Death in a Darkening Mist Page 19

  Charlie turned and looked at him with irritation. “All I know is Featherstone let her go this morning. If you think that I’m in his confidence, you are sadly mistaken!”

  “Well what were the two of you talking about? Vi said it happened after you two were in some sort of confab. She thought it was because Featherstone thought you were overheard.”

  Raising his hand for another drink, Charlie said, “My God, you are an ass, Ames. You sat here in your cozy job during the war, and you don’t have the first idea what it was like for me out there, do you? Don’t answer. Just leave me alone, would you?”

  The noise and smoke suddenly became intolerable to Ames. He pulled some coins from his pocket and put them down on the table. “No point in talking to you. You’re a self-centred bastard. And you’re drunk.”

  Outside it was cold, and the streetlamps threw bands of light across the snowy sidewalks. Ames breathed in the cold and the silence with relief. This was the real parting, he realized. He had tried for the sake of their boyhood friendship, but he knew without waiting around for Charlie’s response that he would only see Sylvia’s pregnancy as another blow against him. War was supposed to make men out of boys, but it obviously had done nothing for Charlie.

  THE NEXT MORNING, Ames’s outraged recounting of the previous day’s events to his boss was interrupted by the jangle of the phone.

  “Darling.”

  “Inspector, I’m thinking of driving up to see Barisoff. I think the business of what happened in Nelson that September day might be important. Barisoff might know why Zaharov went up to town. I’m calling out of professional courtesy, of course.” When Darling did not respond immediately, she pushed on, “Is there anything else you’d like me to ask about?”

  “Miss Winslow,” was all he said.

  “Yes, the same. Listen, if you think it’s a problem, of course, I won’t do it, but I’m closer and I speak Russian and he trusts me. Has anything happened at that end?”

  “No. That’s fine,” Darling finally managed. “Listen, remember when we talked about that chap Andrews from the bank? You said he’d only been to see you two times, and then there was one more. Three in all?”

  “Yes, and with any luck that will be the lot. He’s achingly uninteresting. Mrs. Hughes’s spaniels provide more entertainment. Why?”

  “He’s left a girl in a very interesting condition here in town. Just didn’t want you entangled.”

  “Really, Inspector! Well. That’s quite a turn up for the books. That should stop him from driving out here when he visits that aunt of his.”

  “There’s that too. Ames says Andrews doesn’t actually have an aunt.”

  “You don’t say. Why all the subterfuge? I wonder. What colour was that button you found? One of his buttons was loose one of the times he came here, though I can’t see him stumbling about under the building in a camel coat.”

  “Black.”

  “Well, the buttons on his coat were beige. Anyway it’s bad enough that he’s dishonest, boring, and has put his girl in the family way. I don’t think we need to add international assassin to his list of crimes.” What about embezzlement?

  “Drive safely, Miss Winslow.” Darling made as if to hang up the receiver, then snatched it back. “I mean that.”

  “I know,” she said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  BARISOFF HAD HAD PLENTY OF time to think, now that he didn’t have his friend to visit anymore. With a heavy heart he packed up Strelieff’s few clothes and his beloved Tolstoy, putting them into a wooden box lined with brown paper. He had no one to whom he could give these things. He locked up the cabin, shut off the water, and carried the box of paltry possessions back to his own house. He placed them under his bed and made himself some tea. He saw now that he’d been hiding the truth from himself. Strelieff had not been one of them. Barisoff knew his friend was an educated man, and if he’d only seen the signs, he could have guessed that he was on the run from something. Whatever it was had caught up with him. Perhaps Anton would want the house again.

  The sound of a car approaching made Barisoff stand and go to the window. He did not recognize the car, but with a flutter of anxiety, not unmixed with pleasure, he did recognize the driver. And she was alone. He put the kettle back on the stove to boil. He would warm up the tea he had made.

  “Hello, Miss. Do you come because there is more trouble?” he asked Lane. He had gone out to stand on the porch to wait for her.

  “No, Mr. Barisoff. No more trouble. Though they are no nearer to finding out who killed Strelieff.”

  “They cannot rid themselves of the idea that it was me, is that it? That is why you have come?”

  “No, no. It is nothing like that. In fact, the police did not send me, though they know I am here. It was my idea. And I have to learn to drive in the snow if I am going to live here! I thought it would be a good day for it. No, I just wanted to ask you a question, really.” She had been surprised that though the bad bit of road she feared so much had made her anxious, she minded it less when she was in control of the car.

  “Come in. I have tea.”

  “Excellent. I have brought you some biscuits and I could really use a cup of tea right now.” She handed him a packet of her favourite chocolate-covered cookies and slipped off her boots.

  “What question, then?” Barisoff asked as they settled down with their tea.

  “There is an entry in his diary from September 30 that is not like any of the others. It made me wonder if it is related to the incident you told us about, when he went to town and came back in a strange mood. It said, ‘Will I be able to stay?’ That’s all. Can you remember if he told you anything at all about what happened that day?”

  “Nothing. That was the funny thing. Usually he told me everything. Who he met, what he bought. This time, nothing.”

  “Do you remember what he’d gone to buy?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do. He’d gone up to get some supplies for the children. I remember now. He bought copybooks and some pencils, I think. He was ambitious for our children. No one took that much trouble before. And won’t again.” He shrugged and shook his head.

  “Then he must have gone to the stationers. Is there anything else about that day? Or anything, really.”

  “No. I packed his few things into a box. I have it here if anyone wants it. Perhaps his people in Saskatchewan?”

  “He has no one. You know he was actually a Russian, I mean, from the Soviet Union.” Too late, Lane mentally slapped her own forehead. She should not have said anything. This man was still a suspect.

  “I knew it! I was just thinking about this today. I thought, ‘He was not one of us, I see that now.’ Was Strelieff his real name?”

  In for a sheep, Lane thought. “No, he was called Zaharov. He was a journalist who had to run away for some reason.”

  “So his people. They are in Russia?”

  “Apparently he has no people. Quite alone and on the run.”

  “Then I must be the one to bury him. He was my friend. He was not quite alone. When this is over, please tell the policeman.”

  Touched by this stalwart show of friendship, Lane said she would indeed. As she stood at the door she asked, “Why did you go out to the hot springs on that particular day? You see, I still don’t understand how someone knew to go there.”

  “But we went every Thursday. You know. It gives shape to the week. Sunday worship, Monday washing, Thursday hot springs. On Fridays we shared a meal.” Barisoff frowned. “Does that mean someone was watching us? I don’t know, following us?” He looked anxiously past her at the driveway and the secretive stillness of the forest.

  “You know, it might.” She saw his worried expression. “I’m very, very sure that whoever it was only wanted him. Unless you’ve been writing articles critical of the Soviet government, you are quite safe.”

  “Of course. You must be right. Poor fellow, he must have lived with his fear the whole time, and I never knew it.”

  O
n the way back through the village, she stopped at the store. She might as well get her provisions here. It would save her a trip up to Balfour later.

  “Aren’t you the lady who came out with the policemen before?” asked the shopkeeper, putting down his newspaper and approaching the counter.

  “Yes, that’s me. How are you?”

  “Didn’t recognize the car. Up to see the Russian again?”

  “Yes, and I’m on my way home now, so I thought I’d pick up a few things.”

  “Boy, those Russians never had no one up to see them, excepting us around here, in the last six years, and now suddenly, they’re Mr. Popular.”

  “We’ve been up twice, it’s true, since his friend died,” said Lane, putting some eggs and a loaf of bread on the counter. “Do you have a bottle of milk?”

  “It was before then. There was that other fellow. Came looking for them back last month,” he said, going into the fridge behind the counter.

  Lane said in as offhand a manner as she could manage, “Oh, they never said.” She was feverishly wondering why no one had said. She had specifically asked Barisoff not twenty minutes ago if there was anything else. “I wonder what he wanted? Do you remember him at all?”

  The shopkeeper considered her for a moment. “You saying this might be connected? Barisoff told me Strelieff had been shot. He was pretty shaken up finding him like that.”

  “The man a month ago was probably just a friend,” Lane said noncommittally.

  “They don’t have friends who drive big cars. Big blue thing. And he wasn’t no Russian, either. A young fellow. Can’t remember much more.”

  Lane sat in her car. Young fellow. Blue car. God. She should go back and ask. Maybe Barisoff just forgot. But he hadn’t. Covering his surprise at seeing her twice in one day, he frowned at the mention of the blue car.

  “There was no one who came to visit. When did he say? A month? Nothing. I would remember that. I don’t think he stopped by to see Viktor either, because Viktor would have said something.”

  “Are you sure? You said he was pretty distressed after that trip to town, but he didn’t say anything then.”

  “That’s true,” said Barisoff, rubbing his chin. “That’s true. He had been in a different mood lately. I thought he had received a letter, or it was the anniversary of his wife’s death, something like that. But,” he added, snapping his fingers, “I would have seen the car. No one can go in a car to that cabin. You have to park here and then walk. It would be too far if the car was parked on the road, and it is thickly wooded. Do you think it was the man in the blue car who watched us?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  THE INFORMATION ABOUT THE BLUE car being in New Denver had given Darling a good deal to think about. Barisoff had confirmed to Miss Winslow that they always swam on Thursdays. Had Blue Car been watching them, learning the routine? He could not help feeling that the bank clerk, his housekeeper’s only son, was slowly coming into focus in this matter. He resisted this line of thinking, both because it was so unlikely as to be bizarre and because he could not imagine how he could ever break such news to the young man’s mother. And he was feeling an odd tinge of guilt because he had not told Ames what he was thinking.

  He had begun to muse about whether his suspicions warranted active surveillance of Andrews, and what that might look like, as he made his way up the hill to his house along the intermittently cleared and icy sidewalk. He was relieved that this was not a day when Mrs. Andrews came, though he did face the prospect of some cold and brick-like meatloaf in the fridge, left over from the day before.

  He paused at his mailbox and was surprised to find it uncharacteristically stuffed. Ah. Of course. His inaccurate mailman had struck again; his neighbour’s Sears and Roebuck catalogue, and one letter for him. Darling’s usual mail consisted of bills and the odd letter from his brother in Vancouver. His father had stopped writing altogether and left it to his younger son to convey the fatherly greeting. Wondering how much mail he lost to the neighbours because of his errant mailman, he trudged up the hill to the mailbox that ought to have gotten the catalogue and shoved it inside.

  It was only when he was indoors with his rubber overshoes off, and his coat and hat stowed, that he gave any thought to the letter. It was in an airmail envelope. A letter from overseas was a rare occurrence. Immediately after the war he had had some brief exchanges with old buddies, but those had died off on both sides as men folded quietly back into their civilian lives. He had missed the letters at first because he knew that no one else in his world could possibly understand what they’d all been through, but he began to find he could bury the war as surely as he’d buried his mother’s agonizing death.

  He sat in front of his cold meatloaf and the pickled beets that served as vegetable in the depths of winter and looked now at the letter. He was surprised by how much he did hope it was from a fellow pilot as he slipped the letter opener along the top of the envelope. Inside was a single piece of paper. He frowned at the handwriting, searching his memory for why it looked familiar, and drew in a sharp breath at the signature: Love, Gloria.

  He put the letter down without reading it, and picked up the glass of Scotch he’d poured to offset the disadvantages of the meatloaf. Just seeing her name flooded his mind with memories of her almost dashing beauty and the deep sense of . . . what had it been?—Embarrassment? Rejection? Shame?—he’d felt in the aftermath of their last meeting. More the latter, he decided; shame at having exposed himself so much in the relationship, that he had not understood the “rules” for whatever it was they had. He took up the envelope and was surprised to see an English stamp. She should be in Africa, he thought. That’s where he’d placed her in his mind, and left her.

  Dear Frederick,

  No doubt you will be surprised to hear from me after so long. I got your address from Henderson. He said you corresponded from time to time. I hope you don’t mind. When did we last meet? 1941? It seems like another life. Perhaps you thought I’d died. I nearly did, several times, but somehow managed to scrape through with nothing but some badly set broken bones. I was the lucky one, let me tell you. Too many of the girls didn’t make it. I decided when all was said and done to forget about flying. I’ve settled in Norfolk in a little house a great aunt left me. I teach in the local school, can you imagine? I don’t know if I ever told you, but my dream was always to go to Africa. I forgot about that too.

  I somehow have not been able to forget about you. You will think that odd, perhaps, after everything. I look at these little children and I wonder what we might have been if I’d been less of a fool. Perhaps you’ve returned to some sweetheart and are happily married, but I can only picture you as the man I knew, and pray that you think of me sometimes.

  I had, you see, thought of coming out there. Do you recall you suggested it once? It really comes down to this, Frederick: I think I was wrong. Will you write to me and tell me you agree?

  Love, Gloria

  His meatloaf untouched, Darling held the letter, wishing that each word would drop off and disappear into whorls of dust, to be swept up by the unsuspecting Mrs. Andrews the next day. Anything rather than the torrent Gloria’s words unleashed in him now. He could not sort any coherent, nameable feeling out of this maelstrom. He reread the letter and identified one of the feelings as a kind of anger. It was 1940 when they last met, he thought, not ’41. But right against that he remembered her beauty and the hold she had had on him. He tried to envision her coming here, living here in this house with him, perhaps even a couple of those children she imagined for them. He had thought himself in love, enchantingly, swept away in love. Really, he thought, what was left was a feeling of having been a fool, of having been diminished in his own eyes beyond recognition. He had never blamed her; he had blamed himself for not understanding some sophisticated game they had been playing.

  As he drifted into an uneasy sleep, his imagination was filled with things he was saying to her, even as he knew he would never say them
.

  Hampshire, October, 1940

  Flight Commander Darling mustered with the other pilots on the airfield. They could hear the drone of the Hurricanes coming in from the west. One by one the planes turned and descended, rumbling home across the packed field, which once had grown barley for a farmer who had given up his fields, and delivered himself, no doubt, into one of the branches of the military or the land army for the duration of the war. Darling watched as the women climbed out of the cockpits and on to the wings of their planes. He was looking for one, in particular, Gloria, and then there she was, sliding nimbly off the back of the wing near the end of the line of planes. By the time he got to her, she had taken off her helmet and was shaking her blond hair out of the pins she used to keep it out of the way during flight. She caught sight of him and waved.

  “Frederick, how lovely to see you!” She allowed herself to be kissed on the cheek. Her evident pleasure at finding him waiting for her was one of the things he liked about her—that, and her breezy dismissal of anything remarkable about her being a pilot. “Oh, all the girls fly nowadays,” she had told him when he had first expressed his wonderment at the women delivering bombers to the base from the factories. “Anyway, we don’t have to go round tangling with the Luftwaffe like you do. Much more impressive.” This, in the face of the fact that the women often had to fly the planes without instruments, as these were installed at base, and no small number of planes and pilots had been lost in transit from factory to air base.

  “How was your flight?” he asked now.

  “A bit of bother with clouds coming from the north, but nothing much else. You can feel the winter coming.” They were walking towards the buildings behind a large group of fly girls who were all talking and laughing with some of the riggers who’d come to attend to the planes.

  “I actually start my four-day’s furlough by lunchtime. Perhaps I could drive you back to town,” Darling said.