by Iona Whishaw
“Thank you. I feel so stupid with this ridiculous arm.”
“You speak Russian, I button coats. We’re even, I think,” Darling said gently. “Should I come with you?”
“If Featherstone is implicated in something, do we want him alarmed? What did Ames say about his visit to the bank this morning?”
“He said that Featherstone was ungracious about the paperwork we took away, and that he didn’t seem surprised that Andrews wasn’t there. I don’t know that that needs to concern us, though. Perhaps Andrews was away a lot, and his boss simply expected that sort of thing.”
“Nevertheless, I’ll go on my own. If his bank has already been swarming with police today, he’s probably jumpy.”
Darling, amusing himself with the vision of Ames swarming, said he would wait at the café next door, just to be nearby.
CHAPTER FORTY
IT FELT STRANGE TO STAND at the clerk’s window of the bank and not see the tall, cheerful presence of Charles Andrews. Of course, it had been a false presence, for somewhere inside him had lurked the darkness that led to his death. The man who did call her forward was young as well. She wondered if he too had returned from Europe and was trying to settle back into civilian life.
“I’d like to move some money out of this account so that I can draw it out.” She pushed a slip of paper with the account number through to the teller. The man excused himself and disappeared to the back somewhere. Lane turned so that she could rest her arm on the ledge. If she thought about it, she knew she would feel how exhausted she must be, but the energy that drew her to town still held; only the dull aching of her arm told of her ordeal. The Aspirin had made only a dent in the pain.
“Here you go, madam. There is the balance.”
Lane frowned. There were over 1,050 dollars missing. “This is my account, but there is a considerable amount missing. Has it been moved for some reason?” As Lane waited for him to check the discrepancy, she looked around the marble and brass solidity of this bank. Of course, there was some sort of clerical error.
The clerk returned. His face was a study in professional courtesy. “This is the amount currently in your regular chequing account. I don’t see any record of anything unusual being moved there, do you?” It was exactly what she had expected would be there. The usual amount she would have at this time of the month.
It was beginning to hit home that something was truly amiss. “I wonder if I might speak with the manager. It was he who organized the account.”
“Directly, madam. Please wait here.”
What else was she going to bloody do, she thought rebelliously. Featherstone ushered her into his office wearing the same professional mien as the teller. It was, she realized, the expression of men who knew she had made the error but were humouring her with exaggerated politeness.
“Now then, Miss Winslow. What seems to be the problem?”
“There is no seeming about it, Mr. Featherstone. I deposited 4,000 pounds with you; the equivalent of more than 16,000 dollars. Here is the account number you gave me. One thousand and fifty dollars have disappeared.”
“I see.” Featherstone peered at the paper. “I have asked Harold to bring me the paperwork on this account . . . ah, here he is. Thank you, Harold.” He placed the manila folder on his desk and opened it with punctilious care. Lane strained to see what documents were in the file for “this account.” It was her money, for God’s sake.
“Well?”
“Well, Miss Winslow, here is a document showing you yourself withdrew this money, two days ago.”
Taking the proffered document, Lane felt her world teetering. Could she have done this without remembering? Perhaps after a night like the one she’d just been through. But even then, why? It was coming to her . . . what had Andrews said in the car about Featherstone? She looked more closely at him now. She knew she had not gone mad and removed money from her own account. Is this what Andrews and Featherstone had argued about? “This is not my signature.”
Featherstone produced a tight, brief smile. “I assure you, Miss Winslow, it is. Here is another document signed by you.” He held up another piece of paper.
Lane looked hard at the paper. She did not want to overplay her hand in her exhausted state. But she knew now.
“Of course, I must have. How silly of me to forget. As you can see, I’m all in. I was in an accident yesterday. Broken arm. I’m sorry I’ve put you to so much trouble.” She stood up. “If Mr. Andrews was here I could have just cleared it up with him.”
“It’s quite all right, Miss Winslow. I am happy to help in his place. I’m very sorry to hear of your accident. This snow has made the roads extremely difficult. I’m pleased to see it was not worse.”
“Thank you,” she said demurely. “I didn’t see Mr. Andrews, is this a day off for him?”
“He called in sick this morning. He—” but he bit off whatever else he was going to say.
He’s said too much, Lane thought, and she longed more than anything to be back out on the street. It was rare that someone really frightened her, but Featherstone did.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
“ALL DONE?” DARLING WASN’T INSIDE the coffee shop, he was waiting in the doorwell. Lane lifted her chin to indicate they should go inside. Her watch told her she still had fifteen minutes until Angela came for her, and she wanted something mad, like a piece of pie. She chose the two seats at the end of the bar.
“I was frightened when I was in there with him, but now I feel like celebrating. I want some pie.”
“Care to bring me au courant? Fear and pie both seem like excessive responses to a common bank transaction.”
“He doesn’t know, you see. He has no reason to believe I know anything. He did crawl under a car and cut the brakes, but he wanted to kill Andrews, not me. He had no way of knowing Andrews would take a harem along with him. No one wants me dead!” She finished with a flourish and then added as an afterthought, “But he has been embezzling my money. Yes. That must have been why I was frightened suddenly. I couldn’t let on I knew he’d forged my signature. I don’t think he’d stop at anything to avoid being discovered.”
“I might join you in some pie. It’s too bad Ames isn’t here, you’d be able to enjoy watching him squirm in the presence of April, who is coming this way. But now, you’d better start from the beginning.”
HALIBURTON, THE CITY coroner, decided on an inquest into the death of Charles Andrews. Though it represented a great inconvenience to him, as he had plans to visit his brother in California for the Christmas season, he was prompted by two things: concerns about the unusual circumstances of his death, and concerns, long aired and never resolved, about the safety of the stretch of road upon which the death occurred. The road had only been built twenty years before, and improvements had been discussed but never acted on.
The coroner was impatient and fearful that any complications that might arise during the procedure would delay his travel plans. The instructions to turn on the furnace in the town hall early on the morning of the event had somehow fallen by the wayside, with the consequence that the room was frigid. The five jurors who were selected from among local businessmen and clergy were bundled up in their winter coats and seated to the right of the coroner. Chairs had been set out to nearly the capacity of the hall, but a traffic death had garnered little interest so that the group, gathered near the front of the cavernous and poorly lit room, looked forlorn. One reporter sat at the back wishing he were still at the newspaper office, which was heated, and certain that a motor accident would yield little of interest besides a call to improve whichever part of the road was under discussion.
Mrs. Andrews sat along the edge near the wall, a black veil over her face, and next to her the woman who had come to comfort and support her on the morning Darling had visited her with the news of her son’s death. Lane sat next to the pregnant Sylvia, who was looking remarkably robust considering her ordeal, and next to her sat the friend who had taken her in. Behind L
ane sat Angela, who had driven her in to town for the event. Inspector Darling and Constable Ames occupied the front row along with the owner of the hotel in Adderly, who sat crossly wondering what it had to do with him.
“Let’s get this thing on the road. Inspector, can you give us a rundown of the business?” the coroner said, his pen poised over his notebook. “You’d better make some notes,” he added, turning to the jury, “this is liable to get complicated.” This instruction made the reporter look up in interest. He had not expected complicated.
Darling had struggled during the long, sleepless night with what he would say. He was still irritated by what he considered an unfinished investigation into the death of the Russian. He was certain Andrews was their man, but the evidence continued to be circumstantial: the presence of the distinct late-model blue Studebaker in various places connected with the matter, the suspicious behaviour of Andrews, the identical markings of the snow tires, and of course his incomprehensible attempt to kidnap Miss Winslow for purposes that had never been explained. Indeed, with his death, much would never be explained.
There was not a sentence he uttered that did not give rise to a surprised question from the coroner. Why had he and Ames been in pursuit of Andrews on the night in question? Was there any reason to suppose Miss Winslow might be travelling with him against her will? Here goes, Darling thought.
“Mr. Andrews was potentially implicated in another matter, and was about to be under investigation.”
“No! It’s a lie!” This sudden outburst from the floor caused all heads to turn to Mrs. Andrews, who had stood and was resisting the urgings of her friend to sit down. The reporter quietly moved closer to the front of the room.
“You are?” asked the coroner.
“Mrs. John Andrews. I am poor Charlie’s mother, and I won’t sit here and hear lies about him.”
Adopting a kinder tone, the coroner said, “Mrs. Andrews, this will be difficult for you, but you will have an opportunity to speak in due course. You must remain seated quietly throughout the proceedings or I will have to ask you to leave.” Mrs. Andrews subsided, and suffered her friend to hold her hand.
“Inspector, please proceed. What was the other matter?” the coroner resumed.
“The matter is still under investigation. It involves the death of a foreign national. We have reason to believe Miss Winslow was abducted in order to deliver her to an unknown agent of a foreign government.”
A groan escaped Mrs. Andrews as both hands flew to her mouth. Lane, watching from the other side of the room, suddenly thought, She’s just realized something. She quietly unsnapped her handbag and looked gingerly for a pencil and a piece of paper. The best she could do was a receipt for the coffee she and Angela had had on the last trip in to town. She scribbled awkwardly and leaned forward to pass the note to Ames. He looked down and saw the receipt and flipped it over. Someone needs to search her house again. I think she just realized she’s seen something and I believe will destroy it if you don’t get there first. Ames looked back at Lane, his mouth set in a grim line, and gave a tiny nod.
The coroner looked stupefied at Darling’s extraordinary declaration about foreign entities and could feel his heart sinking. This was going to take ages.
Ames gave testimony about his return to the scene of the crash on the night in question and the subsequent recovery of the wreckage.
“We will leave the testimony of the two ladies in question until after a short luncheon break,” the coroner announced, closing his notebook and pushing himself out of his chair. In the general hubbub of chairs scraping and people talking, the reporter hurried for the door.
Ames and Darling stood. “At least it’s starting to warm up a little,” Darling commented. He had his overcoat unbuttoned and was turning his hat reflectively in his hands. “Well, what do you think?”
“Miss Winslow, sir, is thinking, as you’d expect. She handed me this while you were talking. She must have been watching Mrs. Andrews.”
Darling saw Lane talking quietly with Angela near the door.
“Miss Winslow, do you have a minute?”
“Yes. Just trying to decide if we should bag a sandwich somewhere. Can we get you one?”
“In a minute. Tell me about this.”
“When you said that Andrews might be taking me to a foreign entity, she put both hands to her mouth. She’s remembered something, or heard something, or there is something she’s seen in his room, where she no doubt tidies up, that suddenly makes sense to her.”
“Scott searched his room. There was nothing there.”
“All I can say is that I believe she knows something, or has something.”
“No one is ever trying to take me to a foreign entity,” Angela complained wistfully when Darling and Ames hurried away. “He’s absolutely transfixed by you, my dear,” she added.
“Ames. I know. It’s rather sweet. He’s a very goodhearted young man. I’m afraid his boss does not appreciate him. Let’s go get that sandwich, and get a couple for them. They’ll be hungry.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
“WHAT ARE WE looking for?” the policeman asked Ames.
“I don’t really know, but let’s start in his bedroom, to double-check, and then I’d say the basement, or even her bedroom. If she found something in his room, she might think it would be safe in her own room. If Miss W says there’s something here, then there’s something here.”
THE ROOM WAS more crowded when the inquest resumed. The reporter had produced a couple of colleagues, and people not connected had somehow heard there was something afoot. The furnace was finally working; dark overcoats had come off and were draped along the backs of chairs. Only Mrs. Andrews sat as she had done in the morning, buttoned up, with her veil drawn over her face. Her companion had acquired a Chinese paper fan and was fanning herself vigorously.
“Miss Jensen, please,” the coroner intoned, looking at his list. Sylvia came forward and sat gingerly on the edge of the wooden chair by the table where the coroner sat. He hesitated before addressing her.
“Before you bother asking, yes, it is his. Charlie’s, I mean,” she said, pointing at her slightly protruding belly. This elicited another gasp from Mrs. Andrews, but nothing further. Sylvia directed a look at the older woman that was not hostility, but not friendliness. Hope, Lane decided, watching her. Sylvia proceeded, prompted by questions, to explain why she had been with Andrews that night, how she had fallen asleep on the long dark drive up the lake, and then the next thing she knew Miss Winslow, over there, was whispering to her and then pushing her out of the car. She began to cry softly. “He was going to marry me; I know he would have. He wasn’t a bad person.”
A statement somewhere between certainty and wishing, Lane thought. What would become of her, alone, unmarried, possibly shamed by whatever might come of this whole business? She knew Sylvia was being cared for in a house where her friend still lived with her parents. She must be a burden already. What would happen when the child came?
Ames was still not back when Lane was called forward. She wondered about the mechanism of searching someone’s house. Did they break in? Had Mrs. Andrews given them a key, thinking whatever it was was safe? Had they gotten a warrant? She described Andrews’s heightened emotional state when he had arrived that evening at her house. She had been extremely surprised, yes, but also so concerned about Sylvia’s condition that it wasn’t until Andrews turned not towards Nelson, but the other way, that she had become alarmed and begun to pay attention to what he might be doing, which turned out, she added, to be driving too fast along the dangerous stretch of road.
She was asked to repeat slowly, for the benefit of the note takers, the part where he seemed to pump his brakes repeatedly to no avail.
“And how did you know about jumping and rolling out of the car, Miss Winslow? It is surely an unusual skill for a young woman.”
Lane hesitated. “Many women were in uniform in Britain during the war. We
were trained for various jobs.”
“I see.” He tried to imagine what sort of job required the kind of training this woman evidently had, but it wasn’t relevant to this inquiry, and he was on the clock. “And did Mr. Andrews explain at any time why he might wish to take you anywhere in that precipitous way at night?”
“He did not.” It was funny, she hadn’t given that part of the problem much thought. What if Sylvia hadn’t been there, and he’d managed to persuade her with the gun? She’d have gone along, she was sure, having an aversion to being shot. Would he have actually used the gun? Yes, she decided. He’d used a gun, she was certain, on Zaharov. What or who compelled Andrews to kidnap her? Why was a young man in a small provincial town miles from anywhere working for the Soviets? That’s what it came down to, really. Something must have happened to him when he was in Europe, and he fell into the thrall of Soviet agents. Was he taking her to his handler? She felt the blood drain from her face. Could there be a Soviet handler close enough for her to be delivered to him? Where? Vancouver? And why? She suddenly felt that her life was barely in her own control. Someone, perhaps lots of someones, seemed to know about her and furthermore, she thought crossly, seemed to think she could be shipped about like some sort of package.
Mrs. Andrews was called up as Lane returned, frowning, to her seat. Another chair was produced so that Mrs. Andrews’s friend could sit by her. The grieving mother did not lift her veil, only looking down at her hands for most of the testimony.