A Deceptive Devotion

by Iona Whishaw

  “But you’re friendly with the policeman. That’s what I heard. Can’t you find out? Please?”

  Lane’s heart sank. Was she to be put in this invidious position because she was to become the wife of a policeman?

  “Please, Miss Winslow. I have no one else!”

  With enormous reluctance Lane said, “I can try to see what I can learn, Mrs. Brodie, or better yet, get the inspector to speak with you directly. I am really not privy to anything at all from the police end.”

  When she had hung up the phone, jiggling the hook for the earpiece, which she still had not fixed in the nearly year and a half since she’d moved to King’s Cove, she leaned against the wall, frowning, wondering how to approach something that she knew would only upset Darling. Furthermore, she thought, he would be right to be upset.

  “Is something the matter?” Orlova asked as Lane came slowly back to the sitting room.

  “That was the wife of the man who was killed. Apparently, she is the lover of the man they have arrested for killing him, and she is positive he would never do something like that.”

  “But this is good news! They have made an arrest. Everyone here in this charming little place can relax and not be in fear of their lives. As for the widow, well, a man’s lover is bound to say he is innocent, no?”

  Lane drank the dregs of her sherry. Yes, she thought. A man’s lover is bound to say that, especially if she believed she knew he could never do such a thing. When Darling had been charged with killing someone, she had been sure he was no murderer, and she had been right. What if Cassie Brodie was right?

  Chapter Twenty-THREE

  Lane waited until the following morning when Countess Orlova was safely in the upper field overlooking the lake with her paints before putting a call into the police station. She breathed a sigh of relief when she heard Darling put through. She had had a rough night of sleep, wondering how she could even pose the question without sounding like she was interfering, and she finally gained some sleep when she decided on the truth, delivered straight up. After all, she was just passing on a request from a frantic woman, not trying to persuade Darling of anything untoward on her own account.

  “I’ve heard that you’ve made an arrest,” she began when the greetings had been fondly exchanged.

  “Well, that’s pretty fast. It was only yesterday afternoon.” Darling said this with a slight tone of inquiry.

  “I had a call from a desperate Cassie Brodie last evening. She wanted me to persuade you that Verne Taylor would never do such a thing, and that you have the wrong man. She seemed very sure. She was sobbing to such an extent that I very reluctantly said I would call you. So I am.”

  “Good. Thank you. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  His tone was good-natured, but Lane did not miss its intent. She paused. She’d certainly done nothing at all for Cassie Brodie. “May I tell the anxious residents of King’s Cove that you’ve made an arrest? Everyone here is on tenterhooks.”

  “You may. But only that we have made a sure arrest. You may not tell them what little I’m prepared to tell you now: we have solid evidence, and I am quite satisfied, in spite of energetic denials by the suspect.”

  Lane stood looking out the door into her yard. She really hadn’t helped at all.

  “Lane, I appreciate your position,” Darling said into the silence.

  “I was just thinking of how sure she was. How deeply she believes in his innocence.”

  “Are you about to draw a parallel of some sort between you and her? I wish you wouldn’t. This is not the same.”

  “There was solid evidence against you as well, they all thought. Mistakes can be made.”

  “I wish you’d trust me. He’s denying it, as people often do, but the physical evidence is extremely compelling. However, the case is far from closed as there is still the crime scene to consider and some questions about the time of death. We will continue to interview him, and probably his hapless lover as well, until we are satisfied about how it all came to this.”

  Stung by the suggestion that she did not trust him, she examined her own conscience for a split second and knew she did, utterly.

  “I do trust you, darling. I think I just feel terrible for her. Her whole world has crumbled into a sordid mess from which she is desperately trying to find an escape. Her life as she knows it is over.”

  “Murder destroys lives, it’s true. I nearly hate myself for asking this, but you don’t have any ‘feeling’ about this one do you?”

  “Good heavens, no. As I said, it’s more the force of her complete confidence that he could not have done this. I realize she has, like so many before her, been deceived. In her case by both her husband and her lover.”

  “I have to get on. Do keep me abreast of anyone else importuning you on this matter. If it is of any comfort to you, I will interview her again, and she can tell me directly how innocent he is. I will need to anyway now that we have charged him. In the meantime, you can tell your neighbours they’re safe.”

  “Yes, I will. Thank you for listening.”

  “I still love you.”

  “I know,” Lane said, “me too.”

  Word spread quickly that an arrest had been made, and there was a palpable return to good cheer as people gathered at the post office that day. Lane had told Eleanor Armstrong, knowing that everyone else would know within the hour.

  “Shocking!” Mabel Hughes said to Lane, relief evident even in her exclamation. “I heard he was shot.”

  Lane was surprised to realize that the gruesome manner of his death had not been broadcast through the usual means and spared a grateful thought for Glenn Ponting, who had been in the search party and seen the corpse, but had evidently told no one, and the Armstrongs, in whom she herself had confided the grisly details, as far as she knew them.

  “I’m not sure, but I am as relieved as the rest of you to know we don’t have to worry.”

  “Wasn’t the body brought to your house?” Mabel pressed.

  “It was wrapped in one of my sheets, so I didn’t see it, I’m happy to say. Someone did hear a shot in the afternoon of the day before.” Might as well keep that illusion going.

  “Yes. Though that could have just been him hunting. Still and all, I’m happy it’s over. We’ve had to move our afternoon tea indoors in this lovely fall weather just in case there was someone lurking in the upper orchard with a rifle waiting to pick us off. I guess your Russian countess can resume her country walks. She may be safe from a mad gunman, but she should mind the cougars.”

  “Perhaps I could get Alice Mather and her trusty rifle to go along with her,” Lane said, smiling, wondering who in the world would ever want to “pick off” the wonderful Hughes trio.

  Lane sat on her veranda with a cup of tea at her elbow and her pile of invitations on her lap. Orlova had still not returned, and Lane had not called Cassie Brodie, knowing that Darling was no doubt already on to it. She wanted to put behind her the pressing worry of what would become of Orlova, and the still-lingering impression of Cassie’s absolute certainty about her lover’s innocence, and focus instead on her own innocent activity: writing her wedding invitations. It must be killing both Eleanor and Angela to keep quiet, and at least she could put them out of their misery.

  Darling was brooding in his office. The weather offered support for his mood by suddenly turning to black clouds. The people on the street below him were pulling jackets and sweaters more closely around themselves as a cooler wind had picked up. The idyll of the warm September seemed to have disappeared completely and suddenly with the downturn of his mood.

  He could see no fault in Lane’s phone call. She was, after all, a kind person who hated to see someone in such distress. On the other hand, he wondered again at their closeness and her interest in his work. Would there be other times when he would have
to rebuff her, however gently? But that wasn’t it, he knew. He actually trusted Lane’s sense of judgement. It was more the juxtaposition of her phone call about Cassie Brodie’s absolute certainty and the vigorous denials of the prisoner.

  He accepted that people, especially people with little conscience, could look one in the eye and deny their crimes. But Taylor didn’t strike him as a man without a conscience. Indeed, he struck Darling as a very emotional man. One who loved a woman he could never fully be with, and who agonized over the ill treatment she received from her husband. Emotion like that could indeed drive a man to kill the hated rival, but it would, in Darling’s experience, also make him unable to deny it once confronted. A man like that would be more likely to break down and use the excuse of his love and fear for the woman in the picture as justification.

  Yet, Taylor denied it absolutely, and there was a tiny corner of Darling’s mind that wanted to believe him. But the bloody shirt and possible murder weapon needed to be explained. And there was certainly no one else even remotely on the suspect list. He tried to shake the idea that something was amiss in how Oxley was handling it. No doubt it was because Oxley felt so sure about it. He reminded himself to take a step at a time. He would interview the prisoner and expand his interviewing to Mrs. Brodie and back to the landlady and the two men who’d inadvertently witnessed the original fight.

  He would start with Oxley and Ward. Have them give him more detail about finding the shirt and weapon. He knew this would most likely serve to confirm the connection between the damning evidence and Taylor’s guilt rather than cast any doubt on the matter, but he wanted to be absolutely clear in his mind. He’d also get Gilly on to testing the blood.

  In an unusual move, Darling went next door to the office Oxley was occupying. It was empty. Pushing aside the complications he would be facing when Ames returned—any minute now, he reckoned—he called down the stairs.

  “O’Brien, where’s Oxley?”

  O’Brien came to the bottom of the stairs and shook his head. “Gone out, sir.”

  “Gone out where?” Darling asked, irritated.

  “He’s about police business, I assume, sir. Ah. The prodigal returns,” he said, as Darling heard the door to the station open and close. “But your golden boy is back, sir. Shall I send him up?”

  Ames did not wait for an answer but bounded up the stairs. “Good afternoon, sir. Have the phones gone down? You don’t usually stand at the top of the stairs shouting for underlings.”

  “Oh. It’s you. It’s not you I want right now. But you’d better come in, I suppose. I’m sorry to say your office has been sublet. We’ll have to make arrangements. You may have to double up for the time being.”

  Ames looked into his office and shrugging, hung his mackintosh on the coat rack and perched his hat on the top of it. He didn’t relish sharing his office, but he’d seen how big city police organized themselves, and he knew he’d been lucky to have an office at all. All in all, he thought, he’d be happier to set up a desk downstairs somewhere rather than trying to share one desk with someone he didn’t know.

  “Well?” asked Darling once they were seated in his office. “Any other news on the Russian front?”

  Ames shook his head. “It’s pretty much what I told you, sir. It looks like the old lady didn’t really go around asking about her brother, which is odd, and the RCMP intelligence people swiped my photo of him, which is odd, and the dead Russian turns out to have possibly been murdered.”

  “Which, I suppose you are about to tell me, is odd.”

  “Well, it is. Why should the intelligence Johnnies be interested in this woman’s brother?”

  “Presumably because he’s some sort of Soviet secret service operative. More concerning to me, is that this puts the supposedly innocent old lady cluttering up Miss Winslow’s house in a very dubious light.”

  “Oh, and congratulations on that, sir! I’m very happy, and very honoured—”

  “Can you keep your focus, Ames? I’ve got a murderer in the cell I’m in the middle of investigating and a good deal of anxiety about what that woman may be up to. And I don’t like not knowing what we are dealing with. The RCMP will be sure to tell us absolutely nothing, and then blame us for bungling their case if the whole thing goes south.”

  Ames hid a smile. It was good to be home. “I understood she is extremely old. How much could she be up to?”

  “I tell you what. How do you fancy a drive up the lake? I want you to take the car and drive up to see Miss Winslow. You can use the excuse that you’re to be the best man or that you want to congratulate her. I’m sure you’ll think of something absolutely charming. I want you to get a feel for things. This countess was supposed to be offered a place in town and something went wrong with that, I don’t strictly know what. We haven’t found her brother, and we aren’t going to. Certainly not before the RCMP do, if he’s even over here, so she has no reason to hang on here. Let the good countess know that the RCMP have taken up the task, see how she responds. I haven’t got time for any of it as Oxley and I are going to have to re-interview all our witnesses now that we have a solid suspect. Where is that blasted man anyway?”

  Darling picked up the phone and dialled down to the front desk.

  “Any sign of Oxley?” He listened for a moment. “Has he taken the car?” Another pause. “All right. Give the keys to Ames.”

  He slammed down the receiver. “Oxley has apparently gone off to send a wire. Take the second set of keys. Run along. In the meantime, I’ll get someone to sort the office business.” Darling waved his hand at the door.

  “Have you talked to Miss Winslow about your concerns about her guest?”

  Darling shook his head impatiently. “Of course, I’ve talked to her, as much as I can, but she’s never alone, and I don’t trust her damn phone. The old lady goes around painting people’s gardens. That might give you a chance to catch her alone.”

  Happy to be of use immediately upon his return and even happier to be seeing Miss Winslow, Ames collected the keys and went around the corner to get the car. It wasn’t until he was on the ferry going across to the west side of the lake to join the road that led to King’s Cove that he thought about how unusual this assignment was and wondered if he should be offended not to be in on the real action: the murder. But, in fairness, he’d done some digging in Vancouver, so he might get a feel for whether the old lady was involved in anything, or completely innocently looking for her brother.

  Lane had driven to the Balfour gas station to fill the car and pick up some biscuits, and now instead of driving smartly home she found herself taking the road straight up toward Angela’s. It was generally accepted that one didn’t drive up this road, but only down it, in case of meeting cars, but there was so little in the way of traffic in King’s Cove, she knew she was quite safe.

  She drove past her friend’s palatial log cabin and continued up the road to an abandoned house near the top of the road. She still shuddered at the thought of the house. After the discovery of long-buried bones in the Hugheses’ root cellar in the cold and miserable spring, Lane had explored it thoroughly and gotten a sense of the hopeless poverty and struggle of a family trying to make a go of it in the years before the Great War. She stopped the car and got out. There was a path that went up north-northwest, she knew. It crossed a meadow and led to an abandoned cabin above Ponting’s cabin, and then continued upward, into the forest. She was surprised that even at the outer edges of King’s Cove, the path was clearly visible. It must be one of the paths Ponting used, she realized, to get at the areas he was prospecting.

  With her hands in her pockets, she looked toward that forest now. Ponting must have been farther above that forest when he found the horse. Did he say he’d been in a meadow? She listened and heard the creek flowing just below her. Could she find the place where the hunter had been killed?

  S
haking her head, she turned back toward the car, but she could not forget the sound of Cassie Brodie’s plea. She knew she would find nothing at the scene, assuming she could find it. She turned back again toward the forest. Looking behind her, as if Darling himself might be standing there and frowning with utmost disapproval, she set out up the path toward the meadow that met the dark bank of trees.

  “Meadow” might be a generous word for the scraggly piece of territory Lane now stood in. It was open, yes, filled primarily with low bushes and rocks rather than waving grass and alpine flowers. Based on what Ponting had said, the body hadn’t been here, only the horse; Brodie had been found on the other side of the gully carved by the creek. She picked her way through the underbrush until she reached the trees along the upper bank of the gully, which now lay in shade. She could see the sun illuminating the open area visible through the trees on the other side. And she could see a granite outcrop. Did that look like the place where the body was found?

  Lane drummed her fingers on the side of her leg. It was madness to go, she knew. For one thing, there would be nothing to see, except, she realized with a shudder, possibly the dried blood of the victim, and for another, whoever had done the throat cutting could even now be squatting in the area. Except, she reasoned, Ponting would have seen traces of someone if they’d been attempting to survive in the bush. Without allowing herself to think much more, Lane plunged down the hill toward the creek and then up the steep rise to the other side.

  She stood completely still and listened when she arrived at the bottom of the outcrop. Silence. The sun shone down, bleaching out the drying grass and warming the rock. A crow fluttered suddenly out of a nearby tree. Cautiously Lane advanced along the base of the outcrop and then stopped and held her breath. That dried, black mess was surely the hunter’s blood.

  “Well, that’s fine,” she said out loud. “You’re quite a clever clogs, aren’t you? So what?” The police had been, after all, and picked up every bit of evidence, what had she been hoping to gain? Almost embarrassed by not being sure herself, she moved around so that she could sit on the top of the outcrop. Cross-legged, she looked down toward where the man had been found and tried to imagine the murder. Judging by where the blood was, he must have been looking northish when he was surprised from behind. Could he have been standing? she wondered. If he’d been sitting, he would have had his back to the outcrop, resting against it. Because of the way it slanted outwards slightly at the top, no one could have surprised him from behind if he’d been sitting.