It’s…um…oh yeah—it’s Spiegle.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Wasn’t that the name of the guy in Planning that you mentioned?”

  “Yeah—Carl Spiegle. Seems to be the supervisor in charge of the treatment plants.”

  “But he’s away, right?”

  “On vacation, they said.”

  “Well, Daniel King left me a message saying his mother has apparently gone on from London to Paris. Guess what the contact name is?”

  “That’s pretty wild. Give me the number.”

  “He didn’t have it—says he’s tying to get it. What should we do?”

  “I’ll come over for breakfast and we’ll discuss it. See you at nine for pancakes. I’ll bring the bacon.”

  “Aren’t you bushy-tailed,” I said hanging up. He’d be lucky to get coffee.

  Chapter Nine

  By the time I’d been able to fall back to sleep it was close to 4:00 a.m., and McBride was ringing my bell at 8:45. Molly bounded in as I opened the door. Only a Lab could be that happy to greet someone first thing in the morning.

  “You’re early,” I said, standing there in my housecoat and bare feet. “You can start breakfast, while I get dressed.” I headed back upstairs wondering what McBride would do to my kitchen.

  “No, really, they’re not bad, McBride. I mean eggs, baking powder, and a little salt might improve them a bit, but it is possible to make them just with flour and milk as you’ve done.” I reluctantly took a second gummy pancake from the heap. “Anyway, they’re really just an excuse to eat syrup,” I said, watching him empty the dregs from my maple syrup bottle onto his plate.

  “And bacon,” he said, taking the remaining crispy rashers. “Okay Roz, down to business,” he said as I poured his coffee. “You’re getting the lab results today? Don’t you have any cream?”

  “Sorry, just milk. I put a rush on the samples,” I said, “but what are we going to do about looking into this Spiegle thing?”

  “That’s on today’s agenda. I’ll do a backgrounder and try to find out what his family connections are. I’ll also call the London contact and try to get more information on Greta King’s whereabouts. If that doesn’t get us anywhere we may have to go back to the City and get Spiegle’s vacation itinerary.”

  “Speaking of the City, Sophie mentioned at rehearsal that you wanted her to call the Planning Office and see if she could make contact with Aziz, so I guess that means we’re going for that idea.”

  “Let’s see how she feels about it later today.”

  “Doesn’t it seem like we’re just treading wate
r on this case McBride? I mean, we have these avenues of pursuit, but we’re just noodling around on the periphery. We’re not really in the centre of it. It’s driving me crazy.”

  “This is a tough one—one of those potentially perfect crimes. If Daniel wasn’t questioning his father’s death, the perpetrators would likely get away scot-free. You’re not normally so anxious, Roz. What’s going on?”

  “Good question,” I said. “Peter King has gotten under my skin. It’s like he represents more than just himself to me. I want justice for him. I feel like the future of the world is on our shoulders.”

  “You know what I think. It’s that crazy theatre stuff you’re involved in. Whenever you work on a play, you get weird.”

  “I do?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Definitely? Like this is some kind of pattern. Some kind of recognizable state I get myself into when I’m working on a play?”

  “It takes you over, Roz. Anyway, you’re going to Ecology Counts to track down that report, right, so you can learn even more about Peter King today.”

  Ecology Counts was housed in a mid-nineteenth-century house on Spring Garden Road, the office on the upper floor. The organization had been functioning for many years and had championed numerous environmental and greenspace battles as well as pushing hard for the Organic Waste system, which was a pioneer program in Canada.

  Leading the charge was Eloise Radner, a transplant from Montreal who had been in Nova Scotia for twenty-five years but was still considered “from away.” I had gotten to know her a little bit at the numerous protests prior to the Iraq War, when people from every walk of life and all the humanitarian organizations were out in full force. Eloise had been a spokesperson on the potential environmental damage the bombing of the Iraq oil wells would cause, as well as the risks of destroying the Iraqi people’s water and electricity infrastructure.

  “In fact,” she said, as we reminisced about the pre-invasion marches, “it was Peter King who really got on the bandwagon about the threat to the Iraqi water system. And of course, everything he predicted has come to pass. The damage was so extensive that many Iraqis still have no access to water, in spite of the highly touted American engineering firms who’ve been paid millions to fix it. It’s like that’s the real new economy. Go in and bomb the shit out of a country—and then make billions rebuilding it.”