A Deceptive Devotion

by Iona Whishaw

  The sun was standing off a very black bank of clouds just above her behind the mountain that rose up at the back of King’s Cove. The golden intensity of the sun and the contrast between the deep blue of the sky and the charcoal cloud mesmerized her. She had often thought that the whole place would be claustrophobic were it not for the fact that the hamlet opened out toward the lake with the mountain behind it, almost, she thought, protecting it. Relieved to be on her own, she took long steps through the tall grass, breathing in the warmth of the Indian summer. The school appeared through the trees above where she stood. It was a scene of such solitude and silence. She made for the steps and sat on the top one and leaned back, her face toward the sun.

  She had to think through what it meant to be going into this marriage with Darling still carrying secrets. Even the thought of it made her heart a little heavier. But in a way, they were not her own. They were British government secrets, after all. Darling had to keep secrets as well. For example, he wasn’t really supposed to give her as many details as he often did about his cases, however often she was involved in them. But look at this case. He gave only the vaguest response when she asked him about it, and that was as it should be. He was keeping police secrets, she was keeping intelligence secrets. There. That wasn’t so bad after all. They both had to keep things from each other for work. Perfect. Thus resolved, she closed her eyes and let the sun play on her eyelids, its cleansing heat pushing her troubles away for a few blissful moments.

  Chapter Twenty-TWO

  A week earlier

  The door to the shop, already open to let in the mild fall air, slammed against the wall, causing Verne Taylor to jump and drop the screw he was trying to insert into the workings of the outboard he was fixing. He looked up to see Brodie looking at various tools laid out on the counter with an unreadable expression on his face.

  “It’s been going on the whole time,” Brodie said. He picked up a slender iron hammer, considered it, and put it down.

  “What’s been going on the whole time?” Taylor asked wearily. His initial anxiety caused by the banging of the door was waning. “Now I’ve lost the bloody screw on the floor here somewhere.” He started to bend over, but Brodie suddenly lunged at him, grabbing a handful of his shirt.

  “My wife!” he shouted. Brodie was strong and had managed to pull Taylor so that he was leaning awkwardly over the counter and was using his hands to try to keep from falling forward.

  “Look—” Taylor began, but Brodie struck him hard on the side of the head with the palm of his hand, stunning him, making his ear ring.

  “Don’t bother to deny it. She’s changed toward me. She’s like a bitch in heat.”

  At this Taylor violently shrugged himself free of Brodie’s grip and pushed him so that Brodie staggered back a step. Neither one of them saw the two men who had come into the shop and now stood mesmerized and uncertain just inside the door.

  “Do not use that kind of language about Cassie! No wonder she’s looking to me. You treat your animals better!”

  “I’m warning you, Taylor. You stay away from her. She’s my wife, and I can do with her what I like!” Brodie started toward the door, angrily kicking a round gas can across the floor. The two customers had scurried out.

  Taylor sprang over the counter and was bearing down on the retreating Brodie. He stopped at the door and shouted after him. “You lay one hand on her again and you’ll be sorry!”

  Brodie, who had parked his truck on the wrong side of the street so that his driver door was facing the shop, got into the truck, started the engine, ground the gears, and with a rude gesture, peeled into the street, narrowly missing an oncoming car that swerved and honked.

  “Hoy, look at this!” Oxley was in the equipment closet where the shelving had fallen down. Ward was on his hands and knees looking into the far recesses of the shelves under Taylor’s workbench. He pulled his head out.

  “What?”

  “I’ve found something, is what. I think this will put the thing to bed.”

  Ward stood up, rubbing his right knee, and went into the closet where Oxley was holding what looked like an old rag rolled into a bundle. He was holding it aloft with a pair of tongs. Ward frowned at it in the semi-dark of the cupboard. “What is it?”

  “Let’s find out, shall we?” Oxley indicated Ward should get out of the doorway, and then he strode to the workbench. Taylor had been sitting on a stool in the corner with his arms crossed watching the comings and goings of the two searching policemen impatiently. “Now then, Mr. Taylor. Can you tell me about this?” He put the cloth on the workbench and used the tongs to unroll the bundle. “And would you look at this?”

  Ward watched the cloth unfold and then pulled his head back suddenly as he realized what he was seeing: an old white shirt clearly covered in large patches of dried blood, in the centre of which was a hunting knife. The shirt showed evidence of an attempt to wash it out. Taylor stood, nearly knocking over the stool. He shook his head violently.

  “No! No. I’ve never seen that before. It’s not even mine!”

  “Is that right?” Oxley said, his voice calm. “Then can you tell me how it came to be stuffed behind one of the wall boards in your closet? In fact, when my boss was here, weren’t you dealing with the shelves having collapsed? I wonder why that was?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t understand! It’s not mine!” Taylor walked around the counter toward the cupboard convulsively, as if looking into it would make sense of what he was seeing.

  Oxley rewrapped the knife, pushed the bundle toward Ward, and then wiped his hands together as if happy to pass it off to an underling. Ward paused for a split second, looking at his partner with a nearly imperceptible narrowing of the eyes, and then moved slowly to put the bundle into a paper bag.

  “You’ll have plenty of time to explain about the shirt and the knife and anything else you’d like to tell us up at the station. Officer Ward has a nice pooch who might even be able to tell us if this is Mr. Brodie’s blood.” He shook his head. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you? You need to start with cold water if you want to get blood out of a shirt.”

  Taylor ran both of his hands through his hair and then slumped forward, his arms resting on the interview table. Darling was seated on the other side, and Oxley was taking notes. Unlike Ames, who usually sat against the wall, Oxley had pulled his chair up to the end of the table.

  “You can’t be surprised to find yourself here, Mr. Taylor. You lied about where you were the other night, and you are lying about evidence found in your shop: a blood-stained shirt and a weapon. I’m not surprised by the blood; it’s a messy business cutting someone’s throat. And you had, from your point of view, good reason to want him out of the way. You have been having a long-standing affair with his wife. Now, I wonder if you could just walk us through the events of that day. What might have happened to push you over the edge after all this time? Did it come out? Did you and Brodie have words?”

  “Yes, we had words. But I would never,” he paused and wrinkled his face, disgust written on it, “do that to anyone.”

  “Tell me about the words,” coaxed Darling.

  “He came barging into my shop, if you must know, about a week ago, and tried to start a fight. He struck me quite hard. My ear is still ringing. He said he knew about me and Cassie and he warned me off.”

  Darling looked at Oxley, who nodded. He turned back to the prisoner. “One of your neighbours on that block heard an argument. Did you threaten Brodie?”

  “It seems you already know, so I don’t know why you’re asking me. I told him he’d be sorry if he laid a hand on her.”

  “And did he?” Darling asked. “You said you were with her the first night Brodie was away on the hunting trip. Did she say anything to you?”

  “No,” Taylor muttered. “I thought I saw some bruising on her arm. I asked her about it, but
she said she banged it on the corner of a cupboard. I don’t know how she banged her arm hard enough to leave bruises on the front and the back of it.”

  “So, why wouldn’t she say something, I wonder?”

  Taylor was silent. He leaned back with his arm flung over the back of the chair and looked at the window that gave onto the alley.

  “Is it because she was afraid of something like this?” Darling suggested.

  “She knew she didn’t have to be afraid of me. She was afraid of him. That’s what she was afraid of. And with good reason.”

  “Perhaps she had good reason to be afraid that you would do something to protect her. Brodie is dead, after all, and we have strong evidence linking you to that death. You’re a hunter too, aren’t you?”

  “I wasn’t hunting him, if that’s what you’re implying. I’m not an idiot. When I said he’d be sorry, I meant that I would take her and move away.”

  Darling nodded. “I see. But that wouldn’t really be a permanent fix, would it? Divorces are messy and hard to get, and in this case, the infidelity of the wife would come out in court and be very punishing for Mrs. Brodie to go through. No, I really meant, you have hunting equipment. Rifles, hunting knives, that sort of thing. And you know his route, because you used to go with him when you were still friends. Can you tell us your inventory?”

  “Oh my God. I have two rifles—a Winchester my father left me, and a Savage I bought for myself in ’36. I have one knife, a Randall I just bought last year to replace one I lost. They’re in the shop, as if your officers don’t know. They tore the place apart. But that one you found is not mine. I’ve never seen it before.”

  Darling turned to Oxley.

  “Sir, we found the rifles and one knife neatly stowed, so this is the second knife.” Oxley opened his hand, indicating the knife found with the shirt.

  Taylor threw himself back in the chair. “No, it’s not. That’s a lie. My other knife was lost years ago. This is not it. How can I make you understand?”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll dust it for prints,” Oxley said. “Though I’m sure you cleaned them off. I know I would have in your shoes. Too bad you tucked it into your shirt. A smarter man would have tossed it away somewhere.”

  Darling glanced at Oxley, a slight pulling together of his eyebrows indicating disapproval of his flippant tone, then he turned to the prisoner. “Mr. Taylor, I am officially charging you with the murder of Raymond Brodie. If you wish to speak further, I recommend you call a lawyer. We can let you make a phone call from here.”

  When the phone call had been made, and the prisoner led back to the cell, Darling stood with Oxley in the interview room. “This is not hanging together very well for me. Although it can never be a hundred percent, we have an estimated time of death, most likely in the afternoon sometime, give or take some hours. But Taylor lied about being out overnight, which, even stretching those time-of-death hours, would not get us into the wee small hours, so he wasn’t out there killing Brodie then. What are we missing?”

  “Not a damn thing, sir. He follows and kills Brodie, let’s say in the late afternoon, when he’d normally have finished work, and then he goes back to make sure, or revisit the scene. He doesn’t have an alibi for every hour of the afternoon after all. Maybe his conscience is working overtime, or he’s in shock because he can’t believe he’s done it, so he feels compelled to go back. Maybe he left the murder weapon and is afraid it will be traced to him, so he brings it back to clean it and is going to think of a way to get rid of it later. No one says criminals are that bright. Of course he’s lying about it. We now have him squarely at the scene of the crime. It beggars belief he wasn’t the murderer, all things considered.”

  “Hm,” was all Darling said.

  It was seven in the evening and the hotel bar was full. There was a jukebox playing Hank Williams in the far corner from where officers Ward and O’Brien were having a beer. The clack of a pool cue against a rack sounded behind them and someone laughed. Ward was not in a laughing mood.

  “When is Ames coming back, anyway?” he asked.

  “Should be any time now. His exam was yesterday, I think. Don’t tell me you miss Ames!”

  “I didn’t till that Ox turned up. I don’t like him.”

  “He seems pleasant enough,” O’Brien said, raising his empty glass toward the waitress and holding up two fingers. Ward was evidently in a funk and needed an ear.

  “Yes. That’s what he shows you and the boss. Pleasant, eager. Butter wouldn’t melt. But he’s different when we’re away from the station. He has an edge. He ordered me about like he’d been made king. He was, I don’t know how to say it . . . harsh, threatening almost when we were searching that guy Taylor’s shop. I don’t trust him. I think Ames should watch his back. He’s going after his job. You mark my words.”

  “You’re overstating it, my friend. Taylor has been arrested for murder. I’m not surprised Oxley wasn’t treating him with kid gloves. Anyway, Ames will be a sergeant and the boss loves him.”

  “I’m not saying anyone should be treated with kid gloves. It’s just, I don’t know, he’s trying to wheedle into the inspector’s good graces. You watch him one day, you’ll see what I mean. Throws his weight around. I just don’t trust him. Look at the way he was out washing the car the other day.”

  “Yeah, I saw that. The car did need a good scrub. You know what those roads are like.”

  “But did it really look completely clean? I think he just does the least he can do and tries to get away with it. He goes out a lot, too. Pretends to be working, but you go to find him, and he’s nowhere to be seen. I saw him the other day at the soda fountain when I was on my way to send a wire.”

  O’Brien, who’d seen a little of that himself in Oxley, nevertheless thought there was no percentage in complaining about a fellow officer. Oxley may not be Ames, he’d concede that, but he did his job and seemed smart enough.

  “Here, Ward. Drink up. Don’t hurt yourself. Give that brain a rest. I think the only thing wrong with Oxley is that I don’t reckon he’s going to stay here. He’s looking for the main chance. He was back east. I bet he finds us pretty small potatoes.”

  “Looking for the main chance. I couldn’t have put it better myself.” Ward drank deeply, satisfied that O’Brien seemed to agree with his assessment of Oxley and pulled out his cigarettes. “One more and I’d better get home to the missus.”

  Lane was in the sitting room with Countess Orlova. They were watching the day end on the lake below with glasses of sherry. There had been a thoughtful silence between them. The place in town that might have accommodated Orlova was run by a prim middle-aged woman who kept house for her son and rented out her spare rooms. At the last moment she had called the vicar in an anxious flurry saying she didn’t think she’d be able to accommodate Countess Orlova after all, what with the language barrier and all. Finally, Orlova spoke.

  “It is pointless for me to stay on. Your policeman has found no trace of my brother. I must give up. And I have now become a nuisance to everyone.”

  Lane found herself at a loss. Competing in her mind was the worry that Orlova really had no place to go, and the possibility put to her by Darling that she might have been lying about who her brother really is. Was he in the country because he’d fallen afoul of his MGB employers? He certainly wouldn’t have been the first. But that meant that a possibly brutal former Soviet interrogator was seeking some sort of asylum in Canada. This idea appalled her. How could she approach this with Orlova?

  The ringing of the phone saved her from any immediate response. It was for her.

  “KC 431, Lane Winslow speaking.”

  “Oh, Miss Winslow!” The next part of the sentence was drowned in sobs.

  “Hello? Are you all right?” Lane said. She did not immediately recognize the voice.

  “I’m so sorry. I�
��m so upset. I didn’t know who else to turn to. They’ve arrested Verne! It’s all wrong! He wouldn’t do something like this!”

  It took Lane a moment, but then she realized it was Cassie Brodie. “Mrs. Brodie, can you take a breath and tell me from the beginning?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry. I know I’m not making any sense. The police. They found out we were still having an affair, and they got it into their heads that he killed my husband for me. But he wouldn’t, not like that. Not any way. Oh my God, this whole thing is my fault! I told them Verne was with me at night when my husband was up the mountain, but I admitted he wasn’t there all night, so they got the idea he was off killing him. But he wasn’t! I know it. You have to help me!”

  “I . . . I don’t know how I can help, Mrs. Brodie. The police must have some evidence.” Her voice trailed off. She could hear Cassie Brodie’s panic, but she also heard what she hadn’t known at all, that Verne Taylor and Mrs. Brodie had been having an ongoing affair. She wondered where Cassie had parcelled the horror of her husband’s murder, that she should now be begging for her lover. From the back of her mind came the memory of the glimpse of the bruises on Cassie’s arm as she had sat down to await the news from the search party. There was much, Lane realized, you can never really know about people’s lives.

  “But what evidence can they have? He didn’t do it!”

  “Well, I suppose it could be the circumstance of his having some time that is unexplained when he was not with you. I don’t really know, I honestly don’t.”