We began to walk up the rutted drive. I was frankly a little scared, and was gripping Alan’s arm. Without that firm support, I probably would have screamed when the shout came. ‘Who’s that? What are you doing on my property? Git!’ He had come, silently, from around the back of the mews.
‘It’s John McKenzie’s friends, Mr Varner. I’ve brought you something I think you might like.’
‘Don’t need nothin’. Don’t need charity.’
‘I didn’t suppose you did. This isn’t something you need, just something I think you’ll like. Here, take a look.’
He held out the bag. Suspiciously, the old man took it.
‘Careful, part of it’s breakable.’
Silas reached into the bag and pulled out a bottle of Alan’s favourite Scotch, Glenfiddich. ‘Hmph. Reckon you think I’m an old sot.’
‘No, I happen to enjoy that label myself, and I’d hoped we might share it. But look at the real gift.’
Silas handed Alan the bottle, with some disdain, and reached into the bag again.
I was stunned. So, from the look on his face, was Silas.
It might almost have been alive. It was not realistically carved, but there was power in those wings, fierce determination in those eyes, strength in those talons. It was no longer a lump of wood. It was a hawk, just about to take flight.
Silas swallowed. A tear started to trickle down his cheek; he brushed it angrily away. It wasn’t, I thought, easy for him to utter words he probably hadn’t spoken in years.
‘I–I s’pose you might as well come in and set a spell.’
And that, from Silas, was the equivalent of a gilt-edged invitation.
While he looked for a place to put his new treasure, I looked around. His hovel smelled (as did Silas). But the place was surprisingly tidy. The one decrepit chair, an old recliner, had a patched blanket draped over it. A small table right next to the chair was cleared off, I presumed for his next meal. A shelf on the wall held a few plates and mugs; a pump evidently provided his water. There was a Franklin stove in one corner and a Coleman stove in another – heating and cooking taken care of.
The walls were bare boards, no plaster, no drywall, and here and there a chink where daylight shone through. The roof was similar. There was no floor, only the beaten earth. This single room comprised, apparently, his entire living space. I could see no closet, no storage place for extra clothes. Perhaps his only clothes were the ones he had on, which would explain the body odor.
There was no bed. He must sleep in his chair.
He was not to be counted among the homeless, only because he did have this permanent place to sleep. Yet many who lived in homeless shelters had far better accommodations than this.
And yet. And yet. Everywhere one looked there were piles of books. I spotted the Harry Potter series; their multi-coloured spines were unmistakable. There in a corner was Huckleberry Finn, over there a formidable tome that looked like a textbook on ornithology. An unabridged dictionary propped up a stack of Canadian history books; a biography of Winston Churchill teetered precariously on top of The Wind in the Willows and Anne of Green Gables.
‘Reckon there’s not much settin’ room. You take my chair, ma’am. Plenty of stacks of books,’ he added, nodding at Alan. ‘An’ there’s no glasses, but the cups are clean.’
He put the carving down on the floor opposite the cracked, dirty window, where it would get whatever light there was, and got three mugs from the shelf. Two were chipped. He poured a generous measure of Glenfiddich into each and held up the nicest one. ‘Water, ma’am? Don’t need to worry, it’s good clean well water.’
‘Yes, please, just a little.’
There were no more cups, so he pumped the water into a small bowl and poured some into my cup, which he handed to me carefully. Apparently assuming Alan would take his neat, he gave the other chipped cup to him and raised his own. ‘I’m … uh … mighty obliged.’
He leaned against the wall and drank. Alan and I sipped. I couldn’t think of a thing to say.
He cleared his throat, wiped his sleeve across his mouth, and glared at me. ‘You bin lookin’ at my books.’
‘Uh … yes. You have some of my favourites.’
Alan put his cup down on the floor, the only place he could find except for the stack of books next to the one he was sitting on. ‘Silas,’ he said quietly, ‘you are an educated man. Why do you pretend to be a backwoodsman?’
Long pause. Silas cleared his throat again. ‘That’s what I am. Now.’ His voice had changed; his hillbilly accent was gone. ‘The old days are dead. Let them be.’
‘And yet you kept this.’ Alan held up a piece of paper, somewhat dirty, with one corner missing. ‘I wasn’t prying. It fell out of a book when I straightened the stack.’ It was a diploma from the University of Victoria: Master of Science, Magna cum Laude, dated some forty years ago.
‘Yes. Makes a good bookmark.’
Alan and I were silent. I sipped my Scotch (which I don’t actually like) and waited.
‘You’re asking yourselves how I ended up a bum.’
‘You’re not a bum, Mr Varner,’ I said firmly. ‘I believe you’re living the kind of life you want to live. I’m sure you have a story about how things changed for you, and we’d like to hear it, but only if you care to tell us.’
‘And then you’ll tell the world. You’re working for John McKenzie.’
‘No,’ said Alan, ‘not exactly. We are working with him, yes, at the request of his niece back in England, who is a friend of ours. John was, and is, distressed about the series of incidents, petty at first but then increasingly serious, which were disturbing the peace of this island. Of course you know about the release of your birds. Do you know about the rest?’
‘McKenzie told me.’
‘Ah. Those incidents are the reason Dorothy and I are here. I am a retired English policeman. My wife, who has no formal training but is a talented natural detective, has worked with me for years in unofficial investigations. We believe that all the incidents in the series, up to and including the death of Elizabeth George, were directed, if not performed, by one man. We believe that you are not in any way culpable.
‘But I have become increasingly convinced that you and your birds are somehow at the heart of the matter. I can give no reason for this belief. There is no evidence, and I would be embarrassed to mention it to John. It’s just a … I suppose my American-born wife would call it a “hunch”. I talked Dorothy into coming here today in the hopes that if we could learn more about you, it might lead us to some connections – somehow.’
Silas shrugged. ‘Can’t imagine how. My story’s old. I mostly don’t tell it because I don’t want people feeling sorry for me. Got that?’ He looked as fierce as one of his hawks.
‘I think pity would be misplaced,’ said Alan drily. ‘As my wife says, you live the way you want to. Fifty years ago you would have been called a flower child.’
‘Fifty years ago and more, that’s exactly what I was. I grew up in Nelson, little town in the Kootenays. Silver rush town in the glory days. When I was a teenager, it was a haven for American draft dodgers. Not far from the border, you see.’
‘The border with Washington?’
‘No, Idaho. East of here. That was the Vietnam era, remember, and the boys came in droves. The Kootenays are a good climate for growing pot, and the town was more-or-less wide open then. I got into it in a big way – live off the land, love beads, protest marches – the whole shtick.
‘Then I met a girl who changed my life. I didn’t fall in love with her, or anything like that, but we got to be friends. I met her one day when I was out in the woods looking for birds; I’d always liked them, and I was getting kind of interested in them. She was a serious type, and she told me straight out I was wasting my life, that I was too smart for all that. She brought me books, books about birds.’ He pointed to a stack I hadn’t noticed, resting on a very large, fat book. The cover was obscured by the books on top
, but the spine read, Birds of America.
‘Audubon?’ I couldn’t keep the awe out of my voice.
‘A reprint, of course, but a good one. Even way back then, it cost Cathy way more than she could afford. She had some kind of crummy job, I forget what. Anyway, she bought me that book and told me I had to read it, and long before I’d finished I knew I had to learn a lot more about birds.’
He picked up the bottle and gestured to both of us. We shook our heads. I would have loved some plain water, but I didn’t want to interrupt him, now he’d got started.
‘Well, Cathy was right about one thing. I had a good mind, even though I hadn’t done anything about it. My father had told me the same thing over and over, but of course coming from a girl my age, it sounded true. There was no money, so I knew if I was going to university it would have to be on scholarship.
‘I went back to school – I’d dropped out – and worked like a madman. They didn’t call it the GED then, but it was the same idea. I did so well on all the exams that the teachers at the high school urged me to apply to UVic and take their entrance exams. And when I aced those I applied for a scholarship, and got it.’
He poured himself a little more Scotch. ‘Those were good days. I took my degree in biology, went on to the master’s in ornithology, started applying for jobs. I didn’t want to teach, wanted to be out in the field. Park ranger, something like that. I applied for a few jobs that looked promising. And then I met a girl.’
Uh-oh. His face went dark. We were getting to it.
‘We got engaged. In about five minutes. She was … well. Doesn’t matter. I’d almost quit smoking joints, but she got me into it again. Wasn’t legal then. I landed a job, a good one, and was just packing up to go live near the park when the RCMP came knocking at my door.’
He looked at the mug in his hand and threw it to the floor. The tough pottery didn’t shatter, but the handle came off. He ran his sleeve across his mouth again. ‘Turned out my “fiancée” was living with a guy who’d just started dealing drugs. He’d got in a shipment of cocaine, and when he thought the authorities were getting a little too close, the woman I thought I loved stashed the stuff in my flat – our flat, the one we shared. When the cops came, she told them where to look.’
There was nothing to say. Silas had forbidden pity, and what I felt, in any case, was rage. Judas also ran, I thought, but didn’t say.
‘It’s an old story, from Samson on up. My flat smelled of pot. I had a reputation as an anti-authoritarian hippy. My fingerprints were on the box Delilah put the stuff in. It was an open and shut case. I got five years. Could have been a lot more, but it was a first offense and all that. While I was “away”, Delilah stole everything of value that I owned. There wasn’t much. She did leave my books; they had little or no cash value.
‘In prison, I read everything I could about raptors. Those fierce, independent killers appealed to me. I decided I was, somehow, going to get myself some birds and train them. When I got out, nobody would hire me. I found this shack to live in, planted some vegetables, wrote a couple of books about raptors. They brought in a little money, still do. Not much, but enough to see to my birds. I scavenged building materials wherever I could, to build the mews. Found a couple of red-tails. I knew how to look after them, how to train them. Harry and Ron are my fourth set. First ones were David and Jonathan. Got these just after I read the books. Should have named Ron Voldemort. He’s a vicious one. Good bird.’
‘Always males? I read somewhere that females make the better hunters.’
‘Won’t have a female living on my property.’ He pushed himself off from the wall, picked up his broken mug, and set it down in the dry-sink by the pump. ‘Need to mend that. So now you know my story, and much good it may do you. Don’t see how it has anything to do with all the crimes.’
‘Nor do I, but I do have a question or two, if you don’t mind. And could I have some water, please?’ I handed over my mug and he filled it from the pump. I drank thirstily of the clear, cold water. ‘Mr Varner, there are two important people in your story whom you have not named: your betrayer, whose name was presumably not Delilah, and her lover.’
‘I call her Delilah. I’ve blocked her real name from my memory.’
‘Do you have any idea where she is now?’
‘Don’t know, don’t care. If she kept up with her dealer friend, they’re probably both dead by now, though they were younger than I. The drug scene doesn’t lead to a long life.’
‘And her lover? The drug dealer? Did you know his name?’
‘At one time I did. He wasn’t actually a dealer, not professionally. He was dabbling in it. He was young and rich and out for kicks. Maybe what happened to me scared him out of it.’ He shook his head. ‘No, I can’t recall. Peter, maybe? One of the saints, anyway, because I remember thinking how inappropriate the name was.’
Alan coughed, perhaps choking on his drink. ‘A saint. Paul, perhaps?’
TWENTY-THREE
‘So there we have the connection,’ I said when we were back in the car. I drove; Alan was feeling the effects of the whisky a bit. He’d had to have another wee tot while he convinced Silas that his personal saga was safe with us.
‘He didn’t remember the last name, Dorothy. And Paul is not exactly an unusual name. You’ll note he didn’t make the connection with the Paul Hartford who’s been all over the news.’
‘And how would he have heard the news? No radio, no TV, no newspaper, not even a phone.’
‘He does go into town occasionally. I think he keeps informed somehow.’
‘Nevertheless: a rich young guy named Paul who was a bit of a rakehell, who thought himself above the law? Alan, I’m convinced, and you are too. You’re just being a cautious policeman. Your instincts told you to get Silas’s story. Well, now we have it.’
‘Very well, tell me what you suppose we have. And while you’re about it, perhaps you can work out how we will find any evidence to support our opinions.’
‘Evidence is your problem. You’re the policeman. What we have here, now that we know Silas’s story, is a human tragedy, with Paul Hartford – or no, with his father at the centre of it.’
I paused to negotiate an especially awful stretch of dirt road, and to think. ‘Once upon a time,’ I began.
Alan grinned. ‘The proper beginning for a fairy tale.’
I ignored him. ‘Once upon a time there was an evil king. He was very rich and very powerful, and he had one son. The young prince was handsome and charming, and very intelligent as well. The king his father gave him everything he wanted, everything except love. So of course the prince grew up badly spoiled, but his charm and good looks, and his superior brain, continued to get him everything he wanted – except what he wanted most, his father’s approval.
‘He reached out for happiness, looking in all the wrong places: alcohol and drugs and easy sex and thrills. He got involved in crime in a small way, but a drug deal that would have brought him a lot of money went wrong; he managed not to get arrested, but the shipment was seized, and he had to flee in a hurry to avoid the boss who would have shot off his knees – if not worse – for losing all that crack.’
I stopped to sip some water from the bottle in the cup holder.
‘So the naughty little prince grew up. He went to university and did brilliant work. He founded a tech company that began to make money hand over fist, so it was easy for the prince to cultivate a benevolent image, strewing largesse to the peasants. He married a beautiful, malleable woman, but she proved to be not quite so malleable as he had supposed. They had a daughter, but the marriage grew more and more contentious when the wife wouldn’t do exactly as the prince demanded. He was not accustomed to being thwarted; he found her attitude intolerable and began to find consolation elsewhere, which was easy for one with his wealth and charming good looks.
‘At last the wife had had enough and sued for divorce. The prince fought, of course, but as his infidelity was well known in
the community, the wife won her suit along with a handsome monetary settlement and the custody of the daughter.’
I had a little more water, and continued. ‘All that is proven fact.’
‘Except for the part about the drugs deal in his youth.’
‘Easy to prove. Now I’m getting into the realm of speculation, or psychology, if you prefer. I think the divorce was a tipping point for Paul Hartford. After a lifetime of instant gratification, he suddenly ran up against opposition, and something snapped. He had to get even. First with Amy, and of course with John for “taking her away”, so the persecution campaign began. Then he conceived the idea of standing for Parliament, in part because it would so annoy Amy. Then he, or one of his sycophants, dreamed up the really brilliant series of petty crimes, a problem he could solve when elected.
‘But I’m sure it was his own idea to persecute Silas. He would never have forgiven him for that long ago drug deal.’
‘Dorothy, you’re getting your motivations mixed up. It was Silas who was wronged, Silas whose life was ruined by Paul. Surely it’s Silas who would find it hard to forgive Paul, not the other way around.’
I shook my head. ‘For a person with normal reactions, you’d be right. But Paul Hartford wasn’t normal. That deal would have made him a lot of money, and perhaps led him on to greater and greater things in the world of crime. Silas was stupid enough to get caught with the drugs; Silas messed up the whole deal; everything was Silas’s fault.’
‘And what about Delilah?’
‘Ah, yes, what about Delilah? She messed up, too. First by taking up with someone other than him. He was allowed to have many women; his women were supposed to be loyal to him.’
‘The King of Siam syndrome.’
‘Exactly. “The honeybee must be free … but blossom must not ever flit from bee to bee to bee.” I wish we knew what Delilah’s real name was. I’m willing to bet, given the psychology involved, that something very unpleasant happened to Delilah. And Silas, Silas who has carved out a minimalist way of life that suits him, Silas must be hounded by his neighbours; his birds must be accused of something they didn’t do; he must be made miserable. All of this accomplished, of course, by one of the flunkies of Clean-Hands Paul.’
Death in the Garden City Page 18