A Deceptive Devotion

by Iona Whishaw

  Oxley chewed his lip. That was true enough. He wanted to get this right.

  Darling said, “This new information means he lied to us. The question is, why? I’m going to pop around and see him. You, if you’d be so good, are going to find out if he had special training during the war.”

  Darling put on his jacket and hat and clattered down the stairs. “O’Brien, I’m expecting Miss Winslow in the next forty minutes. I shall probably be back before then, but if she arrives, please ply her with tea and try to be interesting.”

  Taylor was not immediately in evidence as Darling entered the engine repair shop after his short walk down the hill, but he heard a crash and some swearing coming from some sort of storage area near the back door.

  “Oh, sorry, Inspector. One of my bloody shelves came down. Place is falling down around me. Is there something you want?”

  “There is indeed, Mr. Taylor. I’d like to know why you didn’t tell me you didn’t get home till late on Sunday night, if at all?”

  Taylor coloured and put a drill down on his workbench. “I don’t see how it is your business,” he said finally.

  Darling watched him, saying nothing.

  “It has nothing to do with Brodie’s death,” Taylor tried.

  “Where were you, please?” Darling asked, his voice taking on a studied patience.

  “It’s not what you think,” Taylor said, sitting down heavily.

  “I don’t know what to think,” Darling said genially. “Perhaps you’d better tell me the truth. I do have an appointment I need to get back to, and I’d sooner not have to escort you up to the station to answer more questions.”

  “I was with her, all right? With Mrs. Brodie. My ex-wife can’t know. She thinks it was over with years ago.”

  “I see. Was this unusual, or was it a regular arrangement?”

  “Whenever we could. He went hunting a couple of times a year, so those times I’d stay over.”

  Darling nodded, his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “So you were over there both nights that Mr. Brodie was meant to be away? What time would you leave?”

  “Early, to get back here. I’d sneak into my room at the house and then come to work as usual.”

  “That’s a lot of sneaking around for a grown man to do,” Darling commented.

  Taylor said nothing for a moment, then finally, “What are you going to do?”

  “Talk to Mrs. Brodie, I expect. And if you’d be kind enough to lend me your telephone, I’ll call the station and get some lads to come down and look this place over.”

  “You have to believe me, Inspector. I had nothing to do with Brodie being killed.”

  “That’s as may be. I think for starters, though, you are no doubt more pleased than not that he’s dead.”

  Darling waited while Oxley and Ward came down from the station. “Constable Oxley you’ve met, and this is Constable Ward. Do you have any objection to their taking a look around? I can, of course, get a warrant, but it would be altogether quicker if we just got on with it.”

  With ill-grace, Taylor agreed to the search, and after letting Oxley know that Taylor had had trouble with the shelving in his storage cupboard, Darling turned to go back up the hill. He wondered if he should have just brought Taylor in, but the fact was that, according to the landlady and the man whose boat Taylor was fixing, Taylor had been in town during the time it was most likely that Brodie had been killed. On the other hand, he had been having an ongoing affair with the dead man’s wife. That was certainly reason enough in some quarters to cut a man’s throat.

  London

  “Look here, Dunn, it’s not good enough, is it? Cambridge practically has a graduate degree in espionage. You should be able to stand outside its hallowed doors and collect them in a bucket as they’re coming out.” The home secretary leaned forward on his desk with his hands clasped.

  He’d been having trouble with his eyes, so the heavy drapes on the tall windows were partially shut, giving the room a gloomy air. Dunn was trying, with subtle adjustments, to sit in a way that maintained some dignity, but there was no denying it: he was before the headmaster, and he had not a lot to say for himself. So he said nothing.

  “Anyway, I thought you handed over some spy of theirs who was going to defect to the West,” the home secretary said.

  “Yes, sir. And they arrested him. But he’s apparently got away.”

  “Well, that’s not our lookout, is it?”

  “They think he’s here. Or in Canada. They’ve sent someone to look in both places.”

  “That’s just wonderful. This whole country is overrun with communist spies, domestic and foreign. Why Canada?”

  “One of our people has retired there. A very talented girl. I tried to get her to work as a double agent, but Aptekar, their spy who was supposed to be running her from that side, told her he wanted to come to the West instead. I’ve sent Hunt to speak to her because she apparently has some Russian émigré staying with her.”

  “You’re still in contact with her? I thought you said she retired.”

  “Yes, sir. She was excellent during the war, but she is adamantly retired. I understand she is to be married to a local policeman.” Dunn said no more on that subject.

  The home secretary had changed since the debacle of Darling’s arrest for murder in London during the summer. The previous home secretary had not been kind to Dunn, who had made what his boss had called a “bungled attempt” to cover up the misdeeds of one of his field men, who turned out to work for the other side. Getting this exchange right was critical, or Dunn would be put out to pasture. The universities weren’t just producing spies, they were producing eager, thrusting young men who were after his job. Women too for all he knew, he thought bitterly.

  The home secretary let out a massive sigh. “You seem to have this woman under pretty close surveillance if you know who her house guests are and what her marital plans are. You obviously think this Aptekar is going to turn up there?”

  “I do have a channel, yes, sir. It’s only one possibility. If he does make his way there, we’ll get Canadian authorities to pick him up and hand him back to us.”

  “What happens if the Ruskies get to him first?”

  This was a sore point. Dunn had seen Soviet tactics. They had surprised him with the move to send Aptekar to a labour camp. That seemed to Dunn like overkill. Unless he had information they could not afford to lose sight of. Then they were likely to kill him as soon as look at him. If that happened, they might renege on the deal. His contact had told him the whole thing was getting to be too much trouble.

  “As you know, Home Secretary, the Canadians had a bit of spy crisis of their own a couple of years ago. They are very careful right now about who they let in. Our man Hunt is keeping an eye on all the coming and going in the Vancouver port. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police are on the job there. They should get to him.”

  “Yes, I know all about that spy crisis. What we learned from it is that Canada is already full of people willing to work for the Soviets. They’re supposed to be getting nuclear secrets, but I’m sure some of them wouldn’t mind a little side trip to eliminate a traitor. Best get on it.”

  Best had, Dunn though glumly, getting up and making for the door. “Home Secretary.”

  Chapter Twenty-ONE

  Dunn looked at the cable. Well, that was something, anyway. He’d set up a meeting with his dour Russian counterpart. The Russian could call off his dogs. On the other hand, this made it vastly more complicated, having to do everything at a distance. He wasn’t surprised, all in all, and had some satisfaction in knowing he’d been right about where their man would go to ground. He stood and took up his hat and mackintosh. At least it wasn’t raining.

  The bench by the Serpentine looked out on the water. The two men sat side by side watching the ducks fl
apping and swimming in circles near the grassy bank. A child was feeding the birds scraps of bread.

  “What did those ducks do during the war, I wonder?” the Russian said. He lifted his chin but still did not look at Dunn. “Well, you were in a hurry to see me. You’ve made me walk half an hour just to get here.”

  “We think our man landed in Vancouver. One of your ships had to sail back to Vladivostok a man short, so you can stand your people down in Hong Kong. And here for that matter.”

  “Good. Is there anything else? It is my lunch time.”

  “Yes. I want your undertaking that no matter what happens, you will follow through with our deal.”

  “You mean, if he is accidentally killed, yes? The minute one of our people lays eyes on him, you will get your list. You know, Director Comrade Dunn, you people should ask yourselves why your brightest and best-educated college men, and women, for that matter, want to come to the Soviet Union, eh? People want something to believe in. Look how many of your people secretly supported Hitler.” He shrugged and waved his hand at the water and trees. “It’s a pretty country, don’t get me wrong, but young people don’t want all those archaic institutions you’re so proud of. They want the future, they want idealism and justice. They want to be in a country where the government has the power to make the changes that are so necessary. Your government is always flailing.” He let this sit for a moment, and then he stood. “Well then, until next time.”

  The Russian turned north toward Bayswater Road and walked away without looking back.

  Dunn sat on for some moments. He’d been young once. Had he been filled with ideals? The truth suggested itself to him, and he wondered for a moment if he should feel any shame about it. No. It had been what his father had taught him, what he believed in to the core of his being. He had been filled with ambition. That was what young men ought to be driven by. Ambition.

  Lane sat with Darling in a window booth at the cafe by the station. It was what her neighbours would call tea time, and so it was quiet, as the bulk of the cafe’s patrons visited for breakfast and lunch. She’d been hankering for pie. She would take a piece home for Countess Orlova. It was apple today. She shifted her attention back to Darling. He was in a mood.

  “Any news of when we might be able to move the countess out of your spare room?”

  “The vicar is working on it, darling. We’ll have to be content with that.”

  “I suppose you’re wondering how we’re getting on with the murder?” Darling asked.

  “I was, but I didn’t like to ask. I know how you feel about interference.”

  Darling ignored this invitation. “Sordid extramarital affair sort of thing. It makes it less likely there’s a random killer lurking around King’s Cove.” Darling seemed disinclined to say anymore.

  “Ah. So like most murders, I expect, someone he knew. As dangerous as the subject of marriage has suddenly become, I’ve picked up these little cards and I will issue invitations to my neighbours. How many will you need? I’m sure your family would like to get theirs in a card instead of the scraps of paper you’d no doubt write to them on.”

  Lane pulled a card out of her handbag—a simple white card with an embossed floral design subtly suggesting celebration and marital harmony. As Lane spoke, she was aware of another pool of anxiety she was keeping at bay. Her conversation with Hunt. She felt, by not telling Darling what had happened with Hunt, that she was lying to him.

  “My poor family would be lucky to get scraps of paper from me. I’m afraid I’m not much of a correspondent.”

  “Even better, then. This will be a thrill for them. Will five do?”

  “Two will do. No, maybe three. I should invite Ames’s mother. I’m afraid my old housekeeper, Mrs. Andrews, has never forgiven me for revealing her son as a murderer and a spy, so she’s out.” Mrs. Andrews had been Darling’s housekeeper since he’d returned from the war, but she had refused to talk to him again when her son had been arrested. “Now, can we talk about your houseguest? You’ve been avoiding it.”

  Lane put down her fork. She had been avoiding it. She was keenly aware that she was about to enter into a marriage with a man from whom she would wish to keep nothing, and yet already she had information that may or may not be relevant to the situation, information that she could not share.

  “Yes, I suppose I have, a bit. I’ve been as puzzled as you by your information that Orlova may not have gone around Vancouver looking for her brother as she claimed, and even more by the news that her brother, or the man in the picture, might have been an MGB interrogator, and not a refugee at all. Indeed, the very opposite. And is he even her brother? And to top it off, I’m not actually sure she doesn’t speak some English.”

  “Well, I can see you don’t need me filling you with alarming questions. I’m relieved that you seem to have some native caution.”

  “The vicar did sound hopeful. And it’s silly for her to be sitting out in King’s Cove. She’s not going to find the man she’s looking for miles from anywhere. Anyway, I’m still sure she poses no danger to me. Don’t forget, I was randomly found simply because I speak Russian. Stevens could have called anyone.” Even as she said this, Lane felt an anxiety she could not quite identify.

  “I hope you’re right about the vicar finding something. I wasn’t looking forward to the spare room being full of her. I was hoping to use it as a place to store my two suits. Didn’t you mention something else that you were concerned about?”

  Lane nodded. “I’m not sure concerned is the right word. Maybe ‘puzzled’ again. It’s about her suitcase. She had two of them when I collected her from the vicar, and she stores them under the bed. Only, the other day when I went in to put her cardigan on the bed, I saw only one.”

  “Putting her cardigan on the bed required you to look under it? If it weren’t about to be nepotism, I could hire you on at the Nelson Police.”

  “It’s not like that. All right, maybe it is. It wouldn’t have struck me as odd because she used to always take her painting supplies in the suitcase. Except the problem is I’m not quite sure about this time; I thought I saw her going up to the Hugheses’ with a cloth bag I gave her, which she said she was going to be using from now on, so I was a teensy bit puzzled about why there was only one suitcase.”

  She longed to tell him that the most puzzling thing of all was how Hunt had known she had a Russian guest in her house, but she knew she couldn’t. Anything to do with her old work in intelligence could never be shared with anyone. Even though her stint was over, she knew she was under the provisions of the Official Secrets Act. It was not a suggestion. It was the law.

  “And anyway, she does do the loveliest paintings. And there are many things that could explain the situation. She could have stopped looking when she realized people knew him as MGB, and she concluded she wouldn’t get any answers. He, in fact, may have gotten tired of the whole Soviet empire and fled.”

  “Yes, but here’s the thing. Why is she here? If no one would talk to her about him because they were afraid, who told her he’d come here because isn’t that what she told you?”

  “It doesn’t follow that someone didn’t tell her he’d come here, but you do make a good point. Did someone lie to her? Were they trying to get her away from Vancouver for some reason? Is her brother the MGB man actually there, but doesn’t want to be found? Poor thing. I’m sure I’m going to be able to bring her here in a couple of days, and she’ll have to decide what to do next. What’s the sordid extramarital affair, anyway?”

  “You won’t get that out of me that easily. I’ve work to do, much as I’d rather stay here eating pie with you.”

  “There will be plenty of time for that after we’re married. One of us could learn to make pie so we won’t even have to come all the way here to eat it.” Lane took his hand. “Don’t forget to write your invitations.”

 
“I won’t. I love you.”

  “You always say that. Off you go. I’m going to get some pie for the countess. I was going to attempt to make some, but this is much easier. We will use it to celebrate her removal to town.” Lane spoke lightly, but weighing on her was Hunt and his suggestion that Aptekar might be on his way here, and the oh-so irritating information that Hunt seemed to know all about her activities.

  Lane stood on her porch looking out at the lake. Peace of mind was all she’d ever really wanted, but here, in a very paradise, it was as elusive as the mythical phoenix she’d so hoped to emulate when she had first moved here after the war. A new land, a new life. She felt a swell of resentment at being put into this situation. It was one thing when she had been a child in Latvia and been somewhere on the grounds of her childhood estate in Riga where she’d been forbidden to go, feeling this guilt and anxiety. And there was the normal tension and anxiety of the war, which she was slowly learning to leave behind. But, now this—she had done nothing to deserve this renewed inquietude. Her musing was interrupted by the telephone. It was the vicar saying he thought he’d found a place for her guest. That was something, anyway.

  She phoned Eleanor and told her that the vicar had found a place for the countess, and Eleanor insisted they come to the cottage for supper so Lane didn’t have to worry about trying to cook something. Orlova was back at the Hugheses’ yet again, painting a view of the lake from the back porch. She must have a dozen pictures of those vast gardens by now. With a sigh of relief at not having to cope with dinner, Lane hung the receiver on its hook. No one needs me for anything just at the moment, she thought, so perhaps a walk. She would find temporary succour from the mess of questions and irritations that assailed her in the quiet of the forest and the soul-soothing views of the lake.

  She took a sweater out of her drawer, tied it around her neck, and set out up the hill. She would take her favourite path to the old schoolhouse and sit on its rickety front steps. There the view did not encompass the lake, but rather the cascades of forest stretched out below. It was the absolute natural quiet she loved when she sat there. She had once imaginatively felt that the slight whispers of the trees were the fading voices of the children who had been schooled there in those early years before all the wars that were scarring the twentieth century. It was a place of complete isolation and innocence.