A Deceptive Devotion

by Iona Whishaw

  He looked at the nearly empty Mikhailov file on his desk. He’d had the pictures of Madam Orlova’s missing brother sent out to nearby RCMP detachments two days before and he’d heard nothing yet, nor yet from any contact of Stearn’s. Well, the lost Russian would have to make way for the lost hunter. Wondering if Oxley was going to adopt the air of a resentful puppy for the whole trip, Darling took his hat from the stand.

  “Ontario boy?” asked Darling while they waited for the ferry across on the west side of the lake to empty of cars.

  “No, sir. I’m from Cranbrook originally, but I went to Carleton. It was brand new, and then I just stayed on. You’re going to be able to fly to Cranbrook soon on a passenger plane.”

  “Oh goody. Why does every town in this province have a name beginning in a K or a C?”

  “Nelson, sir? Vancouver? Fernie? Victoria?”

  “The question was rhetorical, Oxley. Were you in the Ontario police?”

  “Ottawa, sir. After my university, I joined up there. But I naturally jumped at the chance to be nearer home.”

  Bit eager, Darling thought. He’d be jumping at chances everywhere. Ames had better mind his p’s and q’s.

  “What do we know about this hunter?”

  “Right, sir,” Oxley said. He’d made notes in his little notebook and had them fully committed to memory. “His name is Raymond Brodie, forty-eight, works in a local mill. He’s an experienced hunter and has never had a mishap before. He left his home on horseback,” Oxley looked at his watch, “exactly fifty-three hours ago. He’s five foot eleven, weighs about a hundred and seventy pounds, and has dark brown—”

  “All right, Oxley, thank you. You’re a very proficient note taker. Well done.”

  Darling felt mildly bad about being so short with his new driver. He didn’t have far to travel down the circuitous mental streams of his own consciousness to understand his ill humour. He was worried about telling people he was getting married, he was worried about Lane’s house being cluttered for what was beginning to feel like an unlimited time with a Russian émigré, and he was missing Ames. It wasn’t fair, and he knew it. None of these irritations was a life-threatening condition, after all. Perhaps he needed a cup of coffee.

  Darling tried again as pleasantly as he could. “What made you decide to go into policing?”

  They were now on the road and travelling at a sedate pace toward the outskirts of Balfour, where Brodie lived. Too sedate. Darling quelled another tide of irritation.

  “My life was saved by a policeman, sir.”

  “For a minute I thought you were going to tell me you were a Boy Scout.”

  “It would have been better if I had been. I wouldn’t have been so dumb. When I was eight, I was playing with my friends along the Bull River, and we’d built a sort of raft out of driftwood, and we pushed it out onto the river and it broke up pretty quickly, and the two of us who were trying it out fell into the drink. I think I hit my head because I could feel myself face down in the water, and then everything went dark. The policeman was fishing nearby and got us both out. My parents weren’t too sympathetic, I can tell you! But the policeman came to visit me a couple of times to make sure I was okay. I thought that was pretty nice.”

  “So you wanted to be a nice policeman.”

  “Well, I mean, yes, if you put it like that. I wanted to help people.”

  “Very commendable. You can help Mr. Brodie now by picking up the pace, if you don’t mind.”

  “Oh, thank you so much for coming. I wasn’t sure if it had reached this stage yet, but I’m terribly worried about him. It’s very unlike him.”

  “I understand he set out two days ago on horseback?” said Darling.

  “He saddles up Monty. He usually takes a sleeping bag, his rifle, food, water, ammunition. He likes to think of himself as a pioneer. He does it a couple of times a year.” She couldn’t keep the disapproval out of her voice.

  “Does he go alone?”

  “Yes, that’s part of his pioneer fantasy. Alone against the elements sort of thing.”

  “And he’s hunting what at this time of year?”

  “Brown bear, mostly. I dread what he brings back, if I’m honest, because I have to dress it and prepare it. I prefer if it’s deer, frankly, but I’ve learned to get used to it.” She didn’t sound like she’d learned to get used to it.

  Oxley was scribbling industriously. “Mrs. Brodie, horses usually try to get home if something’s happened to the rider. No sign of the horse?”

  Mrs. Brodie was a thin woman who wore her hair in curls so tight they looked like a cap. She wrung her hands. “That’s just it. He hasn’t come back, the horse, I mean. I’m afraid that he will come back without Ray, but I’m terrified something’s happened to the both of them.”

  “I can get some men to comb the area,” Darling said. “Do you have some neighbours who might be able to help?”

  “Oh, yes, I’m sure Clarence would, and Leonard and his boy. They’re all good in the bush.”

  “Excellent. Could you get them organized? And if you give me the use of your telephone, I’ll organize some of my men to come out.”

  “There, Constable Oxley. You have a chance to be really helpful. I hope you have a good stout pair of boots,” Darling said when he had put in his call to the station and was standing with Oxley by the car, waiting.

  “My uncle used to hunt like that, but that was in the old days, before the war.”

  “As long ago as that?” Darling said. “Did he survive?”

  “He did, but he ended up having to put his horse down on one of the trips because it broke a leg in a fall. He had a long walk out of the bush and lost the heart for it afterward.”

  Darling looked up at the mountain looming behind them. “I suppose that could have happened here. Depending how far in he got, it would be a slower trip out on foot.”

  “Inspector?”

  Darling turned and saw two men carrying rifles and outfitted for the bush.

  “Yes. You must be Mrs. Brodie’s neighbours. Thank you for coming along.”

  “It’s only our duty, sir. I’m Leonard, and this is my son Ben. I’ve been out with Brodie, so I may have an idea what his usual route would be. Typically, he goes up through here,” Leonard pointed toward the mountain, and then moved his arm to the north, “and then he goes north and does a kind of loop above the cove. He’s good in the bush, but it is unusual for him to be gone this long.”

  “My constable was wondering if something might have happened with his mount, and he’s having to walk out,” Darling said, nodding toward Oxley, who reddened at the sudden praise, however oblique. “My men should be here momentarily. I wonder if I could put you in charge of directing their efforts, as you have such a close knowledge of Brodie’s usual movements? I’ve instructed them to bring an ordnance map of the area.”

  “Yes, sir. Pleased to sir,” said Leonard. “The map will be a big help. Ben, go saddle up the horses.”

  Chapter Nine

  “The ballet in Russia is very famous, is it not?” Gladys asked.

  The warm September was holding, and they were seated around a table outside, innocent of the drama beginning to unfold nearby. Gladys had marked the occasion by pulling out a lace tablecloth. One of the two cocker spaniels had taken up a position next to Countess Orlova, sensing perhaps, that this new guest might be charmed into dropping bits of cake his way. The patient wait had yielded nothing, and the dog now collapsed with a humph and put his head on his paws.

  Orlova looked toward Gladys and smiled slightly. “Ah! Is this lady interested in the ballet?” she inquired of Lane. “This is excellent cake,” she added.

  Lane translated.

  “I studied ballet as a girl before I came out here,” Gladys said. “I wanted to teach dance. Of course, English ballet is un
equalled, but the Russian ballet was considered quite good. I get papers from the old country, so I am able to follow what is being done and who is who in modern ballet.” She said this with a slight sniff, causing Mabel to direct a warning look at her mother.

  Lane smiled and exclaimed, “I didn’t know that! How wonderful. You certainly have the grace and carriage of a dancer.” She turned and explained to her guest, reducing the impact of Gladys’s evident view of the inferiority of the Russian ballet.

  “There you are, Mother. Grace and carriage. Well done,” said Gwen, dropping a morsel of chocolate cake onto the grass.

  Orlova again nodded and smiled almost sadly. “We attended the ballet at the Mariinsky Theatre in Saint Petersburg. It was beautiful. A vanished life.”

  Lane handled this part of the conversation carefully, so as not to ignite any disagreement about the merits of the English system over the Russian. “Your garden looks magnificent,” Lane finished, adding in Russian, “these ladies are quite the best gardeners in the community. Would you like a little tour?”

  “Yes. Perhaps there will be something to paint.”

  “Countess Orlova would love to see more of the gardens. She is in search of a lovely vista to paint, and one can hardly turn around here without tripping over a vista.”

  With Gwen, Mabel, and the dogs walking Orlova around the garden, Lane took the opportunity to enjoy a break from the delicate and exhausting job of translating and instead helped Gladys take the tea things into the house.

  “Extraordinary woman,” Gladys said briskly. “How did you come to be saddled with her again?”

  Lane explained about the vicar and then about Orlova’s missing brother.

  “Another mystery for you to solve,” said Gladys, stoppering the sink and turning on the tap. “Although, no one is dead, so perhaps it won’t interest you.”

  “You do have a morbid view of me! I’m afraid I’m not much use in the missing persons department.”

  “Nonsense. You speak Russian. That inspector fellow will beat a path to your door. Not that he doesn’t already.” Gladys looked over her glasses at Lane as she handed her a dish towel. “She’s a funny old thing, isn’t she? I mean it’s not the sort of thing you expect to trip over in King’s Cove, a Russian countess.”

  “No, I suppose not. I hope someone finds her brother. I feel quite sorry for her,” Lane said.

  “Absolutely fatal, feeling sorry for people,” Gladys declared. “If you aren’t careful you never get rid of them.”

  Lane hoped it wouldn’t be as bad as all that.

  “Thank you so much for having us, Gladys. I imagine she may want to come back and paint at some point, but if you don’t mind too much, it shouldn’t really involve any language complications. I’m sure she likes to sit quite undisturbed.”

  “Anytime. The dogs won’t eat her,” Gladys said. “Though I must say, she certainly kept every morsel to herself.”

  “Yes. Poor puppies. You have them on starvation rations here! I’ll just send her up on her own then, next time, and I’ll pack her some sandwiches so she won’t require any feeding.”

  Lane, waiting for her guest’s tour to be over, stood next to the fence that looked out over the much broader view of the lake enjoyed by the Hugheses because they were higher up the hill. The beauty of it filled her, and it was at that moment that she thought about Gladys’s remark about how odd it was to have a Russian countess at King’s Cove.

  It was odd.

  From this vantage point, looking down on the little post office, and her own house, and across the lake, she saw suddenly how odd it was. And there was something Orlova said. Had she not asked her about Gladys’s interest in the ballet? Lane remembered clearly that she had not translated Gladys’s question about the Russian ballet. Did the countess speak some English after all?

  Countess Orlova was napping, and Lane had been moving quietly around the kitchen, thinking about what she ought to prepare for their supper. She would have liked to go upstairs to the attic and spend part of the afternoon browsing through Lady Armstrong’s boxes, but she worried that the creaking of the stairs would disturb her guest.

  The afternoons seemed to come on faster now, and she could feel the temperature beginning to drop. She would shut the windows though she was reluctant to close the French doors just yet because the afternoon sun was full on the porch, still providing a soothing warmth. She stepped out and crossed her arms, looking out at the quiet lake. She mustn’t, she thought, be churlish about her guest. The countess was quite pleasant after all and fretted about being any trouble and was really very entertaining with her stories of her old life as a girl in Tsarist Russia. But at the same time, Lane felt at every moment that her house was not quite her own. Look at her now, creeping about, worried about waking the old lady. Would it be like this sharing a house with Darling?

  “God, I hope not!” she muttered aloud.

  She was just turning to go back in to tackle the still completely unresolved issue of supper—and wondering if she should call the vicar to see how he was getting on with finding a place for her guest—when she heard horses coming down the road at a good clip. She was certain from the sound there were two of them, and they were making their way past her place and going toward the Armstrongs’. Delighted at having something to distract her, Lane tiptoed down the hall and sprang out the door. She ran across her little bridge and arrived at the road in time to see the unusual sight of Ponting leading a second horse along behind him. He was throwing himself off his mare, clearly in a hurry.

  “Good afternoon, Glenn! Where did you get that nice-looking fellow?” She came out onto the road and walked along beside him.

  “I need to use the telephone. I found him wandering in the bush and couldn’t find the rider. I’m afraid something’s happened to him.”

  “Here,” Lane said. “You go on. Give me that, and I’ll find a place to tie him.”

  By this time, the commotion had brought Kenny Armstrong out of the cottage along with Alexandra, who set up a chorus of high-pitched barking. Alexandra seemed undaunted by the horses. Kenny picked her up, trying to shush her. The dog glared at the interlopers from the safety of Kenny’s arms.

  “Oh, hello, Mr. Armstrong. I’ll need to use your telephone if you don’t mind. This fellow,” he nodded at the black horse, “was loose in the bush without his rider. I’m afraid something’s happened.”

  “Good God! Yes. Come right in. Go through to the parlour over there. Just ring once to get the exchange.”

  Eleanor came through from the rear of the cottage, holding a bunch of carrots.

  “Glenn’s found a riderless horse. He’s calling the police. He’s brought the horse here with him,” Lane said.

  Kenny had gone through to make sure Ponting was having no difficulty with the telephone.

  “Great heavens!” exclaimed Eleanor. “So much for the quiet country life. Riderless horses and Russian countesses everywhere.”

  “Yes, I’ll hold!” Glenn seemed to be enunciating loudly and clearly, as if he were not used to being on the telephone. He came from a very well-off middle-class family in Toronto, but perhaps all these years without a phone had made him forget how to use it.

  Lane moved toward the parlour, followed by Eleanor, who had put aside the carrots as if they would have no place now, in this time of disaster. Ponting put his hand over the receiver and looked at his audience.

  “Apparently the police are out conducting a manhunt. They aren’t sure how to reach them.”

  “Oh. I shall go at once! Did they say where?” Lane asked.

  Ponting put up his hand.

  “Yes. I see. Just past King’s Cove. I’m at the village post office. I can take someone there.” Glenn hung up and turned to the others. “Apparently the inspector has a team out near Balfour looking for a missing hunter. T
hey’re going to try to reach him, and I guess he’ll be on his way here. Nothing to do but wait.”

  Darling looked anxiously at Mrs. Brodie as he spoke to O’Brien. He’d have liked to ask him more questions but did not want to frighten her unnecessarily.

  “Right. I’m on my way. Thanks.” He hung up the phone.

  “I’m just going over to King’s Cove. One of the local prospectors has found a horse in the bush.” He tried to say this in a matter of fact way, but he could see the look of alarm in Mrs. Brodie’s face.

  “It’s Monty, I know it!” she said breathily. “I’m coming with you!”

  “We don’t know that. I’d like you to stay here by the phone. If any of the party comes back, I’ll want you to tell them where I’ve gone. King’s Cove post office. Tell me again what your husband’s mount looks like.”

  “Black gelding, small white patch on his forehead. Um . . . the saddle blanket is dark brown and orange.” She said this in a rush, as if the panic was making her forget things.

  Darling could see the shadows beginning to move up the mountains on the other side of the lake as he sped toward King’s Cove. He hadn’t wanted to say anything to Mrs. Brodie, but the riderless horse did not bode at all well, and it was getting late. By the time he could get his party reorganized and back into the area where the horse had been found, it would be dark.

  Lane looked at her watch. She had better get back. Madam Orlova would be awake, and she’d left no note to say where she was.

  “Let me know if there’s anything I can do. I’d better get back to my guest,” she said, trying to hide the reluctance in her voice.

  “Right you are. Perhaps if it ends up being a lot of people, we could gather them at your house. I can help you keep them fed and watered,” Eleanor said. “I’d better bring my medical kit as well, just in case.” She’d been a nursing sister in the Great War, and her kit had been useful more than once in the intervening thirty years.

  Lane smiled as she crossed back toward her house. There wasn’t a crisis in the world that Eleanor couldn’t handle, she thought. The house was completely quiet, and the hall was dark in the late afternoon. Lane went through to the kitchen and looked at the clock. Orlova didn’t usually sleep this late. Had she better wake her up? With some trepidation she went down the hall and stood in front of the closed door. Finally, she knocked quietly.