A Killer in King's Cove

by Iona Whishaw

  She carefully trod the bank of the creek and along the small stretch of grassy sward that the path issued onto, checking under the ferns and underbrush. Nothing. She looked across the creek, edged with only brush and very quickly becoming forest. There was no path evident on the other side. She assumed people had trod on the other side of the creek when the weir was being built, but that would have been before the first war, maybe during the previous century. It was silly, she knew, but she’d come this far. She considered taking off her shoes, but on reflection thought the canvas would dry and the rubber soles might protect her feet from the rocky bed of the creek, so, calculating that the creek below the weir would be shallower, she plunged in.

  The cold gave her a shock and she gasped out loud, a sound that suddenly seemed to reverberate in the thick of the afternoon. Looking around, as if she expected someone might be watching, she waded across toward the opposite bank. The current was gentle enough, but her legs began to lose feeling because of the cold. She grabbed for the tall grasses on the bank, pulled herself up, and stood shivering and looking about. Of course, she could see how foolish this had been. The brush was dense and it seemed no one ventured to this side of the creek. Except, here were the broken skunk cabbage leaves that she had seen on that Sunday. Had the murderer come onto this side of the creek? He wouldn’t surely have struggled through the underbrush to get to the wood. She looked again at the wooden diversion. He might have come round this side to gain greater ease of access to the place he was trying to place the corpse. She shuddered at the momentary, almost visceral vision of someone trying to drag and stuff a corpse into the diversion. She looked beneath the underbrush for a second shoe, but found nothing. There were a good fifteen yards of bank before the forest curved in toward the creek, and she could not see herself painstakingly searching every part of it.

  Some detective! Lane was about to wade back, regretting now that she would have to squelch home in her wet shoes, when she looked into the trees. What the heck, she was over here. Why not go into the forest and see where it led? She fought her way through the thigh-deep layer of grasses and ferns and was relieved that the ground became more manageable once among the cathedral of trees. It really was lovely. It surprised her to think that she was in Canada and had never ventured into the forest stands, even on her own property. It was a shadowy, silent world. The floor was soft with pine needles—she must find out the proper names of trees—and the sun dappled through like, she thought, the sun coming through the windows of Notre Dame in Paris. She walked in a direction that must be parallel to the road.

  The land curved gently downward. If she continued, she must eventually hit the road again, so she proceeded, still in a reverie about the soothing quiet of being among the trees. She was, therefore, the more shocked when the trees cleared suddenly and she nearly tumbled down the bank of a midden. Stepping backward to try to keep her balance, she landed painfully on the sharp edge of a large rock. The whole thing was rocks; it was like an old quarry and into it, long ago, garbage had been tipped on a regular basis.

  Looking around in some embarrassment, she hoisted herself up, wiping her behind, and wincing at what she thought would surely become a bruise by the next day. There was, she could now see, a faint trace of a nearly overgrown path going toward the road. This must have been an old garbage dump like the one they all took their garbage to up a hill about two miles toward Nelson, only this one clearly hadn’t been used in years. Grasses and ferns grew out from among the rubbish and rocks, and she could see that there were rusted cans and boxes with nearly washed out and torn labels from at least the 1920s. Holding the branch of spruce tree, she steadied herself and stepped a short way down into the dump. There were tobacco tins, and some thick, old, broken bits of glass. She looked along the edges to see if anything, like the damn shoe she was searching for, might have been dropped in. The whole place looked as if it had not been touched in twenty years. Quelling an atavistic childhood desire to explore among the rubble, she turned back the way she had come. Sunlight fell in shards of brightness and shade, and she stopped just near the edge of the trees before the bank of the creek would take her back to another cold crossing. The gentle sound of the water was muffled slightly by the trees and the thick layer of pine needles that she walked on. In truth, though the quiet beauty of the forest was lovely, her heart lifted as the light from the open bank got brighter. She wondered momentarily how terrifying it would be to be alone in that very spot at night, where no light from stars would be visible through the roof of trees. And it was because she was looking up that she did not immediately see the root that almost tripped her. Then her heart nearly stopped and her breathing certainly did. She heard the sound of someone approaching on the path from the road, the very one she had believed was no longer used.

  She kept herself absolutely still, her fist closing tightly onto the branch she still held. The noise was most definite. With what she hoped was the utmost stealth, she crept back up to the edge of the dump and then looked around. She could recede back into the bush from which she’d come. Bloody hell, she’d made a path like a rampaging elephant, she thought. Then, when she really felt she’d run out of time, she caught sight of an old stump with a profusion of small branches growing up around it not five feet to the left of her. Making for it, she ducked as low as she could go and prayed she was making less noise than the person approaching. She plunged behind the stump and sat for a few minutes catching her breath. The approaching person could be heard more loudly now. She turned and looked between the branches just as the figure appeared through the trees at the edge of the quarry. God, she thought. God, it’s him.

  ELEANOR HAD MOMENTARY misgivings as she saw her first customer that afternoon. She and Kenny had very nearly had a genuine row about it, something neither of them could ever remember having. “You’re not to do it, d’you hear?”

  “Nothing will come of it, anyway,” Eleanor had said, though in her heart she did not believe this. “Poor Lane is just tired, in fact we all are, of waiting for the other shoe to drop . . . or be found . . .” Her attempt at humour had not softened Kenny’s mood.

  “Your policeman is a very decent sort. He also knows a thing or two, I shouldn’t wonder, and if he says you’re not to do it, why, maybe you’ll listen to him, at least.”

  “Oh, Kenny, stop being such a fussbudget. We’re all on pins and needles here, not knowing who did it and, indeed, if we ourselves are going to be murdered in our beds. This way we might find out something and move this thing along,” Eleanor had retorted.

  “Well, you’ll do what you want, I suppose. I’m going to Gladys’s.” He’d stormed off, avoiding saying something he’d regret, grinding the gears of his beloved new truck in his consternation. Kenny had come back with the mail and had some wooden boxes of groceries for the Hughes.

  Eleanor put mail into slots and prepared herself, practising how she might bring it up. Her opportunity came quickly. Angela breezed in with her boys tumbling along behind her.

  “Good morning, Eleanor!” she called out, a trifle loudly for the confined space of the post office.

  Eleanor chirruped back and bent down to fetch something from under the counter. “Morning, Angela. Would the boys be interested in an oatmeal cookie?” They were, and with their reverberating ruckus temporarily muffled with the chewing, Eleanor turned to get the bundle of mail out of the slot. Here were the usual things in Angela’s mail, she always thought, just as she’d told the inspector. The newspaper. Bills. Where were old copies of the New York Times, letters with lovely, unusual stamps with everything from Hollywood stars to peculiar paintings? She stifled a disappointed sigh. “Here you go, then. Everything all right up at the log cabin?”

  “Oh, yes. Dave is hard at work on some trio, so he’s sending us off to the beach. Mind you, I’m a little nervous nowadays, going off there with the murderer not caught. I mean, you never know, do you?”

  “I know just what you mean. I’ve been locking the door for t
he first time ever. Kenny thinks I’m being a fusspot. He thinks the killer is long gone . . . just followed that fellow up here to do him in. Mind you, I did hear from Lane, and I don’t know if I should be saying this, but I understand that inspector is coming back because they’ve found some sort of evidence in the car . . . it’s still in her barn, you know, till they can get a tow truck to take it back to town. Anyway, they’re bringing some sort of detective equipment to have a look.”

  Angela looked with gratifying astonishment at the postmistress. “Really! That’s fantastic, isn’t it? Boys, outside with you! You’re making too much noise.” The cookie diversion had run its course and the three boys were now wrestling noisily. In a confined space this sort of activity could quickly end in shouts and tears. “Do you think they’ll find anything? What could they find?”

  “Now that I think of it, perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned it . . . you won’t say anything will you?” Eleanor tried to look earnest, and had the grace to feel a little surge of guilt over her subterfuge.

  “Horrors!” Angela cried, “Of course not! I won’t even tell Dave. Is Lane all right? It must be terrible having all this go on right under her nose. I’ll stop by on my way home.”

  Letting out a lengthy breath, Eleanor watched four-fifths of the Bertolli household disappear up the road. Not so difficult, really. She’d hold up her end, as it was unlikely Angela would have a chance to tell anyone, unless she met the Mathers on the way home, and they’d been scarce in the last few days. Alice must be having quite a lengthy spell.

  Eleanor needn’t have worried. Angela thought of stopping by Lane’s, but the boys were unruly to the point of being unfit for admission into anyone’s house, and she was sure that Eleanor had said she might not be there. The truth was, she wanted to rush home and tell Dave, who she felt sure would welcome a break from the trio. When she met Reginald coming out of his gate as she rounded the corner past his place, she noticed he looked tired. Angela felt a little surge of sympathy. It must be awful having to cope with his wife’s moods.

  “Good morning, Reginald. How are you?”

  “Thank you, well enough,” he said through nearly closed lips. Perhaps he was beginning to show his age a bit. “To be honest, I’m a little tired of being on tenterhooks over this beastly murder. The police don’t seem to be doing anything.”

  “Oh, but I think there may be progress. Apparently they’ve found some evidence in the car and are coming back to look at it.” This, of course, had gushed out before she could stop it. “I really wasn’t supposed to say anything,” she added, a little abashed, but he did look miserable and she’d never seen him look like this.

  Reginald contemplated this news on the remainder of his walk to the post office. He felt an impending sense of dread, as if every step closer to solving this murder might bring his lapse all those years ago into the light; as if he might learn that he had lost something irreplaceable. At the same time, what he had said to Angela was true: he felt he could not stand the lack of resolution. He wanted, in fact, for the whole thing to be over and for his life to return to normal.

  Mather was sullen when he appeared at the post, not five minutes later, and after a cursory and distracted, “Morning,” he said, “the Yank tells me the police might be on to something in the car.”

  Eleanor had to turn quickly to the mail slots behind her to hide an unbidden smile.

  “Well, that’s what I hear. I don’t know what they hope to find. I don’t suppose you have any theories?”

  Mather frowned at her. “No, why should I? Whole thing’s got nothing to do with me. It’s a bloody nuisance. Got everyone on edge. We can’t be sure of anything, can we, in a small place like this? Woman we know nothing about moves in. God knows what she’s bringing in from the outside world. You should never have sold her that house.” And with this declaration he left, banging the screen door behind him.

  Well, thought Eleanor. That was a bit strong. There was something bothering him that she was certain he wasn’t telling. She’d have to tell Lane. Perhaps later this evening they could sit down and assess their work. She went round to the door and looked up the road. No one on the way. She might have time for a cup of tea, so she put the kettle on to the stove. Kenny should be back any minute from the deliveries. Perhaps he’d be calmer and they could have a biscuit and some tea and discuss things. She’d just poured the water into the brown pot when she heard a tractor. Only Harris arriving.

  “Morning, Robin. How’s tricks?”

  “What?” He was going to be difficult. Taciturn at the best of times. She’d have to be direct.

  Reaching into the slot for his mail, in this case a copy of a magazine about farm machinery—he never really did get much except his vet’s pension once every two months, and a few magazines about farming and machinery—she tried to sound nonchalant. “Looks like we might be having of a breakthrough on this case. I heard the police think they’ve found something in the car and they’re coming back out to have a closer look with their instruments.”

  Harris snorted. “Police! Ha. Couldn’t find their way out of a paper bag.” He seized his magazine with his big, gnarled hand and left in much the same way Mather had, banging the screen door.

  Back in the kitchen, Eleanor put some cookies on a plate, then realized it was nearly lunchtime, set that aside and pulled a loaf out of the bread box. Kenny would be hungry, and a good sandwich might finish the job of settling him down. She thought about the reactions of the three people she’d told. Angela and Harris were pretty typical. He was non-reactive and she was over-reactive. It was Mather that interested her. He really did seem on edge. Had he got something to hide? Kenny’s truck rumbled to a stop outside. Hopefully he was in a good enough mood, because really, she’d like to discuss it with him.

  “I’m not upset,” Kenny defended himself over his sandwich and a mug of tea, “I just think it’s a waste of time, and the fact that it is untruthful, well, it shocks me that you would allow yourself to be involved. You’ve never told a lie in your life.”

  “I know, it’s rather fun,” said Eleanor happily.

  Kenny gazed at her as if he was seeing her for the first time. A lifetime of rectitude, and now this. “In any case, what is it going to accomplish? It is ludicrous to think any of the old codgers around here bonked a man on the head for no reason. We know everyone. We’ve known them all since before the Great War. It’s ridiculous.” He snorted, and finished up his mug of tea with a long slurp. “Thank you. Lovely sandwich.”

  Eleanor sat, pursing her lips and gazing thoughtfully at a photograph of Pershing, their inter-war Scottie. Though her initial reaction to lying was a kind of delight, she had, during the course of Kenny’s discourse, wondered if it were entirely a good thing. And of course, there was the question of whom the subterfuge was being aimed at. Who here, really, he was right, would bonk a man on the head and go to such elaborate lengths to place blame on an innocent young woman. They did know everyone, well, except the Bertollis, and honestly, she didn’t see how Dave would have been able to extricate himself from that tumbling family long enough to secrete a car in someone’s garage and drag a man to the creek exchange. She doubted he even knew where it was. Still . . . and as for Lane, the only other new person in the Cove, it was impossible to imagine it was she. She knew it was no good.

  “It isn’t just the bonking, though, is it? It’s the dragging the body to the weir. An outsider wouldn’t know where that was, and then all the elaborate efforts to blame Lane. You’d have to know the lay of the land here, wouldn’t you?”

  Kenny remained silent at this.

  “Still, you make me wonder if it is worth risking my soul on this little subterfuge.”

  Kenny pulled the napkin out of his collar. “Especially if the whole thing turns dangerous,” he mused darkly, and went out to fiddle with his truck.

  HARRIS, UPON HEARING the news, drove his tractor into the middle of his upper orchard, the one from which he could see through a
birch break to the Winslow woman’s upper field, and turned off the engine. The silence gave him a momentary impression of clarity, a sense that he would be able to sit and think this through. He told himself not to overreact. What could they have found? He had gone over the car himself. No. He hadn’t—he’d only looked for a suitcase, but hadn’t found one. There was absolutely nothing to link the car to him. Anyway, he’d not touched anything, really. It was that bloody idiot. She’d mentioned equipment. Fingerprints? Had he not been wearing his work gloves? He felt a draining fear. He couldn’t remember, now, suddenly. Had he touched anything? He tried to review what he’d done. He’d gone into the house and then gone out and driven the car into his barn. He had a vague sense of himself pulling his gloves off, but was that then? Or after he’d done work earlier in the morning? When had she said they were coming?

  Harris turned on his tractor, and, still unclear about a course of action, moved slowly back to his own driveway. He parked the machine in front of the barn and went into his house through his kitchen door. Perhaps it was his state of mental spareness—all his powers of concentration were focused on one question—but he saw for the first time how his place must look to others. Everything was reduced to the barest needs of one man. One small table, two chairs, two cups, no adornment anywhere, not even a calendar on the wall. He scarcely knew what to make of this sudden vision of his own poverty. He sat down and waited.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  LANE LOOKED BACK TOWARD THE forest through which she had come. She was genuinely afraid now. Could she manage to sneak back? She could hear him and was momentarily relieved because it did not sound as if he were coming any closer to where she was hiding. She risked a look over the stump. Harris’s tractor was moving somewhere in the distance, giving a momentary sense of normalcy to the situation. Sandy Mather was walking along the edge of the quarry, evidently looking into it. He had his back to her. What was he up to? The fear that he had followed her began to subside, especially as he had come off the path along the road, though the conviction still lingered that he had seen where she was headed and had decided to ambush her by cutting through from the road.