by Iona Whishaw
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IT BEGINS
IN BETRAYAL
PROLOGUE
THE CREW LAY PANTING AT the edge of clearing, glassy-eyed and stunned as they watched the roiling orange and red flames engulf the plane and light up the night. Thick black smoke, rising from a toxic, stinking mess of gasoline, oil, and metal, surged into the darkness above the inferno.
“Good work, Skip,” Watson managed. “I thought we were done for.” The navigator, shaky and exhausted, pulled off his leather helmet and turned stiffly to look at his commander.
Flight Lieutenant Darling grunted, wrenching his eyes away from the obscene horror of the blaze boiling out of his downed plane. Where are the others? he wondered. Are they all here? He knew they’d have to get a move on before shock settled in and immobilized them.
“Report,” Darling commanded.
“Nothing major,” Watson said. “Trouser leg torn.”
“Arm, sir. A scratch,” reported Salford, trying to steady his voice. “But the radio’s out.”
“Sir, rear gunner is looking peaky,” said Anthony, his anxiety showing. He and Darling had moved him at a run from where he appeared to have fallen near the plane. The engineer had moved over to sit by Evans, who was shuddering convulsively. At that moment another violent whoosh of flame enveloped the Lancaster, and the men recoiled, throwing their arms across their faces.
“It’s going to blow! Move!” Darling yelled. He ran towards the gunner, and then realized with a sickening thud that the enemy was moving in the shadows just behind them. He pulled out his revolver, wanting to shout another warning, but there was no time. He and Anthony hauled the slack-limbed Evans up between them and frantically made for the cover of the woods just as the explosion sucked the air out of them and lit up the forest. In a flash that seemed to hover for an eternity, he spotted a farmhouse at the near end of the field, where a dog leaped and barked as though in a silent movie; the only sound he could hear was the roar of his bomber going up.
Deafened, the men stumbled deeper into the dark. Out of the pounding in his ears, Darling could feel someone tugging on his sleeve. Anthony’s face was near his, his mouth moving. His words finally came through: “Bosch, sir.”
Darling looked out to their rear, trying desperately to hear, to understand where the attack was coming from. Had he heard from all the men? Where was Jones?
“Go,” he shouted. “Go, go! I’ll hold them off!” He turned and looked at them, immobilized in the darkness, and caught their hesitation. “Do as I bloody well say!”
Gunfire exploded somewhere near them. Darling struggled to see into the maelstrom of forest and fire as he moved forward, keeping low. Dimly aware of a pain in his left leg, he crouched, waiting for further fire from the attackers. A loud crack burst out from somewhere behind him, and then a spray of bullets whipped to his right. Bloody hell, they’d begun to circle! Had his men gotten away? He struggled to see his own way out, but the thundering flames obliterated sounds, obscuring the attackers. If he shot in any direction they would know his position. He could hear them calling out, moving in a fan, he guessed. He crawled a few feet to the left and looked behind to where he hoped all his men had found at least a tenuous safety, and then stood up to go after them. He would sling Evans over his shoulder.
The fire began to abate, and the moving shadows of his men seemed to fade in the direction of the farmhouse. He leaned over, ready to carry Evans, and in a flash of light from the fire finding one more source of fuel, he saw his gunner was dead, sprawled and broken, beyond help, looking in death younger than his eighteen years.
The voices of the attackers grew louder, sharper, and moved in his direction.
He would have to tell the boy’s parents: ‘Killed instantly’—the usual comforting message. In this case it was true. He could see that. Something . . . but there was another burst of gunfire. He could see a German soldier, ahead of his mates, using the failing light of the plane to find the airmen who had gotten out.
With cold, numb efficiency, Darling took aim, heard his own shot as though from a distance, and saw the German crumple to the ground. After one last glance at rear gunner Evans, he bolted into the darkness after his men.
PRAISE FOR Death in a Darkening Mist
“The late L.R. Wright’s marvellous mysteries set on British Columbia’s Sunshine Coast remain some of my favourite Canadian books. But this second novel by Iona Whishaw, also set in BC, is every bit as good. Both writers know how to make a book’s setting as important a factor as the plot line or the characters . . . [an] excellent chapter in what appears to be a terrific series.” —Margaret Cannon, Globe and Mail
“An absolute winner [that] moves the notch up several levels when it comes to mystery writing with a historical twinge. The highlight of the writing is the seamless blend of the sense of place into the storyline. The impact of both world wars settles into the essence of any place, and this is a sterling example of how place impacts both events and people.” —Don Graves, Canadian Mystery Reviews blog
PRAISE FOR A Killer in King’s Cove
“A good historical mystery with a cast of characters that will provide plot lines for the series to come. Iona Whishaw is a writer to watch.” —Margaret Cannon, Globe and Mail
“Exquisitely written, psychologically deft . . . If you miss Mary Stewart’s sleuthing heroines, if you loved Broadchurch and its village of suspects, settle in, turn off the phone, and enjoy.” —Linda Svendsen, author of Sussex Drive and Marine Life
“A debut mystery from an author destined for awards. A setting that is ripe for storytelling and a convincing gift for portraying the painful and challenging life for the survivors of the two world wars . . . Whishaw is an exciting addition to Canada’s fine roster of mystery writers.” —Don Graves, Canadian Mystery Reviews blog
“The writing . . . conjures up nicely the ambiance of a 1940s west Canadian locale and develops in depth both the characters and their interactions.” —San Francisco Book Review
“A Killer in King’s Cove is worth a look, especially as the author intends to reprise her lead character.” —Seattle Book Review
“Iona Whishaw brings to life a rural country town from the 1940s—from the small post office that is gossip central to garden tea parties. She’s given Lane a potential love interest, the well-named Inspector Darling, and created an engaging, quirky cast of characters . . . the trip to King’s Cove is so entertaining . . . Despite Lane’s promise to Inspector Darling to not cause any more mayhem in town, we sort of hope she does!” —ReviewingTheEvidence.com
Copyright © 2017 by Iona Whishaw
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher. For more information, contact the publisher:
TouchWood Editions
103–1075 Pendergast Street
Victoria, BC V8V 4E4
TouchWoodEditions.com
Cover illustration by Margaret Hanson
Cover and interior design by Pete Kohut
LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
Whishaw, Iona, 1948–, author
An old, cold grave / Iona Whishaw.
(A Lane Winslow mystery; #3)
Issued also in electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-77151-240-4 (softcover).
I. Title.
PS8595.H414O43 2017 C813'.54 C2017-903013-2
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
We gratefully acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund, the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Co
lumbia through the British Columbia Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
