by Iona Whishaw
“Madam? Are you awake?”
There was no answer.
She knocked again and then very cautiously opened the door. The afternoon sunlight drew a line of bright green across the lawn visible through the spare room window. The room was empty, the bed as tidy and untouched as she had seen it in the morning. What if the countess was off on one of her walks? Lane normally wouldn’t worry, but with a hunter missing, she wondered if she should be concerned about cougars or even bears. Perhaps Alice Mather, with her history of mood swings and her conviction that any day someone was going to be hurt by a cougar unless she kept their numbers down, was on to something when she went on her crazy cougar hunts.
Ames was having trouble concentrating. He bet that the lamp on the desk provided by his landlady contained the lowest watt bulb she could find. In a pique he stood up and looked over the lampshade at the top of the bulb. Twenty watts. He sat down again, not enjoying having been right. He really had to study, but he was puzzled. He’d been along to the church on Seventh Avenue and spoken with the priest there, who had seemed surprisingly young. The priest thought he had a vague memory of seeing an older lady in the back row who didn’t look familiar.
“ . . . but you know these old women. All the same.”
The priest had tried to get to her at the end of the mass, but she had disappeared. He said refugees had started coming again, this time from China, where some Russians had spent the war. He assumed she was one of these. He certainly did not remember ever seeing the picture of the man with the car.
It was too late to telephone through to Darling, and in any case, he’d like to have more to tell him. Perhaps he should try talking to some ordinary parishioners. If the priest noticed someone new in the church, maybe someone sitting near her would remember her. He should talk to the man leading the investigation into the death of that Russian as well. This struck him immediately as ridiculous. It was obvious the two matters were not connected except by their Russianness. Still. It ought to have been easier, and this was rankling. The Russian community in Vancouver wasn’t that big, and Darling had said the old lady had asked people here and had gotten a lead that her brother had gone to the Nelson area. Why did no one here remember talking to her? Or what if she had talked to people, and they wanted to cover it up, or pretend they’d never talked to her? Why? What would they be afraid of?
The younger priest—damn, but he had trouble with these Russian names—had seemed less standoffish. What was the name? Ames found his notebook where he’d laid it at the end of the desk and flipped back through his notes. Dmitry. He’d go see Father Dmitry after class the next day and see if the priest could explain why people were so suspicious of the questions he was asking.
Chapter Ten
August 1947
The rumble woke Aptekar from a dream—he was standing on the edge of a cliff above a fjord, roiling water impossibly far away below him. In the swirling darkness, he could hear the distant call of someone whose voice he recognized but couldn’t place. He opened his eyes and looked, momentarily uncomprehending, at the grey light filtering through the trees. Then he came to, and the cold and damp of the overnight dew brought back memory of his escape, along with the instinctive fear of the noise that woke him. He was stiff and pushed himself slowly off the forest floor. His coat, under which he had slept, smelled of wet wool and damp soil. In a moment, he was collected.
A train headed east.
He had been surprised to find the train they’d arrived on gone when he got to the station, and he wasn’t sure when another would be along. He had positioned himself two hundred yards west of the station house so that he would be near the hind-most cars, those farthest from the engine, when the train stopped. He watched the train approach, smoke belching, sullying the morning, the metallic screeching of its wheels ripping at the silence of the forest. It was slowing. That meant it would take on water. Whoever was on it would get off, unless it was carrying prisoners. They would not get off, unless it was to endure the march he himself had been forced to set out on the day before, but their guards would, no doubt, to shout and harry them.
But this train did not seem to carry prisoners. The cars were packed with crates. Men dressed in the baggy blue suits of rail workers dropped onto the tracks, stretching. They complained that the station would provide no coffee or bread, and then spit and drank from bottles of vodka and brandy being passed around. Someone in charge called out to them to get a move on, and the men began to move down the tracks looking into the cars, pulling open the doors, giving a cursory look and closing them again. Aptekar waited patiently while the train took on water, praying for the usual inefficiency of the rail workers, who were, he knew, badly paid and spent weeks away from home at a time. He moved slowly farther west, closer to the cars with the wooden slats, cars which had been pressed into service to move the machinery that would power the growth of the latest five-year plan for the great Soviet economy across the vast expanse of the empire.
And then, the luck he hoped for. The cursory inspection at an end, a car only three from the back had no door and appeared nearly empty. The rail workers had begun to drift back, and then the shriek of the whistle caused them to pick up their pace and climb back on to the cars in the front. He had to time his next move carefully. If the train began to move before he was next to it, he would never be able to run, as the younger men did, to leap on. When the workers seemed to be in, he darted out of the forest and made for the car. With his heart pounding—expecting to hear the alarm raised at every second—he scrambled up the two rusted metal footholds and threw himself onto his stomach on the wooden floor of the car, panic giving him strength to pull himself in. Panting and gasping, he could feel the train begin to move, and he closed his eyes.
The train rocketed east. His fear of being discovered dissipated and was replaced by hunger and discomfort. He lay stretched out with his coat under his head, trying to find a position that did not make him ache. At some stops, station employees again walked along the rails giving the cars a cursory check, and Aptekar positioned himself behind a crate that purported to contain a printing press. He wondered if they were looking for stowaways, but the heyday of people jumping trains across the country was nearly over. People were beginning to settle into the economy of factories and collective farms. They were tired of war, and they were tired of disruption. He could hear the workers talking, planning for what they would do in Vladivostok with their days off.
Vladivostok. He too must make plans.
He had the night on the swaying train to contemplate how far he had fallen, even in his own estimation. Once at the pinnacle of the organization, he’d miraculously survived the change of regime and had been contemplating a retirement far from the socialist paradise he’d come to despise. In the moment that he’d been arrested and marked for deportation to a gulag, he had, he thought, become a slouching, exhausted, and anonymous prisoner, like all the others who marched through Russia’s history to their confinement and death in some faraway prison. Russia, with its tens of thousands of miles of space, had an infinite capacity to hide all its inconvenient people out of sight. He knew, in his darkest moments, that he was only trying, like the fool in the stories, to outrun Death—a battle no man could ever win. And yet, he thought, shrugging in the dark, it is the duty of a man imprisoned to try to escape. He may yet hold his head high when he turned a corner one day soon and met Death, with his scythe and his patient hollow eyes, and deliver himself a whole man.
“It is a setback, I agree, comrade. But he will never survive on his own in the wilderness. He is old.”
“He has survived, though, comrade.” The commander seemed to heap derision into the word. “He was seen in Vladivostok, and now there is no trace of him there.”
The commissar, who was of third rank, clamped his lips shut, frowning. He did not care for, nor was he used to, being spoken to in this way. Still. He had to be careful. Clearl
y he was being held responsible for Aptekar’s disappearance from a prison train when it was only miles from the prison, and clearly the commander had better sources of information. He was surprised to learn that their prisoner had been seen in Vladivostok because he scarcely believed the old man could have made it there.
“I will institute a search,” the commissar said finally.
“I’ve already instituted a search, comrade. That’s how I know he’s disappeared. I don’t think you understand who this man is. He may be old, but he is the wiliest, most resourceful operative this country ever had. He’s a survivor, Pankov, and his head is full of our secrets. Believe me, disappearing from a column of prisoners, and making his way to Vladivostok, no doubt hiding on the next train that came along, would be child’s play for him. Try Shanghai. He could doubtless hide out there.”
“Have you thought of America, comrade? Ships in Vladivostok go quite often to Western Canada. There is some sort of arrangement where our ships dock in Vancouver and are repaired.”
“What are you waiting for?”
“I have a good officer I can send who—”
“He’d better be good.”
Pankov stood up to take his leave. No point in bothering the commander with details. The British might know something. Not usually, in his experience, but best to cover all the angles.
Worried now, Lane went outside. Perhaps her guest had woken up and gone into the garden to enjoy the remains of the afternoon, but a quick tour around the house showed no signs of her. How far might she have gone on one of her walks? Lane reminded herself of how groggy she herself felt when she overslept. It was likely that Orlova had set out just to clear her head and might not have attempted more than that. That partially comforting thought freed Lane to go back inside and think about what she ought to prepare if a search party descended on her.
As if she’d summoned it, the search party began to arrive. Darling had Oxley park his car at the top of Lane’s driveway, and at the same time, she heard the clatter of horses. Ponting was mounted and leading both Raymond Brodie’s mount and Kenny’s horse—the latter appeared bemused at finding herself suddenly saddled and being led away from the fenced field that had served as her retirement from the mail-wagon Kenny had replaced with his new truck.
“The best way to make any kind of time in the bush is to get up there on horseback. We can cut around up by the top road and across the meadow. We’d be approaching where I found this fellow from the south side instead of the north,” Ponting said. “It will start to get dark soon, so we’d best get on with it.”
Darling stood, concern on his face, looking at the horses, and then turned to greet Lane. “Ah. Miss Winslow. This is Constable Oxley. I can’t recall if you met when you came into the station. We are going to ride into the bush. I have a couple of flashlights in the car. Do you have another we could use?”
“How do you do, Constable? Certainly, Inspector. What else can I get you?”
“Flashlight will do. And before you ask, I have ridden before. We patrolled on horseback in Vancouver,” he added under his breath.
“Right. Flashlight it is,” Lane said, smiling briefly, and went into the house to fetch it.
When the men had disappeared up the road, Lane disciplined her wayward mind away from the stirring sight of Darling on horseback, something she’d never expected to see, and back to the troubling matter of her missing guest. Then she slapped her forehead and remembered that Countess Orlova had a standing invitation to go and paint at the Hugheses’. Feeling some relief and chiding herself for letting the concern about the missing hunter infect her thinking, Lane went back into the house to begin her supper preparations—though she did have a passing thought that her guest could have left her a note. As she passed the guest room, she was about to close the door. It wouldn’t do to have Countess Orlova think she’d been nosing about in her bedroom. Thinking to just double check, Lane went into the room and saw one of her guest’s two suitcases was pushed under the bed. She had a quick look for the second one, but it was not in evidence. Good. It was confirmation that she was painting somewhere. She would have taken her painting equipment in it. Closing the door behind her—and wondering if the countess would prefer to borrow her light French shopping basket or a cloth bag to cart her painting supplies in—Lane turned her mind to food. She had intended to roast a chicken, but it was getting late. Perhaps she could cut it into bits and roast it with some carrots and potatoes. It would take less time and would also feed the men if they came back late and hungry.
Chapter Eleven
Lane heard the door and her guest’s footsteps along the hall, and she breathed a sigh of relief. At least nothing had happened to the old lady. Her anxiety had been ridiculous, but it had mounted as she’d been preparing the chicken and still, an hour after the men had left, Orlova had not returned. She had thought of phoning the Hugheses and then decided against it. Her guest would not want to feel herself hounded, but with time ticking away, Lane had finally resolved to phone when she heard the door.
“Ah, Countess! You are just in time to supervise my supper preparations,” she called out.
“No ‘countess,’ please. It smells very good. I am sorry I am returning so late. When I awoke, I felt heavy, you know, like I needed to clear my head. I very much like that route past the old school. There is a lovely view of the lake from up there. I lingered too long.”
“You have nothing to apologize for.” By the old school? Lane felt a frisson of anxiety. The old school was far from the settled houses. She would have been more likely to meet cougars on a walk like that. If a cougar had been wounded by the missing hunter, it would be in a very dangerous frame of mind.
“Why is there another car in the driveway?” Orlova sat at the kitchen table, with a nearly imperceptible oomph. “My old bones. I forget I am no longer a girl.”
“Ah,” said Lane, thinking of the possibly greater tragedy that might be unfolding in the bush above King’s Cove. “Apparently a local hunter has gone missing in the woods above here somewhere. His horse was found by a neighbour who was working in the bush. The car is Inspector Darling’s. They’ve gone up on horseback to look for him. Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t think to ask him whether he had any news of your brother.”
“Oh dear, I should so like to hear. But they have much more urgent things to think about. If my brother is dead, he is dead, and there is nothing that can change that. If he is alive, I will find him. They will come back here, yes, when they have found the hunter?”
“Or not found him. They have flashlights, but I wonder if they will search all night or mount a bigger search with more men in the morning? Madam, I wonder if you should be more cautious? Granted, the hunter may have been thrown, but cougars are known to attack at times. I never thought the possibility very real until this poor man went missing.”
Orlova shook her head. “I certainly haven’t seen any wild beasts, but I am anxious not to be attacked, so I will be more careful. I will stick to painting your neighbours’ gardens instead of the wilder parts of the forest. There! Now, this unfortunate hunter. What can have happened?”
“His poor wife. She must be beside herself,” Lane said.
“Yes. There is always the tragedy, is there not? The women left behind.”
Lane set the table. There was none of the relaxed atmosphere of the first days her guest had been there because hanging over them was the uncertainty of when the men would return, or with what result.
It was nearing eleven o’clock when the search party came back, exhausted and discouraged. The two policemen dismounted gingerly, unused to the new exercise. Lane and Countess Orlova, who had been reading in the sitting room, quickly set the table and laid out some plates.
“Oxley found a path trampled through the high grass heading north, so he must have gone in that direction at some point, but then it just vanishes, as if he
’d been lifted up and placed somewhere else,” Darling said. “Thank you. Brandy is a godsend. Not you, Oxley, you’re driving.”
“What will you do now?” asked Lane.
“I’ll have to go talk to the unfortunate Mrs. Brodie. I’ll bring the police dog out first thing.”
They ate in silence. Ponting was the first to push his chair back.
“I’d better get the horses over to the Armstrongs’. Brodie’s horse can bunk in with Kenny’s.”
Darling followed, and this caused Oxley to jump up with alacrity.
“Thank you, Miss Winslow. We’ll be along first thing, but we won’t bother you.”
“Nonsense. I must be of some use. Would it help if I brought Mrs. Brodie here? She might feel better being nearby.”
“Yes. That’s a good idea. I will ask her now when I go deliver the bad news that we were not able to find him. I only hope he is as resourceful as the pioneers he so admires and has found a safe place to overnight, or better yet, has walked out and is even now on his way home.”
“Well, you let me know. Have a hot bath when you get home. Your muscles will thank you. Goodnight, Constable Oxley,” she called out to where Darling’s driver waited by the car at the top of the drive.
“It’s a dreadful situation,” Orlova said when she and Lane had returned to the sitting room. Neither of them felt quite ready to go to bed. “That poor man.” She shook her head and clucked quietly. “Why does he go on his own? Even my brother, who thinks himself such a man, did not hunt alone. He took his friends with him. Once one of them was thrown and hit his head on a rock, but at least his friends could carry him out.” Orlova stopped and moved toward the window and pulled the curtain, looking out into the darkness. “I no longer believe my brother to be alive, if I am truthful. If your inspector has found no sign of him, then I must suppose he did not come this way. I’m no longer certain what I am doing, sitting here with you in this beautiful place, as if I were suspended out of time somehow. The truth is, I have nowhere to go. Where could an old woman like me find a home anymore?” Orlova moved a hand to her cheek as if to wipe away a tear. “But for now we must think of this poor hunter. After a good sleep, perhaps what I should do will become clearer. There, now. No more gloomy thoughts, eh?”