A Deceptive Devotion

by Iona Whishaw

  “I know that already. I would much rather learn about the man your mother wishes you to marry.”

  Chapter SEVENTEEN

  Orlova watched Lane’s car disappear up the road and then turned back into the house. She was beginning to think it was no use. How long could she draw this out? She had already told them it was likely a waste of everyone’s time. She went into the kitchen and filled the kettle and was about to sit down when she saw the little table where Lane had a typewriter, a jar of pencils, and a stack of paper. She had not seen Lane working at this table since she had arrived. Was she a writer? She shrugged, feeling slightly guilty. If Lane were a writer, having an unexpected guest underfoot would certainly be an impediment. She pulled open the drawer and found a manila file. Poetry! Well, now. That made her almost Russian.

  Orlova put the file down because the kettle was boiling. She turned off the stove and went into the cupboard where Lane kept the tea. The poetry surprised her. She poured water over the tea leaves and then went to sit on the chair by the writing table. The first poem on the pile was called “Re Past.” Orlova inclined her head in a slight nod of approval at the unusual construction.

  The bread was almost black

  A shadow now in my memory

  Mrs. Krumins is locked there, forever

  Kneading dough for our house

  Like a woman in a painting

  Only there is no nostalgic shaft of sunlight

  From a nearby window, only a question

  The poem seemed unfinished, and Orlova reread it, out loud now. Had Lane been writing about her childhood? What question remained unanswered for her beautiful hostess? There was sympathy, certainly, for this baker of brown bread. But it was the reference to the painting that arrested her. She was back suddenly in her own sitting room with her papa, looking at the painting of the peasant women harvesting in a world that was gone forever. She felt such a stab of sadness and nostalgia that she could scarcely move. More than fifty years since she had sat with him. What was she now? She had always been certain. From childhood, she had had certainty as her sword and her shield. Through everything, she had known what was right, had seen her view vindicated by history, had fought to . . . to what?

  She shook her head and stood. She would take her tea into the sitting room. Lane kept her mail there in a shelf with glass doors. Relieved that the debilitating feelings engendered by her sudden memory had left her, she thought, it will happen. I will be ready. That had always been the truth. It always would be.

  Oxley pulled the car up in front of the Penrith Boatworks. A sandwich board on the sidewalk advertised purchases, repairs, and rentals. The door was open. It took a moment to adjust to the murky light in the crowded shop. A man cleaning an outboard motor looked up from the row of parts he had neatly lined up on the workbench in front of him and put down the rag he was holding.

  “Can I help you, gentlemen?”

  “I’m Inspector Darling of the Nelson Police,” Darling said, showing his card. “This is Constable Oxley. Are you Mr. Taylor?”

  “That’s me. If you’ve come about that boat someone took off me, it’s too late. The thing was found wrecked down the river from here.”

  “No. We’re here on another matter. Raymond Brodie was found dead yesterday.”

  Taylor sat down with a thump. “Ray? Dead? Dead, how?”

  “When was the last time you saw him?” countered Darling.

  “If you want the truth, I haven’t seen him for a couple of years, not since, well, since we had a bit of a falling out. I was never too keen on him.”

  “Yes, your ex-wife explained about that.”

  “I bet she did! But poor Cassie! How is she?”

  “As you’d expect, I should imagine.”

  “Look, Inspector. If you’re coming here thinking I had anything to do with it, you’re sadly mistaken. If anyone should be dead, it’s me. He hates me, or hated me, I suppose, and if my bloody ex told you, then you know why.”

  “She implied you hated him,” Darling said.

  “I did. He was married to the woman I loved, still love, and he treated her like an unpaid servant. I never did understand why she stayed with him. But I wouldn’t have killed him. I wouldn’t do anything that could hurt Cassie, do you understand?”

  “Can you account for your movements in the last, say, seventy-two hours?”

  Taylor waved his hand to indicate his shop. “I’ve got more work than I can keep up with, Inspector. I work late, and then head up to the hotel bar for a beer, and then go to the rooming house I live in. Mrs. Metcalf will be happy to vouch for the time I spend there.” It would have to do.

  “Thank you, Mr. Taylor. We will speak with her. Were you open on Sunday?”

  “As it happens, I was working here, as usual. A local fisherman brought me his motor to work on. He was mad because he’d been planning to go out on the Saturday, and he hoped I could fix it in time for Monday. He came around and talked my ear off while I worked on it.”

  “Until what time?”

  “I don’t know,” Taylor said impatiently. “You know, you hear these radio dramas where people get asked the time and they always know it. Innocent people, Inspector, don’t know the time they were somewhere most times. It was getting toward dusk. That’s the best I can do.”

  “We’d better have his name as well, then, and the address of your rooming house.”

  Darling and Oxley waited while Taylor wrote down the information on the back of a receipt. He handed the paper to Darling.

  “I don’t understand, though, how did he die? When?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Taylor. We’ll be in touch if we have any further questions,” Darling said, turning toward the door.

  Back in the car, Oxley started the engine. “He doesn’t seem like the romantic type. I mean, he’s kind of old.”

  “The world is full of mysteries, Constable. The question is whether he’s the type of man to knock off his rival. There is something about him I don’t find all that convincing.”

  “I bet he’s lying. If it’s true he hasn’t seen Brodie in two years, it seems strange that he would suddenly drop everything and go kill him,” Oxley observed. “No. He’s seen him recently, mark my words.”

  “It does indeed seem strange. But, strange is what we deal in. Let’s go see his landlady.”

  Orlova assembled her painting gear and put it into the cloth bag Lane had provided her with. Her hostess had offered it as an alternative to the more ungainly suitcase. If she but knew. She might as well make the best of it. She would go up to the Hughes house and paint their blasted garden. The rain had stopped, and the sun had warmed the damp ground, creating a slight mist that hovered above the grass. Orlova turned the handle on the door, just as the phone rang. She listened. Two longs and a short. It was for Lane Winslow. Should she let it go? She could not take the risk of missing him, as reluctant as she was to expose herself. She put down her bag and took the earpiece off its hook and talked into the horn.

  “Hello?”

  Silence.

  Orlova waited, then, “Hello?”

  She heard the click of the phone being rung off. Slowly she put the earpiece back on the hook and looked at her watch.

  Darling and Oxley, having confirmed with the landlady and the man with the broken motor that Verne Taylor had been exactly where he said he’d been, made their way back to the station—Oxley to write up the notes and Darling to search out Gilly to see what he had to say.

  The coroner was just washing up when Darling found him.

  “Well-nourished man, late forties, good solid meal of canned pork and beans—”

  “Yes, thank you, Gilly. Cut to the chase. What killed him?”

  “You seem a little edgy. You all right?” Gilly turned and looked closely at Darling.

  “I’m perfectly fine, thank
you. I have a dead man on hand and would like to know what killed him. Now, can we get on?”

  Darling knew he was being more impatient than usual. He also knew that it was because he was worried about Orlova. He was expecting Lane, and if he examined his own thoughts closely, he would see that he wanted the relief of seeing her come into the station and of knowing that nothing had happened to her. He also suspected he was being ridiculous. Lane was an experienced British agent. If she couldn’t deal with an elderly woman, she’d be a sorry excuse for one. Speaking with Ames had reminded him about the possible inconsistencies in Orlova’s story and of the anxiety he felt at the thought of something happening to the woman he loved—and of how much simpler life had been when he hadn’t loved anyone.

  “Right,” said Gilly, glancing once more at Darling. He was not convinced by Darling’s protestations. “His throat was cut, admirably, if you like that sort of thing, quickly and cleanly. Death would have been instantaneous. Someone was either extremely experienced or extremely lucky. I’d have said the killer was considerably taller than the victim, or the victim was kneeling or sitting, based on the upward movement of the weapon, though neither of these is consistent with the way you found him, stretched out and prone. You didn’t find a nice sharp knife?”

  “We did not. We scoured the place.” Darling looked at the shrouded figure. “The family bread knife, or something more military?”

  Gilly shook his head. “Not the bread knife, certainly, if by that you mean the serrated one. A slenderish blade, and very, very sharp. Could be military, though I’m not familiar with the full range. Was he followed up into the bush?”

  “We’ve spoken to his one clear enemy who was apparently busy fixing boat motors right here in Nelson when this might have happened. Time of death?”

  “At least forty-eight hours. He was brought in late yesterday, so put it thirty-six hours from the time you found him, roughly?”

  “If it was someone he knew, that’s a long, complicated slog through the forest to kill someone. But, I suppose, if you didn’t want him found right away, you might crash around in the underbrush following him. But what if it was someone whom he surprised? There was no sign of a struggle at all. It must have been expertly done by someone he didn’t even hear coming. My God! People at King’s Cove will need to be on alert. I’m expecting Miss Winslow any minute, but I might phone through to the post office and ask them to pass on the message.”

  “Ah, Mrs. Armstrong. It’s Inspector Darling.”

  “Goodness, Inspector, this is a pleasure. How are you?”

  “Thank you, very well. Listen, we have become a bit anxious about the death of that hunter. We don’t know who is responsible, but he may still be in the area. Can you do me a big favour and get hold of people there and ask them to stay close to home? He may have been murdered by someone who knew him and followed him. In fact, it seems the much likelier scenario, but we can’t entirely rule out some sort of random attack.”

  “Goodness me! Certainly, Inspector! I shall institute a sort of telephone tree and try to get the word out as quickly as possible. Does Miss Winslow know?”

  “She is on her way here at the moment, so we will tell her.”

  “Oh, good. Yes. But her guest? In fact, I just saw her a few moments ago making her way up the path to the Hugheses’ with her little painting bag. She doesn’t speak a word of English. I’ll try to get Gladys to hang on to her till Lane gets back. I know she’s quite apt to take long walks, and she doesn’t really know our area. Oh, dear!”

  “You can tell Mrs. Hughes that the countess likes cake,” Darling said.

  Eleanor Armstrong’s phone tree had the almost instantaneous effect of having people gather at the post office. She had called Mabel Hughes and Robin Harris, and as Robin could not be counted on to call anyone, Mabel had called Reg and Alice, and Reg had called the Bertollis.

  Angela Bertolli, who’d taken the call had said (predictably, Reg thought), “Horrors! The children!”

  Glenn Ponting wasn’t on the telephone, but she would tell him as soon as he came up for his mail, and in any case, he’d been part of the original search party.

  Countess Orlova, who had been in Gladys Hughes’s garden on a kitchen chair in front of a magnificent stand of lupines, had watched the older daughter of old Mrs. Hughes come out and call to her mother and sister, who were with the chickens and pigs behind the garage. She had watched Mabel hurry down the path she herself had come up, perhaps on the way down to the post office. She had seen out of the corner of her eye that old Mrs. Hughes and her other daughter (Gwen, was it?) were now standing together talking nervously and glancing in her direction. That unsettled her. She’d have liked to be closer to hear properly what they were saying. Clearly there was something going on. It would be artificial for her to sit, unconcerned, painting lupines with all the fuss going on around her, but what was she to glean when she understood only Russian?

  She got up, turned her shoulders stiffly to loosen her back, and walked to where Gladys and Gwen stood, their faces registering anxiety about how they all were to communicate.

  “Is problem?” Orlova asked.

  Gwen leaned forward, frowning, trying to understand Madam Orlova’s nearly impenetrable accent.

  “Oh! Problem, yes, I see! No, I mean yes, actually. The police have rung through and said we all have to stay close to our houses because some madman is running around in the woods with a knife. You know, that poor hunter was killed and—”

  “Gwen, she doesn’t speak English, does she?” said Gladys. “Can’t understand a thing you’re saying. Well, we are unlikely to get snuck up on drinking tea in our kitchen, so let’s get her into the house.” She offered Orlova a peremptory smile and raised her voice. “Come! Tea. In house.” She indicated with her head that Orlova should follow her.

  Too bad, really, Gladys thought as she strode toward the kitchen door, her wellingtons flapping against her calves, she was making good progress on those lupines.

  “Now, I don’t think we need to panic,” Eleanor was saying. They were all standing outside the post office. “Inspector Darling just said we should stay close to home. I’m sure whoever it is is long gone.”

  “Unless he’s up to no good in the bush,” Robin said glumly.

  “Now, Robin,” said Kenny, “what could anyone be up to in the bush around here? I’m sure . . .” But he wasn’t at all sure. A man had, after all, been brutally murdered while he was innocently out hunting.

  “What about the dogs?” Alice Mather asked.

  Mabel grunted a nearly silent “Ha!” The dogs in King’s Cove were more in danger, she thought, from Alice herself, in her mad hunts for cougars. She’d nearly shot one of the Bertolli collies a couple of years back.

  “The dogs had better be kept close to home as well, I suppose,” Eleanor said. “Just till this blows over.”

  “And what about that old lady of Lane’s? She’s always tramping everywhere.”

  “I’m sure Lane will explain to her in Russian.”

  “She’s up with Mother and Gwennie right now. I’d better be getting back, or I’ll miss the cake, since you don’t seem to have anything to add.”

  “No, quite,” Eleanor said, a little apologetically. “Just that we should all take care.”

  “Honestly,” she said to Kenny a little later, when the people had trooped back to their own houses, and they were seated at their own tea in the kitchen. “It’s a case of kill the messenger, isn’t it? You could see they thought it was my fault somehow.” She looked down and stroked Alexandra who was tucked into a perfect little circle on her lap, and cooed. “We’d better keep you indoors, hadn’t we?”

  Chapter EIGHTEEN

  Ames was surprised when the two men appeared beside him. He had not seen them come up. One of them took him by the elbow and guided him away from the other students tha
t were all milling in the hall loudly talking across one another, clearly giddy from the relief of their exam being over.

  “Hello?” Ames said. “Do I know you?”

  “Just come along with us, kiddo. Here, we’ve been given a room along here,” one of the men said.

  He was shorter than Ames, and squat, like a wrestler, and smelled of cigarettes. His trench coat was undone and floated around him like a cape. The second man, dressed in the same style, seemed content to follow close behind Ames and keep an eye out. He took out a cigarette and lit it, closing one eye against the initial stinging stream of smoke. He shook the match and dropped it on the floor.

  Ames was ushered into a room at the end of a hall. He saw at once that it was an interview room and looked behind him nervously. Because he wasn’t from Vancouver, he really hadn’t made friends among his classmates, and now he felt a little sorry about that, because no one would care if he disappeared.

  The men were polite enough. He was asked to sit down, and the two of them sat opposite him. He wondered if they’d take their hats off. He put his own in front of him on the metal-topped table. Finally, one of them spoke.

  “You have been a busy boy, haven’t you?”

  It was clear to Ames that they had the advantage on him in every way, and they seemed to know it. He suspected they were police, or detectives perhaps, who were very much his senior.

  “Who are you, again?” Ames asked.

  “We’re from the RCMP, intelligence division. Now you, I’ve discovered, are a constable from Nelson, who’s trying to move up in the world by taking your sergeant’s exam, and more power to you. I bet your mom is proud. But instead of studying like a good policeman, you’ve been all over the map visiting Russians. What’s the big interest in Russians?”