A Sorrowful Sanctuary

by Iona Whishaw

  “I’d sooner you didn’t,” Darling said with a faint smile.

  “Quite right,” Lorimer agreed good-naturedly. “It’s stuffy enough in this office.” He sat back and waited, as if indulging a child.

  “Now then, what can I do for you?”

  “I came to tell you that you were right. Townsend is a thief. I shudder to think what he would have carried off if you hadn’t alerted me. I didn’t let on, of course, when I let him go that night. Just said he wasn’t needed any longer. I didn’t want a scene.”

  “I see. How did you discover this?”

  “It’s the damnedest thing, but he actually had the face to turn up yesterday, offering to sell me this. He said it belonged to his wife, but they were short of money and he was hoping to unload it. Says it’s from the early Q’ing dynasty. I wouldn’t know one dynasty from another, frankly, but I’m willing to bet this is on the inventory of things that have been stolen.” He pulled out a rectangular Chinese porcelain bowl and put it on Darling’s desk.

  Darling looked at it and tented his hands under his chin. So he was right. Lorimer had no idea Townsend had already been arrested. What was his game? He assumes he’s in the clear, that Carl is dead. Of course. Townsend was arrested before he had an opportunity to call his boss and tell him he failed. He wants Townsend out of the way, Darling thought. He thinks Townsend won’t betray him because it would mean a charge of murder. This way it will be a theft charge instead.

  He stood up and put his head out the door. “Ames, could you take this down to O’Brien and have him go through that list of antiques and see if anything like this appears on it, and then could you pop in here? Mr. Lorimer is here to help us with the investigation.”

  Ames looked at the bowl he’d been given. “It actually looks like something I added to the list myself, from the Armstrongs. I’ll get it downstairs and be right back.”

  Back in his office, the inspector found Lorimer playing restively with his cigarette case. Perhaps he should let him smoke. Relax him. Darling went round and pushed the window wide open. “Go ahead. It should be fine.”

  “But surely we’re done here, once you’ve confirmed that thing’s one of the stolen items?”

  “We’d like to get the case as tight as possible. With a good case and a conviction he could go to prison for a considerable time out on the coast at the provincial penitentiary.”

  “Ah. I see.” Lorimer sat back, took out a cigarette, and lit it. Was that a look of relief on his face at the news of Townsend being out of the way? Darling took an ashtray out of his bottom drawer and placed it in front of Lorimer.

  Ames came in with his notebook and sat in the back corner by the window, smiling genially.

  “Now then,” began Darling, “can you tell me about your relationship with Harvey Townsend?”

  “I beg your pardon? Really, Inspector, you of all people ought to know I have no relationship with him whatsoever. You yourself warned me about his proclivities. I let him go on the spot.”

  “But that’s not quite true, is it? The two of you were seen sometime later the same evening in an argument. You were heard to tell Townsend he was a complete incompetent and that this was something else you’d have to do yourself. I think you’ll agree that this sounds more like something a person would say to a man who is permanently in his employ.”

  “It’s perfectly possible that I was arguing with one of my men. I have a number of staff at the mansion. Whoever overheard this could have heard me speaking to any of them. I don’t know where this is going, but I haven’t got all day. The election is in two short weeks. In fact,” he said, consulting his watch, “my wife and I have a luncheon with the Ladies’ Recital Society in an hour.”

  “I’ll be as quick as I can. I should clarify that the witness saw you speaking with Townsend specifically, on the terrace.”

  “That’s ridiculous. It was dark. They could not have seen me speaking with Townsend. He wasn’t there, I told you.”

  Darling glanced at Ames and saw him raise his eyebrows and scribble away in his book.

  “Perhaps you’re right. Now can I ask you if you are familiar with any of these people? Carl Castle?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Buck Heppwith?”

  Lorimer frowned. “Look, Inspector. I don’t know what this is in aid of, but I’ve had enough.” He stubbed out his cigarette angrily.

  “Klaus Lazek? Only he’s dead. He was shot and died of his injuries a few days later. He was a refugee from Sudetenland. I believe you worked for the CWR prior to the war and were one of the administrators of the program those refugees came in under. We are investigating his murder, so we’re hopeful that with your prior knowledge of him, you might be able to help us track down anyone who might have had it in for him.”

  “Can’t help you, I’m afraid. I did work for the railway in the thirties. My resumé is no secret. There were hundreds of refugees, and I was a minor official. I scarcely had contact. Didn’t even speak English, most of ’em. Anything else, Inspector? My wife will be waiting for me to pick her up for the luncheon.”

  “Yes, just one more thing. Are you familiar with Gustav Sadler? Only I see he’s given a substantial donation to your campaign.”

  “Yes. I do know him, and I don’t see, at this point, what business it is of yours. He’s been very supportive.”

  “You are aware he spent most of the war in jail because he openly espoused Nazi propaganda?”

  “He is the leader of a perfectly respectable local branch of the Unity Party. I know nothing of this so-called Nazi business.”

  Darling opened his desk drawer and pulled out the swastika pin. “Really? Because this is the official pin of the Unity Party.”

  Lorimer was standing. “If that’s the case, I suppose I will have to vet my support more carefully. If you’ve nothing further, good day.”

  “I may need to contact you if I have more questions,” Darling said, also standing. “I’ll walk you downstairs.”

  Lorimer strode briskly away from the station, crossed the street, and walked toward city hall. When he was in his office he closed the door and sat down heavily. He had covered every angle. He’d had the boat destroyed. He’d been sure there’d be a verdict of suicide, because they’d never connect the killing to Heppwith. But if they did, he’d pay a lawyer to defend him, knowing those prints on the gun would be enough to convict him. He’d sent his secretary to the hospital to make sure. The man had been dying, so there was nothing to worry about. He told himself this firmly, but his hand was shaking as he reached into his desk drawer for the Scotch. It was the shock of seeing that damn pin. He poured a drink. He had to watch it—there was still the bloody ladies’ luncheon. His heart, under the influence of good sense, slowed down. Of course, it wasn’t his pin, they were a dime a dozen, and no one could pin that one on him. He chuckled mirthlessly at his little joke, and stood up, ready to face the ladies, ready to face, more exactly, his own lady.

  “Hey!” exclaimed Heppwith, who was having breakfast in his cell and had been given a copy of yesterday’s paper to while away the time. “Hey, guard! This is the guy! This is the guy who gave me the gun.” He was pointing at a half-page ad by the committee to elect Lorimer, with a large photograph of the candidate himself.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Linda Lorimer stood looking out at the stone terrace, light reflecting on it from the window. All her life she’d wanted this. A beautiful house with a stone terrace onto the garden. She’d fixated on the terrace when she was young and stuck in the tiny rooms upstairs in a dilapidated shanty in East Vancouver. A great solid stone base upon which her whole life could unfold in beauty and plenty. She could scarcely think how she’d gotten here, or what here was, after all. It was people who are fickle and unstable, she thought. It was a wonder to her that after her experience with her moth
er’s drunken fragility and her father’s disappearance, she didn’t remember this when she’d cast her lot with Lorimer. Whatever happens, she thought, I’m keeping the terrace.

  She turned and went down the long hallway to her husband’s office, her fingers trailing lightly on the panelling, as if to mark it as hers. Her husband wasn’t there. It wasn’t a woman this time. He’d stormed angrily out of the house after waiting most of the day for a phone call, muttering, “Where the bloody hell is he?” He was sinking, and she sensed it with a cool inner triumph. She pushed open the door and went to his desk and reached into the back of the third drawer, where she found the key in the tiny secret inner drawer. She took the key, as she’d done many times before, and went to the cabinet where he kept first editions. She opened one of the books, revealing that it was a secret document box. She sorted swiftly through the papers, stopping when she heard a sound outside the door, her heart beating faster. But it was only the butler turning down the lights in the hallway. Finding what she wanted, she closed the book and then the cupboard, locked it, and replaced the key.

  She looked at the clock in the hallway. Someone would be at the police station. Now that she had it, she wanted it out of the house and in the hands of the police. With it safe in her handbag she went out to the foyer, slipped on her light summer coat, and then went around to the garage, where the chauffeur was doing something to one of the cars. She looked at him appraisingly before he turned and saw her. I’ll keep him, and the cars, she thought.

  When the chauffeur pulled up in front of the station, she got out of the car and then looked in the passenger-side window. “I’ll be only a few minutes. Will you wait?”

  “Madam.” He’d lost sleep over her more than once.

  Inside, Linda Lorimer approached the night man, who could scarcely conceal his delight that yet again, on one of his shifts a beautiful woman had come into the station, and said, “I have something for Inspector Darling. Will you see he gets it?”

  Thunder rumbled across the sky, making a sound like someone in the attic moving Lady Armstrong’s boxes. Lane had been upstairs to make sure the windows were closed. Lady Armstrong’s ghost had opened the windows in storms before. There was another crash of thunder, and she waited, counting. It was close, but she could probably dart to the Armstrongs’ without being incinerated. She slipped into her wellies, pulled her yellow storm jacket on, and went out the door. Rain was pelting down, making the delicate arched boughs of the weeping willow dip. She stood out in the deluge, her face turned up to the roiling granite sky. Only another roll of thunder ended this symbolic and largely unsuccessful washing away of sadness, and she sloshed hurriedly across her little gully and made for the post office. She pulled open the door and shook off the rain, and found Gwen Hughes leaning on the post office window. She turned when Lane came in.

  “Finally, eh? Mother’s worried the blooms will be knocked off what’s left of the lupines, but the pigs are in heaven! By the way, she’d like to thank you for recovering our things. Come up for a proper lunch after church tomorrow. We have a lovely bit of beef.”

  “I’m afraid I had nothing to do with the recovery. All good police work, but I can’t resist a lovely bit of beef. What can I bring? Anyway, I should be thanking you. My garden has been lovely. Fresh carrots. An absolute luxury!”

  “Bring nothing at all . . . unless you have something to drink. You know what the vicar’s like.”

  Lane, divested of her boots and wet jacket, stood in the parlour with Eleanor and Kenny Armstrong. Alexandra, who had hoped for some new adventure when everyone trooped into the usually closed sitting room, had given up and was sitting alertly on the window seat looking out at the rain cascading onto the now-spent raspberry and current bushes at the side of the house. The humans were looking at the silver-framed picture of John Armstrong, still and forever captured standing loosely at attention in his uniform, his face held for that moment between a shy seriousness and a smile. He looked so young, Lane thought, and so innocent of all that was to come.

  “Good to have him back. I missed him,” Kenny said, a slight catch in his throat. “I miss him.” He turned and walked to where his father’s sword hung on the wall next to the cabinet with myriad porcelain knick-knacks and the photo of Eleanor with her nursing sisters. “And as for this regimental sword, it is worse than useless as a defence of this cottage.”

  Alexandra, seeing action, leaped off the bench and came to stand with them. “But that’s your job, isn’t it?” Eleanor said, bending over to ruffle Alexandra’s ears.

  “Ha! Fat lot of good she did!” Kenny said affectionately. “Tea, Mother. What do you say?”

  Back in the kitchen, tea and seed cake laid out, Eleanor said, “Alexandra is thrilled to have her water bowl back. Now, what’s that inspector up to?”

  “Haven’t the foggiest,” Lane said, biting into a slice of buttered cake. “You must teach me to make this. I’ve never had anything like it. The seed cake we ate during the war was always dried out.”

  “I soak the dried fruit overnight in tea. A mix of pekoe and a smoky lapsang, and you know perfectly well what I mean.”

  It had been a week and a half since Lane had phoned the police station. The election was in a few days, and she’d read in the papers that Lorimer had pulled out, so the election of the blameless but boring Mr. Cray would be a mere formality. She had no idea what had happened with the other principals in the affair. And she didn’t want to know, she thought firmly and dishonestly. “I imagine the inspector is busy. He has two people in custody and is likely trying to build a case against the third, that prat Lorimer.”

  “But what does he say in his evening calls?” Eleanor asked, her face a perfect study in inquisitive innocence.

  Lane was silent, occupying herself with a close scan of King George V. He didn’t look as unpleasant as she had heard he was.

  “What have you done?” Eleanor asked gently.

  “Nothing really,” Lane said finally. “It’s just . . . I think we’re better off as friends. It’s all so awkward, isn’t it? Anyway, he wants me to stay out of his business, and I can hardly blame him. I know he’d prefer we simply maintain cordial and distant relations.”

  Kenny was sitting back, his slippered feet up on the edge of the stove, his arms crossed, looking up at the chimney pipe.

  “What absolute rubbish you do talk!” Eleanor said, dropping a piece of cake for Alexandra. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you. He’s too far gone to pull back now. What are you playing at?”

  Lane looked up in surprise. It was certainly the first time she’d been chastised by Eleanor Armstrong.

  “I’m not playing at anything. If you must know, he mentioned marriage. Obviously that’s out of the question. I thought I’d better put a bit of distance between us.”

  “It’s not so obvious to me. Why should it be out of the question?”

  “I . . . I don’t know . . . I’m not marriage material, am I?”

  Kenny came to life, and his feet dropped off the grate. “I don’t know about that. I’d marry you in a jiffy if I were forty years younger. I’ll have another slug of that tea, Mother.”

  “And unencumbered,” pointed out Eleanor, pouring. “The point is, why can’t you marry? Do you not love him?”

  Lane was silent.

  “I thought so. You’re being foolish, my dear. Kenny and I have been married since after the Great War. At our age we know how short life is. Of course, I understand, the modern girl and all that. Fine then, but you should not throw him over. Men like that don’t come along every day. Kind, decent men who admire the women they love.” She reached out for Kenny’s hand. “And they’re sitting ducks if they love you, believe me. Strike, my dear, strike. The iron will never be any hotter.”

  Nor could my face, Lane thought, as she went back into the rain, now a fine mist. There was a small opening
in the heavy charcoal clouds in the east, and the orange light of the setting sun was casting across a growing patch of blue. The smell of the ground, soaked after its long drought, filled her senses. She knew that she was already preparing to cope with the nightly disappointment of there being no phone call from Darling. She struck off up the road to the path that led to the old school. A brisk walk would tire her, and then she would have a bath, read, go to bed early and have a good rest, and try not to long for the time when she hadn’t known him and her heart was still her own.

  It was dark when she pushed open the door, kicked off her boots, hung her jacket on the hook by the door, and then nearly jumped out of her skin.

  “I’ve told you before about leaving your door unlocked. Anyone could wander in.” Darling, holding a Scotch, was leaning against the door into the sitting room. “I’ve lit the fire, I hope you don’t mind, and helped myself to a drink. Can I get you one?”

  “Yes, all right. I’ve been to the Armstrongs’ and I’ve been getting an earful from them, and then had a long wet walk. I could use a drink.”

  He poured a Scotch and handed it to her where she’d collapsed on her easy chair in front of the Franklin. “I’ve stopped by to tell you some news,” he said.

  That you love me? Lane thought, and then slapped the thought away. “About the case? Lorimer has been overcome by the Holy Ghost and confessed?”

  “Not exactly, but close. His wife, Linda, you remember her?”

  “The Ice Queen, yes. She didn’t think much of me, I’m afraid.”

  “She doesn’t think much of him, either. She turned up at the station yesterday evening with a document showing the gun we have from the scene as registered to him. I gather he’s put himself about a bit too much over the years, and she’s tired of it. She said she saw him leave with it on the Friday Lazek was shot. It turns out she kept a close eye on his movements. Her one comment was, ‘He thinks I’m stupid.’ She also, much to my amazement, doesn’t care much for his fascist friends. We may have enough now.”