In Vancouver, the transition from September to October entails a precipitous drop in temperature. As though at a signal, stratus clouds converge into nimbus clouds, the rains begin, a dank chill descends and it becomes clear to citizens that, for the next three-and-a-half months, they will be living at the bottom of the sea.
McCurdy turns in his copy to the receptionist rather than appear in the main office—where he is bound to be noticed, then summoned by the general for another vicious wig-bubble that has emerged from his elderly mind.
Newson’s store of resentment and blame operates like the magma at the centre of the earth—tap into it and you have an eruption, and are apt to be burnt to a crisp.
At the same time, the general’s convictions are balanced by a robust amount of self-interest. With Cunning unmasked, Stalker dead and the government in chaos, Newson’s priorities, like the province itself, will return to normal. McCurdy has no doubt that he will be persuaded by advertisers to take a less disruptive position, both at The Star and in the Legislature; he will be encouraged to take a more nuanced, balanced position on the issues of the day, and the events of yesterday. He will put up no resistance when a street is named Cunning Avenue and a school becomes Boris Stalker Academy, to commemorate two public figures who stood for the British Way of Life, along with the current roster of immortalized railway executives, coal barons, imperial warriors and, of course, Prince George, the cocaine enthusiast, said to be in preparation for a tour of South America after scandals involving the heiress Poppy Baring, as well as the Duchess of Argyle…
Turning down Granville Street, McCurdy heads for the CPR dock where he is to meet Miss Wickstram, freshly back from Victoria with more details about the assassination—one of several nasty crimes worthy of this reporter’s attention at the moment, unless the others become lost in the glare. Her onsite observations will provide colour to a prosaic account of Liberal malefactors.
He looks forward to her arrival, although with reservations.
It strikes him that he and Mildred have, more than once, seen one another at low tide, so to speak, occasions when unfavourable aspects of one’s character come out of hiding and scuttle about for all to see.
Perhaps that amounts to some sort of love—to see the worst and not recoil. Not a high standard perhaps, but it will do for now.
Officials Mum on Murder
Questions Go Unanswered
Ed McCurdy
Staff Writer
The Evening Star
The reader, while wracking his brain
Surely has cause to complain
When officials are mum
The police deaf and dumb
And reporters are driven insane.
As the public reels from the recent series of unprecedented events, newspapers attempting to report are hampered by a shroud of secrecy.
Police and government spokesmen remain coy, some say inappropriately so, about the specifics of three deaths—a former Attorney General, a leader of the Ku Klux Klan and the wife of a deputy minister—or whether any connection exists between them; instead, they take shelter beneath the umbrella of an “ongoing investigation.”
The two men involved in Luther Forrest’s death have pleaded guilty only to abetting a suicide; and there remains the possibility that Mrs Crombie and Mr Cunning died by inadvertently consuming tainted alcohol.
Asked about exhuming the two bodies, Chief Barfoot replied: “We will require hard evidence before we undertake a wild goose chase at taxpayer expense.”
In sum, perhaps Boris Stalker put it best when he said, just before meeting his tragic end: “Things are falling apart.”
As for the assassination, officials have likewise declined to answer questions concerning either the sniper’s identity or the weapon used, though a knowledgeable veteran of the trenches, when pressed, was heard to comment: “I tell you one thing only—that shot did not come from a Ross rifle.”
DS Hook stops reading, puts down The Evening Star and turns to his wife: “What do you think, pet? Are things falling apart?”
“Ducky, you know how reporters exaggerate. It can’t be as bad as all that. I fancy Mr McCurdy is egging the pudding.”
“I’m sure you’re right, pet,” he says, and kisses Jeanie on the cheek.
— End —