by Iona Whishaw
“I was upset when he started visiting that woman when he could have had his pick of any woman in this town. He was out there every week. I couldn’t see why he’d dropped Sylvia.” She looked in Sylvia’s direction, her expression hidden by the dark inscrutability of the veil. “But I see why, now.” There was a sudden inflexion of derisiveness in her tone. Sylvia turned away, her mouth working.
“Anyway, he was turning himself inside out for that woman, learning that heathen language! I told him no good would come of it.”
“What heathen language, Mrs. Andrews?” the coroner asked.
Mrs. Andrews sat silent for some moments. “It doesn’t matter now, does it? I was right that no good would come of it. She has led my son to his death as certain as if she shot him point-blank with a gun. He went there every week. Look at her. Who knows what they got up to? He was a lamb to the slaughter. Whatever he was doing, he was doing it for her.”
At this declaration Sylvia turned to look at Lane, her eyes blazing. Lane shook her head and mouthed “no,” then heard herself addressed. She rose to her feet.
“No, sit down, Miss Winslow. I only wanted you to confirm that Mr. Andrews visited you regularly? I don’t see it here in your statement.”
“No. He did not. He came three times, always saying he had been visiting his aunt, who he said lived near Balfour somewhere. He stopped long enough for a cup of tea once. We talked about the bank mostly, and his job there.” She wanted to say that they had discovered he had no aunt, but it suggested a level of intimacy with Andrews that was not present.
“Mrs. Andrews, is it possible that your son was, in fact, visiting his aunt?” the coroner asked.
“Neither I nor his late father, who would be turning in his grave, have a sister. That is a lie concocted to cover up what she has done.”
The sound of the outside door opening and closing distracted the proceedings, and Ames looked apologetically at all of the faces that had turned to watch him come in.
Haliburton looked at his watch and sighed. They would have to continue the next day, but perhaps that would be all. The police inspector seemed disinclined to detail what Andrews had been under scrutiny for, and it was just possible that it had no bearing on the accident itself. He would have to parse these things out this evening when he reviewed his notes. He turned to Mrs. Andrews, whose stillness in her anger and grief, as she waited for whatever came next, he found remarkable.
“Mrs. Andrews, you have suffered a great loss. The greatest loss a mother could have. Is there anything else you wish to add at this point?”
“My boy was a good boy. He served his country and was badly wounded. He struggled to recover and got a good job. He made good money at the bank and always looked after me. I have nothing now.”
LUCY, SITTING IDLY at the exchange in Balfour the next day, with her right leg crossed over her left, swinging it back and forth, opened the morning paper, which had arrived late that day because of the roads. The headline, “Death of lowly bank clerk reveals international intrigue,” made her sit up. She cried out when she read it was her Charlie, and waited for tears to come. Nothing coming, she read quickly through the testimony of the police and the hotel owner at Adderly, who had nothing interesting to say, and focused on the business of Charlie and his visits. This is nonsense, she thought, her anger rising. Charlie had been coming out to see her, not some bloody fake aunt, and certainly not that English hussy. As for that Jensen girl whom he’d supposedly knocked up, she was lying to cover up her condition, because she probably slept around, no doubt. Charlie had loved her; he’d come out to see her. He had taken her up to his cabin, and not anyone else. They should put that in their pipes and smoke it! And then she thought maybe she’d make sure they did.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Dear Gloria,
How surprising to get your letter. I, of course, remember our time in the war, in particular your bravery and that of the other women you flew with.
I am most relieved to hear that you have survived and have found a niche where I know you must be everyone’s favourite teacher.
I am not sure what I can say to your suggestion of coming out here. I lead a provincial policeman’s life, which is not very interesting.
He knew he was being disingenuous. What he remembered still brought him a whiff of the shame he’d felt. But it had been extremely interesting since the summer, so there was some sort of truth then. Perhaps, “I do not feel myself at liberty to pick up where we left off,”? Here he sat back, conscious of the pen resting in his hand, conscious that it held the truth, that he was very likely in love. There, he had said it to himself at least, however ill it would undoubtedly go, for that was surely his fate. He reviewed his letter so far. Had he been clear enough? He had no wish to be unkind. He had been surprised at her letter and the loneliness that must have led her to write it. He had felt himself culpable for being drawn into loving her when she had had no wish to offer him anything.
I am very touched by your offer to come out here. I am not unmindful of what you must have gone through to suggest it. The trouble, really, is that I do not feel myself at liberty to be in any kind of relationship.
There. He need not suggest that there might be someone else.
I wish you the very best in your new life.
With warmest regards,
F. Darling
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
IT HAD BEEN WELL PAST midnight when Aptekar had given up and gone back to his room. He had lain on the bed fully clothed, unable to sleep. It had been more than thirty-six hours since the time Andrews ought to have left Nelson. He had suspected Andrews would make a mess of this, had imagined him trying to force her instead of using the telegram he had provided to persuade her. If she was her father’s daughter, she might well have resisted the young man’s clumsy methods. But even imagining her engaged in some plucky resistance did nothing to reduce his anxiety. As things stood now, he had lost an agent and a potential asset. Even with his stellar record, he could not see this going down well back home.
It was only as he was reading his newspaper after a further agonizing two days in the hotel that he saw, on page five, the details of the inquest in Nelson. Amazing, he had thought, sipping his tea, that that fool Andrews had managed to kill himself but not her. On the positive side, the death of Andrews solved some problems, without doubt. More importantly, though it depressed him to think of spending any more time in this grey place, it meant he still might have a chance.
THE SKY WAS a blue made more intense by the billows of snow on the ground. Lane leaned back in her easy chair, her feet up on the window seat, looking into that sky, thinking of the places in the world it covered. Thinking that it was the same sky that had watched her with the utter disinterest of nature while the events of her childhood had unfolded in ways that would cascade into the future. She indulged in a list of if-onlys. If her mother had lived, if her father had been able to love her, if she and her sister had been close, her life less isolated . . . And being essentially fair, she reflected on the love of her grandparents, her opportunity to attend Oxford, her unexpected sense of being braver than she ever thought possible. Nevertheless, here was this letter in which it was now clear that people far from her in time and place could reach in and try, and try again, to destroy this life in which she was beginning to find refuge.
The letter lay open on her lap and she rubbed the paper between her thumb and forefinger, perhaps unconsciously trying to erase its contents. It does not matter what we do, she thought. What we wish for, what we believe. Fate will try, willy-nilly, to draw us along some appointed road. It could not have been a nicer letter, she decided, glancing again at the graceful handwriting. Or more chilling.
Dear Miss Winslow,
You will not know me, but I have taken the liberty of writing you because I am an old, old colleague of your father’s. Let me first express my deepest condolences on your loss. I felt I had lost a close friend; I cannot imagine what it must be for y
ou.
Your father and I first became acquainted well before the Great War. Since your family lived in Russia, it was natural that we should have much of our work in common. Our association continued, with the strongest bonds of respect and friendship, until he died. I have no doubt that even in these new times in which we find ourselves, we would have continued to find common ground. I hope that it might give you comfort to know how often he spoke of you and your sister, and with what fondness.
I bet, Lane thought, looking again at the signature as one might look to the last page of a book to find the answer to the mystery. Aptekar. A Russian name. He must know she spoke Russian; indeed, she thought, he doubtless knew everything there was to know about her. Why had he not written in Russian? Perhaps he wanted to eliminate all possibility of her misunderstanding him. He need not have feared. She understood all too well. He hoped to succeed where her British handler had failed, to lure her back into service, only this time, what? For Russia? As a double agent?
I had very much hoped that we might meet, but unforeseen circumstances have prevented it. Still, I remain hopeful that you might be willing to have me come to you, as I am in Canada for just a short time longer. I should love to speak with you about your father. I confess that he confided to me that your relationship was strained, but I know that he was exceedingly proud of you. In fact, I rather think you took him by surprise. There is much I would love to share with you about him that you probably do not know, including the details of his tragic death.
I very much hope that you will agree to meet with me. I believe there is a great deal that we could discuss. You may reach me at this hotel in Vancouver.
I remain your humble servant,
Stanimir Aptekar
She closed her eyes and relived the moment in which Charles Andrews had gone over into the blackness of the lake below. That was what this Aptekar had wrought. And he would do it again without a moment’s thought if she let him. They are all the same. Theirs. Ours. She hoped with all her being that he would understand her silence. She crumpled the paper into a ball. No one could force her out of her chosen life, she knew this. She felt a blaze of sudden resentment that he had tried to use her father to lure her. However doubtful she was about her father, however angry, he had been her father. He was dead, and could no longer be used by whatever dark forces had ruled his life. She threw the letter in the Franklin and put the kettle on.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Christmas Eve, 1946
SNOW CURVED AND SOFTENED THE roof of the house, and white mounds of drifts indicated where the raised flowerbeds bloomed in the summer. Yellow light from the kitchen and dining room made cheerful squares across the garden as Lane approached the Hughes house. She could vaguely see outlined figures through the curtained windows with drinks in hand. She was welcomed at the door by two wagging cocker spaniels and by Gwen, who was draped in a beautiful dress of purple flowers. In fact, all three of the Hughes clan were dressed in flowing dresses that must have been very fashionable before the war, and were still beautiful, though they hung a little on the wiry, slender bodies these women had acquired over the years of work they had put in to their lives in the Cove.
“Come in, come in! You’re nearly the last to arrive. We’re waiting only for Alice and Reginald.” Here she paused with a look that suggested they’d only see them if Alice was in a good mood and not having one of her spells. “Even Harris is here. Of course that’s because Kenny went to get him and wouldn’t hear ‘no.’ He’s hardly the life and soul of the party, but he’s propped up in a corner with a drink, so that’s something. Brandy. Lovely. Thank you! How’s your arm, lovie?”
“Coming along,” Lane said, lifting the offending article a little. The kitchen had been given over to its proper purpose and smelled of baking and mulling cider. The Bertolli children were surprisingly still, sitting on the bench near the stove with some books. All the grown-up guests were gathered in the sitting room and dining room where a fire blazed and a Christmas tree stood crookedly in the corner, its strings of multicoloured lights lending it an air of uneven jollity. Lane looked at it all, her heart expanding, and thought, This is what I want. We have all come from somewhere else to be here. This is where I belong, now.
“Ah, your eye is caught by our tree,” Mabel said, greeting Lane and holding out a glass of cider. “Gwen saw it and felt sorry for it.”
“It’s lovely; very modern with that slight twist,” Lane said. The room was enveloped in muffled noisiness. Everyone seemed to be talking at once, but somehow the noise was being swallowed by the Turkish carpets and the mounds of pillows on the armchairs and chesterfield. Lane saw Robin Harris, as promised, sitting in the corner of the room nearest the tree, looking incongruously glum next to the coloured lights. Eleanor was seated near him but talking to Angela. Lane found a chair nearby and pulled it towards Harris, who, much to her surprise, gave her a grudging nod. This from the community misanthrope was something.
“Does Old Lady Armstrong still open your windows?” he asked suddenly.
He had lived in her house as a child, along with Kenny Armstrong. Lady Armstrong had been his aunt. All Lane knew was that he’d been sent to live with the Armstrongs as a child, though she had no idea why. Lane found it charming that everyone believed that her house was haunted by the late Lady Armstrong.
Lane had a fleeting vision of dying in the house, and having to compete for haunting space with the ghost of its former owner. “I’m happy to say she doesn’t open the windows in the middle of winter!” Kenny had been apologetic about his mother’s ghostly presence, since he felt that now it ought to be fully Lane’s house.
She could see Angela going towards the table, and she turned back to Harris. “Look, here’s Gwen with more cider.”
Unable to get much more out of him in the way of conversation, she wished him a happy Christmas and joined Angela at the dining room table, where she was contemplating the cake. Lane tried to put out of her mind the dreary existence of Robin Harris alone in his house by the main road. He was here; he had spoken to her. That was more than she expected from him. Did he also have bad nights? Worse, she thought; he had been in the trenches, and still felt guilt over surviving. And here we are, two vets from two wars, unable to talk to each other. Or anyone. She flashed a smile at her friend and asked about her boys. Angela, for example, would likely never understand what she’d been through.
“Oh, they’re in the kitchen with the food and some ancient children’s books Mabel dug up, with golliwogs and some dolls called Meg and Peg who seem to be made of wood. There’s a horrible story with a picture of a carrot screaming as it’s pulled from the ground by its green hair. I’m sure they’ll get nightmares!”
“There’s no accounting for what Victorians thought was suitable for children. That is much more frightening than a dead body in a change room. I see Reginald and Alice have made an appearance.”
“She seems almost normal,” Angela whispered. Reginald was handing a drink to his wife, and she was ignoring him, reaching across to get her own. “Dear me, she hasn’t forgiven him.” The whole business of the body in Lane’s creek had unleashed a torrent of local secrets that had unsettled the community.
“Speaking of not normal, Harris just asked me if my house was still haunted,” Lane said.
“Harris? Talking? Will wonders never cease! You seem to have a way with the locals. He still doesn’t talk to us at all except to call us ‘Yanks.’”
“When all is said and done, he’s just a lonely old man, isn’t he, with a sad history.”
“Hmm. If you say so.”
“I mean, Kenny has Eleanor, the Hughes have each other, Reginald has Alice . . . or the other way around, however that works, you have David and the children. Ponting’s got his claims and that lovely mare. What has Harris got?”
“Well, while we’re reeling off who’s got what, what have you got? Have you seen him?”
“No, I haven’t. Not since the inquest. I have my be
autiful house, and a letter from my grandmother, who misses me, if you must know. And Lady Armstrong haunting me in that genteel way of hers. I’m as happy as a clam.”
“God, you are exasperating. You can’t see what’s under your own nose! You should see how he looks at you.”
Lane accepted another glass of spiced cider. “This is superb, Mabel. I’m sure you must have squashed the apples yourself!”
“We did, in October. We should have asked you to bring some of your apples. We have a wonderful old wooden press. Next year.”
“Next year indeed. I will be much more organized about the apples. It sounds such fun.” She turned back to Angela. “You know you said the same sort of thing about Charles Andrews, the nice man at the bank. Do you remember?”
“This is different.”
“Angela, you must give this up. It will soon be New Year’s Eve. You can put it on your list of resolutions to give up trying to matchmake. I am happy as I am. A quiet life with no complications.”
“You haven’t managed that very well, have you? How is your broken arm, the one you got when you were kidnapped and nearly killed?”
“It’s perfectly fine, thank you. Healing away like anything. Look. Here are your boys. They don’t look like they have been unduly frightened by the screaming carrot.” Angela’s attention was taken up by her children, and Lane saw the vicar approaching and smiled.
“You’re very clever to have sorted out the business of poor Gwen’s funds going missing. I turned out to be useless!” he said cheerfully. “This is excellent brandy. I understand you brought it.” He held up a heavy crystal snifter.
“Well, you weren’t to know the bank manager was lying to you, and anyway, I only found out because he was creaming off some of my money as well.”
“It’s a shocking business. I’ve known Featherstone for years. I’ve always rather taken people at face value. It makes me think a bit when I look around at all my parishioners and wonder what dark other lives they lead!”