The small church was filled to capacity, but there were only two white people in the congregation, Mrs. Stokely and Murdoch. For the first time in his life, Murdoch was conscious of being physically different from everybody around him. Growing up as a Catholic in a Nova Scotian village that was overwhelmingly Methodist had introduced him early on to prejudice and discrimination, but until somebody knew about his faith, he at least appeared to be like everybody else he met and was treated accordingly.
He had decided to go to the Sunday service at the Baptist Church on Queen Street, and on the way he had met Mrs. Stokely. She was touchingly glad to see him, but she looked wretched, wrung out by grief.
“We can’t have a funeral until after the inquest, but Pastor Laing will say some words of tribute today,” she said. “I’m sure Thom would have appreciated you coming, Mr. Murdoch.”
Murdoch felt uncomfortable. He hadn’t come from any fondness for Talbert, although he’d liked him. He came because he wanted to know more about the coloured residents of the city and he knew this was where most of them came to worship. He offered Mrs. Stokely his arm and they entered the church together. They were met at the door by Elijah Green, who was acting as an usher. He greeted Mrs. Stokely warmly and nodded at Murdoch in a cool, polite way. What had happened last night was in another life.
“Good morning, Mr. Murdoch.”
“How’s Lincoln?” Murdoch asked him quietly.
“He’s recovering just fine but having a bit of rest today. Will you come this way, please?”
He led them down the aisle to a pew near the centre.
Murdoch had been about to make his habitual genuflection to the altar as he entered the pew but stopped himself just in time. He had no idea how the Baptists would feel about such outlandish Papist practices, but he felt peculiar not doing it and not crossing himself, as if he were being disrespectful to God. He cringed at how well he’d been indoctrinated. Mrs. Stokely had slid in next to a plump, matronly woman who was exquisitely dressed in a bright blue taffeta walking suit with a matching flower-bedecked hat.
“My dear, please accept my condolences. I’m sure Thomas Talbert was the best of employers.”
She was being kind, of course, but Mrs. Stokely was being given the status of housekeeper, not wife as she deserved.
“Yes, he was,” murmured Mrs. Stokely. She was dressed in mourning clothes, but she’d been careful not to overdo it. Her plain black hat was unveiled and her suit a navy wool. Murdoch wondered if she would ever reveal the true nature of her relationship with Talbert.
“Such a terrible tragedy,” the matron continued. “He will be sorely missed by this church. I know Pastor Laing is awful upset by it.” She shook her head. “The Lord sometimes sees fit to take those he loves before their time. It is not for us to question His mysterious ways, is it?”
She leaned forward and included Murdoch in her words. He nodded noncommittally but felt like a hypocrite. There had been many times when he questioned why a supposedly loving God would inflict such misery on the human race for no good reason that he could fathom. When Liza died, Murdoch’s faith had been seriously shaken, and so far no priest nor his own prayers had completely restored it.
A woman in front of them turned and also offered condolences to Mrs. Stokely, and they entered into a soft conversation that had to do with the woman’s recollections of Talbert’s piety.
Unlike the sombre, supposedly reverent silence of Catholic worshippers, this congregation were happily chatting among themselves. A pleasant smell of violets wafted over to him. Everybody was in their Sunday best, gaily decorated hats for the women and well-brushed, sombre suits for the men. On any Sunday morning that was true, of course, of all worshippers across the city, no matter what the church. Murdoch himself was wearing his good houndstooth jacket and fairly new worsted trousers, and he’d spent ten minutes polishing his boots. He should have been attending mass himself but had used the investigation to ease his conscience about skipping. Not that he’d gone last week either or the week before, but he’d deal with that later when he met Father Fair.
Murdoch glanced around. It wasn’t the only Protestant church he’d ever been inside, but it was the first Baptist one. The straight-backed pews were oaken and the windows filtered light through pastel-hued stained glass. There were no gilded columns, no statues, no ornate carvings on the ceiling, as there were in his own church of St. Paul’s. At the front of the church was a raised platform and a vibrant painting of Jesus at prayer. Below the painting, two curtains framed an alcove, rather like a stage, which displayed another picture, this one of a river. To Murdoch’s left was a pulpit with a cross in front of it, the kind he’d once heard a child call a “naked cross,” because there was no figure of the suffering Jesus nailed to it.
He was curious about the Baptist service. Not too long ago, he’d been smitten with Mrs. Enid Jones, a young widow who had been sharing his lodgings. She was a Baptist, and every Sunday she went off to her church and he to his. He had come close to proposing marriage but had not done so, for complicated reasons he himself didn’t completely understand. Perhaps he just wasn’t ready to let go once and for all of his attachment to Liza. If that was so, it wasn’t the case any longer now that he had fallen in love with Amy Slade.
He felt a timid touch on his arm.
“Are you all right, Mr. Murdoch?”
“Yes, yes, quite all right, thank you, Mrs. Stokely.”
“I just wondered. You seem cast down.”
He was saved from a reply by a newcomer entering the pew. Murdoch slid over to give the woman room, then realized with a jolt of surprise it was none other than Faith. She of the no surname.
He tipped his hat to her.
“Good morning, ma’am.”
She nodded a greeting and sat down.
“Are you here for the memorial to Thomas Talbert?” he asked.
Her eyes flickered at him. “Is there one? As you’ve been told already, we didn’t know the gentleman. I’m here because I never miss church meeting if I can help it, even when I’m in a strange city.”
“How is Mrs. Dittman?”
“Not too well this morning. She had a bad night.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
She turned and looked at him straight in the eyes. “’Twas your visit what contributed to her going down.”
Her anger was palpable, but before he could respond, a door at the back of the church opened and the pastor entered. He was tall and thin, younger than Murdoch had expected, dressed in a black suit but no vestments. The organist, who was tucked away out of sight to the side, hit some chords and right behind the pastor came a choir singing loudly and vigorously. Murdoch looked around quickly to see what the ritual was and stood up with the rest of the congregation while the singers filed into place on each side of the altar. All around him, people were clapping their hands in harmony with the hymn that was unfamiliar to him but so lively in tempo he almost started clapping too. After two or three verses, the hymn ended and everybody sat down. The pastor held up his hands. “Hallelujah. The Lord is our Saviour.”
“Amen, amen,” chorused various members of the congregation. Faith spoke particularly loudly.
“My dear friends in Christ,” said the pastor. “Welcome to you all. We have many prayers to request this morning. Mrs. Mabel Forester is not well, suffering bad in her legs and she asks for your prayers.”
“Praise the Lord, Jesus saves.”
“Our good friend Charles Compton is in sore need of employment and asks for your prayers that he might find work that will help him support his family in the knowledge and love of our Saviour Jesus Christ.”
“Amen, Lord.”
“But, particularly, this glorious morning, I must ask for your prayers for our dear brother, Thomas Talbert, who has been so cruelly snatched from the world.”
Somebody in the congregation sobbed.
Reverend Laing raised his voice. “The Lord shall smite down our enemies yea even as they hurt and revile us. We are in Jesus’ hands and he loves us, every child, every man, every woman, no matter how black with sins our souls have become, the blood of Jesus will wash us clean and on the Day of Judgment we will stand before him and if we have taken him into our hearts, our souls will be as clean as the driven snow.”
His speech was punctuated by startlingly loud, sporadic cries of “Amen,” “Yes, Lord,” and “That’s right!” from the congregation.
The pastor retired to a chair beside the pulpit and the organist began to play. One woman stood up in the midst of the choir and began to sing. This time it was a hymn Murdoch had heard before. Her voice was so beautiful, it made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.
Nearer my God to thee…
Tho’ like a wanderer,
The sun goes down,
Darkness be over me,
My rest a stone.
When she had finished, there was a moment of appreciative silence among the congregation, then the pastor launched into an impassioned prayer that went on for a long time and was often overwhelmed by exhortations from his flock.
Finally, he concluded and faced the congregation, stretching out his arms.
“Welcome, dear sisters and brethren in Jesus. I see that we have some visitors here today. Will you be so good as to stand, tell us your name and where you’re from.”
Almost as one, the congregation turned to look at Murdoch and Faith. She actually smiled and stood up.
“Thank you, pastor. I am Faith and I usually reside in New York City.”
There was a muttering of “Welcome, Sister Faith,” “Good news,” and she sat down again. Murdoch felt a gentle prod in his side from Mrs. Stokely and he had no choice but to stand.
“My name is William Murdoch and I live here in Toronto.”
As with Faith, there was a chorus of “welcomes” and he could see friendly smiles all around him. He spotted Elijah Green sitting in the front pew, his wife and children beside him. None of them was smiling.
The pastor spoke again. “Welcome to you both. Now brothers and sisters, let us show our visitors what sort of welcome our church puts out for any of those who come to our doors. Remember our Lord, who said, ‘I was a stranger and you took me in.’”
“That’s right! Amen. Yes, Lord.”
Murdoch sat back down, but all around him people were standing up and shaking hands with one another. On each side, his neighbours, including Mrs. Stokely, reached out their hands to him and Faith. In the melee, however, she avoided shaking hands with him. Finally, the hubbub subsided, although Murdoch would have sworn almost everybody in the congregation had come over and greeted him.
The pastor raised his arms again. “The deacons will come among you with plates. Do not hesitate to offer whatever you are able to. Remember the widow’s mite, which was acceptable to our Lord.”
Murdoch was glad he had a dollar left in his wallet and he placed it on the silver plate that was passed along the row. Faith put on a five-dollar bill. That done, the pastor stood again at the podium. “Thanks to our brother, Councillor Hubbard, we have sufficient hymn books now to go around. Whether you can use them or not, let us raise up our voices and sing out joyfully, ‘What a Wonderful Saviour Is Jesus my Lord.’”
Mrs. Stokely leaned to Murdoch. “That’s hymn number fifty-three.”
The woman in front turned, holding out her hymnal. “Here, take mine.”
Murdoch accepted the offer. There was more prayer, more singing, another offering to which he could only contribute fifty cents, and it was time for the pastor to give his sermon. A rustling of taffeta skirts, little clearings of throat, and soft “Amen, Lords” as he went to the podium. The congregation settled in.
Pastor Laing’s message was simple: Turn the other cheek to those that hurt and abuse you. Murdoch had heard many a variation of this and had long ago dismissed it as an impossible text, noble in theory, but impossible in a real world permeated with injustice and violence. Nevertheless, as he sat in the midst of people whose lives he knew were not so long ago racked with terrible hurt and abuse, he was moved in a way he had not been in a long time. There seemed to be no rage or indignation in the pastor’s voice but no servility either. This was what the Lord Jesus taught, and he was going to live by it. Murdoch watched Elijah, head bent, apparently intent on what was being said.
The pastor concluded his sermon and Murdoch heard a particularly loud “Praise the Lord’s word” from Faith. Mrs. Stokely was quiet, and Murdoch wasn’t sure how much she was actually listening.
“Let us leave today by singing together a hymn that I know was a particular favourite of Thomas’s. His voice ringing out for the Lord is forever in my heart.”
“Amen. Amen. That’s right.”
The choir stood up and launched into a song that quickly had everybody on their feet, clapping and swaying together.
“Oh! Oh! Oh! What He’s done for me.”
This was repeated three times and followed by “I never shall forget what He’s done for me.”
In spite of an initial self-consciousness, Murdoch was soon moving to the rhythm with everybody else. Faith was singing and swaying enthusiastically beside him. She had a lovely, vibrant voice and he would have complimented her afterwards if he hadn’t thought she would spit in his face.
The song ended.
“Go in peace,” said the pastor, hands uplifted. Released, the congregation burst into chatter. Mrs. Stokely shook hands with the woman beside her, and the woman in the front pew who had lent her hymn book turned to Murdoch with her hand outstretched.
“The Lord bless you,” she said.
He wasn’t quite sure what the correct response was, but he mumbled, “And the Lord bless you too.”
Faith left immediately without acknowledging him or anyone else. Murdoch escorted Mrs. Stokely outside. The pastor was on the steps, greeting his congregation. When it came to Murdoch’s turn, he gave him a warm smile.
“Welcome in Jesus’ name, sir.”
“Thank you,” said Murdoch awkwardly. “I apologize for intruding on a place of worship, but I am actually a police officer. I am investigating the death of Thomas Talbert, and I wonder if I might have a word with you?”
The pastor showed no surprise and Murdoch suspected that the entire congregation knew from the moment he walked into the church who he was.
“Will you come back at a later time, Mr. Murdoch? I must finish my duties, but I will be happy to speak to you if it will in any way facilitate your inquiries. Thomas was a most valued member of our church.”
His words were cordial enough, but once again Murdoch could sense his wariness. He was getting accustomed to it. The police asking for a word about a murder case usually didn’t bode well for a coloured man, even a man of God.