A Sorrowful Sanctuary Page 13

  There was a stir as Inspector Darling and Constable Ames came in and made their way down to the front. Darling sat down next to Lane. She smiled and said quietly, “You all right?”

  “Yes, though I can’t answer for Ames. You?”

  “Thank you, yes.”

  Darling leaned across Lane and thanked the Armstrongs for coming into town. The coroner’s voice suddenly cut through the hum of the crowd. “What are we still waiting for?” He was looking at his watch and addressing the clerk who would be calling up witnesses and taking notes.

  “The, ah, the doctor, sir. A Dr. Robles, I think it is.” He pronounced it so that it rhymed with “nobbles.”

  The coroner looked up across the crowd. “Well, where is he then?”

  People in the room looked back toward the door, as if doing so would conjure the doctor into the room. The clerk said something quietly to the coroner and looked fretful in a way that suggested he fully expected to be blamed for the doctor’s lateness.

  “What’s wrong with Ames?” Lane whispered to Darling.

  “The usual,” Darling replied. “I’m sure he’ll give you chapter and verse if you express the slightest sympathy toward him. Ah. Finally.”

  “Sorry, sir, we had an emergency at the hospital. I came away as soon as I could,” Dr. Robles said, as he came toward the front. He took his seat on the other side of Ames.

  “Thank you, Dr. Robles. I’m sure we all understand.” “Nobbles” again.

  “It’s Robles, sir.”

  The coroner frowned. “What’s that?”

  “My name, sir, it’s Robles.”

  Looking as if this information could not be more inconsequential, the coroner said, “Yes, yes. Very well. Can we get started?” He banged his gavel on the table, unnecessarily, Lane thought, since the crowd was already fully attentive. “Now then. This inquest is to examine the facts about the death of a young man who has been identified as a Joseph P. Smith, who was found, severely wounded, on the nineteenth of July of this year in a rowboat that washed up at King’s Cove. Primarily, we ought to determine whether this man’s death was the result of misadventure, suicide, or could be placed in the category of a wrongful death. I will now call upon Miss Lane Winslow.”

  Lane, who had not counted on being called first, felt a stab of anxiety but then reminded herself that what mattered here was the dead man, not her stage fright. Speaking clearly so that all could hear, Lane detailed the events of the morning when the man was found.

  “And did you yourself reach any conclusions about how the man might have come to be in this state?”

  “I can only say what I observed. That the wound looked very grave and he had lost a good deal of blood.”

  “And did you not feel some concern that moving the body might result in his condition worsening?”

  Lane looked down and then at the Armstrongs. It was, to her, the one vulnerable point. “I did, we all did, but he was soaked through. Half of his body was submerged, and he was very, very cold to the touch. We thought it best to get him as dry and warm as possible.”

  Thus acquitting herself, Lane made way for Kenny Armstrong, who merely confirmed her telling of the events, and he in turn made way for Eleanor.

  “Mrs. Eleanor Armstrong, your honour,” Eleanor said in response to the coroner’s request to speak her name slowly for the recorder.

  “And you made an attempt to treat this man in some way?” the coroner asked, when Eleanor described how she’d been brought to the scene. “Do you have some experience or qualifications that would allow for such an interference?”

  “I was a front-line nursing sister in the Great War. Although it was nearly thirty years ago, during the war I treated many injuries like his. I cut away his clothing and put a dressing on the wound so that the chance of infection would not increase—I felt he was at risk because the sun was getting hotter and he probably had fragments of clothing in that wound. I thought it might be enough to keep him alive until the ambulance arrived.”

  “And having had a closer look at it, did you have any ideas about that injury and it’s possible causes?”

  “I did. It looked like a gunshot wound.”

  “Could it have been self-inflicted?”

  “I suppose so, yes, because it seemed to me he was shot at very close range, though I wondered at his being in a boat, a leaky one at that, floating up the lake. If I were going to do away with myself, I’m not sure I would go to such elaborate lengths. It seems to me it must have been the result of an accident. No one would deliberately shoot themselves in the stomach.”

  “That’s as may be, Mrs. Armstrong. No doubt your suppositions will be confirmed by Dr. Ro . . . by the doctor. You may step down.”

  “If I may,” said Eleanor, putting up her gloved hand.

  “Yes? You have something to add?” The coroner spoke as if he was used to being obeyed. When he said, “Step down,” he expected the witness to step smartly down.

  “It’s just that I did hear him say something. He seemed aware I was trying to help him. He said, ‘Just let me die.’”

  This caused a stir among the audience. Several of the ladies gasped, and wooden chairs creaked as people leaned forward.

  The coroner dropped his glasses down his nose and looked over them at Eleanor. “You’re quite sure that’s what he said? ‘Just let me die’?”

  “Quite sure, yes.”

  The coroner dismissed her again, and Eleanor sat down and was rewarded by Kenny’s warm pat on her hand.

  “How did Mr. Smith die in the end, Doctor?” the coroner asked, addressing Dr. Robles where he sat in the front row.

  “It was infection. We tried to treat it, but he had already lost a great deal of blood and had little in the way of resources to fight for life.”

  “I see. And did you form an opinion as to how this person came to be injured?”

  “Like Mrs. Armstrong, I thought it appeared to be an injury inflicted with a gun at very close range. There was no trace of the bullet, but it inflicted significant damage to the intestines. It is surprising that the loss of blood did not bring on death more quickly.”

  Inspector Darling was called up. He explained that Miss Winslow had called him as there were circumstances that suggested a violent attack.

  “And what did you learn in your investigation?”

  “I should say at the outset that we are doubtful that the man’s name was Joseph P. Smith. We at first thought he might be a man who was reported missing earlier the same day we were called to this case, a Carl Castle. However, the mother of Mr. Castle indicated the injured man was not her son.”

  “Then why do I have the name Smith?”

  “It is the one the hospital gave us. During his time at the hospital, the victim was visited by someone who claimed to be the patient’s cousin and provided the name Joseph P. Smith. Consequent upon learning of the purported cousin’s visit, I set a guard at the patient’s door. In addition I asked my constable to search for any record of that name.”

  “Why did you set the guard?”

  “The nurse said that the visitor stayed only a short time and seemed to be searching for something in the bedside drawer in which a patient’s possessions are normally kept. We were concerned that if the man had been attacked, someone might have come along to finish the job. No further attempt was made on his life, however. We recovered two things from the boat. A third item was recovered later from the beach itself that may or may not be associated with the incident. Of significance, we recovered the second page of a letter sent to the man by the International Red Cross.”

  “And were you able to read the contents?”

  “We were, what there was of it. The letter was typewritten, so the page we have survived its immersion. I have a photograph here.” Darling handed a manila envelope t
o the clerk. “The gist of that last page is that the Red Cross investigation revealed that Julia Fischer and her family were recorded as having been shipped to the east, and offered its regrets. I assumed from that that the man had asked the Red Cross to initiate a search for this Julia Fischer, and would have learned that she and her family probably died in a death camp of some sort. The signature was unreadable, unfortunately.” This elicited a murmuring from the onlookers. The coroner looked at the photograph the clerk had handed him and appeared to read through the letter to verify Inspector Darling’s testimony.

  “You said you found something else?”

  “Yes. A Smith and Wesson revolver.”

  “And would the bullet have come from that weapon?”

  “I’m afraid that without the bullet, we cannot determine absolutely that it came from the gun found in the boat. That is part of our investigation.”

  “But it would be fair to draw a conclusion of sorts based on the presence of the gun and a gunshot wound?”

  “Not one hundred percent, no. But it is certainly a high probability.”

  This seemed to satisfy the coroner, who wrote some more notes. “Now then, you mentioned something else that was found?”

  Darling nodded. “This was a metal pin such as might be worn at a political rally or during an election cycle. The design was of a swastika in red with a blue surround. You will find it in the envelope.” This time a gasp and an upsurge of whispering came from the crowd.

  “I hasten to add that we have no way of knowing if this pin is connected in any way. It could have washed up on the beach, or been dropped there by a visitor or someone working the steamboat that docks three times a week at the King’s Cove dock.”

  The coroner was holding up the pin and scowling at it. “What is this supposed to be?”

  “I believe it is the insignia of a political party called the National Unity Party. It is an organization that was outlawed, for obvious reasons, during the war when it openly called itself a Nazi party and has enjoyed some resurgence since the end of the war in Quebec, Alberta, and even here in British Columbia.”

  “If there is no more testimony, I will adjourn for one hour,” announced the coroner. “I will try to make head or tail of this very unsatisfactory set of findings.” With that he slammed his gavel once again, causing Lane to jump.

  In the scraping of chairs and the sudden rise of chatter Lane said, “He certainly likes to wield that gavel. Who’s for a bite? Can we go to that café by the station? I had a nice piece of pie there once. Have you two been there?” she asked Eleanor and Kenny. “It’s just around the corner.”

  “Why not? It’s a great place to watch Ames’s life unravel.” Darling held the door open for the Armstrongs and Lane.

  Lane looked with displeasure at the cigarette, still lying where the man had ground it out, and then said, “What sort of verdict do you think he’s going to bring in? And a follow-up question, why is the coroner always so bad tempered? I seem to recall he was very short with everyone at the last inquest I attended.”

  “I expect it’s that he sees nothing but the seamier side of life. I’d probably be like that too,” Kenny said.

  “You never would,” said Eleanor fondly.

  Ames’s life withstood any unravelling, and in due course everyone was back in the legion, waiting to hear what the coroner would say.

  “It is very tempting in this case to return a verdict of suicide,” the coroner began. “The presence of a letter, though incomplete, suggests that Mr. Smith, if that is who he is, received grievous news about a close family member perhaps. Would it have been enough to attempt suicide? I would say yes. And there is the statement by the victim, ‘Just let me die.’ This too is suggestive of a failed attempt at suicide. However, there is also the circumstance of the victim being adrift in a rowboat. It is possible that the victim wished to take himself away from any populated area, but it seems an unusual course of action. As well there is the question of the obviously bungled shot. One imagines that at night, in a state of despair or even inebriation, near water, the gun could have slipped and misfired. It is more difficult to imagine a scenario where someone else wishes, for whatever reason, to do away with Mr. Smith, misses badly, and then places him in a rowboat and throws the gun in after him. And yet, we have the evidence of someone visiting him in hospital and searching among his effects for something. It is peculiar behaviour for someone who might have cared for Mr. Smith, and it appears that nothing whatever was taken. All these facts are highly equivocal and make a clear verdict difficult to make. I am inclined, by the circumstances, particularly the existence of the letter, to bring forward a verdict of suicide. Because of the inconsistencies, the doubt about the man’s identity, I declare this a death by misadventure, either by himself or person or persons unknown.”

  “I could have told him that,” muttered Ames, stretching his long frame. Chairs scraped and people, already talking about other subjects, filed outside.

  “Well,” said Lane, as they stood about on the sidewalk, “that is inconclusively that. We’re off to that nifty supermarket and then away back to King’s Cove, so we’ll leave you to it.”

  “I very much doubt your ability to leave anything to us,” Darling remarked.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Lane woke up wondering if she should try to borrow Mather’s boat or visit Mrs. Castle again. The boat would require learning how to use the motor, getting the boat to the lake—and then a whole day of wandering along the shore stopping in at likely coves. In the light of day, the Hughes’ theory seemed somewhat fanciful, and she did owe Mrs. Castle a visit to deal with transporting her eggs to the Balfour store. Lane barely disguised from herself that she was in full detective mode. She couldn’t bring herself to use the word, so she settled on “curiosity.” Her reasons for going were, after all, unassailable. She had become useful to Mrs. Castle’s business, and, despite the woman’s biting personality, or maybe even because of it, Lane felt sorry for her.

  Lane had left the French doors open overnight and now stood leaning on the doorframe, listening to the high, lilting song of some robins, calling out to one another somewhere in the trees below her. Her heart lifted as if, she felt, the song had bypassed even her ears and gone straight to her heart. She was somewhere in her childhood again, on a sunny morning like this one. Then she imagined standing here with Darling, in the quiet of the morning, his arm around her shoulder. Shaking her head, she turned to remove the bubbling coffee pot from the stove. She waited for the gurgling to subside and then filled her mug. It was no good, she thought. They lived in different worlds. She poured cream decisively into the mug, watching it whirl. She ought to stop imagining Darling here, in King’s Cove, with her. Waking up with her, going to sleep with her, sitting in the evening over Scotches with her. She hadn’t known what love was going to mean when it had happened, but it didn’t seem to involve domesticity. It hadn’t with Angus during the war, and it didn’t now.

  Vanessa Castle frowned when Lane got out of the car. She had been kneeling in the garden and stood, a trowel in her hand, as the car pulled up.

  “You don’t need to keep doing this,” she said. “I’ll figure something out.”

  “Goodness, it’s no trouble at all,” Lane said. Then she noticed the dark circles under Mrs. Castle’s eyes. “Are you all right? You look all in.”

  The woman put the trowel down on a rock at the edge of the border and sat down on the front stair, in the shade of the overhang. “I just didn’t sleep well. I’m fine.”

  Lane came and sat next to her. “Still nothing from Carl?”

  “No. I . . . no. Nothing.”

  Lane noted that Mrs. Castle said nothing about the police not finding him. She may know he is not dead, but it was clearly the case that he had not contacted her. Not for the first time she wondered about Lorimer’s big black car, if it had bee
n Lorimer’s. Could he have anything to do with the disappearance? That was absurd on the face of it. Lorimer was a politician who flew in much higher circles than the chicken-farming Castles. Of course Vanessa’s father had been a politician, if the rumours were true. She hadn’t always been poor.

  “Do you have family? Has he contacted any of them?”

  “Nope,” she said, getting up. Lane didn’t know if she meant she had no family or family hadn’t contacted her.

  “I have a sister whom I never talk to,” Lane said, smiling. “It can feel a bit like not having family.”

  “My . . .” But whatever she was going to say was lost by her turning toward the kitchen door and pulling it open. “We’d better get on with these eggs. I’ve trespassed enough on your time.” She pushed into the kitchen and began to pack the cardboard egg flats into a wooden box.

  “What would you like from the shop?”

  “I don’t need anything. I still have stuff from before. He can pay me later.”

  “Why don’t I pay you now? I’ve got some money with me, and I’ll collect it from Mr. Bales?”

  “Sure, that’ll save you from having to come back down.” Vanessa Castle sounded relieved.

  Lane paid for the eggs and followed Vanessa out, holding the door for her. On the way to the car Lane noticed something she hadn’t before . . . the grass in front of her own car was squashed down. There’d been someone parked there.

  Don’t jump to conclusions, Lane told herself. After all, Mrs. Castle had said that people were driving down to get eggs. She closed the latch on the trunk and, as she was opening the driver’s door, she looked up at where Vanessa Castle stood, her arms folded, watching her, waiting for her to drive away.

  “Oh my God, I almost forgot. Apparently the young fellow we found up the lake has died. Poor thing. They still don’t know who he was.”

  Vanessa Castle’s hand flew to her mouth, and she looked as if she was going to turn away. But she recovered and made as if to speak. There was a beat and then in a hoarse whisper she said, “When?”