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DETECTIVE JACK WINSTON stood outside the law offices of Huntington and Shipley. People moved around him, hoofbeats and grating wheels announced a passing carriage, but he fixed his focus on the building’s entrance, willing the missing man to emerge. Deep in his pocket, his fingers found the rock his brother Ellis had given him fifteen years earlier. The cool, smooth surface warmed at his touch and he relaxed. Maybe today would be the day.
INSIDE THE TWO-STOREY building that housed the Vancouver Constabulary and Courthouse, Winston sifted through the pages of Huntington’s file. Nothing sparked any fresh ideas. From his pocket, he fished out the key for the small drawer on his desk, his fingers glancing the stone. The lock released with a soft click. A rustle of fabric made Winston look up to catch his new constable, Thomas Miller, adjusting a button on his uniform. Miller smoothed the front of his deep blue jacket and cleared his throat.
“Sir? Mrs. Huntington is here?”
“Are you asking or telling me?” Winston grimaced at his misplaced frustration. Walter Huntington’s disappearance was hardly the fault of the earnest young officer standing before him, and Winston could not fault Huntington’s mother for her daily visits to the station. He pictured the deepening lines that creased the woman’s face. No, his inability to provide her an update was his own failing.
Winston re-locked the drawer and returned the key to his pocket. “Please tell her I am—” Winston looked down. “I will see her now.”
“I could tell her you’ve learned nothing new, sir.”
“No. I am finished here.” Winston patted the file on his desk. “But you are correct; there is no news today. Still, speaking to family members and loved ones is part of our job.”
Winston rose and took a moment to smooth his moustache. He made his way to the front of the station, where Mrs. Huntington stood holding a long, narrow box. From a distance, her blouse appeared to be light blue to complement the deeper blue of her jacket and skirt, though as he drew closer, Winston saw that the colour was the effect of fine stripes. Her hat bore an intricate display of silk flowers in the same blue as the jacket.
He stepped past the desk where Constable Miller had begun sorting a small pile of papers. Despite being assigned to assist Winston, with only twelve officers on the force, Miller still had to spend time at the desk near the station entrance most days. “Mrs. Huntington.” Winston stretched out his hand, instantly dropping it to his side when she narrowed her eyes. A flash of hot embarrassment flooded him.
“Mr. Winston.” By now, after weeks of daily visits, she must have known she should address him as Detective Winston, but he said nothing; correcting her would only cause her mouth and nose to crinkle more.
“I have little news for you, Mrs. Huntington.”
She sniffed. “I, however, have news for you.”
What more could she possibly have to share? And why hadn’t she shared it earlier? Winston exhaled and squared his shoulders. “Thank you, madam.”
“Before he disappeared, my Walter ordered a pair of gloves from Sharp’s.” Winston followed her eyes to the duty desk, where Miller busied himself reviewing the paper stack. Mrs. Huntington placed the box on the desk’s raised counter and opened the clasp of the small purse hanging at her wrist. She pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed the corner of her dry eye, actions Winston had observed as her dance each time they’d met. Without dropping her gaze, she returned the handkerchief to her purse.
“Where have the gloves been all these weeks?”
“I sent my maid to Sharp’s yesterday to determine whether I want to look at a delivery of silks—I do not—and Mr. Sharp sent a message asking if I wanted him to sell the gloves to someone else.”
“And your decision?”
Mrs. Huntington pointed at the box. “I collected them myself yesterday afternoon. My son will want them when he returns.”
On an earlier visit to the station, the woman had declared Huntington had slipped away on a boat travelling north, though she expected the police to continue searching for him in the city, just in case. Winston understood a man’s desire to seek adventure—or at least distance from his difficult mother—though if he had ordered the gloves to arrive after he left, it suggested his sudden departure was not planned.
“May I see the gloves, Mrs. Huntington?” Winston asked out of courtesy rather than necessity.
“I brought them to show you.”
Winston pulled the box closer and eased the lid off to reveal a layer of crisp white cotton. He resisted the urge to run his finger along the embroidered pattern stitched into the top of the gloves. “Who were these for?”
“Mr. Sharp didn’t say.” She extended her arm and wiggled her fingers. “I doubt they are for me; they are too large for my hands.” Winston frowned a warning at Miller, who masked his snort with a cough and covered his smile with his hand. Confidence was admirable, but hers was misplaced. She had wealth and status, but not the small hands she claimed to possess.
“Indeed.” Winston stifled the smile that tweaked his own lips. “Was he—”
“As I’ve told you before, Walter was not stepping out with anyone, Mr. Winston.” She closed her eyes a moment and he waited for her to continue. “I rather think he fancied the daughter of a gentleman who works for the railway.”
The Huntington household staff likely knew more about this relationship and whether the daughter was indeed the intended recipient of the gloves. Winston pulled a small notebook from his breast pocket and made a note. Walter Huntington wouldn’t be the first young man to pursue a woman his mother thought unsuitable. “I will speak with Mr. Sharp, Mrs. Huntington. Thank you for coming to share this information.” He escorted the missing man’s mother to the main entrance, nodding again at Miller as he returned to his desk.
Why had she waited so long to tell him about her son’s romantic interest? Had she only just learned of it, like the gloves?
Men keep secrets when they want to chart their own course. Like Ellis. What private diversions had he kept from their parents in the months leading to his disappearance? Winston pulled the rock from his pocket and set it on his desk. The afternoon on the shore of Lake Ontario came back to him, a family picnic on one of the small islands near Toronto’s waterfront during Jack’s school break. Though time had faded the memory, sensations and fragments were still fresh—the colour of his mother’s dress, a blue that seemed to have been pulled from the cloudless sky; the sharp chill of the water lapping around his feet, making him squeal; Ellis, beside him, skipping stones.
He had a vague memory of George, his youngest brother, being there too, at first. But he’d gone off somewhere with a cluster of boys his age.
Jack had persevered and, with Ellis’s help, had managed to get two skips out of a stone. Ellis whooped and gave him an encouraging clap on his shoulder. The warmth of the memory brought a smile. He’d spent the rest of the afternoon searching for the perfect stone to give to Ellis. Finally, he found it and ran to the family’s spot under a tree to present it to his brother. Ellis had turned it over, grinning his approval, then placed it back in Jack’s palm, wrapping his small fingers around it. “Keep it for next time.”
Ellis disappeared the following week.
Winston rubbed at his temples, summoning focus. He returned the rock to his pocket and unlocked the desk drawer, removing his journal to capture a few thoughts from the conversation.
May 10 ’97
I expected Mrs. Huntington for her daily visit, and she didn’t disappoint. She remains optimistic her son will return. Such faith is admirable. Would that I prove her correct, though the gloves she had with her are a stronger signal his departure was unplanned. As more time passes since Huntington’s disappearance, the less confident I am I will find him.