Death in a Darkening Mist

by Iona Whishaw

  “It’s on Crown land. I’ve never seen it, but it’s been abandoned since the twenties, at a guess.”

  “I need an adventure. Perhaps I’ll snowshoe up and have a look!”

  Another short snowfall had left a pleasant layer to crunch through on her journey home, and she felt a sense of pleasure at the thought of brewing a cup of tea and settling down to read her letter with the ginger cookies from Eleanor. Her favourites. She’d not heard from her grandmother, who had settled in Scotland towards the end of the war with her grandfather, for over a month, and though there was likely little in the way of breaking news, she loved her grandmother’s exuberant and affectionate expressions of love. A grandmother, after all, was the only person who could be counted on never to betray one.

  She propped the letter up on her favourite blue glass vase that she’d filled with winter greenery, and, whistling, put on the kettle and prepared the tea. This done, she carried the tea things and her letter on a tray into the sitting room and put them on the little table that provided a spot for books and meals in front of her Franklin stove.

  Her first surprise was to discover that though the envelope had seemed thick, its main bulk was supplied by a folded banker’s draft for 4,000 pounds. This was accompanied by only one sheet of letter paper, written on two sides. She stared at the draft with utter amazement. Four thousand pounds! It was a fabulous sum, and she could formulate no idea about why she should have it. The name on it was definitely Lanette Winslow. With a sudden anxiety she took up the letter. Her grandparents could assuredly not afford this kind of money. Why would they send it? Did they think she was running short? Her grandmother must know how restrained she was in her spending. After all, wasn’t that what they’d all spent this war learning to do? Make do with little.

  My dearest Laneke,

  I hardly know how I may tell you what we have had the terrible misfortune to learn here. We were contacted by a solicitor, a Mr. Clarke, a week ago with the dreadful news, my darling, I am so sorry to tell you that your father is dead. He died in 1943, if you can believe it! I suppose I was too sanguine about our not hearing from him since the early part of the war. I just assumed he was about his diplomatic business—you know how often he was away as you were growing up. I know that you and he did not always get on . . . I even have thought that perhaps he was not always kind to your dear mother. She of course would never have said a thing, not even to me, her own mama. But still, he was your father, and I honour him for that. Without him we would not have had you!

  The shocking thing is that your father died three years ago. It was likely, the solicitor said, consequent upon his war work. I don’t know what that means, really. Died how? Germans? Russians, Lets? It was all so beastly there. It could have been anyone. He did not explain how he came to hear of it before we did. It’s not even clear where your father died. A death certificate issued in Russian was presented to us, along with this money. You and your sister have shared the bulk of it equally, and he was kind enough to lay aside 2,000 pounds for our own use. So churlish of me to doubt him in the face of such kindness. We lost so much leaving our beautiful house behind. This will help us a great deal, and I hope relieve any anxiety you have on our behalf. I cannot think how he amassed such a sum!

  Well, there it is, my love. I wish I could be there with you to know how you have received this dreadful news. While I am so happy that you have a sum of money that alleviates some of my concern for you, I still worry for you, especially after this sad news. You are so far away from us. I must hear from you, my own darling, as soon as you can write.

  With all our love and sympathy,

  Grandmama and Grandpapa.

  Lane sat, unable to take in what she had read; suddenly coming into a massive amount of money, and learning that her father was not only dead, but had been dead since 1943, had left her in a state of confusion. She searched her heart but could find no feeling to correspond with the loss of her parent. Out loud she said, “Well. I’m an orphan now, I suppose.”

  Her tea abandoned, she reread the letter. Her sister in South Africa had money too. Thank God for that. What a family we are, she thought. My father didn’t seem to get on with anyone, and my sister and I can barely exchange a civil word.

  She looked at her watch. It was eleven in the morning. If she hurried, she could drive into Nelson to the bank. She couldn’t bear the thought of that amount of money sitting around the house. And the bank was on the corner near the police station. Perhaps she’d stop by and see how they were getting on with discovering who their body was, or if they had gotten the suitcase yet. She pushed away the thought that maybe she couldn’t bear, just now, to be alone to think about what her father being dead meant to her.

  The day was slightly overcast, as if nature was preparing to deliver more snow, but so far, aside from the fall of the night before, it was holding off. She decided she was becoming more used to driving in snow, especially after Kenny had showed her how to put on her chains, and this trip, though cautiously tackled, allowed her time to think. She tried to conjure an image of her father, and was slightly dismayed that she could not. How was it possible? And how had he accumulated this amount of money?

  Her grandmother would not know what she did—that “diplomatic work” was a euphemism for what he really did: spying. Why would a spy have this much money? She herself had been paid only enough to live frugally, and put a little by. Much less than a man in the same position. Her father, she assumed, was “higher up,” but even he should have found it difficult to accumulate this kind of money. She nearly considered turning around. She could not take the money. She did not know where it had come from. But, it was a cheque made out to her. She would open a special account and leave it there until she’d gotten a satisfactory answer. If she rejected it, it might cause her grandmother to feel she had to as well, and her grandparents really needed the money. It warmed her to think of what comforts it could buy for them as they got older. She could not bear to take that away from the two people who had been the most consistent and kind people in her life. It was because of them that she was not cynical. It was because of them that she’d had the courage to love. Disastrously, of course, but it had made her realize that she was human, and was capable of love. She had thought before Angus that perhaps she would be like her father, cold and indifferent . . . and now the news that her father was possibly even unkind to her mother.

  She scarcely remembered her mother. She’d been five when she’d been brought in to her sick room to say goodbye. Lane had sense of her mother being angelic from her photo. It showed a woman with a beautiful smiling face. The face of a woman who had been carefree and well loved. Of course, her grandmother’s daughter. What could have drawn her to the man she had married?

  She bumped off the ferry into Nelson a little after 12:15 PM with this and all other related questions unanswered, and found a place along Baker Street to park the car. The bank was warm and hushed. She marvelled that though she was all the way out in British Columbia, the bank, a solid stone edifice, had the same marble floors and dark wood and brass fittings that her London bank had. A serious and sombre business, money.

  She was pleased to see that Charles Andrews was behind the window of the only open till. It would be good to see a friendly face under these new circumstances.

  “Good morning, Miss Winslow,” said Andrews cheerfully when she approached. “How was the trip up to town?”

  “It was fine, actually, Mr. Andrews. There was a light fall of snow last night but the road was quite manageable.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Don’t want to lose any of our customers in a road accident!” She had met him when she had opened her account at the bank shortly after moving to the area, and she had always been pleased to see him at the counter. He reminded her of some of the chaps she would fly over the channel with; the friendly ones who were puzzled by but not hostile to the idea of a woman in her line of work.

  Lane hesitated. She was almost embarrasse
d by the size of the cheque she was about to ask him to deposit. Well, he was a bank clerk. He’d hardly hold it against her. “It’s somewhat complicated, but the essence of the matter is this: I appear to have inherited some money . . . I received this in the mail today, and I’d like to deposit it. I’m hoping to make some sort of separate account for it, as I’ve no . . . immediate . . . intention of using it.” She pushed the folded draft under the grill to Edwards. He looked at it and gasped.

  “Wow! This is . . .” He began to enter numbers and pull the lever of his adding machine. “Are you aware that this is almost sixteen thousand dollars? That’s nearly the equivalent of four years’ salary.”

  “Yes. Something like that, I suppose.”

  “I’m sorry to be a stickler, Miss Winslow, but I’ll have to get my manager to verify the validity of the draft. The Bank of Scotland should be in order, but it is bank policy. Was there any paperwork with it?”

  “Just a letter from my grandmother in relation to my father’s death. Oh, I’m sorry, I hadn’t said, it was my father who died. There was a death certificate, but apparently it was in Russian, so wouldn’t be much help.”

  “Oh, I am so sorry to hear it, Miss Winslow. Such a big loss.” He stood helplessly for a moment holding the draft.

  She thanked him quietly. He needn’t know the truth of it all.

  Anxious not to brave Featherstone’s door, Andrews asked one of the clerks to get the bank manager to step around.

  “What were the circumstances of his death, if you don’t mind my asking?” Andrews asked while they waited.

  Lane hesitated. “I’m not really sure, actually. I expect I’ll hear later.”

  “Well, if there is anything I can do. You have only to say.”

  Featherstone, small and grey, with thin, slicked-back hair, appeared next to Andrews. He gave Lane a wan smile and then turned to his clerk for an explanation. He took the draft, frowned, and indicated she should come round and follow him. He smelled of lavender hair oil.

  When Lane had first met Featherstone, she could have sworn he was the image of the circumspect, very nearly suspicious, bank manager she’d had in London, who’d cautioned her against going away to a wild and unknown country. She’d had a letter of recommendation to this bank from this man’s double. She still remembered that first interview late in the spring. Featherstone had smiled, she remembered, a thin cold smile, perhaps thinking he was being welcoming, but she’d been relieved to have the business over. Sitting in his office again, she felt as if she was under renewed scrutiny. The manager seemed satisfied with a draft from the Bank of Scotland, but was unsatisfied, she couldn’t help thinking, with her. It took a long half-hour of careful processing and triplicates of paperwork to set up her new account.

  “It is most unusual to conduct such business with a woman. I would feel a lot more comfortable if you had a husband to take care of these affairs for you,” he said now with a slight air of disapproval. “As it is, I have arranged to place the money in an account where it will accumulate interest. You will not need to trouble yourself about it. You will, of course, receive a yearly statement.”

  “I am sure I am in excellent hands,” she said finally, after rejecting several other responses. How foolish to think that after the war this sort of attitude would be finished. But maybe for the Mr. Featherstones of the world, women would ever be better off at home.

  She felt put through the ringer when it was over, but it was done.

  “Finished?” asked Andrews as she passed him on the way back into public area of the bank.

  “Your manager is very thorough,” she said.

  He hesitated and asked, “You look like you could use some restoring after that. Could I take you to lunch, Miss Winslow? I mean, are you staying in town? I get my break in half an hour. I’d be delighted . . .”

  “You’re very kind, Mr. Andrews. I’m afraid I’ve some other obligations while I’m here. Another time, perhaps.” Why had she said no? She could have made time. It would have given Angela such a thrill, she thought, once she was on the street. The cool air revived her, and she knew she could not have sat at lunch with Andrews oozing sympathy and asking questions she could not answer for oh, so many reasons.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  SHE COULD SEE THE POLICE station ahead of her. It was a distraction she needed, and she wondered now if she was just too tired to follow through on her plan. Somehow the business of the money had kept her mind off where it had come from, and now she felt a kind of darkness pressing in. Perhaps Ames was in, she thought. A few minutes of his nonsense would buoy her up.

  He was in, and bounded down the stairs to collect her at the call from the desk sergeant.

  “Just in time, Miss Winslow! The boss has banished me to my office with that confounded suitcase, and I’m jiggered if I can see what makes it special. You come look at it! O’Brian, can you send some tea up? Miss Winslow looks beat.”

  The suitcase lay open on the desk, which Ames had cleared by moving a pile of dishevelled-looking paperwork on to the only other chair in the small room. This he now swept up and, looking desperately about, finally deposited on the floor against the wall.

  “Now then. What do you think?”

  Lane ran her hand along the outer perimeter of the suitcase. “What do you think you’re looking for?”

  “Well, the boss thinks there might be some sort of identification. But I’ve been over the whole thing and there’s not so much as an initial. I can see that there was a sticker here, maybe from the boat he came over on, but that’s been peeled off, leaving this little glued spot.” He closed the suitcase to show her the front.

  Lane opened it again. It was a hardy but inexpensive suitcase. Reinforced cardboard, leather trimmings, brass latches. A wooden frame, made with some soft, light wood, on the inside edges. She ran her hand along the bottom and top of the suitcase. It was lined with some cloth, likely cotton, that was glued down.

  It was the wood frame that interested her. She remembered a suitcase like this, from when she was a little girl. She used to like to play in the outbuildings of her childhood house in Bilderlingshof, even though her governess warned her repeatedly that the sheds and garage were dirty and full of dangerous things. She had loved the strange tools hanging on the walls, the smell of oil where the cars were parked, the workbench in the woodworking shop where Alexander fixed chairs. She remembered him now. Alexander, whom everyone called Sasha. He had hands like gnarled wood, and he used to let her sneak in to watch him. Once he let her sand something he was building.

  She had slipped her governess and run to see him, but instead of Sasha, it was her father who stood at the bench. She was all the way in before she realized it was him. Her father had been leaning over a suitcase with a wood slat like this. Oddly, it had been one of the rare moments he’d been kind to her.

  “Well, miss,” he’d said. “I’ve heard rumours from the servants that you come out here. They get very cross because they have to clean the dirt off your pinafore.”

  Had she said anything? He had told her, she remembered now, that he was fixing his suitcase because he had to go off on a little trip. Nothing else would come. Had they walked back to the house together, he with the suitcase in one hand and she holding his other hand?

  “Constable Ames. You’ll need to pry this wood slatting off. Have you something that will do that?” She sat down, her hand still on the rim of the suitcase, staring into the past, trying, trying to bring back that one moment; her on the gravel pathway, his big hand enclosing hers.

  She felt her eyes well up, and she clenched her hands on her lap. Not here, she thought, for God’s sakes. Pull yourself together. Thank heavens Ames was out of the room. She opened her handbag, feeling around for a handkerchief, and then uttered an imprecation because she’d been in such a state about the cheque that she’d rushed off without one. A sob welled up, and she put her hand over her mouth, wishing she could be anywhere but here, with Ames coming back any minut
e.

  But it wasn’t Ames. It was Darling who found her, shivering violently in her chair, her arms wrapped around herself as if to keep from blowing apart, tears flowing uncontrollably. She was only aware that she was being held, and that warmth was stilling her shivering gradually, that a handkerchief had been pressed into her hand, and that no one asked why.

  Darling relinquished his embrace and moved the second chair so that it was near hers. He held one of her hands in both of his. He looked stricken, his charcoal eyes reflecting pain and concern. Lane had never seen him look so uncertain.

  “I just found out my father died,” she said quietly. “I mean, not even recently.” She felt her tears welling up again. “I don’t think I even liked him. But I just found out.” She looked down, and wished she could get hold of herself. She could feel the warmth of Darling’s hands holding hers. She knew she could never lie to him, demur, say it was all right.

  “I am so sorry, Miss Winslow,” he said, finally.

  “I am too. I think that is the worst of it. I never felt I even had a father and now he is gone.”

  He stood up and she felt the sudden absence of his hands. She could hear him pouring tea and the gentle peal of stirring.

  “I’ve seen what you put into your tea. I hope this is all right.”

  She took the cup in both hands, afraid she might drop it, but her hands had nearly steadied and the tea was hot and sweet. She looked at him now. He’d gone to stand by the window, as if he sensed her sudden need for privacy.

  “How did you know what appalling amounts of sugar I like?”

  “I am a detective, Miss Winslow,” he said, turning back to her.

  “What have you done with poor Ames? I’m sure I frightened him out of his wits.”

  “Oh, he’s quite sturdy. It’s why I keep him. You’ve sent him off for something to pry this open. I told him to take his time. Are we ready for him?”

  She sniffed one last time, and took a deep breath. She was amazed to find herself not embarrassed. She had a horror of public displays of emotion, of anyone seeing her vulnerable, but somehow . . . There would be time later to sort out her feelings. There would be time later, she thought, to tell Darling about her father.