by Carole Pitt
'To Canada,' McAllister echoed.
Morven sipped his wine and looked back to how it all started. Up until this point, he knew he'd made the right choices and could leave the UK without any regrets. He was about to return to the bar for a refill when his phone rang. Ignore it, was his immediate thought but the ring tone was attracting attention from the people closest to him. He pressed the key, then realised to late he hadn't checked the caller ID.
'Is that Jacob Morven?' A woman's voice asked.
Yes,' he replied.
'It's DI Jewell here.'
Morven's heartbeat increased. 'I'm about to board my flight. What can I do for you?'
'I needed to check on something before you leave the country.'
McAllister tapped his arm to get his attention and whispered. 'Who is it?'
Morven shook his head, stood up and moved away. 'Sorry can you repeat that?'
The voice at the other end continued. 'Two days ago, a fire started in the art department at Grasmere Academy. Fortunately, the damage to the school was limited. The reason I've called is one of the fire crew found a slightly singed wolf pelt. Giles Beresford insists it belongs to you. I assume you left it behind after your lecture. I wanted to let you know we will store the item at Park Road should you want it back.'
Morven hadn't forgotten he'd left it behind. Somehow he'd misplaced it, or someone had taken it. That same afternoon he'd asked if anyone had found it, but no one had. After he was charged, he assumed one of the kids might have borrowed it and didn't want to make a fuss in case the culprit was punished.'
In the background, he heard their flight called. He turned to McAllister who was eager to get going.
'Thank you Inspector Jewell, I appreciate you taking the time to let me know. I don't want it back, but I met an interesting young man at the Academy. If I remember correctly, his name is Rory. Please give it to him. I'm sure he won't mind the damage.'
'We didn't know if it was valuable, that's why I rang.'
'About this fire, was it an accident?' Morven asked.
'It wasn't an accident, 'Elizabeth Jewell answered. 'It was deliberate. I have to go now. I hope you have a pleasant flight.'
Morven heard the click as she disconnected. McAllister was tugging at his sleeve. He drained his glass and they made their way to the gate to find Goddard waiting for them. He was at the head of the first class queue. He handed over their passports and other documents. Morven gave his a cursory glance, his mind wandering. Why hadn't he asked her more about the fire? Because even though he knew the answers, he hadn't wanted to know the details.
'All in order,' Goddard said and shook McAllister's hand. 'Have a safe journey home.'
Thank you,' McAllister replied, eager to hand his documents to the smiling flight attendant.'
Morven was next to shake hands. 'If ever you're in BC...?'
Goddard smiled and walked away. He did not look back.
Twenty minutes later Morven looked out of the window of the Boeing 767, his last view of the UK. Once they were airborne, he would try to forget. He had meant his words to John. He would never return.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Elizabeth woke up the following morning feeling unsettled. Yes, she realised it would take a while to wind down. As usual she was too impatient, expecting to feel less stressed, more relaxed.
She couldn't stop wondering about the mask and where it was. Last night she'd fallen into the trap of analysing her life and which direction it might take. She'd ended up feeling miserable and switched her focus back to the case. One or two possibilities occurred to her. Not anything she could act on, because it was far too late and she'd never be able to prove it. As it was pointless pursuing her theory she would keep her ideas to herself. Patterson wouldn't thank her for more far-fetched claims. The saga had reached its end, and as far as she was concerned, whatever happened to the mask would remain a mystery. In the end no one, not even Natasha Samuel from Sotheby's had managed to cast much light on its origins or where it had been for nearly two centuries. Who had carved it and how far had it travelled. How many lives it might have touched?
Elizabeth had flirted with the idea that Jacob Morven had actually come to the UK for a specific purpose, one unconnected to his school lectures on the Nisga'a culture. Now, as she looked back, it seemed a much too insignificant pursuit for a man of his standing. Or perhaps she was being overly suspicious and he was a genuinely unselfish person, who only worked for the good of his people. She had found it difficult to categorise Morven. He didn't fit any criminal profile, but the nagging doubts wouldn't leave her. Strange that she had questioned his guilt from the beginning, and now he was gone, she still wasn't sure.
She went downstairs and opened the back door. It had rained solidly for a couple of days but now the sun was out. It was the beginning of June and she wondered if the next spell of good weather would last. Patterson had suggested she took a holiday, go abroad, but Elizabeth didn't want to stray far from home.
Bagpuss, as usual was sat in the middle of the lawn. Elizabeth thought he'd caught a bird and she rushed over, but it was a child's toy, soft and black with a smooth fake fur pelt. It was minus a head and she wondered where he'd found it. At least he looked happy, she'd never thought about buying him a toy. She knew dogs liked them, but thought cats weren't that interested.
She glanced over the garden and for the first time in ages, felt as if the house actually belonged to her and wasn't just somewhere to sleep. Anita had called at Park Road to confirm Yeats had finally confessed to his crimes and was hoping to do a deal for a lighter sentence. He had to face the consequences, yet strangely Elizabeth felt no animosity towards him.
Before Anita had left she'd handed over Daly's number. Elizabeth took the card out of her pocket and looked at it again. 'When would be the right time?' she'd asked Anita.
Anita had smiled and told her to figure that one out for herself.
Back in the kitchen she switched on the coffee machine. Bagpuss was meowing for a second breakfast when she heard a bang at the front door. She sighed, wondering who had decided to visit during her first few hours of freedom. When she went into the hall the post had arrived. Apart from the usual bills and junk mail, she picked up a white embossed envelope. The writing was stylised, as if whoever had addressed it was proficient in calligraphy. She studied it, then took all of the post to the kitchen and sat down at the table. After she had dealt with the bills she picked up the envelope and opened it. Inside was a card made from exquisite paper. She turned the page and read the text inside
Senor and Senora Montero invite you to the wedding of their daughter Francisca to Mr Nicholas Calbrain on the 28th of August.
Elizabeth stopped reading right there. She stood up, pushed it back inside the envelope, collected up the junk mail and dropped all of it into the pedal bin.
The coffee machine beeped. She stared at Daly's card lying next to the phone. There was no need to check the number, she had memorised it. Carrying her coffee and the handset, she went outside to sit in the sun.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
The flight to Vancouver touched down early.
Going back to his village, Laxgalts'ap, the name that meant village on village seemed daunting. Only five hundred or so people lived there but it was still his home. He'd hire a car in Terrace and drive back along the Nisga'a' highway. He allowed himself one small whiskey before boarding his connecting flight and sleeping most of the way there.
Next morning the small hotel he'd stayed in overnight provided a hearty breakfast. He picked up the car and headed for the highway. He drove on the near empty road anticipating how he'd feel once he arrived at his destination. As he neared the Nisga'a Memorial Lava Bed Provincial Park he pulled over and got out of the car and looked across the highway. Here, the lava beds towered almost twelve metres above the modern road.
Morven
checked the time. He had an hour's walk before he reached the place he had chosen. Another five miles along the highway and he could park the car where no one would see it. The lava beds covered approximately thirty-nine square kilometres, it was unlikely he would encounter any tourists.
He exited the highway and carried on until he reached the burial grounds. It was warm, but the wind howled across the devastated landscape.
When he finally stopped, he sat for a while contemplating. He had passed the signs asking visitors not to remove the volcanic rock. The legend was very specific, if you do, you incur a curse.
He opened the boot and removed a small bag containing a few basic tools and a sturdy pair of hiking boots. Rather than take the dedicated tourist route, Morven had plotted his journey carefully. Less than an hour later, he was where he wanted to be.
He knelt down and dug a small deep plot then opened the bag. Using the small trowel he moved away the larger rocks and began to dig a small rectangle. When he'd dug down to about thirty centimetres he removed the wrapping from the mask and carefully lowered it into the hole. Before he covered it, first with the crumbling lava, then the larger rocks, he knew he must be patient.
Jacob Morven stood up and waited for a sign. Far across the mountains, he heard whistling, then a low guttural sound. He looked up and saw a solitary raven circling above him and for that moment, he was at one with the volcanic earth beneath his feet. The raven had found him and as in nature had followed the wolf. Not to feed from the wolf's discarded carcass, this time it was for a different reason.
He bent down and covered up the mask. He stepped back and scrutinised his work. No one would ever know, and in a few months, he too wouldn't remember the exact spot. He leaned into the wind as the balance was restored.