A Deceptive Devotion

by Iona Whishaw

  Kenny looked up from setting out the cups and smiled broadly, the skin around his eyes wrinkling, and he bowed slightly. “Welcome,” he said, holding out a chair.

  Orlova composed herself on the chair and looked around the room. Lane tried to imagine how Orlova would see the room. There was a glass-fronted cabinet full of photos and treasures brought from the old country, a round wood stove that was used only in the winter, and only to bring down the damp. A dark inset in the wall was given over to shelves of books, which Lane realized she had never looked over. What sort of reading did the Armstrongs do? She only ever saw them reading the Nelson Daily News. Judging by the spines, many of the books must have belonged to Kenny’s deceased mother, Lady Armstrong, in whose house Lane now lived. There was a row of photographs of the early years of King’s Cove on the wall against which the sofa lived and a round table with only the silver-framed photograph of Kenny’s brother, John, who had died in the Great War.

  A sharp yapping suddenly rose up from the bedroom. “Is there a dog?” Orlova asked, surprised.

  “Yes. A lovely little thing. Our hosts thought she might be too much excitement,” said Lane.

  “May I not see her? I have a great fondness for dogs.”

  “Countess Orlova would like to meet Alexandra,” Lane translated.

  Looking relieved not to keep their west highland terrier incarcerated in the bedroom when she had been used to having the run of the house, Kenny went off to release her.

  For the first time since Lane had met her, Orlova looked genuinely pleased and relaxed as the dog wiggled around her feet and sniffed at her shoes. “What is she called?”

  “Alexandra,” Lane said. “I want one myself.”

  “The name of an empress!” Orlova said, ruffling the dog’s fur.

  The tea, which had threatened to be a strain with all the exaggerated formality and difficulty of translating back and forth, proved to be very pleasant after all, thanks in large part to Alexandra, admiration for whom required no translation. Orlova, so reserved and restrained, made an effort to make herself agreeable and, sparing no compliments for the excellent sandwiches and walnut cake, got up and began to smile and point at objects around the room. She admired the regimental sword that had belonged to Kenny’s father and pointed with interest at a picture of Eleanor as a nursing sister with her colleagues that was taken in France in 1915. Then she stopped at the picture of John.

  “That is Kenny’s younger brother. He died in France in the Great War,” Lane said.

  Orlova picked up the picture carefully and gazed at it and then looked at Kenny with an expression of deep sympathy. “It is terrible to lose a brother,” she said softly.

  Lane translated this and explained that her guest was seeking her own brother and didn’t know if he was alive or dead.

  Kenny nodded, then sighed. “Well, then. Shall we have a look at the garden?”

  On the way back to Lane’s house Orlova said, “You are lucky. They are good people. Kind people. What a life you live here, you cannot imagine!”

  “They are very kind and are good friends.”

  Orlova shook her head as they emerged from the little copse of trees that separated Lane’s house from the post office.

  “Friends.” She stopped to gaze at the weeping willow and pond by the side of the house. “You know, we had friends. These friends were the ones who reported us to the commissariat. People who had eaten at our table, drunk my father’s brandy, smiled, and simpered. I know I should not be bitter. We would have been tossed out sooner or later. And they were no doubt looking to protect themselves. I don’t even feel satisfaction that it did them no good. One of them survived. I met her in Shanghai. I don’t doubt she was informing there as well. You see. You are lucky.”

  Lane nodded, struck forcefully by the vast difference in their circumstances. The great socialist paradise bred distrust and fear at every level. She tried to imagine how people might be changed by living in such a society every day of their lives. How could one grow up to be honest and straightforward, if one had to combat potential treachery on every side?

  “What would you like to do now?” she asked.

  “I think a nap, if that is all right. And if I may use your basin to rinse one or two things.”

  “I can throw them in with my laundry. I’ll probably do a wash in a couple of days.”

  “No, no. I am used to this from travelling. I take very little with me, and just wash and dry as I go.”

  “Well then,” Lane said, relieved by her guest’s independence. “The clothespins are in a bag by the line. And I will pop up the road to return some things to my friend Angela and leave you in perfect peace.”

  The dark was absolute in the forest. He had his knife in his belt, but instead of his rifle, he had his revolver in the pocket of his jacket. He was hunting, after all. Verne Taylor had been on this trip with Brodie many times. He’d begged off the last couple of years, though. Work, he’d said. But it wasn’t that. It was her.

  He knew it was wrong, but he loved her, and he could not bear to watch Brodie hit her and treat her like a slave. Hesitating, he thought of the last time they were together, alone in the wooded glade in a remote cove, making love. Afterward, she had said it was no use, that they lived in a fantasy. That it was too risky to go on. His heart ached remembering the hopelessness in her sweet eyes. He took a jagged, anxious breath and picked his way forward with his flashlight. Near the creek, he would turn it off. He could find his way blindfolded.

  He felt the tension that was akin to alertness, excitement even. He was used to this, though it had been thirty years since his war. He was eighteen again suddenly, still lying on a hill in the dark, still picking off the Boche when they struck a match or looked over the trench wall, the wavering light of the kerosene lanterns below, outlining the dark and unmissable target.

  He could hear the creek in the distance, behind the line of trees. He turned off his flashlight and stood, waiting for his eyes to get accustomed to the dark. Listening.

  Chapter Seven

  August 1947

  The five soldiers who had been assigned to guard the transport of prisoners to Svobodny prison camp were tired. Aptekar could see that. Tired and unhappy. They were young and had been given a job they no doubt thought would be easy. Transport the prisoners by rail, deliver them, get back to their barracks outside of Moscow. By rights they should be on the train going home by now, laughing through the smoke of cigarettes hanging carelessly off their lips, drinking vodka, playing cards, taking advantage of the week it would take to get home. Instead they had been obliged to try to stay awake in shifts to guard the prisoners and were now forced to walk with their charges along the dirt road, probably experiencing the same dogged weariness as their prisoners, through the unchanging scenery of the dark and looming forest.

  Aptekar had heard them talking. They had been told by some commander by telegraph—and then reported brusquely to their prisoners—that they should arrive by nightfall if they kept moving. One of the soldiers suggested that any stragglers would be shot. So here they were, two at the front, two at the back, and the threatening one looking, Aptekar thought, like he’d enjoy the opportunity to shoot someone, if only to relieve his own feelings of anger.

  They were shambling in an ever-lengthening column as older people, the sick, the pregnant woman lagged further behind. Someone asked if they could stop. The answer came in the form of shouted instructions to keep moving. Aptekar tried to keep himself in the back third of the line and along the edge. If any opportunity arose, he would take it. There had been quiet yet aggrieved conversation among the prisoners as they had started out in the morning, but now only the shuffle of feet was audible, even the guards having given up on conversation.

  “Hey!” one of the guards at the rear exclaimed.

  Just ahead of Aptekar a man had stumbled
and fallen and was making no attempt to get up, forcing the shuffling mass to split and move around him. Both the rear guards moved forward, holding their rifles at the ready. The commotion had not yet reached the front of the line.

  “Get up!” one of them shouted while the other prodded the fallen man with his boot.

  “You can shoot me if you want . . .”

  What else the man was saying was lost on Aptekar. This was what he had waited for. Both guards were now in front of him, and the prisoners were distracted. The young soldiers looked angry and confused, maybe not so sure about shooting. Aptekar slipped out of the line and made for the forest, his heart beating wildly with the sudden need for speed and the fear that someone would give the alarm, perhaps another prisoner hoping to gain favour or one of the guards from the front of the line who had been forced to turn back and look at what the trouble was.

  He stumbled through the underbrush at the edge of the road, feeling it grabbing at his legs, and then he was in the forest, where there was only silence. Winded by his sudden acceleration, Aptekar stopped and fell to his knees on the deep blanket of pine needles, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. He was too old for this sort of thing. He looked back in the direction from which he’d come and was amazed that there was no one in pursuit. He could still hear shouting, but he did not bother to listen anymore. Pushing himself back to his feet, he began to move deeper into the forest, travelling parallel to the road, and back toward the train station. It would be night before he got there. He would consider his options then.

  The spaces between the trees were densely packed with dried underbrush impeding his progress and causing him to stumble, but he knew if he was to have any chance, he could not stop. The shot, when it came, sounded farther away than he expected. It was a crack, like someone hitting a tree with a metal pole. Aptekar stopped, noticed the pounding of his heart, and waited. The forest seemed to press closer and wrap around him, muffling any further sound. He forced himself to move again, farther from the road, but still in the direction of the station. If they had shot the prisoner, then someone would notice he was gone. They would know he would have bolted into the forest nearest him. If they had the will to look for him, that is where they would go.

  He travelled for another quarter of an hour and then stopped. The silence was total. Even birds do not like to be in here, he thought. He felt sure that he would hear people if they came after him, but in the next moment he was not sure. He suddenly felt that the dense forest stifled even the sound of his own breath. He made an abrupt decision to go in a direct line back toward the road. He was sure that he had passed the point where the road took a slight bend toward the east. When he reached the ditch that marked the edge of the gravel road, he stopped and listened again.

  Nothing.

  Cautiously he walked forward and peered in the direction the column of prisoners had gone, but they had disappeared. With alacrity he hurtled across the road and charged into the forest. He would continue his journey on the other side. He thought for a moment of the man they must have killed, pushed perhaps into the ditch. Well, Aptekar thought, once again moving toward the train station, he took his way out. Now I take mine.

  “What have you done with your guest?” Darling asked. Darling and Lane were walking companionably to their appointment with the vicar.

  “She seems quite happy being alone. She spends her days painting. She’s really very good. If she gets bored, I have a few Russian novels in the bookshelves, though I’m sure she’s read them all. She’s quite a vigorous old thing. Goes for a long walk every day.”

  “Well, isn’t that nice.”

  “I don’t know why you’re taking on. She’s not staying with you!”

  “No, indeed,” Darling conceded. “I’m not a big enough human being, I’m afraid, to throw my doors open to a complete stranger. You know nothing about her.”

  “I do too. She’s a sad and harmless old lady who lost everything in a revolution. She has terrible stories to tell.” Even as she said this, Lane thought about the focused, piercing quality in Orlova’s eyes.

  “There is nothing more terrifying, in my view, than an old lady. They depend for their camouflage on the innocence of their looks, but I’ve seen old ladies wield umbrellas and canes with lethal effect. We had a case before the war of a gang of well-armed hold-up artists who were run out of a mountain hideout by an old woman of eighty.”

  “Really, Inspector. Are you quite finished?”

  “Yes, darling. But I speak only partially in jest. If the vicar doesn’t find her someplace, she could become a fixture. We’ll have to move the furniture around her,” he said. “Though she could be useful holding a lamp, I suppose.”

  Lane stopped and put her hand on his arm. She could see the vicarage half a block along. “Darling, are you sure about the house? I feel such a brute saying I won’t move.”

  She and Darling had discussed where they would live when they were married, and Darling had said instantly that he would be happy to move out to King’s Cove. He could keep his little house on the hill in town for when his work required him to be nearby, but otherwise he was quite prepared to commute. After all, David Bertolli, Angela’s husband, drove into town every day to teach music, and he seemed happy enough.

  Darling took her hand and kissed it. “I don’t really know what is meant by the phrase ‘to make someone happy.’ They always say that, don’t they, when they talk about people being in love, and I’m not sure that it is possible for, or really the job of, any one person to make another happy. But I am certain that you are happy there, and that that house means everything to you. I want more than anything for you to be happy,” he said, “as happy as I am because you have consented to love me. So yes, I am sure. Anyway, the views are great, and I will get much-needed exercise cutting wood for the stove.”

  Lane beamed. “We are in such good agreement that I can’t see the vicar will have anything left to do.”

  The vicar’s office was panelled with dark wood and book shelves so crammed with books that all those that didn’t fit were piled on top of the shelved books. More books were stacked precariously on the side table under a reading lamp.

  “What massive collection of books!” Lane said. “Are they all ecclesiastical?”

  “In one way or another, I suppose they are. World religions and whatnot. I like to know what the opposition is up to.” Stevens smiled. “Now then. Sit down over there. Tea will be along shortly.”

  Lane and Darling sat side by side on the leather two-seater, and the vicar settled in a deep chair opposite. Darling found himself relieved that Stevens was not sitting in his desk chair, which would have caused him to loom over them.

  “Now, I do see you, Miss Winslow, at St. Joseph’s of a Sunday, but are you are a regular churchgoer, Inspector?”

  “I am not,” replied Darling.

  “So direct! How wonderful. Such a lot of time is wasted with protestations of one kind or another. While I know it is my duty to encourage people to attend, I must confess that I don’t believe God really minds about that sort of thing. He is much more concerned with what is in people’s hearts. Still, marriage is a sacrament ordained by God, and I must explore with you your understanding of what it means to be joined together before God, your understanding of the proper roles of husband and wife.” The vicar hesitated. “Have you discussed this? For example, Miss Winslow, your role as a wife. To be a happy presence when your husband comes home, with a hot meal ready? I do have some pamphlets that may be of interest and provide some guidance.”

  Lane could feel the fixed smile on her face. She dared not look at Darling, who must be on the verge of hysterics at the thought of the so-called hot meal he was likely to get from her.

  “I live in a beautiful place, so I am certain I can manage the happiness. I’m afraid the proper cooking might be a bit beyond me just at
first. But Frederick and I will be learning to cook together, so if we don’t poison each other we should make out very well.” She very nearly added, “Will God be happy with that?”

  “Ah. How very modern of you, Inspector! Now, I know you live in town. Have you fully decided on where you will live once you are married? I only ask, you see, because we want to be alert to any feelings of resentment you may have at giving up a good deal in this marriage.”

  “We have settled on living in King’s Cove,” replied Darling. “I can’t imagine feeling any resentment, Vicar. I love Miss Winslow and freely enter into the marriage on these terms.”

  “Splendid. Yes, absolutely splendid. If I am going to marry you, I should like to think that you are truly compatible and will have a long and joyful married life. Divorce is rare, of course, and we frown upon it, but I wonder if it should be,” he said. “So many couples find too late that they have made a mistake and feel forced to spend the one life God has given them in misery without seeking spiritual help.”

  “Oh, quite,” said Lane uncertainly.

  It occurred to her that, when one is in love, one never thinks one will be miserable. She looked at Darling. Try as she might, she could not imagine being miserable with him. But she could not have imagined it with Angus either, the man with whom she had had a wartime affair and who had been so deceptive. Well, she never would have had the chance for matrimonial misery with Angus, she thought. Unbeknownst to her, he had been married the whole time.

  As if reading her mind, the vicar asked, “Of course, I must ask if you are both free to marry legally?”

  They nodded.

  “Good! Now then, I could ask you if you have thought about children, but in the case of two people who are a little older and more mature than some of my parishioners, I can see that you are quite capable of sorting that kind of thing out. I must remind you that the early flush of love may not always be equal to the stresses of married life. You must be prepared, to endure, well, difficulties. Disagreements, differences in values perhaps. The church is always there to . . .” But he stopped, his expression taking on a worried cast as though he’d suddenly forgotten where he was in the instructions he was to give.