Army officers with ladies on their arms swept into the church. Other ranks waited respectfully outside and would crowd in later. Kydd took off his hat and made his way inside, settling for an outside seat in a pew towards the front, nodding to the one or two other naval officers scattered about.
A pleasant-faced woman sat down next to him and flashed him an impish smile. ‘There, my dear,’ said the stern, stiffly dressed man by her, settling a rug about her knees.
‘Thank you,’ she said, and as soon as it was seemly to do so, turned to Kydd and whispered, ‘I don’t think I’ve seen you here, sir.’
‘Lieutenant Kydd of the Tenacious,’ he whispered back, unsure of the etiquette of the occasion.
‘Mrs Cox. Your first visit to Halifax, Lieutenant?’
The church was filling fast but the front pew was still decorously empty.
‘Yes, Mrs Cox. Er, a fine place f’r trade.’
‘Indeed. But when I was a little girl it was a horrid place, believe me, Lieutenant.’ She smiled again.
There was a damp, penetrating cold in the cavernous interior of the church, barely relieved by two fat-bellied stoves smoking in corners. Kydd shivered and wished he had brought a watch-coat.
Mrs Cox fumbled in her muff. ‘Here you are, Lieutenant,’ she said, proffering a silver flask. ‘Get some inside and you won’t feel the cold.’ It was prime West Indian rum. At his ill-concealed astonishment she pressed it on him. ‘Go on – we all have to.’ Aghast at the thought of drinking in church, Kydd hesitated, then, red-faced, took a pull, but as he lowered the flask he saw an august personage and his lady sweeping up the aisle.
Crimson with embarrassment, Kydd froze. With a gracious inclination of her head, the woman smiled and continued. Kydd handed back the flask and settled for the service, trying not to notice the distracting stream of servants bringing hot bricks for the feet of the quality in the front row.
Outside, after the service, when they passed pleasantries, Kydd remembered that Mrs Cox had been born in Halifax. Impulsively he asked, ‘I wonder, Mrs Cox, can you remember less’n ten years ago, a gentleman by the name of Kydd, Matthew Kydd?’
She considered at length. ‘I can’t say that I do, Lieutenant. A relation?’
‘My uncle – I’m tryin’ to find him.’
Mr Cox pulled his ear as if trying to recall something. ‘Er, there was a gentleman by that name, I think – recollect he was in corn and flour on Sackville Street. Fine-looking fellow.’
‘That’s him,’ said Kydd.
A look of embarrassment flashed over Cox’s face. ‘Ah.’ He gave a warning glance to his wife, whose hand flew to her mouth.
‘Then I’m truly sorry to tell you . . . he is no more,’ Cox said quietly.
Kydd swallowed.
‘Yes. In about the year ’ninety – or was it ’ninety-one? – he went to Chignecto with his partner looking out prospects, but unhappily was mortally injured by a bear.’
‘I remember. It was in the newspaper – such a dreadful thing,’ Mrs Cox added. ‘It never does to disturb them in their sleep, the brutes.’
Cox drew himself up. ‘I’m grieved that your search has led you to this, sir. I do hope that the remainder of your time in Halifax will be more felicitous. Good day to you, Lieutenant.’
As was usual for officers in harbour, Kydd’s duties were light and he felt he owed it to his father to gather the circumstances of his brother’s demise. Possibly he had family, a widow. He would get the details from the newspaper and pass them on.
The Halifax Journal office was on Barrington Street, not far from Grand Parade, and the man inside was most obliging. ‘Yes, indeed, I remember the story well. A fine man, come to such a fate. Uncle, you say. I’ll find the issue presently. If you would be so good . . .’
On a table near the compositing desk Kydd learned the sad details of his uncle’s death. He had gone to Chignecto, on the other side of Nova Scotia, exploring prospects in muskrat and beaver. His business partner, an Edward Gilman, had accompanied him, but of the two who had set out, only one returned: Gilman. He had buried his friend and partner at the edge of the wilderness by the sea, then brought back the news.
Judging by the upset expressed in the newspaper, Matthew Kydd had been a man of some substance and standing and was sorely missed. Kydd leafed idly through the rest of the paper.
Out in the street he determined that before he wrote to his father he would find Gilman, ask what kind of man his uncle was, find out something about his end.
Sackville Street was just round the corner, steep and colourful with timber dwellings and shops; some were worn and weathered, others painted brown and yellow or red and white. He found a corn factor with a faded sign telling him that this was Gilman’s establishment. There was no mention of ‘Kydd’.