Early Thursday morning Rebecca trudged up the stairs to her office. She was exhausted. Despite the ordeal of the previous night, she’d kept up her routine of visiting patients at the hospital before her office hours. She tried to shut out the picture, but she kept seeing the man jumping past her in the yard, the woman covered in blood. Her medical training had kicked in while they waited for help, but she was unprepared to deal with violent death. Or the helplessness of watching someone die.
She was getting out her keys when footsteps sounded behind her. She jumped, still on edge, hurrying to unlock the door. While she fidgeted, two neatly groomed men in dark wool coats headed up the stairs after her, one tall and bulky, the other average size.
“We’re looking for Dr. Rebecca Temple,” the bulky one said. He held up his police identity badge for her to examine. His sparse black hair was combed forward, his bulbous nose a patchy red.
She was glad he was on her side. “Come in.” She led them into the empty waiting room and stopped in the middle.
“I’m Detective Fitzroy and this is Detective Bellwood. Would you mind answering some questions about what happened last night?”
They sat down in the waiting room while she repeated what she had told the constable the evening before in the hospital. Fitzroy listened intently, taking notes in a small pad, while Bellwood looked around at the office.
“So you think the dead woman knew this man who looked like a vagrant?” Fitzroy asked.
“He called her Birdie. Said he’d brought her something. He was trying to please her.”
Bellwood suddenly came to life. “Did she call him Stanley?”
“I left when he went into the yard. I didn’t hear anything after that.”
“If it’s who we’re thinking,” Fitzroy said, “we’ve had trouble with him before. He’s a tough guy. Not usually with women. But he’s been known to hit out when he’s not happy. Maybe Birdie did something he didn’t like.”
The morning flew by, with no time for a break between patients. A few minutes before noon, Iris knocked on the door of Rebecca’s examining room. “Phone call for you. A Dr. Sentry.”
Rebecca was just handing over a requisition form for physiotherapy to a woman with a whiplash injury.
“I’ll be right there,” she said. Maybe he had some news about the murder.
She stepped into her private office and picked up the receiver. “Rebecca Temple.”
“It’s Erich Sentry here. I hope you don’t mind me calling your office.”
“It’s fine. We break for lunch at noon.”
“That’s what I was hoping. I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner tonight.”
She sank into her leather chair and stared out the window at the tops of the spruce trees across the street. His mother’s German accent echoed in her head. Should she blame the son?
“Um, certainly. That would be nice.” Would it be?
“What time do you finish at the office?” he asked.
“Around six-thirty.”
“How about I pick you up at seven? You’re in the white brick building on the corner across from my parents’ house?”
Iris had already left when Rebecca heard Erich climbing the stairs in the empty building. She gave her dark mass of hair a last brush in the mirror of the small bathroom. A touch of lipstick. She was going on a date? What would Nesha think? It was just dinner. He would want her to eat.
When she stepped out into the waiting room, Erich was standing in the middle in his pea jacket, surveying the office. He was a bit taller than average, handsome in a boyish way. A strand of brown hair fell over his forehead. He smiled when she appeared, intelligent eyes taking her in.
“I always wondered what it would be like to have live patients.”
She grinned. “They’re more trouble when they’re alive. The trick is to keep them that way.”
He took her coat from her arm and helped her on with it. A light whiff of aftershave as he stood behind her. What did she expect? Formaldehyde?
She turned off the lights and locked the office door behind them. Leading him down the stairs, she asked, “Did you have a place in mind for dinner?”
They stood inside the front door of the building. She had her hand on the switch to turn off the hall light when he said, “I’m sorry if I didn’t make myself clear.” He was suddenly embarrassed. “We’re going to my parents’ house. They wanted you to come for dinner.”
“Oh,” she said, hiding her disappointment in her sweep out the front door.
He took her elbow when they crossed Beverley Street. The Sentry house stood on the opposite corner, its entrance actually on Beverley; only the backyard faced D’Arcy. They had the requisite scrap of front lawn typical of houses downtown. The porch needed painting but was at least clean and uncluttered, unlike its attached neighbour, whose veranda contained bikes, old lawn chairs, and newspapers piled in a box.
Erich opened the door and led her inside. The fragrance of roast chicken softened her regret. She followed him into the living room on the right, where the clean lines of the Scandinavian sofa and chairs vied for space with bookcases, hi-fi equipment, a shelf full of audio-tapes, and a floor lamp wearing a fringed orange shade. Above the fireplace hung a long, tarnished sword that looked antique. A striped orange and cream rug lay on top of the brown broadloom. A long leather gear bag leaned into a corner. There were no religious symbols. No swastikas.
A slight archway separated the dining from the living room. The table was set for four on off-white linen beneath a simple chandelier of translucent glass globes. She spied movement in the kitchen, which led off the dining room.
“What can I get you to drink? Wine?”
“Thanks.” She smiled weakly. What had she gotten herself into? An evening with the dour mother. Would the father be equally dour?
On the wooden mantel over the fireplace stood several photos, most of Erich when he was younger. One, however, was a more formal photo taken with a much younger Mr. and Mrs. Sentry standing behind a chair where a pretty woman sat holding a young child on her lap. Erich resembled his father when he was young. His mother was slightly taller than his father and not much changed over the years, though her short hair was darker and more abundant then. The wide-eyed child must have been Erich. None of them looked happy, but the couple half-smiled for the camera. The small-boned, pretty woman in front made no effort to smile; her eyes emanated pain.
Erich returned with two glasses of white wine, an older, much shorter man on his heels.
“This is my father, Will Sentry. This is Rebecca Temple.”
The older Sentry put out his hand and smiled with confidence at her.
She proffered her hand, speechless, staring at the face she had seen the previous Saturday in the Royal York. The windblown man who had crashed the conference and engaged Dr. Salim in an acrimonious exchange after lunch. In German.
“Delighted to meet you,” he said, his German accent nasal but not unpleasant. He was perfectly polite now, his dark, greying hair combed neatly.
“Erich tells me you’re a doctor, too?”
She nodded, trying to make sense of things. It would be rude to bring up the incident.
Mrs. Sentry appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Hello, doctor. Glad you could make it. Come sit down.”
Her face had softened since last evening, almost aglow in her husband’s presence. Rebecca recognized it with a pang: the difference love made.
On her way into the dining room Rebecca noticed some framed photos propped up on a teak sideboard. In one, a dashing Will Sentry stood dressed in white protective fencing gear, a sword held jauntily in front, his mask under an arm. Rebecca’s mind plunged back fifteen years to her first year in university when she had chosen fencing as her athletic option. All undergrads had to spend a year mastering the sports activity of their choice. Not especially athletic, she’d avoided team sports like volleyball. That year she’d learned to fence with a foil, surprised at the sport’s complexity and energy level. But her main problem had been her lack of aggression, an insurmountable defect in fencing, since, during a bout with an opponent, the first fencer to establish a threat had priority and any hit from the fencer with priority took precedence over a hit from the other. It was called right of way. She’d rarely won a bout. The next year she’d met David and other interests had taken hold.
“You’re a fencer,” she said, gesturing at the photo.
“I coach the varsity team at the university.”
“I took fencing as an undergrad,” she said. “I was pretty awful, but I have fond memories.”
He observed her with new interest. “You must have some European blood.”
“My mother was born in Poland, but came here as a child.”
He watched her for an uneasy moment. She knew there was no love lost between Germany and Poland. The Nazis had murdered millions of Poles in the last war. Apart from the Jews. Maybe it suddenly occurred to him that she was Jewish. Had he been a soldier? What was he remembering?
Finally he said, “You should try it again. I can teach anybody to fence. Want some lessons?”
Erich lifted an eyebrow on his way to the kitchen to help his mother.
“I’d be hopeless. Really. But thanks for the offer.”
“Nonsense! Anyone can do it as long as they’re reasonably healthy. You didn’t have a good teacher.”
Erich helped his mother bring in four steaming bowls of barley bean soup. They passed around a basket of rye bread.
“Why don’t you come to our tournament Saturday? We’re playing the teams from Western and Queen’s. It’s the last one at Hart House before we move into a new building. So it’s special.”
“Dad ...”
“Well, she’s fenced before. She was interested once, maybe we can persuade her again. And if she comes, maybe you’ll come?” He lowered the spoon into his soup. “It starts at one but come at three. The weaker players will be eliminated by then. I know how valuable a doctor’s time is. You two can arrange to meet at Hart House.” He smiled pointedly at Erich. “Maybe you can spare a few hours away from the corpses.”
“This is delicious,” Rebecca said, trying to change the subject. “It reminds me of my mother’s soup.”
Erich snickered sideways at her. “Maybe your mother buys her soup from Daiter’s too.”
Daiter’s was a Jewish delicatessen in Kensington Market.
“I bought some on my way over,” he said. “My mother doesn’t have much time to cook.”
“You’re giving away all our secrets,” said Mrs. Sentry, sending him a half-smile.
“I wanted to thank you for your trouble last night,” Will Sentry said to Rebecca. “It must’ve been a terrible experience.”
“It was very upsetting,” she answered, letting her spoon rest in the bowl. “For all of us, I’m sure.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Sentry. “Very upsetting.” She pushed away her unfinished bowl. “I had trouble concentrating all day. I’m afraid to be in the house alone in case that man comes back. He knows our backyard. If he killed once, he can kill again.”
“Maybe the police have found him,” Rebecca said.
Mrs. Sentry shook her head. “A detective called. What was his name?” She looked at her husband.
“Fitzroy.”
“He said they were still looking for him. They were checking the men’s shelters but hadn’t found him yet. I’m afraid I’m going to walk in one day and he’s going to be inside the house.”
“Oh, honey,” said her husband, smiling fondly at her. “With your muscles, you could knock him down with one good punch.”
“Well, you may laugh,” she said, moving her spoon around in her soup. “But I come home to a dark empty house and I’m nervous. You didn’t see what she looked like, all bloody, her head knocked in.”
The smile died on his face. “Is that necessary?” he said softly.
“I’m sorry.” She looked penitent for a moment, eyes downcast. “But really, doctor, shouldn’t I be frightened?”
How could Rebecca answer that? “The man looked tough, like he’d been in some fights.” The broken nose. “But he ran when I came into the yard — he didn’t attack me.”
“What about the college boys renting next door?” Will Sentry said to his wife. “I’ll ask one of them to come into the house with you when you get home.”
She nodded into her soup.
He addressed Rebecca again. “My wife said you visited the poor woman often.”
“I just saw her twice. All in the past week.”
He leaned forward on his elbows, eyes waiting for more. He was still a handsome man, playfulness in his dark eyes.
“She said some disturbing things when I was walking by. I was concerned for her. How long was she there?”
He sat back, arms across his chest. “She moved around a lot,” he said. “We’ve known her for years. People tried to put her into hospital, and she’d run away. Then she’d turn up in an alley. Or in our backyard. We never knew how long she’d stay. She refused to live indoors. It was too dangerous, she said. People always stole things from her, she said. And always dragging that stupid wagon wherever she went. All her earthly possessions.”
Erich and his mother brought plates of food from the kitchen: a chicken that had been barbecued in some restaurant, baked potatoes in foil jackets, presumably from the same establishment, coleslaw (from Daiter’s, Rebecca guessed), and a bowl of green beans from a can.
“You’re a doctor,” Will Sentry said. “What do you think she had?”
She glanced at Erich. He must have ventured a diagnosis.
When the dish of chicken came by, she speared a slice of breast with her fork and placed it on her plate next to the potato.
“Her speech was rambling — it was hard to follow her train of thought. I’d say she might’ve been schizophrenic.”
Erich threw his father an impatient look as if to say, We’ve been over this before.
“But she did talk to you?”
Rebecca nodded, spooning some sour cream onto her potato.
“She didn’t talk to everybody, you know. You must’ve touched her somehow. Do you remember anything she said?”
She looked at her host, who was cutting up his chicken, along with the skin, and placing neat little pieces into his mouth. Why did he care what the woman had said to her?
“They were strange things. Probably not things you want to talk about at a dinner table.”
“Don’t worry, doctor, we’re not squeamish here.”
“Speak for yourself, Dad.”
His father looked at Erich. “The squeamish pathologist. It’s a good thing all your patients are dead.”
“Ouch.” Erich chewed on some potato.
“Really, doctor. I’d like to know what she said to you. Did she talk about people? Anyone she knew? Or us, even. We knew her a long time, you see.”
Was this why she had been invited? To find out if the old woman had said something?
All right, thought Rebecca. “Her speech was very disjointed — it was hard to follow. She seemed to think people were controlling her. Threatening her. She indicated your house once.”
“Did she say any names?”
He was persistent. “Only a nonsense name. Started with an M. ‘Mit’ something. Mit — Mitverba, I think.”
The couple stopped eating and looked at each other. “Does it mean something?” Rebecca asked.
Will Sentry put down his fork. “Mittverda. It’s from the war. The concentration camp.”
“She was in a camp?”
“We were all in a camp.”
Rebecca looked at them with new eyes.
“So ... you knew her that long?”
He nodded, staring off into the air.
“I thought she was a stranger,” Rebecca said, trying to keep accusation out of her voice.
“She became a stranger,” he said. “Originally she was my cousin.”
Erich glanced at him, then down at the table.
“A very dear cousin,” the elder Sentry added. Rebecca put her fork down. Suddenly everything had changed.
“It’s a shock, isn’t it?” he said. “Once she was a beautiful, intelligent woman. This is the way of the world. It crushes us all, one way or another.”
The pretty woman in the photo. Impossible.
“Your accents, are they German?”
“We’re German Jews. A miracle that we survived. More or less intact. Except for my cousin. Luckily it wasn’t obvious when we were questioned by Canadian immigration after the war. She got worse after we came here. Delayed reaction, I guess. Some people bottle things up, then it’s too much and eventually they collapse. The war was too much for her. She saw too much.”
They were Jews. They hid it well, Rebecca thought. “We’re so sheltered in this country,” she said. “I can’t imagine what you went through.”
“It’s nice to be sheltered from such things. Maybe that’s why Canadians are so decent. You were right. This isn’t good dinner conversation.” He picked up his fork and launched into his food.
They all began to eat again.
“And yet,” he chewed on the chicken and the words, “I’m still curious if she said anything you wondered about. Perhaps the police have asked?”
Something niggling was trying to surface in her memory. “I wondered about a lot of things. But the last time I saw her she kept repeating the same words.
‘Where is it? Where is it? You can’t have it.’ I guess it makes sense if she thought people were stealing from her.”
The elder Sentry stared through her to some distant point.
“That’s enough, Dad,” Erich said, before his father could ask any more. “The post-mortem is over.”