by Iona Whishaw
“I suppose we had better go to bed,” Lane said. “As you say, tomorrow things might be clearer. At least you do not have to be caught up in our drama but can resume your painting. You could go up to the Hughes place at the top of the hill. In fact, that’s where I thought you’d gone today.”
“Yes. That is an excellent idea. No one needs an old lady underfoot!”
Lane turned out her bedside lamp. She had tried to read but could not shake the sadness she felt. The countess whose home was taken from her, the hunter’s wife. How could a man ride off on a sunny morning and just never come back? She turned in the dark so that she could feel the cool air coming in the window. As she began to drift off, it came to her that she had thought Orlova had disappeared for a moment as well, but instead she’d been up the hill painting, enjoying the scenery with her little suitcase of paints. Or had she? Lane opened her eyes and stared into the darkness and frowned. Why did she think that? With the discomfiting thought coming unbidden into her mind that Orlova’s presence suddenly seemed to her more than a little strange, she turned on her side and tried to sleep.
“Is Alice out with her trusty rifle again?” Angela asked. “There was a shot the day before yesterday in the afternoon that nearly took a year off my life. I had to run around and count the boys.” Angela Bertolli, who had come with her husband and three small boys from New York to live in King’s Cove, had once had Alice Mather practically in her yard during one of her shooting sprees. Angela had had to order the boys to stay indoors and away from the windows until Alice’s son had come to fetch her home.
Eleanor frowned. “I don’t think so. Alice was in yesterday and seemed quite calm. More likely to have been that missing hunter.”
“Missing hunter?” Angela asked. She leaned on the counter and shook her head. “What’s that about? And why do you have two horses this morning? The boys would be crazy about the two horses. Too bad they’re in school.”
“Dear me. It’s a dreadful business.” Eleanor explained about the missing hunter, and then asked, “What time was that shot you heard again?”
“Gosh. I don’t know. Late afternoon? I’d picked the children up from school at Balfour, but David wasn’t home yet from Nelson. Four? Four thirty? It came from way up, past that dreadful abandoned house at the top of the road. Do you really think it might have something to do with the hunter?”
“It could. He could have gotten one shot off at an animal. Glenn found the horse spooked and wandering northward up on a meadow where he was working. That’s roughly up that way. You probably want to keep an eye on the boys, if there’s a wounded animal around.”
“That funny old lady Lane has on board had better be careful as well. She’s always walking around on her own. And I wonder if she knows about Alice? Alice could bump her off without hesitation just because she’s foreign.”
The conversation about Lane’s guest made Angela resolve to stop by. She realized she’d been rather avoiding Lane because she felt awkward about her guest’s inability to speak English—she wouldn’t be able to chat freely, as she was used to, without taking the guest into consideration. But now, with the new activity around the missing man, she thought she’d better get caught up. Maybe the inspector would be interested in the gunfire she’d heard.
“Oh, you needn’t worry about the countess,” Lane said when Angela poked her head in her friend’s front door and looked nervously down the hall. “She’s gone off to paint. She wanted to catch the morning light on Gladys’s lupines.”
Angela emitted a relieved breath. “So, what’s going on? I heard about that poor hunter.”
“Yes. It’s horrible. The police will take their German shepherd out today. He’s apparently a sniffer dog. I’m going to bring poor Mrs. Brodie, the hunter’s wife, here. I expect the search party was in the bush before dawn. I have coffee ready for them. Can you stay and have a cup?”
Though Angela had laundry waiting, she decided she would not move from Lane’s house for the world just then. She saw the painting Countess Orlova had done of the lake from the front porch and picked it up.
“My goodness! Is this one of hers? She’s very good, isn’t she? I should invite her over to see some of my work. Would you come if I did that? Otherwise we’ll be gasping like fish, trying to communicate.”
“That’s a very kind and generous idea. I haven’t even seen all your work. As soon as this crisis is over, let’s plan it.” Lane was carrying the coffee to the porch. “Phew,” she said, settling into her deck chair. “It’s nice to have a moment of quiet. Such a beautiful morning, and all the while some poor man is lost or injured in the woods.”
Angela sat down and took her coffee. “I was telling Eleanor I heard a shot at four or four thirty the day before yesterday. I thought it must be Alice, but Eleanor tells me Alice is in good shape right now. If it isn’t her, do you think it might have anything to do with the hunter? I was just telling Eleanor that your Madam whatshername should be careful on her walks.”
“Yes, she should, especially if people are shooting. I’m terrified he’s wounded a bear or a cougar and the countess will meet an enraged animal on one of her walks.”
“I don’t know. If the hunter was attacked, so might any of us be by a wounded animal. Why will people hunt so near where people live? The children don’t go far into the woods, but your old lady was striding along in her sensible shoes way up my road yesterday. The first time I saw her, she was carrying a little suitcase. She looked so comical,” Angela said, “an old lady in the middle of nowhere with her suitcase, but I realize now those must have been her painting supplies. I should take a leaf out of her book. I don’t know . . . with the kids getting older, my whole life seems to be about the care and upkeep of the family, and I never seem to get to the easel.”
Ames walked over the Burrard Bridge, and then down toward Hastings and onto Main Street from the diner on Fourth Avenue. He was perplexed and too full of coffee. He thought the long walk would do him good. Did what he’d learned today merit a call to Darling? It struck him that the more he investigated, the less he knew or understood. It meant going back to his rooming house to use the phone, and he quailed at calling anyone from his landlady’s sitting room because she’d hover suspiciously, thinking that he was up to no good. Honestly, he thought, if she believed young men so wicked, why did she put them up? Maybe they’d let him use one of the phones at the police station. It was police business after all.
Once he arrived at the station, no impediment was offered to his using the police telephone, and he was shown into a small office.
“Reverse the charges, though!” the officer said.
“Well, I’m sorry, Ames, but he’s not here, and no amount of you needing to speak to him is going to make him appear. There’s a missing hunter up the lake, and everyone, including the dog, is out on this one.” O’Brien had the air of a man who was relieved not to be scrabbling about in the underbrush. “Is it important?”
“No, I’m calling to ask about the weather. When will he be back?”
“I’ll get out my crystal ball. Why don’t you tell me, and I’ll pass it on?”
“No, that’s all right. It’s a bit complicated. I’ll phone first thing.”
“Suit yourself. I suppose you expect we’ll be paying for this call, now.”
“Yup.”
Later, in his favourite diner, he contemplated what he’d learned. He realized that this meant there was more to the story than Darling had told him, and he was preparing to be slightly peevish about being kept in the dark, when a more generous spirit, perhaps fed by the unequalled chicken and dumplings provided by the Chinese chef in the kitchen, made him think that perhaps Darling himself had no more information than he had given Ames.
There was one more class the next day, and then Monday morning was the exam. His fellow students had all decided to go out for the night to
their local, but his anxiety about the exam swept all before it, and he paid for his meal and walked back to the rooming house to study.
The class the following morning on forensic ballistics proved more engaging a topic than he had anticipated, and Ames was talking animatedly in the hallway with a couple of other officers about how a really scientific approach to ballistics could help the rate of arrests, when the pathologist he’d spoken with about the dead Russian approached him.
“Constable Ames, soon to be sergeant without a shadow of a doubt, you’re sharper than you look. If you’ve got a moment, there’s something you might like to see.”
Chapter Twelve
The dog ran forward, his nose to the ground, and then ran up a long outcrop of open granite with a low woof, and then back toward where the men were following on horseback.
“What is it, Bailey?” his handler said. “I think he’s got something, sir.”
Bailey rushed forward again and stood on the top of the outcrop overlooking a gully. The men could hear the gurgle of a creek. Darling dismounted and hurried after the dog, who was barking at something below, hidden from the men.
“Here!” Darling called back to the search party and scrambled onto the outcrop and looked down to the base of the rock.
He could see that it was already too late. The man was stretched out, face down, his head turned away from the rock at an angle that looked much too loose. Dropping down near the man’s feet, Darling could see that it was painfully evident that this was not an accident. The great rend across the man’s throat was black and encrusted with flies. Dried blood gave evidence that blood had drained and pooled under his head, soaking into the grass where he had fallen. Darling closed his eyes and turned his head away for a moment to take a breath.
“Police only, please!” he called out. And then on consideration added, “Mr. Leonard, we have found the remains of a deceased individual. I will want you to verify if this is Brodie. Can you just wait there in the meantime?”
Ponting, Oxley, and the neighbours of the dead man, who had come because they knew his usual routes, were beginning to scramble onto the outcrop.
“Oxley, camera,” Darling commanded.
Constable Oxley pulled his equipment off the horse, pocketing some flash bulbs in case they were needed, and took the camera out of its leather case. As he made for the scene, he stopped, frowning, and looked around, as if trying to penetrate the surrounding forest, then he hurried on to where Darling was crouched by the body. Ponting and the neighbours occupied themselves with the horses and spoke in low voices trying to piece together how a man who had gone hunting on his own had managed to shoot himself. Constable Ward, Bailey’s handler, had called the dog and was calming and stroking him.
Darling looked up as Oxley clambered down with his equipment.
“He’s had his throat cut.” He said it quietly, so the others would not hear.
“Oh.” Oxley stopped, frowning, and seemed to want to look away.
“No time to be squeamish I’m afraid. The whole thing, Constable. The lay of the body, the wound, the ground around here. Damned grass will probably mean no nice imprints of the killer’s shoe. We need to look for the weapon.”
Darling looked around at the encroaching forest and the dense underbrush. How had the man come to die here? Was he with someone he knew? Or had someone discovered him here and, for some reason, killed him? Or could someone have come into this dense and remote bit of bush to kill this man deliberately? And why? Oxley got to work with the camera, and Darling called back up to the waiting men.
“Mr. Leonard, would you mind? It’s not a pleasant sight, I’m afraid.”
Leonard made his way around the outcrop and positioned himself near the head of the body and then turned away, swallowing. “It’s him. That’s Brodie. What happened to him?”
“Thank you. Can you go back and wait with the others now?” Darling said gently. “When we’re done here, we’ll have to bring him up and pack him out. Mr. Ponting, where did you find the man’s horse? Was it close to here?”
Ponting surveyed the area. “It was on the other side of this creek, I’d say half a mile north of here.”
Darling looked at the other side of the creek. “He fell forward, facing the creek. Was he on his way to water his horse? The horse must have bolted down this slope, across the creek, and up to where he was found.”
Darling climbed back to where the other men were standing. “His throat has been cut. It may have implications about how we get him out. Have we got a blanket or anything?”
The news seemed to strike Ponting like a blow.
“Throat cut! I’ve been riding and working these mountains for years and never heard of such a thing. Never felt in any danger.”
Ponting dismounted and approached the neighbours who, after the initial effort to see, had moved away and were standing quietly holding their mounts. Leonard had his hand over his mouth as if trying not to be sick. His son Ben, with the imperturbability of youth, was looking eagerly toward the rock.
“You heard, I guess. Did either of you bring blankets?” Ponting asked.
Seeing that Ponting looked in control of himself and seemed disposed to organize something to contain the corpse, Darling went back to check on Oxley.
“He could have been resting here, sir, when he was surprised from behind.” Oxley was leaning forward, trying not to breathe, to get a close-up shot of the dead man’s neck.
“It would have to have been a tallish man to pull this off. The way he’s lying suggests he was standing and then pitched forward,” Darling commented. “Let’s get that dog on to seeing if he approached the area from this side.”
Darling realized that they would need a spare horse and saw that Brodie’s neighbour still looked green.
“Mr. Leonard, can you and your son and Mr. Ponting ride down to Miss Winslow’s? We’ll need a horse to get him down. Not Mr. Brodie’s. I doubt he can be made to come any closer to where his master fell. Perhaps, Mr. Ponting, you could bring one of the mounts back.” He thought for a moment about the next bit. “Miss Winslow will have Mrs. Brodie with her there. She’ll have to know, I suppose, but please leave the details to me.”
“Yes, of course, Inspector.”
Both men looked relieved about the instructions to keep the information to the minimum.
“Is there anything else, Inspector?” Ponting asked, as he handed Darling his blanket, the only one they had among them.
“Yes. Can you ask Miss Winslow to telephone the police department and have them send out a van? Then can you ask her for one of her largest sheets?”
“How long shall I say it will be for you to get him down?” Ponting asked.
Darling looked back toward the body where Oxley was still squatting with his camera. Who knew how long here? Some time to get the body up and secured, the ride back. “It’ll be a couple of hours at the very least. That should be time to get the crew out from town and have it all ready when we arrive. It will be beastly for that poor woman.”
Ponting mounted and joined Leonard and his son, who had already moved farther from the scene. He was not at all looking forward to being the bearer of bad news. At least if something ever happened to him in the bush, he’d leave no broken-hearted widow.
“Ward,” Darling said to the handler, who had been watching Oxley with professional interest. “Can you take that dog and see if he picks up the scent? I’d like to know how the man got here. Let’s work from Mr. Ponting’s theory that he was approaching the creek from this side. Oxley, how are you getting on?”
“I’ve got a full set of photos of the scene, sir. I’m not seeing his rifle. It wasn’t with his horse, so he must have had it with him.”
Darling re-joined the constable, and together they warily lifted the stiff torso away from the ground to see if the rifle
was under him. Even this small movement made the head shift grotesquely. The gun was certainly not under him.
“Let’s think through this. The man wants to water his horse, so he dismounts and begins to lead him down the gully toward the creek. Perhaps he is carrying the rifle and props it up somewhere while they head down. But why is he here behind the outcrop where he is obviously surprised by the killer?”
Oxley, who had begun packing the camera equipment, looked down toward the creek. “Maybe he’s taken the horse down and left him to drink and has come up here to stand against the rock in the shade? That could put the killing in the afternoon.”
“Because?” asked Darling.
“If he’s looking for shade, the sun is behind him toward the west. That would make this side of the outcrop shady.”
“Hmmm,” Darling said.
“I’ll put this stuff up top and go have a look around for the rifle.” Oxley bent over to take up the camera bag, looking once more at the body and giving an involuntary shudder.
Darling watched Oxley for a moment as he was beginning to move back and forth near the outcrop, looking for the rifle. He could see where their two horses were munching unconcernedly on the high grass. He looked back at the body. Gillingham, the local pathologist, wouldn’t have much difficulty with cause of death. The cut looked clean, from what he could see through the caking of blood and flies, but Gilly could probably determine more clearly what sort of weapon was responsible. Darling sighed. It looked expertly delivered. The end of the war had disgorged experts in every form of death back into the country—though admittedly this close-quarters sort of killing was more rarefied. Some sort of special operations person would know how to deliver this kind of death, he reasoned, an experienced hunter would as well, and he had no doubt there were plenty of those up and down the Kootenay valley.
