Death in the Garden City

by Jeanne M. Dams

  ‘Well, not quite, Alan. At least, we know the kind of knife it was, the size and shape of it, but we haven’t found the actual weapon.’

  ‘Explain that.’

  Alan explained carefully.

  Silas snorted. ‘Couldn’t ever have been the boy. Oh, man, but he’s a boy to me.’

  ‘You know him?’ I was stunned.

  ‘I know a few of the Cowichan. Like them better than most white people. That boy wouldn’t have hurt one of his own. They don’t.’

  ‘Actually, nobody ever thought he did,’ said Alan, ‘but there was the knife, and the police had to be sure. Now they’re trying to trace where someone else might have bought one just like it.’

  ‘Not so many places they could find one. They’ve asked the boy?’

  ‘I’m sure they have. It would be the obvious place to start.’

  ‘But they’re not goin’ all out on the search, are they? This other guy bein’ so important and all?’

  Alan sighed. ‘You’re probably right about that. They have only so many forces. They’re doing what they can. We’re doing what we can to help. But don’t expect miracles.’

  ‘That’s why we’re here,’ I said. ‘We think you can help, too, if you will.’

  He changed his position, leaning against the wall. Crossed one ankle over the other. We waited.

  ‘Saw someone,’ he said finally. ‘Was out with my birds. I saw the woman. She walks the woods a lot. Walked. Didn’t bother her, don’t think she saw me. I get along with the tribes hereabouts. They respect the land and a man’s privacy.’

  A long pause.

  ‘There was a man. Didn’t like the looks of him. Looked like a city feller. Not dressed for the woods. Sneakin’ around. Thought he was maybe lookin’ for my birds. They’re trained to come back to me when I want ’em. I brought ’em in, headed back, didn’t see the man again.’

  ‘Did you see him near Elizabeth?’ I asked, my hands shaking.

  Slowly he nodded. ‘Not to say close. Not so’s she could see him. But he was watching her. Following her, maybe.’

  I let go the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

  Alan asked the critical question. ‘Can you describe him?’

  ‘Knew you’d ask that. Not well enough to be any use. He was tall, but a little hunched over. Walked like his feet hurt him, but maybe he just didn’t know how to walk in the woods. Had on city shoes.’

  ‘And the rest of his clothes?’

  ‘Ordinary. City clothes. Looked like suit pants, grey. Had on a tan windbreaker he didn’t need; it was a warm day. Wear that in the woods in hunting season, young idiot, I thought to myself, and you’re dead.’

  ‘He was young?’ I asked quickly.

  ‘Ma’am, they’re all young to me.’

  I laughed ruefully. ‘I know what you mean. The rest of the world keeps looking younger and younger. My doctor looks about twelve. But truly, do you have any idea how old this man was? What colour was his hair, for instance? Did he move like an old man? An old man with sore feet, I mean?’

  He considered. ‘No. Forty or so, if I had to say. But not to swear to, mind. Don’t know about his hair. He was wearing a cap. Like a baseball cap, but pretty much the same colour as his jacket. Stupid.’

  ‘Stupid if he was out in hunting season,’ said Alan, ‘but clever if he didn’t want to be seen in the woods in June.’

  ‘Would you know him again?’ I asked.

  ‘Maybe, if I saw him walking away. Backs are as good as faces; better, sometimes.’

  And that was all Silas could tell us. ‘You know we’ll have to report this to the police,’ Alan said as we left. ‘And they’ll probably send someone to talk to you. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t mind if John McKenzie comes.’ Silas paused. ‘I want them to find her murderer.’

  ‘He meant you to be blamed, you know,’ I said.

  ‘Me or my birds. Or both. That’s one reason I want him caught.’

  We left then, but not before I’d given Silas a small piece of paper. ‘Mr Varner, I know you don’t have a phone. But you say you go into town occasionally. If you should ever need us, here’s the number of my mobile, and this is Alan’s. Just in case.’

  ‘He wants the man caught, for the sake of vengeance. But that’s only one reason,’ I said to Alan as we headed home. ‘He cares about the native people, doesn’t he?’

  ‘They share a lot of values – love for the land, living in harmony with nature.’

  ‘And aversion to the men who have taken all that away.’

  ‘Not away from Silas. He’s taken it back. You know, I’m developing a good deal of respect for the man. He’s a philosopher, in his way, and he’s living out his beliefs. His way of life wouldn’t suit me. I enjoy my creature comforts, but I can see the appeal.’

  ‘So can I. But I’ll never give up my indoor plumbing.’

  We waited until we got off Silas’s impossible road, and then stopped to make some phone calls. Alan, of course, had to report to John our conversation with Silas. And I finally remembered to call Jane.

  ‘Jane, it’s Dorothy. I’m sorry I’m calling so late. What time is it there, anyway?’

  ‘Not late. Still in Canada, are you?’

  ‘Yes, and still embroiled in an investigation. Two, in fact.’

  ‘Heard about the politician getting murdered. Didn’t much like the sound of him.’

  ‘No, well, he wasn’t a very nice man. I’m surprised the news got all the way across the Atlantic, though. He was a pretty big frog here, but it’s a smallish pond.’

  ‘Commonwealth nation. Mother country pays attention. And billionaire’s always news.’

  ‘Oh, I suppose. I keep forgetting he was filthy rich. I suppose I shouldn’t say it, with him lying there in the morgue, but he really was awful. An ego as big as Canada, a womanizer, a bully – I can’t really be sorry he’s dead.’

  ‘Knew him, then?’

  ‘Not well. I know some people who did know him and had reason to loathe him. Amy, his ex-wife, among others. She’s going to marry John McKenzie, the man we came here to help. I don’t know that we’re doing much good, though I guess we’ve made a little progress. I suppose Alan and I will have to go to Hartford’s funeral, for Amy’s sake, much as I hate the thought. I just hope I don’t run into Alexis.’

  ‘Alexis?’ She sounded incredulous.

  ‘Alexis Ivanov, she calls herself. Ridiculous name! His current mistress. Or I suppose I should say former, now he’s dead. A bombshell, hard as nails, filthy rich herself, and leading him a merry dance, from all I hear. She runs everything charitable in Victoria, or at least everything cultural. I doubt she cares about providing for the homeless or treating addicts or anything that would mean getting her hands dirty. And yes, I know St Peter will get me for that.

  ‘But I didn’t call to bore you with our troubles here. How are the kids?’

  ‘Missing you. So am I. Cats sulk most of the day. Watson howls.’

  ‘Oh, dear! We had no idea we’d be gone so long, but the mess just got thornier and thornier, and we can’t leave John in the lurch. Are you sure you can cope with the animals, or would you rather take them to the vet to board?’

  Jane snorted. ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘Well, look, this call is going to bankrupt me. Tell the kids I love them and I’ll see them soon, and do call me if it gets to be too much.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  Alan and I exchanged information about our calls on the way home. I hadn’t much to contribute except worry about the animals, which Alan dismissed. ‘They’ll be fine, you know. How could they not be, with Jane looking after them?’

  ‘You’re probably right. What did John have to say?’

  ‘Glad for the information, sketchy as it is. They’ll start looking at AIntell employees, since they seem likely candidates to be Hartford stooges. The trouble is, there are so many of them.’

  ‘Is there anything new on his end, the Hartford murder?’<
br />
  ‘The stains on the pantry floor are definitely human blood, perhaps Hartford’s, but the DNA analysis isn’t complete yet. Oh, and they’ve solved the mystery of the locked pantry door. The skivvy whose job it is to lock it lost the key. Swears she went to lock it before she went home that afternoon and it wasn’t in the door. She tried the door and it was locked, so she thought her boss or someone had taken it and didn’t worry about it. Now she’s afraid she’ll lose her job, and she’s a penniless UVic student who desperately needs the money.’

  ‘Yet more collateral damage.’

  ‘Perhaps. The key was in the lock later, of course, so the girl can’t prove she didn’t just forget.’

  ‘Was it tested for fingerprints?’

  ‘Not until several people had handled it. It doesn’t have a good, smooth surface in any case, so prints don’t show very well.’

  ‘So – one step forward, two back.’

  ‘Seems that way, doesn’t it. Let’s try to forget it for a while, love, and enjoy this beautiful evening.’

  We grilled some salmon and sat on the deck of our borrowed condo and watched a glorious sunset, but I kept thinking about an intelligent girl who loved her native land, loved nature, and would never again see a sunset.

  Morning brought the news that Paul Hartford’s body had been released, and the funeral was scheduled for tomorrow. ‘It would have been more usual to wait until Wednesday, but as that’s the holiday, and they didn’t want to put it off until Thursday, they’re going ahead with it,’ Alan reported, after a phone call from John. ‘It’s to be at Christ Church Cathedral.’

  ‘Of course. All the pomp and circumstance possible.’

  ‘Be fair, darling. It’s the biggest Anglican church in town, and the world and his wife will be there. It’s by invitation only, but I’ll wager no one will send regrets.’

  I snorted. ‘Precious few will feel regret, is what I’ll wager. But that means we won’t have to go.’

  ‘I’m afraid we will. John said Amy has specifically requested that we be there.’

  ‘Drat! I just hope that Alexis person won’t come.’

  Alan just looked at me pityingly.

  I couldn’t settle to anything that morning. I kept going over and over what we knew and what we suspected, and couldn’t think of a single useful line to pursue. The police were, we knew, working frantically to try to find a thread, a single lead that would take them nearer a solution to either murder, but especially Hartford’s. It was totally unacceptable that the man should go to his grave with his murder unsolved, but it looked very much as though that would be the case.

  I put together a salad for our lunch, but neither of us was hungry. I wanted to do something – but what?

  I was listlessly piling the few dishes in the dishwasher when my mobile rang. Expecting John, I answered.

  ‘Dorothy? Nigel here.’

  ‘Nigel? Nigel Evans?’

  ‘How many other Nigels do you know? Can you hear me all right? You’re breaking up a bit.’

  ‘I … yes, I can hear you. But look. Are you calling on a landline?’

  ‘Yes, from my office.’

  ‘All right, hang up and call me on this number.’ I walked over to Sue’s phone and read him the number. ‘That’s the landline here, and it will be clearer. Did you get that?’

  He read the number back to me, and while I waited for him to call back I called to Alan. ‘Come and show me how to put this phone on speaker.’

  The call came through, loud and clear. ‘Ah, that’s better,’ said Nigel, close to five thousand miles away. ‘Mobiles have their disadvantages. Now Dorothy, I called because Jane called me, and this might be important. You talked about someone named Alexis Ivanov, a really rich babe who likes to run the world?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m sure that’s not her name. How could it be?’

  ‘I saw a picture of her in The Times, in the report of Hartford’s death. I was interested, because of course he was a kingpin in IT, so I read the thing through, and I’m sure I recognized her. It’s rather a distinctive face, isn’t it? Not to mention the rest of the package! Anyway, if she’s who I think she is, her name is Alice Ingram and I knew her at King’s.’

  ‘King’s? Oh, King’s College.’

  ‘Yes, I did do a few things there besides sing and get into trouble.’

  Nigel had been a member of the famed King’s College Choir until his youthful peccadillos had caused the authorities to boot him out.

  ‘She was a student there?’

  ‘For a bit. She didn’t last much longer than I did, but for different reasons. She was brilliant, and very social. Even then she had lots of lovely lolly, and threw it about. Parties in her rooms, all that. I didn’t know her well, of course. I didn’t move in those circles. But I knew she was from Canada, can’t remember where. She got into campus politics early on, and was running everything she could, as a first year, mind you. Then something happened. I don’t know exactly what; I’d been sent down by that time. She simply dropped out of everything and disappeared. Someone said it was a tragedy of some sort. I thought you might want to know.’

  Alan was blowing a long, slow whistle. I said, ‘Nigel, if you weren’t so far away, I’d kiss you. Tell that lovely wife of yours I’ll collect when we get home. And give her and the kids my love.’

  ‘So. A mystery about the lovely Alexis.’ Alan produced a pretty good imitation of a leer.

  ‘There’s always been a mystery about her, as far as I’m concerned. I knew that name couldn’t be real. And I’m willing to bet her background plays into what’s been happening here.’

  ‘My dear, she’s Canadian. That covers some thirty-seven million people or so. The odds—’

  ‘Less than nineteen million, if you figure that roughly half of them are male. Then you can reduce that to the ones who have assumed a false name, and have been educated at Cambridge, and have moved to Victoria, and are richer than God, and I think the odds diminish considerably.’

  ‘Still. Assume that Alexis is in fact this Alice Ingram. It would be easy enough to check her passport, if the police had any reason to do so. Why does that make her a candidate for involvement in the recent tragedies?’

  I raised my hands helplessly. ‘Alan, I don’t know. Call it intuition, if you like, though I’m not sure I believe in that. I only know that I want it checked out. Do you think John can do that?’

  ‘Perhaps. I’ll try to persuade him to look into her background, but I think it’s an awfully slim lead.’

  ‘Slim is better than none.’

  The next morning I dressed carefully, wishing I’d brought something a bit more subdued. ‘I hate black, and I look awful in it,’ I groused. ‘Anyway, I’m not mourning the loss of Paul Hartford. Why should I look as if I were?’

  Alan ignored me, knowing I was really talking to myself.

  Alan suggested we take a cab to the church, knowing parking would be at a premium, as indeed it was. Not only cars, but the vans of TV crews crammed the space in front of the cathedral. We pushed our way through and gave our names to someone at the door, who passed us on to an usher, who seated us up near the front, where John and Amy were waiting for us. I would much rather have stayed inconspicuously at the back. I would much rather have stayed at home.

  Since I was here, however, I might as well see if I couldn’t get something out of it, some information, whatever. I looked around, trying not to be obvious about it. There was Alexis, in the very front pew, next to a youngish man I didn’t know. Bad taste, I thought. She was his mistress, not his wife. Or perhaps not even that, if the rumours were true. Just his ‘great and good friend’ as Time magazine used to put it. Though that usually meant … oh, we were starting. The organ struck up a mournful voluntary and a subdued commotion at the back of the church indicated that the coffin was being brought in and the procession assembling. A voice intoned, ‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord …’ The procession made its way up the long aisle, ac
companied by a waft of incense. Pulling out all the stops, I thought sourly, and then reprimanded myself. Criticism of a man’s funeral is reprehensible, no matter how little one liked the man.

  We sang a hymn, coughing a little as the clouds of incense dispersed. Prayers. Scripture readings. The Twenty-Third Psalm. (If they don’t read that at my funeral, I thought, I’ll come back and haunt them.) Hymn. We stood for the Gospel (and more incense) and then settled down for the homily.

  The priest (the dean of the cathedral, according to the service leaflet) climbed to the lofty pulpit and repeated a phrase from the Gospel: ‘“Everything that the Father gives me will come to me, and anyone who comes to me I will never drive away.” Again: “Anyone who comes to me I will never drive away.”’ He leaned forward, grasped the edge of the pulpit, and went on. ‘I will also quote from another source which many of you will know well, may perhaps have had to memorize back in school: “I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.” It is, of course, from Marc Antony’s funeral oration for Julius Caesar in Shakespeare’s play, and I’m quoting it, along with Jesus’ words, because they are both appropriate for this occasion.

  ‘We are gathered here for the funeral of Paul Hartford, a well-known and complex man. As a parish priest I hear many things, most of which I must never repeat, so I know that Paul was not universally beloved.’

  There was a stir of anger in the congregation. ‘Yes, I know that I have offended some of you. It is the usual practice at a funeral to speak nothing but good of the deceased, but I believe that such hypocrisy will not do here, today. It will not do, my friends, because we in this community are badly in need of healing, and only the truth will heal.’

  I exchanged glances with Alan; he frowned and shook his head – whatever that meant.

  ‘There is in every human being a mixture of good and evil. We are all sinners with the potential of becoming saints. So it was with Paul. Though he was officially on the parish rolls of this cathedral, I seldom saw him in the pews – but he donated very generously to the parish.