A Sorrowful Sanctuary

by Iona Whishaw

  “Ruckus?” asked Ames.

  “I never did know what happened. A group of guys took him from the bar here to join them at a table a week or so ago. They were standing him drinks and patting him on the back. It was a busy night . . . a Friday, I’m guessing, and there’d been some sort of meeting a bunch of them had been at, and they all came back here at once. I didn’t see the lead-up, but suddenly I heard a chair flying. This guy,” the bartender lifted the picture, “was standing and yelling something. He had a pretty thick accent. I couldn’t hear what he said. But he slammed out of here yelling something like, ‘You’re sick. You’re all sick.’ Someone took off after him, spoiling for a fight, but a couple of the other fellows went after him and held him back. You know what people are. Everyone poured out onto the street to watch, hoping there’d be a fight.”

  “Was there?”

  The bartender shrugged. “I was trying to keep things together here. I couldn’t leave, obviously. There was no one else here. It seemed over pretty fast, so I thought those fellows managed to stop it.”

  “Did you find out what the dispute was about?”

  “Nope. I was more concerned with keeping the peace. I told that table they’d better behave or they wouldn’t be allowed in again. It was pretty surprising because they were all very lovey dovey when they first came in. When they settled down again they had their heads together. I’d say they looked like people who’d taken someone into their confidence and were angry he wasn’t who they thought he was. Or they were trying to play a trick on some poor foreigner sort of thing. Anyway, in a few minutes they were laughing again, and left shortly after, so I figured it was over.”

  “Did you catch the guy’s name?”

  “I never asked him, but someone else from another table did go out after him. Looked like he wanted to calm him down, and he didn’t come back that night. I’m pretty sure he called him Klaus. That man over there is a friend of his, I think, or was.” The bartender pointed at the end of the bar where two men sat talking but watched the police guardedly.

  “Is there a room we can use?”

  “Sure. There’s a ladies lounge behind that door. Nobody in at this time of day.”

  “Harry Bronson. I work at a mill up near Slocan. What’s this about?”

  “We’re trying to find out about an incident you might have witnessed a few days ago.”

  “Oh, that thing with Klaus. One of those bastards tried to get at him, but Klaus is a big man. He pummelled the man. I had to pull him off.”

  “The bartender said someone tried to go after him, but his mates held him back?”

  “They held one of them back, but not that crazy who got out and tried to start a fight.”

  “Let’s start at the beginning. How do you know Klaus?” Darling asked.

  “I don’t understand. Has Klaus done something?”

  Ames pushed the picture of the dead Klaus forward. “He’s dead. We’d like to know why and how.”

  Harry Bronson frowned. “Those bastards!” He took up the picture and looked at it closely. “That’s Lazek, all right. No wonder he hasn’t been at work. I thought he’d quit.”

  “How did you know him?”

  “We served in the same unit. He was in weapons training. Never went overseas. But we reconnected after the war, and I said he should come work here. It’s mostly mining here, but he didn’t want to go underground. I think he knew miners back home. I remember him saying they didn’t last long. So he worked in the mill with me. I live south of here about ten miles, and I used to pick him up in my truck. He had a place somewhere along the road, but he never would show me where.”

  “His last name is Lazek?” Ames asked. He had his little black notebook out and was writing in it.

  “Yeah. He was a serious sort of guy. Didn’t talk much, but we got along. He told me he used to be an electrician in the old country, but he had to leave because of politics. Ended up in the north somewhere. He never said much about himself. Didn’t usually drink either. I’d come in here on a Friday and he’d get himself home. I think he walked. Or he could have gone back in his little boat. He brought it to town when he wanted supplies.”

  “What kind of boat?” Ames asked.

  “I don’t think I ever saw it. Just told me he had one.”

  “Do you know what kind of politics?” Darling asked.

  Bronson shook his head. “You know Europe. It’s crazy over there. He did say once that he hated Nazis, and I was a little surprised, because I thought he was German. But of course there must have been plenty of Germans that weren’t Nazis.”

  “So he came from Germany,” Ames said, writing.

  “No. That’s the funny thing. He said he wasn’t from Germany. That’s what I mean. Europe’s kind of mixed up.”

  “Do you know how he ended up in the bar with that other group that night?” Darling asked.

  “I don’t. I was surprised. For one thing, those guys work at a mine, at least some of them do. A couple I never saw before. And they’re troublemakers. They claim to belong to some secret society, and they swagger around like they own the place. Maybe they thought because he was German he’d go for their crazy ideas. I know at least one of them spent most of the war in prison.”

  “Were they in the bar just now?”

  “No. In fact I haven’t seen them either since then. Thank God.”

  “Did you see where Klaus went on that Friday night?”

  “I pulled him off the guy he was beating, and he kind of shrugged me off and started to walk off. I was worried about him, so I offered him a ride back to where I usually dropped him off, but he said to leave him alone. He was going toward the water, so I assumed he was going to his boat. I left him to it. I wanted to get home. Some of the guys were way too drunk that night.”

  “You mentioned Klaus Lazek stopped working. Did you go look for him when he wasn’t there to be picked up?”

  “I stopped on the Saturday where I usually pick him up, near Fletcher’s Creek there, to see if he was all right, but I couldn’t see any place anyone could live. He was pretty secretive, as I said.”

  “Do you know if he has any relations, wife, parents, siblings?”

  “I don’t think so. He never talked much about his past. I think he had a sister, but I have a feeling she stayed behind in the old country. He did say he came here as a refugee in 1939. I liked him. He kept to himself, but he was honest and hard working. He trained in weapons when he signed up, and he was posted to train the rest of us. I always wondered if they didn’t send him overseas because they couldn’t entirely trust him because he was German.”

  “Do you know the names of any of the miners involved in the incident?” Ames asked, drawing a line under something in his notebook.

  “Nah. They aren’t my type. There were a couple of people there that I never saw before that night. I don’t think they were miners.”

  “Do you know which mine the others work at?” Darling asked.

  “I couldn’t say. Barkeep might know.”

  Darling nodded at Ames, who went back into the main bar.

  “Would you be willing to show us where you picked him up every day? We could follow in our car.”

  “Sure. I want to head out now anyway.”

  Ames was back. “The Cork, he says.”

  Kenny Armstrong pulled his red truck onto the grassy sward by the sloping pasture where he usually parked. The horse that had once pulled his mail wagon trotted to the fence and threw his chin up and down in greeting. Holding Alexandra, Eleanor climbed out of the cab and stretched.

  “Hello, old thing,” she said stroking the horse’s muzzle. “Off you go!” she said to the dog, putting her down. Alexandra ran off toward the house and then stopped, emitting a noise neither Kenny nor Eleanor had ever heard before. The horse flattened hi
s ears and then twitched them, and pawed the ground. Kenny stopped and looked at the dog, putting down the bag of flour he’d been lifting out of the box in the back of the truck.

  “What’s up with the mutt?” he asked, frowning.

  Alexandra had stopped five feet short of the front door. She began to bark softly, punctuating the bark with growls.

  “Stay back,” Kenny said to his wife as she started toward the dog. “She thinks someone is in there.” He moved toward the house. “Okay, old girl. Let’s have a look, shall we?” With utmost caution Kenny pulled open the screen door, turned the doorknob, and pushed the kitchen door open. Scooping up the dog, he went cautiously inside.

  Eleanor waited for an anxious moment and then, rebelling at the thought of anyone dangerous being in the cottage, she took up the remaining bag of groceries and went determinedly into the kitchen. Putting the bag on the table she called out, “Everything all right?” Alexandra bounded excitedly into the kitchen, wiggling and sniffing. “Investigation complete?” Eleanor asked her.

  “I don’t know what the fuss was about,” Kenny said, coming in from the back of the cottage. “There’s no one here but us chickens. Maybe someone stopped by and put their head in the door to look for us and then went off again. I don’t reckon we’ll be murdered in our beds with her around.” He leaned over and ruffled the top of Alexandra’s head.

  It wasn’t until the flour, sugar, salt, and cans of treacle were stowed that Eleanor noticed what was wrong.

  “Where’s the dog’s water bowl gone?” she asked as the phone rang.

  “Damn,” Lane said. “I wish we had a camera. I don’t want to touch anything.”

  “It’s probably been there for ages. It might not even be the other oar. I’m sure it will last till tomorrow. Why don’t we get on back and you can let that nice Inspector Darling know?”

  “Where would someone who lived here keep a boat?” Lane asked.

  “They’d pull it up onto the beach, as we have,” suggested Angela.

  Lane was dying to take a quick walk along the edge of the beach. If someone was shot here somewhere, there must be some evidence—dried blood, scuffed up ground denoting a struggle—but she resisted the urge to look for it. She could mess up evidence, if she hadn’t already, bounding in and out of the little cabin as she had. She didn’t relish Darling’s censure.

  “Well, it’s probably nothing. Abandoned oars must be a dime a dozen along a lake. Look at all the logs and wood that drift onto the beach,” Lane said.

  In spite of this light talk, the creek and its brooding waterfall cascading in the shadows beyond made the atmosphere sinister. Fighting the urge to nose about, Lane started back toward their boat.

  “And you’re right. We should get back as soon as we can and phone the police. It may be nothing, but on the other hand, it may be everything.”

  “Hello? KC 285, Eleanor Armstrong speaking.” Eleanor did not take her eyes off the space where Alexandra’s water bowl ought to be.

  It was Gladys. “Someone’s pinched my silver teapot! It was my grandmother’s. And I don’t know what else is missing. We’ve lived here undisturbed for nearly fifty years. Who would have the cheek to rob us?”

  Oh, dear, Eleanor thought. “I’ve just now seen that Alexandra’s water bowl has vanished. Oh, wait, Kenny is making some sort of wild signs from the door of the sitting room.” She put her hand over the receiver. “What are you dancing around like a dervish for?”

  Kenny, who had been making, he thought, perfectly understandable fencing motions, burst out, “Someone’s taken my father’s sword!”

  Her heart sinking, Eleanor got back on the phone. “Kenny’s father’s regimental sword is gone as well. Were you out of the house?”

  “Of course we were out of the house!” Gladys said impatiently. “We have work to do. The girls were up at the orchard, and I was out in the vegetable garden. The top one.” Eleanor knew the Hughes’ top garden was well away from the house, screened by a hedge of myrtle and a copse of birch trees.

  “We’ve just been up to town. Anyone could have had a field day. It’s outrageous. We never lock anything. Who could it be?”

  “Someone who knew exactly where to go,” said Gladys. “I’m going back to see what else the swine has swiped.”

  “I’ll get Kenny to check the rest of our things, and I’ll phone and see if Reg or Robin has lost anything.”

  “I bet Reg is fine. That wet blanket Alice never leaves the house. The Bertollis too. The dogs and children would be barking like mad if anyone tried to approach them.”

  Knowing Gladys was right, Eleanor hung up the phone. Issuing instructions to Kenny to have a closer look around, Eleanor prepared to phone Robin, when the instrument jangled again.

  “The phone man.” It was Gladys again. “He had time to have a good look around. I didn’t think he knew a damn thing about phones.”

  That was exactly what Kenny had said about the phone man. She began to piece together a possible series of events. “I wonder if he nobbled the phones so he could come around and snoop,” she said. “I’m sure he’d have to cut a wire or something. Well, be that as it may, we’ll make a thorough list and then call the police.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  September 1941

  The tameness of the countryside amazed Klaus. Passing farms and ranches as he moved south on the train filled him with longing. It was beautiful, like the countryside in Bohemia. Accessible. Farmable. Not like the mosquito-infested swampland they’d been sent to. He would go to Vancouver and sign up. There was a war on. They could not fault him for leaving. Anyway, the others were more patient. They had had a good enough harvest in spite of every setback. Perhaps those clowns at the CWR would reward them by giving them everything they were entitled to. Besides, he thought, there is nothing to hold me there. Or anywhere. As he fell into a doze he imagined himself in uniform, fighting in Europe. He imagined a village wrested from the Nazis and in it, surviving still, thin, defiant Julia and the children. The agony of being stuck so far away from what he should be doing was palpable.

  Darling and Ames waved at Harry Bronson and watched his truck as it turned the corner and disappeared. The two policemen stood in the green silence left by the receding truck and looked around. “Not very promising, sir.”

  “No, indeed, Ames. Your insight is blinding.” They had looked all along the stretch of road where Bronson said he always picked Lazek up for work, and they could not find anything remotely like any kind of dwelling, or even a lane leading to one. A stretch of open land on the west side of the road suggested that the area had once been a field, but now it proved to be a marshy grassland created by the creek backing up.

  The sun was hanging low, nearing the mountain ridge to the west, when Darling shook his head. “I don’t understand. Did he camp here somewhere? I think we’d better call it a day and come back out tomorrow, or send some of the boys to hack around in the underbrush.”

  Relieved not to be sent to do the hacking, Ames gratefully hopped into the driver’s seat and waited for his boss to have one last look around. Darling took off his jacket and threw it into the back seat with his hat.

  “So now we know who he is. But why was he shot and set adrift? Because he was a foreigner? It seems a scant excuse, though I know there’s a segment of the populace that doesn’t like foreigners. Drink? That group was already drunk and bellicose, and if Bronson is to be believed, Lazek beat one of them badly. That would be enough to at least start another fight, one that a vengeful combatant might bring a gun to. Too many guns still floating around. I wonder if he was beaten badly enough to seek medical attention? Add it to your list, Ames.” Darling sat back, gazing at the passing forest and thinking what a perfect time of day it was to be sitting on Lane’s back porch. “And while you’re at it, where’s the boat? Miss Winslow said she pulled it up under the wharf, a
nd someone clearly dragged it away.”

  Ames too fell into a broody silence. With each mile closer to town, his anxiety about Violet increased. They hadn’t formally broken off. He had opined that he wasn’t ready for the noose, and she had gone off in a huff. She was prone to going off in huffs, but she usually was amenable to being talked around. If he didn’t try to talk her around this time, would that constitute an official end of the whole business? He glanced at Darling and felt a real sense of embarrassment. That, he was certain, was not the way a gentleman would end a relationship. So confused had his musings become that it was with genuine delight that he saw Lane Winslow’s car turning up into King’s Cove, proceeding very slowly because a rowboat was tied to the top of it.

  “Sir, look!” he cried, honking twice. He pulled up behind Lane’s car where it had stopped.

  “Yes, I see, Ames. No need to wake the dead.” Darling got out of the car and walked toward the driver’s side of Lane’s car, his hands in his pockets.

  “What’s all this, then?”

  “Hello, Inspector.”

  “Hello, Inspector Darling!” said Angela, leaning forward from the passenger side. “We’ve been on the lake, and . . . well, you’d better tell him, Lane.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Look, we can’t fill up the front door to King’s Cove like this. Why don’t you two come up to the house? We could certainly use a drink after the day we’ve put in. If you have time, I mean. I believe we do have something important to tell you with regard to the poor man we found in the boat.”

  Darling looked back at Ames, who had gotten out of the car and was smiling cheerfully at Miss Winslow. “Have we got time, Ames? Miss Winslow has something she’d like to say to us about our case. Again.” Here Darling threw her a pinched smile and returned to the police car.

  Lane parked the car in front of her barn, deciding Reg could wait for his boat until the next morning, and thought about what she had in the house to eat. Ames pulled up into the driveway, and the two policemen got out. Angela stood undecided and then said, “I need to get back. Poor David has had the boys all day. I expect I’ll find him in tatters.”