by Iona Whishaw
Whatever the case, it didn’t look as if the body had been moved, and though it was difficult to really read the ground with its accumulation of dense grasses, twigs, and so on, all the blood was pooled under the victim’s head, which meant that he was surprised from behind, most likely. Random? Deliberate? Someone would have had to follow him or know where he was going in the latter case. Random was more worrisome; it suggested a madman on the loose. Something the residents of King’s Cove would not like to hear.
Curving well around the scene, Darling descended to the creek and found a place to ford the water. He crossed and, keeping the same distance relative to the body, moved up the other bank and approached the ground directly opposite where the body lay on the other side of the creek.
From this vantage point, he could see Ward and the dog on the open area on the opposite side of the creek. Bailey was following a scent away from the outcrop and the creek that suggested the hunter had never been on this side of the gully. He looked back across the creek and could see the outcrop with the body still lying in the shade, now under Ponting’s blanket, and waiting to be transported out. He narrowed his eyes and tried to imagine the scene. Perhaps it was about this time of day. The hunter has led his horse to the creek and scrambled back up to sit with his back against the rock, enjoying the shade. In his mind’s eye, Darling could see that the hunter would have had his gun with him. He would not have left it in the holster on the horse, nor would he have propped it up somewhere away from him. There are cougars and bears to consider. So he is sitting with his gun by his side or across his knees. He’s closed his eyes. The killer has climbed the outcrop and reached down to cut the hunter’s throat. No. It’s an uncomfortable reach, and why would the hunter not have heard him coming? The killer must have approached from around the low side of the outcrop, so the hunter must have had his back to him. What was he doing? Perhaps Gilly would be able to tell something from the angle of the cut. Why did he not hear someone approaching? Could he have gotten up from his rest and crouched down to pick up his rifle? And of course, the rifle was missing. Had the killer kept it, or merely gotten rid of it for some reason? Or could someone else have picked it up?
With a sigh, he looked behind him toward the meadow. The horse had bolted across the creek and up the bank into that meadow and wandered until Ponting had found him, spooked and lathered. Had the killer tried to go after the horse? If he was intent, for example, on robbery, he might have. The saddle bags were still on the horse when he was found and seemed to have nothing of value, but that was not to say they hadn’t had something worth stealing.
More carefully now, Darling walked along the bank looking down, and found where the ground had been disturbed by the fleeing horse. The twigs and dead leaves had been trampled, exposing the soil on the bank. No sign of human prints. He stood looking down at the creek, his brow furrowed, and then he shook his head, smiling grimly. If I’ve cut someone’s throat, he thought, I need to wash up. He scrambled down the bank to the other side of the creek and walked along it until he saw exactly what he wanted.
“Oxley, when you’re finished over there, I think I have something.”
From somewhere above he heard Oxley, his voice muffled as if he’d been looking away.
“Coming, sir.”
“It looks to me like someone, let’s say the killer, washed up just here. You can see where they’ve wiped their bloody hands, or the knife, on this grass here. It’s faint because they’ve washed up first, but it’s there.”
Chapter Thirteen
1918
“I don’t know why we have to be ‘re-educated’ by people who can’t even put an X for their own names.”
Tatiana looked up from swilling the mop along the surface of the stinking concrete around the toilets. She didn’t know who the girl was and didn’t care. She whined every day in that weepy voice, and every day Tatiana ignored her.
“You shouldn’t let your blond hair show through your head scarf. You’ve heard what they’re doing,” Tatiana said.
The girl didn’t seem to have one iota of practical good sense. She threw the bucket of water, already black from the floor, over the toilet and jumped back to avoid getting splashed. It stank no matter what they did.
“And by the way,” Tatiana said, “who do you think cleaned your toilets? Maybe it’s our turn.”
“It’s disgusting! I never left my toilet like this.” The blond girl’s voice broke. “I’m going to die!”
“Probably,” said Tatiana.
She took up the bucket, stepped on the strings of the mop to get the last of the water out, and walked out and up the stairs to the cleaning closet. The blonde was slow to follow. She ought to feel sorry for her, Tatiana knew. The girl was obviously sick, and she didn’t know where her family was or whether they were alive or dead. Tatiana was better off because it was no mystery for her. Her parents were dead. Her husband was dead. Her daughter was dead. Only Vasya was still alive somewhere.
The woman who looked back at her in the broken mirror was barely recognizable. She was old at thirty-eight, her face thin, with deep lines and a bitter look. She took off her head scarf and pushed her hair back, re-inserting the pins, and then replaced the scarf. Her pinafore stank of sewage as she slung it into her bag. She would report to the supervisor and get back to the rooms to wash her clothes in the tin basin with a cracked and uneven bar of lye soap and cold water. She hoped that the bread she had left would still be under her bed in her box. There would be nothing else.
In the hallway, she passed two men she had seen before. They were in charge of something, she didn’t know what. She moved close to the wall and looked down. Suddenly one of them grabbed her by the arm.
“Where are you off to, then?”
“To the supervisor, comrade.”
“Listen to that voice, eh, Sasha? The music of the decadent aristo!”
“Please excuse me, comrade. I am expected.” Tatiana pitched her voice low, respectful.
Her persecutor pushed her up against the wall, his face looming in front of hers.
“Yes, by me.”
His hand went up under her skirt grabbing at her thigh and something snapped in Tatiana. She brought her knee up as hard as she could, hoping she hit something that mattered. The man cried out and let go, and Tatiana tried to make a run for it.
She could hear the other man saying, “Comrade, leave it. Not this one. We’re late ourselves.”
Tatiana felt her arm yanked again, and she was pulled around so violently that she dropped her bags. The man brought his arm up and hit her across the face with the back of his hand, spitting out an insult. Her head flew back, and she felt her skull crack against the wall, and then she crumbled.
Lane had a feeling of everything being up in the air, indeterminate.
“I don’t know where I am, just now,” she said, putting her cup on the table. “That poor hunter is missing, Countess Orlova’s brother is missing, the vicar hasn’t called about a place for her to live, and I even have to wait till ten to go pick up Mrs. Brodie. Just up in the air, that’s all. And now you’re telling me that my guest is wandering much farther away than I thought, with a hunter missing and possibly a wounded animal loose.”
“I know what you mean. It’s hard to even think of doing the dishes with all that going on,” Angela said.
Lane smiled in spite of the seriousness of the situation. Angela famously hated doing dishes and sometimes left them piled in the sink and on the counter for days. “I’m waiting for the boys to get old enough to wash them,” she had once told Lane.
“Angela. I . . . I do have some news, of a sort,” Lane said. “It’s not the most auspicious time for it, really.”
“Oh, God, you’re not going away again, are you? I couldn’t stand it. I’m much too used to you being here now.”
“No. Not exactly. Da
rling and I are going to marry.” She rushed the last part of the sentence. Rip the bandage off.
Angela shrieked. “Oh, Lane, sweetie! That’s the best news ever! I told you, didn’t I?”
“All right. Keep your hair on. No one knows but the vicar. I haven’t told anyone yet.”
“You told me first?”
“I wondered if you’d, you know, stand up with me, be my matron of honour.”
“Would I! Oh my God! What will I wear? When is it? Oh, gosh, I’m so happy.” She had reached across the table and was kneading one of Lane’s hands.
Lane was embarrassed by Angela’s delight but, much to her consternation, felt herself about to become tearful. She used her free hand to keep her tears at bay.
“Okay. This is ridiculous. Let’s not make a fuss. Eighteenth of October, right here in St. Joe’s. You have plenty of time to find something to wear. I haven’t even thought of what I’ll wear. It’s to be very quiet. No one wants a big palaver.”
“Oh, there will be a palaver, mark my words!” Angela got up and began to pace across the porch. “Flowers, a dress, reception. Where shall we have the reception? A dinner, do you think, or cocktails? Are you inviting this lot?” Here Angela waved her hand to encompass the residents of King’s Cove.
“Angela, please. Slow down! I’m sure Darling doesn’t want a big fuss either.”
“Well, it’s not his wedding, it’s yours! Anyway, I think you have him all wrong. I think he’s the kind of man who’d like the biggest possible brouhaha made out of his wedding. I certainly would if I was marrying you! Who’s he having as his best man? Does he have a brother, or something?”
Lane was a little reluctant to say, but Angela was a ship in full sail at the moment, and she would be bound to get it out of her. “I think he might be going to ask Ames.”
“How absolutely adorable! David picked his favourite cousin who was as useless as a lump of potato. He got so drunk before the ceremony that he was actually fishing around in all his pockets looking for the ring. It was touch and go, I can tell you! Daddy had to make the speech. Constable Ames, on the other hand, would be much too respectful to behave like that! I am so excited!”
Excited enough for the two of them, Lane thought. “Back to reality. Are you coming with me to get Mrs. Brodie? I think she’ll need a lot of support.”
Felix Hunt stepped onto the platform, watching the busy Nelson train station materialize as the steam cleared. Charming, he thought. He’d been delighted to get the assignment from the director because his work in Vancouver had devolved into almost one job, passing himself off as a member of a repair crew and inspecting Soviet ships docking at the harbour. He knew émigrés were still dribbling in, and sailors had to be accounted for so that as many as arrived also left. And he knew he had a counterpart on each ship. An arrogant man in a suit who was always full of confidence because he would have suborned ordinary crewmen to spy on their mates. Sometimes he thought it would just be easier if they shook off their disguises and dealt directly with each other. They had the exact same interests after all. The Soviet minder wanted every sailor who arrived to leave again when the repairs were done, and so did he. But Hunt was also looking for likely informants.
He had spent the trip to Nelson admiring the mountains and wilderness. He would have loved to retire to Canada, but his wife was hankering to be home. They’d sent their only son to school in England, and she pined for him. She was being plucky, but he knew he should ask for a transfer back, sooner rather than later. He asked directions to the Dade Hotel, took up his suitcase, and went into the sunshine. He had received meticulous instructions from the director about how to find Lane Winslow. He would settle in, have a good meal, and then hire a car and drive out first thing in the morning.
The director was quite specific: find out everything she knew about the Russian operative Aptekar. She had been the last one to see him, and he had not turned up at the meeting place in Yugoslavia. The director had emphasized that she could be found to have nothing to do with it, but they needed to be sure that Aptekar had not decided to fade back into the woodwork with British secrets. Hunt was disappointed to learn from the director of this woman’s possible duplicity. He had learned enough in Vancouver about the dangers of the Soviet menace to British outposts like the Dominion. He wondered if her supposed “retirement” was genuine. She spoke Russian, she might need money. And there was that business of the Russian staying in her house. An old lady, to be sure, but Russian. The director had said Lane Winslow had been an outstanding operative during the war and was intelligent. More’s the danger, he thought, pausing outside the doors of the hotel and looking up. He’d get a room on the top floor. He’d like a view of that beautiful lake.
Early September 1947
“What are you doing here? You look like hell. Is this some undercover operation?” Igor Dudin stepped aside to let Aptekar in.
His old colleague’s apartment felt crowded and overheated to Aptekar. “Something like that. I need a bath and some help.”
Dudin looked quickly into the hallway and then closed the door. “Were you followed?”
“I certainly hope not. If I was, I am a dead man.”
Putting his hand on Aptekar’s arm, Dudin said, “I know. Everybody knows.”
“Then I am a dead man now.” Aptekar sighed and leaned against the wall, suddenly aware of his exhaustion. He’d given it a good try, he thought. He didn’t blame Dudin for what was about to happen. It was how things worked. His friend also had to look out for himself.
“What will you do?” he asked, resigned.
“Vodka, bath, good feeding. In that order. Then we’ll have to find clothes and get you out of here.”
“Are you sure? It is not safe for you.” Aptekar felt a mix of hope and suspicion.
“When is it ever safe for us? I can tell you, the knives are out for you. Betraying the motherland. Come. I will run the bath, and we will drink while it fills. You are lucky. Today happens to be one of the two days a week when there is hot water. You are also lucky because I have been assigned a flat with my own bathroom. The reward from a grateful nation.”
Aptekar lay in the bath, his jangled nerves soothed by the vodka and hot water. He could hear his old companion in the kitchen, frying something that smelled like sausage, and it made him think that none of it mattered, that anything would be worth one final good meal. They would not send him to a prison camp this time, he knew. Execution. He hoped Dudin would get the credit for his capture and not be dragged down with him. He would help him, turn himself in, make it look good. He sank under the water to soak his head and rubbed soap into his hair. In the end, it is creature comforts. They matter more than ideals, loyalty, some improbable long and peaceful retirement. He did not, he reflected under the influence of the truth-inducing vodka, merit a peaceful retirement after what he had spent his life doing.
Chapter FOURTEEN
Glasses in hand, Lane and Orlova sat exhausted in the sitting room. The temperature had fallen enough by nightfall that Lane had lit the stove. She was conscious of a pall of sadness at this first hint of the coming winter cold. It seemed to underscore the chilling and exhausting activities of the day.
Mrs. Brodie’s shock and sorrow at the sight of her husband’s body wrapped in a sheet, so suggestive of a shroud, being removed from the horse and placed in the van had been heart wrenching. Angela had gone home by the time the men returned from the bush, so it was up to Lane and Countess Orlova to try to comfort the widow. Her choking cries had no adequate response. They could not understand why anyone would have killed her husband any more than she could.
Lane had given her brandy and made tea and tried to keep her warm, but nothing stemmed the flow of tears or questions, or prevented her near collapse at the sight of the van being driven away. Lane had finally been able to get hold of a cousin of Mrs. Brodie’s, who agr
eed to meet them at the Brodie farm. Darling had forsworn to ask Mrs. Brodie the necessary questions to begin piecing together the events surrounding her husband’s death, but he told Lane to tell the cousin that he would be out in the morning to talk with her. It was a murder investigation.
“That poor woman,” Orlova said, shuddering. She pulled her black sweater more tightly around herself.
“I feel drained,” Lane admitted. “But, madam, you must be careful; we all must be, at least until they find out why that man died.”
“You don’t need to warn me! I will go nowhere but here, or up to that Mrs. Hughes to paint her flowers.”
Lane stood up. “I think that is wise. I’m for bed, I think. Would you like anything else?”
“No, thank you. You must rest and not think of me. I am just fine.”
Lying in the dark, Lane felt Mrs. Brodie’s sorrow like a dark mantel. It reminded her of the cost of love. She had loved and lost herself once, a circumstance that had been sullied by deceit and manipulation. Now she loved, she knew, for real. And the man she loved was a policeman. Please, she whispered into the darkness, never let this be me.
The sound of the phone pierced her consciousness, and she pulled herself, bemused, from a deep sleep. She pushed herself slowly out of bed and listened. Two longs and a short. It was for her. She glanced at her bedside clock. It was well after nine in the morning, but her dismay, her memories of the day before, and her worry about her guest were all pushed out by the insistent ringing. In the hall, she picked up the earpiece and spoke into the receiver. “KC 431. Lane Winslow speaking.”
