The Drowned Man

by David Whellams

  He leaned back in through the window, and Jasper tried to lick him. “Not on your life. And keep it down, my dear.”

  He tried to walk away but she called him back. She got out of the car.

  “Peter, about the woman. She’s the essence that we were talking about, the essence of this case. I’m certain.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “For one thing, she’s clever. We need to track her movements. She’ll raise your game, Peter.”

  “Our game, dear,” he said, smiling as he strode off to Departures.

  Bartleben’s aide had booked him in first class, and so he had room to spread out. He needed it. He had trawled the airport bookstore for anything relevant to the Lincoln assassination but the closest he came was a general history of the U.S. Civil War and an epic biography of Honest Abe. The trip would take six hours or more and he had no interest in watching Air Canada’s in-flight offering, which was Avatar, on a tiny screen. Eight hundred pages of densely packed historical prose sat on the table beside him. He levered his seat backward, ordered coffee, and prepared to read.

  His instincts told him that Maddy had it right on at least one point: the girl was at the centre of the case. The convolutions of Alice’s self-concealment did not add up, and therefore, in his preliminary reasoning, she sat near the top of the list of suspects. Greenwell, the book dealer, headed the list. But there was no self-evident link from the girl to the Civil War letters, and he put her aside for the moment and turned to his purchases.

  The two massive histories intimidated him. He had no real idea where to start but, of course, that was the investigator’s lot in life. And so, he began with an investigator’s question: Was there a threat to Canada from the Civil War? Peter had a vague cartographic impression of Canada sitting atop the American behemoth, one-tenth the population, liable to be shrugged off at any minute or, in the mid-nineteenth century, to be swallowed in one gulp.

  He turned to the index of the survey history. The tome addressed John Wilkes Booth’s plot in the last two chapters, while Canada was referenced a mere five times at scattered points in the historical record; Montreal did not earn a mention. Peter thought it worthwhile to try to absorb the main themes of the war, and so he opened the volume to the first chapter and began to read.

  As an Englishman, he found the conflict distant — though not abstract, since the war was bloody, having claimed 623,000 lives. Above all, the struggle had been senseless. Armies mired in outdated Napoleonic tactics had crudely battered one another for four years and robbed the growing country of a generation of young men, all for a cause, emancipation of the slaves, that had been settled in Britain decades before. Even he knew that the classic question for American schoolchildren was “What were the causes of the Civil War?” Slavery refracted the growing pains of the economies of the North and South and the settlement of the West. Slavery distorted all of American society, earning it the label of the Peculiar Institution.

  When it came to the Lincoln assassination, the general history expended few words on John Wilkes Booth, and less on Canada. The author charted the recognition of Southern independence by Britain as a key objective of the Rebel government early in the war but said nothing about any anxieties of the Canadian colonists. The turn of fortunes at Gettysburg in 1863, a Confederate defeat by any measure, pushed Southern hopes into the background, but late in the conflict, as a Union victory seemed assured, British and Canadian fear increased that the million-strong Northern army might decide to pivot a hundred and eighty degrees northward.

  Peter’s first reading of Nicola Hilfgott’s three-page report and her recollection of the stolen Booth correspondence had given him little comprehension of how the letters could have made any difference to the endgame of the war.

  The Lincoln angle proved more useful, although again, the index made no reference to Montreal. Throughout his time in office, old Abe was hectored by the British Question, first when the Confederates threatened to cut off cotton shipments to England’s textile mills, then more ominously when Confederate diplomats began to lobby Parliament in London for official recognition. The European powers sat on the sidelines initially, but after early Southern victories began to expect decisive victory for the secessionists. England and France waffled a few more months but apparently only needed one more major victory by General Robert E. Lee to tip the balance. Gettysburg stalled that juggernaut. Peter had no doubt the issues were far more complex, but the Lincoln biography did a good job of showing the brilliance of the president in avoiding incidents that might have incited Britain to recognize the breakaway regime — or worse, tumble Britain and the Union into a second war, a war for Canada.

  Vague as the text was in both volumes, it was evident that the American-Canadian border remained active throughout the Civil War, with slaves escaping to Ontario and Quebec along the Underground Railroad and Confederates using Montreal and Quebec City to ship goods to, and weapons from, Europe. The Union built prison camps in upstate New York and near the Great Lakes, and Johnny Reb prisoners often escaped to Canadian sanctuary. Peter guessed that young Booth would have had no difficulty with the authorities when he crossed the St. Lawrence River. His ambitions while in Montreal — apparently to provoke England into a military clash, and to forge alliances with sympathetic Canadians — still rang hollow to Peter, even when he took out Hilfgott’s report and reread it. Her passion for the letters, whatever they might say, eluded him. The additional notion, referenced by the consul general, that Booth tried to stimulate an uprising of French-Canadian nationalists in conjunction with the enfeebled Confederate States of America, seemed even more tenuous.

  He took a break from the Civil War histories. Every first class passenger had been provided with a copy of that day’s Montreal Gazette, and Peter had retrieved a copy of yesterday’s Telegraph from the magazine rack. He scanned the British headlines. The world was churning away and there was hardly enough room on the front page to clock the quirkiness of the week’s news. British Petroleum hoped to choke off the oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico using something called a “static kill” device. Reports offered little hope for a rescue of thirty-three trapped miners in Chile. Floods had hit Pakistan, drowning hundreds, while Maoist rebels had launched attacks in Pakistan’s Swat Valley. Peter, who had fond memories of Washington, D.C., and had briefly considered a side trip to see old colleagues, noted that he would be missing a monster rally of American Tea Party supporters that afternoon on the Washington Mall. It was to be convened in front of Abe Lincoln’s statue. The last article he read, and wished he had not, chronicled the bitter debate over the building of an Islamic cultural and prayer centre near Ground Zero in New York.

  He turned to the Montreal paper with no pretence of gleaning profound insights into life in Quebec, but one article did catch his eye. Reportedly, Montreal prosecutors had announced that they hoped to lay charges in the gangland murder of a member of a local mafia clan known as the Rizzuto Family. The Gazette furnished a helpful chart of the organization, which had ruled the city’s criminal element over three generations and was now under attack by forces unknown. One patriarch was in jail, while assassins had eliminated two scions of the family and several bodyguards in the previous eighteen months. According to the article, gangsters were being pulled from the streets on a regular basis and “disappeared” by their abductors. From his experience with U.K. gangs, he calculated that the attacks were about to reach a crescendo with a really big — and public — hit. He was sure of it. At least, he mused, he would have a tidbit of conversational material for his meeting with Inspector Deroche at the Sûreté du Québec.

  For the dozenth time, Peter reminded himself that he was only here to retrieve a body.

  CHAPTER 8

  The plane landed at two thirty in the afternoon, on time, at Pierre Elliott Trudeau International Airport. Peter wound his way across the customs area, scanning for a fast-track lane, or better yet, his pick-up. T
hat was Neil Brayden, whose elevated title was chief of protocol, but whose functions, no doubt, encompassed every kind of errand and enforcement duty in the consul general’s office. Peter had asked that he not be greeted by a sign with his name on it.

  This left the question of how Chief Inspector Cammon would be identified, which the consulate solved neatly by sending a policeman to recognize a policeman. A lean, six-foot-tall man in a black suit stood to one side of the customs processing hall and at once caught Peter’s eye with a quick nod. He wore a white shirt and a narrow black tie, and had cut his hair short with an electric trimmer. He wasn’t a mere chauffeur; the suit was unmistakably Savile Row and the attitude was don’t-mess-with-me.

  “Neil Brayden, chief of protocol with the consulate.” They shook hands and the fellow smiled. Peter recognized the type. The Foreign Office and Scotland Yard itself often placed retired policemen in these positions.

  “You’re staying at the Bonaventure,” Brayden said, guiding Peter towards the luggage carousel. “Have you been to Montreal before?”

  “No. I’ve spent more time in the States.”

  “Ever work with the Sûreté?”

  Peter understood that the man was making an effort to find common professional ground. He saw no reason not to be responsive.

  “From a distance,” Peter said. “You’re liaising with them on the investigation?”

  Brayden hoisted Peter’s Gladstone off the rack and headed for the parking lot, Peter in tow.

  “Yes, though Nicola considers them unresponsive.” Brayden would say no more. They reached the consulate vehicle, a black Mercedes, recently washed and detailed. Out on the traffic circle, Peter blinked against the sun while Brayden cranked up the air conditioning.

  “I’ll let you book into the hotel and, if it’s okay with you, I’ll wait while you settle in, then we’ll drive to Nicola’s. It’s close by. She’s invited you for an early meal at her residence up in Westmount.”

  “Everything is close together, I gather.”

  “Yup. The core of the city used to be called the Square Mile, where the rich merchants built their first mansions up from the river. Your hotel is down by the edge of Old Montreal and the harbour. Nicola is a real Quebec history buff, and she’s got me into it. Watch it or she’ll get going on the history of the place and lecture your ear off.”

  Peter spoke as non-confrontationally as possible. “And the Civil War, too?”

  “More than you want to know. The damn letters. Nicola will talk to you about it at supper and I can fill in the rest. She’s very keen to meet you.”

  “As long as she knows that I’m here for no more than three days,” Peter said. He sounded waspish, he knew.

  “Understood. But she wants your views on the job being done by the local police.” Brayden himself did not express a desire for his views. Peter suspected that Sir Stephen had oversold his acumen, and his whole assignment, to Hilfgott but Brayden, an experienced policeman, wasn’t so easily impressed.

  Brayden slipped through the traffic, clearly in a downtown direction. “As requested, I made an appointment with the chief pathologist, Dr. Lowndes, for 10 a.m. tomorrow. He’s lodged in the same police building as the Sûreté, so you can connect with Deroche there, if that suits you.”

  By now the Mercedes had diverted from the highway and was sweeping downhill on narrow streets. Brayden eased around the circular drive in front of the Bonaventure and let Peter off at the entrance.

  Peter climbed a set of steps and the doorman held the big glass door open. An elevator took Peter to the lobby level, where a sign pointed him to the reception desk. Carpenter had stayed here for five days; he must have been known to the staff, but Peter had no intention, at this point, of bracing the desk clerk about his colleague’s habits. The local police would have done that, and he was fairly sure that Brayden had made his own inquiries on instructions from Nicola. Peter was given a room towards the lift and down a smaller corridor on the main floor; he declined the bellhop’s offer to carry his bag and his briefcase. Once in the room, he decided to unpack later. As he turned to go, he noticed the red phone light blinking, signalling a waiting message.

  The voicemail system had recorded the message at noon. “Chief Inspector, this is Inspector Deroche, Sûreté du Québec.” The voice was bright and forceful, like a man shouting against the wind. “I’m very sorry that I will be unable to greet you on your arrival. I look forward to meeting you tomorrow. Your reputation precedes you. I know that you will be very interested in the reason I am unable to meet you today. I would love to see you tomorrow at ten o’clock at Headquarters. I have planned a very special tour.”

  Deroche finished by stating his phone number, twice, although he did not request a confirmatory call-back. Peter hung up and said to the empty suite, “My reputation precedes me?”

  When he exited the hotel he saw through the side window of the waiting Mercedes that Neil Brayden was agitatedly talking into his phone. Peter hurried in but the conversation was already over. Brayden slapped the phone shut.

  “Goddamn! Heads will be rolling. Specifically, the kid back at the office who finally got around to remembering that the consulate booked Carpenter’s hire car several weeks ago, and now at last he’s found the paperwork. I hope he enjoys his next posting in the Ivory Coast.”It was odd, Peter immediately thought, that Carpenter had asked the consulate for assistance with the car rental. He had done all his other bookings himself, so why not the car hire? Alice Nahri had persuaded him to keep his other arrangements, including her airline ticket and co-residence in his hotel room, off Scotland Yard’s books. Carpenter had likely gone ahead and asked for the car hire without informing her. Peter mused on whether Alice had been listed as a second driver.

  “Funny the rental company hasn’t been phoning for the overdue vehicle,” Peter said.

  “Blue Ford Focus,” Brayden stated. “Not an expensive rental.” But then he smacked himself on the forehead. “I don’t suppose that idiot clerk forgot to check his messages!”

  Brayden was an expert driver and they made progress in spite of the building rush-hour flow. He drove intensely, aggressively. Peter detected an additional note of watchfulness in his manner. Clearly there was something he wanted to know. Finally, the younger man said, “Can I ask, Chief Inspector, how far your brief extends on this visit? What have you been brought in to do?”

  Peter had been idly gazing out the window, trying to form an impression of the city. He shifted all his focus onto the question. “My duties are confined to making sure Carpenter’s body gets home. I’ll be leaving two nights, three days forward. My session with Deroche is an exchange of courtesies. I’m not here to assess their handling of the case — that’s Frank Counter’s brief — only seeking an assurance of ongoing cooperation with Scotland Yard. I’ll talk to the pathologist, too; the report I have isn’t labelled ‘final,’ so he might see his way to sending us more test results. And, of course, touch base with the funeral people.”

  Neil Brayden turned to Peter again. “Aren’t you a tad elevated in rank merely to retrieve the body?”

  Peter did not take offence. He smiled. “I’ve been asking myself that question all week.”

  Peter and Brayden shared no more theories or confidences on the drive to the consular residence. They headed in what Peter guessed was a northwesterly direction, generally uphill, although he had no idea if they were heading towards the mountain, with its famed neon cross. But Brayden turned west and began to negotiate a grid of streets, crossing from urban to suburban neighbourhoods.

  “Can you point me to the mountain, Neil?” Peter said.

  “Yes, Mount Royal is up and to the right. Surprising how little you see of it from the city core, but try it from your hotel, as high up as you can get. Or go south across one of the bridges; you can see it from there clearly. It must have been a sight for Champlain and other explorers
coming up the river. Perfect spot to place a cannon or two, they must have thought. Of course, the enemy had to fight his way past an even tougher obstacle first, the Citadel at Quebec City. Wolfe and Montcalm, the Plains of Abraham, and all that.”

  They penetrated Westmount, an enclave comprising winding avenues of elegant houses, many qualifying as mansions. As they neared the consular residence, Brayden pulled over.

  “Peter, I understand that you’re only here for the body. But be careful of Nicola. She wants a lot more from you.”

  Peter felt no need to argue with Brayden, and merely said, “For the record, I won’t be changing my flight.”

  “Her husband is named Tom,” Brayden said. This was meant as a word of caution, as Peter soon found out.

  As the Mercedes rolled into the driveway of the stone-pillared mansion, and Peter and Neil exited the car, the Hilfgotts emerged onto the front landing, hand in hand. In one look, Peter absorbed the judgement behind their grins. Oh, shit. They think I’m ancient.

  It was a lot to assign to one look and Peter, surprised at his own recoil, resolved to be diplomatic. Nicola Hilfgott was a dozen years younger than Tom. She was thin and elegant in a sinewy, Duchess of Windsor way, and displayed the practised elegance of a woman who had walked up and down a lot of red carpets, though her face was a bit too horsey for a professional model. She wore a floral print dress of fine Cambodian silk; Peter thought it a bit much for a casual early dinner, but then diplomats had their own rulebook. It was her hair that was most striking: black, upswept on the sides like the bonnet ornament on a luxury car, with white accents swooping back from her temples; she echoed Elsa Lanchester in The Bride of Frankenstein. She looked predatory but Peter understood her strategy. The hard-edged first impression set you back, but her warm and fervid welcome would pull you in, thereby throwing you off balance. He hoped she wouldn’t kiss him on both cheeks.