“A Yank, then, are you?”
“Canadian. Can you ask someone for me?”
The guard pursed his lips and shook his head. “Not in my remit,” he said.
“Then can you get me someone whose bloody remit it’s in?” Darling said.
“No need to get charry. I have my orders. Feed you, water you, take you out for a stroll about the yard. No doubt someone will come along in due course.” The guard said. He began to close the metal window cover.
“Wait,” Darling cried. “At least tell me where I am!”
“No can do. But I will say this. It’s not a million miles from Nuffield.” At this the guard chuckled and snapped the window to.
Darling sat on his bed and leaned against the wall, his feet up on the blanket. He could feel the metal wiring of the bedstead through the thin mattress. Nuffield indeed! In a country that had a million villages, Nuffield could be just about anywhere. He pursed his lips and closed his eyes and tried to imagine what on earth his next thought ought to be. He had a natural disinclination to fully take in that he was powerless, and yet, by jerks and judders he could feel himself sinking into bewilderment and hopelessness. Bewilderment was nothing new. He was a detective, after all, but hopelessness was, and he was beginning to feel frightened by it. What would Lane do if she were in bloody Nuffield?
This thought of Lane gave him a start, and he opened his eyes, his sense of his own powerlessness dropping another precipitous mile. What if she was in danger somewhere? She’d been getting money to get him out on bail, and no doubt having heard whatever the authorities would have told her, was banging about the countryside looking for him, or talking to his airmen, stirring up whatever nest of hornets had put him here. He had no doubt now that she was in danger, and he could do nothing to protect her.
Ignoring the voice in the back of his head that told him that he was kidding himself that he ever had any ability to protect her, he went back to his original question. What would she do? She’d make a list, draw a map. Gather as many facts as she could and see what they looked like. In fact, he realized that aside from the map, her own peculiar specialty, it’s exactly what he would do and should be doing now. He started with the most central fact: he did not shoot Rear Gunner Evans.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
AMES SAT AT HIS DESK, banging his pencil rhythmically on the one visible corner of wood that wasn’t covered in papers. It was of little comfort to him that there was no Darling to shout at him from the next office to stop making a racket and go make himself useful. Mrs. Browning’s corpse was being kept cool pending the outcome of the investigation into her death, and he was beginning to wonder how long a corpse would keep under those circumstances because, though he now had a potential murderer in the sister, he didn’t know where she was. She could have driven the car all the way to the coast and got on an aeroplane and be safely in her kitchen in Dorset drinking cocoa.
He and O’Brien had established that two people had had tea before Agatha was slashed and left to die, and that perhaps the cabin hadn’t been turned over as a result of the fight between the victim and whoever it was, as there was no blood inside the cabin. Had the sister, for want of another suspect, begun to throw pictures and china around, and overturn furniture before she killed Mrs. Browning? And “Missus” was a misnomer for a start . . . her maiden name was Browning, a fact he knew thanks to Miss Winslow’s visit somewhere or other to get information about the family.
He took a piece of paper and tried to figure out how to take the few facts he had and establish a probable sequence of events. Drawing a line down the middle of the paper he wrote:
—One day before the body is found a woman gets a ride across the lake saying she is Agatha Browning’s sister. No one else in the village saw a stranger.
That wouldn’t be unusual, Ames thought. The person could have made her way directly to Agatha’s cabin without meeting anyone in that tiny place. She would have been told by her ride how to get there.
—Two people had tea.
—Agatha was slashed with something the size of a kitchen knife (from her kitchen?) near the outhouse .
. . evidence of the blood.
—Agatha, bleeding, is pursued into the forest, where she falls, or is pushed, and dies.
—The cabin is turned over.
He was going to write “in a rage,” but stopped himself. He did not know that. Perhaps the person was extremely calm and on a deliberate campaign to destroy everything Agatha owned.
—The ferryman said Agatha took the ferry in her car late in the afternoon away from the village.
He thought for a moment and then felt safe enough to add:
—Agatha’s car stolen by the murderer, who left the scene disguised as his or her victim.
He crossed out “his” and left “her.” He felt fairly certain he could put among the facts that the murderer was a woman, and that woman was likely Agatha’s sister—if she really was the sister.
Ames reached under some loose notes and picked up the one thing he’d taken from the scene after he’d gone back with O’Brien: the smashed picture of the three young girls leaning on a fence in England that he’d found on the floor. It reminded him that he knew something more.
—Youngest sister named . . .
He consulted the notes he’d made talking to Miss Winslow.
. . . Lucille, died at the age of twenty-one.
That left one remaining sister, Mary. The person who claimed to be Mrs. Browning’s sister could have been telling the truth. He gazed at the picture, trying to imagine which one was which. One of them looked much younger than the other two . . . closer to sixteen in this picture. Could that have been Lucy? Let’s say it was. That left the other two, and of these, which one would be Agatha? It was nearly impossible to transport the wrinkled and weathered visage onto the face of either of these carefree and pretty girls.
Writing “FACTS” on the top of the page of notes, he tore that page off his pad of foolscap and began another page, which he labelled “POSSIBLE SEQUENCE OF EVENTS.” He tapped his pencil frenetically for another few moments and wrote:
—Mary Browning comes to the cabin of Agatha Browning, June five, having gotten a ride from someone going to the village and is dropped off. She asks for directions to the cabin and goes up the hill to see her sister.
He stopped again. The next part is fuzzy. Was she there to kill Agatha? If so, why be seen getting a ride and announcing she’s the sister? If she had meant to kill her, would she be travelling around with a knife? Why not a revolver? Those were easier than candy to get . . . especially if she’d come over from England. Okay, let’s say no. She’s just coming to do her sisterly duty and visit her last remaining relation.
He continued:
—An altercation breaks out, Mary Browning grabs a kitchen knife and . . .
Wait. No. They were having tea inside and there is no blood in the cabin. Something must have got them outside. Did Mary lose her temper and begin to throw things around, causing Agatha to run outside to get away from her? Or did Mary grab the knife and pursue her sister, who ran outside to take shelter in the outhouse, catching her before she could lock herself in?
—Mary Browning slashes at her sister and, still in a rage, goes back into the cabin and begins to throw things around, or look for something.
Wait. She would have blood on her hands with all that messy slashing. There would have been blood on anything she touched. So she must wash her hands outside somehow, and then go back, leaving her sister bleeding.
—Mary washes her hands, goes back into the cabin. In the meantime, Agatha, bleeding badly and fearing for her life, begins to run up the hill.
Why up the hill? Why not down the hill toward the village where help is available?
—Mary finds or does not find what she is looking for, sets off in pursuit of Agatha, finds her exhausted from lack of blood, pushes her over, and then throws the knife far into the bush where it can’t be retrieved. She then
changes into Agatha’s clothes, finds the key to her jalopy, and drives away.
Well, if this were really the sequence, it left some serious questions, the most pressing of which was, where was Mary Browning now, if it was she who did it, with Agatha Browning’s car? He would have to ask the vicar how far he thought the car could get. Could it get to the coast? His second question was why had Agatha run farther away from help? With these questions written, he slammed the pencil down on the desk and sighed. His watch told him it was near his usual quitting time, and Vi was hoping to be taken to the pictures.
Ames was uncertain suddenly. He usually left the office before Darling, unless the inspector had him tracking down something. But what would Darling do? How late did he stay when he was on a case?
He reviewed what he’d done; he’d put out the information about the car and its driver to the RCMP and the Vancouver Police. Was he likely to get a call after 6:00 p.m.? No. The pictures it was then.
Anchors Aweigh provided entertainment that delighted Violet and should have provided at least some distraction for Ames. Mid-picture he looked at his watch in the flickering light of Gene Kelly in a sailor hat: 7:30 p.m. What time would it be over in England? He would have to phone the police there. It’s what Darling would do. If he phoned over at 8:30 in the morning, he should get the police by 4:30 in the afternoon, provided it wasn’t too complicated and time consuming for the exchanges involved to put the call through. If Mary Browning had made it back, she would have gone to her own home, wherever that was.
LANE AND SANDRA sat in the tea room of their hotel having lunch. Salford’s parents had arrived by the morning train and were staying with his wife. They had promised to take her away with them when the funeral was over.
“I somehow feel we ought to stay for the funeral,” Sandra said. “That poor woman seems to have no friends.”
Lane shook her head. “That neighbour spent the night with her so she has someone. Every day matters right now, and anyway, her in-laws are there now. I think we should go to Sussex as planned to see Belton, the front gunner. And then, and I know this is probably illegal or something, I think we should track down Anthony to find out why he thinks Darling killed Evans! Oh, damn.”
“What?”
“I meant to ask Mrs. Salford why her husband had been preoccupied since Paris. It might throw light on why he killed himself . . . if he did. I’m beginning to imagine he was pushed, that somehow the other side, whoever they are, are going around nobbling the witnesses to secure a conviction. That, if nothing else, proves Darling is completely innocent.”
“Oh. I actually did ask her that when we were upstairs packing her suitcase. She kept going on about how she couldn’t imagine him killing himself, and I said, ‘But you did say he was preoccupied after Paris,’ and she said ‘Oh, that. No. That was nothing. He just thought he saw someone he knew, only it wasn’t him.’ Or some such thing. She got upset, though, and suddenly said that the whole thing might be her fault because she was the one who pointed the man out because he looked just like a crew member from the war.”
Lane put her cup down. “A crew member? She said that?”
“Yes. Oh, that’s important, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Yes, I think it is.” Lane tried to keep the desperation out of her voice. “It could be terribly important. The whole thing turns around that damn crew. If Salford thought he saw a member of his crew and came home preoccupied, it could have . . . I don’t know . . . precipitated a series of events. Did she say which crew member?”
“No. Only that it turned out not to be him.”
Lane sighed. “No, of course. He’d know if someone was or wasn’t a crew member. It just doesn’t explain why he’d be preoccupied. Of course he could have been preoccupied by the size of the hotel bill, and come home worried about money and not told his wife. Do you think he told her which crew member? It would be odd if he didn’t.”
“No. I got the feeling she didn’t know them except by sight. Do you want to go back and ask her? I think we just have time. Our train doesn’t leave for another three-quarters of an hour.”
“Oh, yes. Do let’s. It will just niggle at me ever after if I’ve missed something important.”
They walked back along the street, still cool in the morning, though already the sun was promising a hot day ahead. They passed a few shoppers. One man coming toward them stepped off the pavement to let them pass, glanced at them, and then touched the brim of his hat. Lane saw his brown eyes light up momentarily and the flash of a flirtatious smile, and then he moved on, a briefcase in hand with a rolled up newspaper, ready for the commute on the train.
“He’s probably married with three little kiddies,” Sandra whispered. “Behaving like that!”
IRENE SALFORD, LOOKING somewhat more rested for having her mother-in-law fussing over her and making sure she ate some regular meals, nevertheless bore the burden of her grief in her eyes. “No, I don’t remember—if he even told me his name. I tell a lie . . . he might have. Something very forgettable. He was a bit superstitious and wanted to keep his flying life from his home life. I didn’t know the names of any of them, but I’d seen them when I went to pick him up on leave. Is it important? Do you think it would explain . . . I mean, he seemed very surprised, and he was a bit moody for a while afterward.”
Lane tried to sound comforting. “No, I’m sure it’s not important. It’s just that we are wanting to talk to as many people who flew with Darling as possible. If one of them is in Paris, of course, it would mean a longer trip for us.” Lane squeezed Irene’s hand one more time, and she and Sandra set off for the station.
“You know,” Lane said, getting up off the wooden bench at the station and brushing off the back of her skirt. The train was rounding the bend, the billowing smoke carried aloft by the breeze. “I think it may be very important, this business of Paris. It happened three months ago, if what she says is right. What if it was a member of their crew who didn’t want to be recognized?”
“But that doesn’t make sense, does it?” asked Sandra. “Two of the crew are dead, and we have the addresses of the others. In fact, you’ve already seen one of them.”
“Three.”
“Three what?” asked Sandra.
“Three members of the crew are dead. Evans, Jones, and now poor Salford, who supposedly threw himself under an oncoming train right here.” Both women looked nervously toward the pedestrian crossing that had been blocked off with barricades since the accident. It was no accident, Lane thought.
They settled in the nearly empty train, Sandra began to doze under the influence of the gentle rocking of the carriage. Lane envied her. She herself had barely slept. She looked out at the passing countryside, the green beauty of which was providing very little in the way of comfort. Now alone with her thoughts, she could only dwell on the sick fear about what was happening to Darling.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Whitcombe, October 1907
“HONESTLY, LUCY, THERE’S NO POINT in moping about. You haven’t been out of the house in days.” Mary sat in a wingback chair by the window, looking out at the landscape that had transformed itself in the last week from summer to autumn. She watched a small coterie of leaves, the sun captured in their oranges and yellows, break away and descend in whirls and curves to the ground. She was desperate to get outside. She loved this time of year, the air crisp and full of promise. Instead she felt bound to be with Lucy, who could not seem to shake her misery at being thrown over by that absolute pig, Alphonse. Where was Aggy when she was needed? She could be helping instead of swanning off to town to visit friends.
Lucy, in a chair by the fire that was usually occupied by their father, had been making a pretense of reading and now let the book, Tennyson, fall onto the floor. She looked at the fire and could feel the tears welling again. She wanted to say something but could not think what. Nothing made sense.
Mary got out of her chair, stifling a sigh, and came and knelt by her sister’s chair, takin
g her hand. She didn’t approve of Tennyson in this crisis. All that romantic tragedy.
“Look, it is beastly, what’s happened. I can’t even pretend to know what it feels like. I’m much too self-centred to love anyone, but you are a warm-hearted and loving girl, and he . . . well, he is a fool. You have done nothing wrong but give your love to the wrong person. He wouldn’t have deserved you. What if you married him, and then he left you like this? How much worse would it be? Please, darling, try to snap out of it. I miss the old you. Daddy misses your dear, cheerful self.”
Lucy clutched her hand and finally looked at her. “I don’t understand it, that’s all. I lie awake all night, going over every minute, from the moment we met, and I know he loved me. It was like we had discovered a missing half of our own selves. That’s exactly how he put it. I never knew such happiness was possible. Every time we met, at the MacPhersons’, at Hermione’s, at that dinner at the Harveys’, we were so happy. At the dinner we found time to sneak out to the garden and sit in the darkness on a bench, looking at the house full of people. He said to me, “They’ve no idea what happiness is, do they?” And then he kissed me. It was then he said . . . she burst into tears.
Mary took Lucy in her arms. She had never felt so absolutely powerless. Well, if Aggy wasn’t coming home, Father was, at least. “He deceived you. He hoodwinked all of us. Look, darling, just come with me for a little walk. We can go meet Father at the station. Hastings can bring his bags back, and we’ll walk with Father over the top path. It will make him so happy. Please say you will?”
Tilly, more nurse than maid in these circumstances, cast a relieved glance at Mary, took Lucy’s jacket out of the cupboard, and buttoned her into it. The sisters set off arm in arm along the drive toward the shortcut to the station that lay through the neighbour’s field, now stubby and shorn of barley.
Tilly sat with a thump on a wooden chair by the kitchen table when the girls were finally dispatched. “I feel that bad for her,” she said to the cook.
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