‘He was also a generous donor to many other institutions here in Victoria and elsewhere. Some of you, sitting here today, may owe your education to Paul Hartford through his scholarship program at the University of Victoria. Thousands, every year, enjoy the Symphony Splash, often co-sponsored by Paul’s company, AIntell. He has contributed greatly to the cultural life of this city, and I hope we are grateful.
‘But there was another side to Paul, a darker side. His private life was not always conducted in a way that accorded with Christian precepts, and by those actions, he hurt a great many people. If you saw only his public persona, you may not know some details of his life, which, I assure you, I am not about to reveal. My point is simply that, while there were many reasons to love Paul Hartford, there were also many reasons not to do so.
‘And this is where I come to the quotation from the Gospel according to John. Jesus assures us that those who come to him, those whom the Father has given to him, who belong to him, will never be driven away. Note that word: driven away. Jesus will not drive us away. Our own perverse and sinful actions, even, will not be able to drive us away. We belong to him. From the day of our baptism, we were “marked as Christ’s own forever”. Nothing, nothing can change that.
‘Of course not all of you here today are practicing Christians. Perhaps most of you are not. Whatever your beliefs, I urge you to generosity of spirit. Only thus may the divisions in our community be healed. If you loved Paul, be understanding to those who did not. If you did not, I beg you not to judge him. Which of us, if judged fairly, would escape censure? Paul Hartford is now in the hands of one who will judge him with perfect justice and with perfect mercy and grace, knowing him as we could never know him, understanding him as no human ever could. Let us love one another and leave judgment to God. Amen.’
The congregation responded with a somewhat dazed ‘amen’ and rose to our feet for the recitation of the Creed.
I stood and knelt, sang and responded through the rest of the service, but my mind was far away. I had to be nudged to go up for communion. When at last it was over, and John and Amy offered us a lift, I was glad to sit in silence.
We fetched up on John’s patio. He put some sandwiches and a pitcher of something frosty in front of us, and sat down.
‘Well,’ said Amy.
‘Yes.’ Alan nodded. ‘The most remarkable funeral I’ve ever attended.’
‘The most remarkable sermon, at any rate. What was your reaction, Dorothy?’
‘I don’t quite know. I was torn between remorse and … well, anger, I guess. How dare he hint at Paul’s miserable actions without condemning them? And yet we’re not supposed to judge, and he did in fact do a lot of good. He hurt you and Sue so badly, Amy, and so many other people along the way. But at least half the congregation thought he was a knight in shining armour.’
‘Yes, he did good, but for all the wrong reasons, for self-aggrandisement and political capital.’ That was John, and he sounded as if he, too, was thinking aloud.
‘Does that matter, though? The students he sent through school didn’t care why he gave the money, only that he did.’
‘I don’t know if it matters,’ said Amy, ‘and if you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about it. Paul is dead. Marc Antony talked about that, too. “The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones.” I was one of the ones who had to memorise that speech. Let Paul’s good and evil be buried with him, and we can go on with our lives.’
‘Not judging him?’ It was a real question; I was still disturbed.
‘Trying not to judge him, hard as that is. Meanwhile, let’s drink to happier times.’
John filled our glasses, and we raised them. I added another toast. ‘To John and Amy!’
That one we could drink with enthusiasm.
TWENTY-SEVEN
‘But isn’t it sometimes a duty to judge?’
Alan and I were sitting in our living room pretending to read the paper. We had been silent until my remark popped out a propos of nothing.
‘For a policeman, you mean. Or anyone engaged in investigating crime. I’m not sure it is, actually. It’s our duty to judge and weigh evidence, to see where it leads and whether it justifies lodging suspicion in some particular quarter. It’s the duty of the courts, then, to judge whether the suspects we turn up are really guilty.’
‘But you do actually judge, don’t you? Or did, I mean, back when you were an active policeman?’
‘Of course. I think, though – I hope – that I was judging my own judgment, if that’s the way to put it. Did I do the right thing in bringing this particular person before the judge?’
‘In the problems I’ve been involved with,’ I responded, ‘I wasn’t so detached. I ended up truly despising the villains, and rejoicing that they’d been caught. I suppose … no, I know that I should be more forgiving, but I have a really hard time with that.’
‘So does everyone else, love. Don’t beat yourself too hard. And stop feeling guilty for your feelings about Paul Hartford. He was a genuinely bad man, who tried to win favour with philanthropy which he could well afford. Who knows, maybe somewhere deep within he was trying to placate his own conscience. We’ll never know, but we can leave it be. How about some coffee?’
The phone rang – the landline, which was unusual. ‘Probably a telemarketer,’ I said, glancing at the display. ‘No! It’s from England!’
It was, in fact, Nigel.
‘I did a little research today,’ he said after greetings had been exchanged, ‘into the mysterious Miss Ingram, and I think you might be interested in what I found out.’
‘You bet I would. Wait a sec, I want Alan to hear this, too. Now.’
‘I decided the best place to go would be her college records.’
Alan frowned. ‘Surely those are confidential.’
‘They are. But they’ve all been digitized recently, and there isn’t a firewall ever made that I can’t penetrate. Only in a good cause, of course.’
‘I certainly hope so!’ I said warmly, and Nigel chuckled at the other end.
‘Don’t worry. I’m a reformed soul these days, and “strictly legit”. So I went into Alice’s records and learned some very interesting things. For a start, she was born in Vancouver. The city, not the island.’
‘So she’s a native of these parts!’
‘We-ell, except I gather one uses the word “native” to mean something rather different in many parts of Canada. At any rate, she went to school in Vancouver, an expensive girls’ school, and won a scholarship to King’s. Which she turned down, because she said her family had quite enough money to send her there, and she didn’t want to take the place of someone who really needed it.’
‘That’s in her records?’
‘Including a digital copy of the letter she sent. All right. Everything was going along swimmingly, laudatory notes from her professors and all that, until 23 May, when she was nearly finished with her first year. She abruptly dropped out of school, citing a family emergency.’
‘The records didn’t say what?’
‘No. But having the date I could start doing some research in Canada, old newspapers and so on. It took a little while, but a newspaper story sent me to court records – don’t worry, Alan, they’re available under public access laws, so I didn’t have to hack anything. And what I found was that Alice’s sister, a sixteen-year-old named Lucia, had been killed in a hit-and-run accident. The newspapers had played it up; the two girls were very close, partly because the younger sister had cerebral palsy. Alice had apparently protected her fiercely from the bullying of her schoolmates, helped her to fit in, all that. Reading between the lines, it seemed Alice had been torn about going so far away for university, but Lucia insisted.
‘Well. It wasn’t too hard to identify the driver of the red Lamborghini, so he was eventually tracked down and charged, but his attorney successfully claimed that the identification was doubtful, and there had been procedural mistakes, and s
o on – all the tricks that a smart lawyer can use. So the charges were dropped. But, speaking of procedural mistakes, the record of the whole business was never expunged. Would you care to guess the name of the man in question?’
‘No.’ Alan’s voice was harsh. ‘Tell us.’
‘Paul Hartford. You did really guess, didn’t you? Hello? Anyone there?’
I cleared my throat. ‘I … there’s nothing really to say, is there? Thank you for the information, Nigel. I think.’
I stood with the receiver in my hand until Alan gently took it from me and put it back in the cradle.
‘Alexis. All this time, Alexis hating him and plotting revenge.’
‘You go too fast, Dorothy. Alice Ingram had reason to feel extremely bitter about Paul Hartford, who escaped any punishment at all for taking her sister’s life. We still don’t know that the woman calling herself Alexis Ivanov is really Alice Ingram.’
‘Nigel recognized her.’
‘From a newspaper photograph. Remembering a woman he knew – what – seventeen or eighteen years ago? People change, Dorothy. Photographs are unreliable, especially in this age of Photoshop and similar electronic wizardry.’
‘It can all be checked. Did you persuade John to get that going?’
‘I tried. I don’t know if he was able to persuade the authorities.’
I suddenly noticed how tired and discouraged Alan looked and sounded. ‘It’s hard for you, isn’t it? Trying to work this way with no access to the tools you used to have at your fingertips.’
‘Somewhat frustrating, yes.’
‘Poor dear! It’s different for me, of course. I never did have any authority, so I just go bumbling around asking questions and annoying people, and somehow the two of us usually get there in the end. And back in England there are lots of people still on the force who are willing to help. Here … well, we’re both strangers in a strange land.’
‘Yes, and there are barriers. But your strength, my love, has always been dealing with people. You usually get along well with them, all different sorts of people, and they confide in you. That’s no different here than anyplace else.’
I sighed. ‘I told you I had a strange feeling about Alice/Alexis. Now I know why. I think I’ll call John and tell him what we know now, and I’ll bet he’ll push forward that background check on Alexis.’
But I couldn’t reach John. Both his phones, the mobile and the landline, went to voice mail. Frustrated, I tried Amy, who answered on the first ring. She was at the library, of course.
‘Amy, I can’t reach John, and I have something important to tell him. Do you know where he is?’
‘He went straight back to the police station. They’re having a conference to talk over the whole mess, from the first theft of plants through to Paul’s death.’
‘What do you think they’d do if I asked to join that conference?’
She hesitated. ‘If it were just John, he’d say yes like a shot, but …’
‘But it’s all the law and the prophets. Well, I think I’m going to chance it. This is information they’ll be glad to have, and they need it right away.’
‘Is it … no, I won’t ask.’
‘I’ll tell you, I promise, but I need to get going. I’ll call soon.’
I told Alan where I was going. ‘Do you want some moral support?’
‘I think I might have a better chance on my own. Relying on their chivalrous response to a lady in distress. But I’d love to have you drive me down. I don’t know where I’d park.’
‘Right. I don’t even know where the police station is, but I trust Sadie will get us there.’
Sadie got us there all too soon. ‘You’re sure?’ Alan asked.
‘Quite sure.’ I extricated myself from the car, telling myself that it was just old joints that made my progress so slow, and walked into the clean, attractive modern building.
A pleasant-looking woman in uniform, sitting behind a glass window, asked how she could help me. I had my speech all prepared. ‘My name is Dorothy Martin. I have some information for Chief Superintendent McKenzie, of the RCMP, on the Hartford murder case, and it’s urgent that I speak to him immediately.’
‘I’m afraid Mr McKenzie is in conference with several other officers and can’t be disturbed right now. I’d be happy to take your information and give it to him as soon as he’s free.’
‘Oh, no, that won’t do, I’m afraid. May I see someone else connected with the case? At once, please.’
I had expected the run-around, and had sworn I’d meet it with devastating courtesy and iron determination. My experience teaching sixth-graders stood me in good stead. The guardian at the gate realized, after another exchange or two, that I was prepared to stand there until I got what I wanted, or pigs started flying over the Inner Harbour. She picked up the phone, turning away from the window so I couldn’t hear, and then turned back. ‘Sergeant Moore will be down in a moment, if you’d care to take a seat.’
I smiled, showing as many teeth as possible. ‘I’ll stand, thank you.’
When the officer walked into the lobby, I was delighted to recognize him as the man who had taken our statements the day Alan and I were so ineptly accosted in Chinatown. ‘Oh, I’m so glad it’s you, Sergeant. I absolutely must see John McKenzie, or someone on the force who’s involved in the Hartford murder case. Would you give him this note? I’m sure he’ll see me when he’s read it.’
The sergeant was taken aback. ‘They’re in a confab, absolutely not to be disturbed.’
‘They’ll want to be disturbed by this. Look, trust me. You know I’m not a dithery old lady. I promise, I swear you won’t get in trouble for delivering this message. You could, however, get in serious trouble for not delivering it.’
It hung in the balance. I fixed him with my best you-do-it-or-get-sent-to-the-principal look, and he capitulated. ‘Come with me,’ he said, resigned. ‘They’ll flay me alive and demote me to constable. I’ve always wanted to spend out my time till retirement writing parking tickets.’
The working area of the station looked a little more familiar than the lobby. By comparison with the English ones I’d seen, however, it still seemed too new, too sterile. Sergeant Moore led me down a hallway to a door marked Conference: Private and pointed firmly to a chair outside. ‘Wait here.’ His manner was as adamant as mine. I capitulated. For the moment.
He squared his shoulders, tapped on the door, and walked in.
‘What the hell—’ I heard before the door closed.
In a moment the door opened again. The sergeant came out, followed by John. ‘Dorothy, what does this mean?’ He held out the note I’d given the sergeant.
‘Exactly what it says. The woman Alice Ingram has an extremely powerful motive for harming Paul Hartford. If, as I believe, she and Alexis Ivanov are one and the same, the police need to talk to Alexis immediately.’
John looked at me, looked at the note, looked at me again, and made up his mind. ‘All right, Sergeant. You did the right thing. Dorothy, come in and tell us all you know.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
I’ve faced more intimidating assemblages in my life – but not many. None of the faces in the room were friendly; several were actively hostile. John gestured me to a chair, but I preferred to stand. Looming over the rest gives one a psychological advantage.
‘I will be brief. My husband and I are here in Victoria at the request of Mr McKenzie, whose niece is a friend. My husband is a retired chief constable in the English county of Belleshire, and he and I have become involved in several investigations since his retirement. As you may be able to hear in my voice, I am American by birth, but am now a British subject, living in Sherebury. The information I’m about to give you comes via the head of IT services at Sherebury University, a man I’ve known for years.’
I explained it all: Nigel’s connection with Alice Ingram, his recognition of her, his research and its results. ‘It is, of course, not proven that Alice and Alexis are the same person
, but the likelihood is so strong that I urge you to find out as soon as possible. I’ll be happy to answer any questions, if I am able.’
‘This Nigel Evans,’ growled one grey-haired man, one of the hostile ones. ‘Is he to be relied upon?’
‘Unquestionably. Since you will probably check up on him, I will tell you straight off that he was sent down from King’s College for various infractions, but of college rules, not municipal laws. When I first met him, many years ago, he was suspected of involvement in a murder case, but was proven to be entirely innocent. He would not hold the responsible position that he does if the university officials had any question about his integrity. I tell you this lest you accuse me of hiding the facts, but I repeat that I would trust Nigel with my life.’
‘Alexis Ivanov is a highly respected member of our community,’ said one of the other men.
‘Yes. So was Paul Hartford. As the homilist said this morning at his funeral, there was another side to him.’
‘Yes. Thank you, Mrs Martin,’ said the deputy chief constable, who was apparently chairing the meeting.
It was a dismissal. I nodded gravely to the chairman and allowed John to escort me from the room, where Sergeant Moore was waiting to take me downstairs.
‘Thank you, Sergeant, for taking me at my word. It took courage. No skin lost?’
‘None. I may even get bumped up for using my own judgement. Did you accomplish what you wanted?’
‘I’ll know that when I find out what they’re going to do.’
‘Good luck, then!’ He sketched a salute and was gone, and I phoned Alan to come pick me up.
Home. Too restless to settle to anything. Waiting for something to happen.
My mobile rang. Maybe this was John with news!
No. Amy.
‘Dorothy, John asked me to call. He and the rest are running all over. They’ve verified Alexis’s identity as someone named Alice Ingram, and are now out looking for her. He didn’t tell me much more than that. How about supper, so we can talk? I could get some deli stuff and bring it over.’
Death in the Garden City Page 22
