Conduct in Question

Chapter 17

On the morning of Marjorie’s funeral, Harry entered St. Timothy’s Church and took a seat in the second pew on the left. Marjorie had stipulated the full Anglican burial service, which would last more than an hour. Shifting uncomfortably on the unforgiving wooden surface, he tried to settle in for the lengthy session ahead.

Reverend Sleem, rubbing his hands together, nodded and smiled at Harry. The church had been a beneficiary of Deighton charity for generations. Marjorie’s departure might or might not bode well for it. The church abhorred the uncertainty of not knowing where it stood.

Angry restlessness possessed Harry. If it weren’t for the indifference of the coroner’s office and the lazy incompetence of the sergeant, there might have been an autopsy. Now it was too late. Folding his arms across his chest, he stared at the vaulted ceiling.

His anger mounted. The image of Chin, counting the cash, barrelled into his mind. Damn it! With all his sophistication and charm, his client had gotten him into the conflict with Marjorie. And then his office had been ransacked. Who could have stabbed the offers to his desk? The vendors were a series of faceless numbered companies, so it could be anyone.

He glanced along the pew, only to see a man staring at him. Nodding politely, Harry decided it must be Bob, Katharine’s husband. Katharine sat between him and her sister. Suzannah appeared pale and vapid in a long floral skirt. Clutched in her hand was a small bouquet, which had suffered considerably from her twisting fingers.

Frank, the depleter of trust funds, sat beside her, incessantly shifting his girth from side to side. He seemed to grow in bulk each time Harry saw him. But obviously he was unscathed from his encounter in the office with the man with the muscle, who must have been from the mob.

The church filled up rapidly. A slight figure hitched and hobbled up the main aisle to the head of the coffin. Harry could make out the pinched features of a young man. From several rows back, Harry heard a whispered voice. “It’s Donnie…Gerry Deighton’s son.”

It appeared that the boy was about to address the assembled mourners. A hush settled over the church. Nervous coughs flitted through the silence. But it was not to be. Instead, Donnie simply spread his hands with great care over the head of the casket and stood silently, with his chin lowered to his chest.

Then Donnie raised his eyes, which were filled with anger. He scanned the first two rows of pews on either side of the church until he spotted Harry. The fury was so uncontrolled that the others in the pew turned to stare at him. Alarmed, Harry looked back at the boy quizzically. He could not imagine the cause of the rage. He had never seen Donnie before.

Gerry Deighton stood abruptly and approached his son. Grasping Donnie’s arm, he attempted to lead him from the coffin. The boy held back, but then faltered. Seeing his father’s angry look, he consented to be led back to the pew.

Donnie slumped beside his parents and bent his head. Marjorie Deighton was his great-aunt, but he called her “Gram.” Now that she was gone, nothing mattered. He was the only one who really loved her.

Gram died last Tuesday, Donnie remembered. She was the only one worth talking to. His parents never listened. After school, he stayed in his room, hiding from his mother and her stupid bridge parties.

Sometimes, he would go to Gram’s house to talk or to read to her. She seemed to understand him, even when he didn’t understand himself. At least she listened. Every day started and finished in the black pit inside himself. It took all his energy just to get out of bed and get dressed. What was the point? The only good days were when the diving club met and when he saw Gram.

Something was different when he got to her house that day. A silver-gray Mercedes was parked in the laneway. Donnie stopped to run the palm of his hand slowly over the hood of the car, expecting any moment to be yelled at. Then he took his key and went in the front door.