To Track a Traitor, page 13
Ames went to the mantel and picked up the case with the medal in it. “This one?” he asked, holding it out to her.
“That’s right,” she said, taking it and looking at it wistfully. “He was so brave. He got it rescuing several men who were under heavy fire. Including that wastrel, Billy. Poor fellow probably died of his wounds.” She said this as if his death were because of his own bad management.
Darling held out his hand. “May I see?” The silver medal, featuring a shield and military helmets but not the familiar figure of George v, had a ribbon of red and blue, and was pillowed in a bed of satin. “May I take it out of the box?”
Mrs. Robinson looked puzzled, then flustered. “Oh, I’ve never had it out of the box. Ben said I mustn’t because the air will tarnish it. It’s silver, you know.” She leaned forward anxiously, in what seemed tacit approval, and watched as Darling unhooked the clasp that held the lid.
“We won’t have it out for long.” Darling pulled the medal carefully from the box, turned it over to show the victory wreath on the back, and then looked at the edge. “Three one nine eight six,” he read aloud. The last number he wasn’t sure about. A six? An eight? Ames, who was standing behind Mrs. Robinson, had pulled out his own notebook and now made a note of the numbers. Some of the other engraving had worn off, Darling noticed. There should be the recipient’s unit and initials, or first initial and last name. He ran his finger around the edge, and then carefully replaced the medal into its satin bed and arranged the ribbon.
“You must be very proud,” he said, handing it back.
At the threshold he turned back to Arden’s mother. “Do you know either a Timothy Varden or Jessica Spinks?”
Frowning, Mrs. Robinson shook her head. “No. Should I?”
“They invited your son to their wedding last year.”
* * *
“she’s deluded, sir,” Ames remarked as they bumped back onto the main road into town.
“All mothers are deluded,” Darling said, but perhaps it was the bitter prospect of returning to an empty house speaking. “That’s an odd-looking medal for the Great War. Most featured the King. I want you to find out whom that number belongs to. It was difficult to see if the last number was a six or an eight because it was worn away, as was most of the rest of the information.”
Ames glanced at Darling. “Worn away? How so? It’s been sitting in its comfortable little cloth-lined box since the war. It should look brand new still.”
“Very good, Sergeant. It was relatively skilfully done. Made to look natural.” Darling perched his right arm on the window ledge. “He’s run away from the army, bags himself a medal, and alters it to look like it’s his—or at least removes any trace of its original owner. Then he manages to get back to Canada unmolested, marries, and becomes an exemplary husband and father. Then, after a considerable length of time—beginning last October, say, when he stops depositing his paycheque—he starts to drain the bank account. At some point he possibly takes up with an old flame, Philippa Bentley, though, meeting her husband, I’d say she might well have left him for her own good reasons. Then, a couple of nights ago, he climbs into his little boat with a backpack and a revolver. What does this suggest to you?”
“That all is not as it seems, sir?”
“Your perspicacity astounds me.”
Undeterred, Ames added, “You forgot that he maybe goes to a wedding, or at least gets an invitation to go, from people his wife has never heard of.”
“Yes,” Darling said thoughtfully. “Or his mother, though that doesn’t mean much. Get Terrell to track down the happy couple, Timothy and Jessica Varden, and find out how they know Arden. If not them, the bride’s mother, Mrs. Spinks. She likely ordered the invitations.”
“Sir.”
Silence reigned for a few miles and then Ames spoke again. “Now that you’re a bit of a straw widower, sir, my mother says you can come any time and have dinner with us.”
“Thank Mrs. Ames for me. Unfortunately, I’ve been left in charge of a garden, and I only have the hours at the end of the day to tend to it.” It was the best he could offer as an excuse, but then with a sinking feeling he realized it was true.
“Good for you, sir. Though you don’t really seem like the gardening type.”
“I’ll thank you, sergeant, to keep your personal observations to yourself.”
Passchendaele, June 1917
francine went to her tent and sat on the cot, rubbing her forehead. Her abiding feeling was shame. She felt one of her headaches coming on. She lay back and closed her eyes. She tried to remember the last day she’d had peace of mind. Maybe back in Canada when she’d heard that he’d signed up. That had meant he wouldn’t be coming around, that she would be rid of him and his constant wheedling. Toward the end she had begun to feel he might threaten her if he didn’t get what he wanted. But to her shame, she knew it wasn’t just him. They were bad for each other. Always had been. It had been a shock to see him sitting there, waiting for someone to fix his shoulder.
How had she fallen for him at all? How had she allowed herself to be overwhelmed with waves of unfamiliar physical yearning? God almighty, he’d still been a boy, really. The surprise of seeing him, that sly suggestive smile of his inducing a wave of fear and desire. She sat up again abruptly. It didn’t matter anymore. She couldn’t change what happened. She couldn’t take the risk that Ben would keep his mouth shut. She knew what he was like. Impulsive. She’d given Ben what he wanted—no, she supposed that wasn’t fair; it had taken both of them. Now look where she was.
Christmas 1916
francine stood against the wall of the mess, a tin mug of champagne in her hand. There had been enough in the way of tins of cake and biscuits and chocolate sent to the nursing sisters that they had decided to dress up their usual rations with these gifts of food and invite a few of the Canadian officers. No one had sent her anything, and she felt vaguely dishonest taking part. The officers had duly arrived with bottles of champagne. How could they always get what they wanted? The nursing sisters certainly couldn’t, not even things they needed for their work. Only seven officers had arrived, but they brought their batmen, which made up the numbers and gave the gathering a slightly raucous atmosphere that she felt shut out of. She watched them, intent on enjoying themselves, flirting with the sisters. Even under the gimlet eye of both Matron and their commanding officer, Major Richard Renshaw, they took liberties. She could hear giggles and male laughter.
She looked into her mug and gulped back the remains. She was tired and wanted to go to bed, but she didn’t want to upset Betsy, who was having a good time by all appearances. She put her cup on the edge of the table and crossed her arms in front of her. The pretense of a good time did not take away or diminish the horror of their work. She almost wished they were at work, all mental energy extinguished but that required to tend to the wounded. She didn’t want to think about anything. That’s when she saw him watching her—Renshaw, the commanding officer about whom she’d heard nothing but bad things. Men told her, laughing sometimes, desperate at others, about his ferocity and unbending sense of discipline. She looked across at him for a moment, wondering what kind of man made people feel like that, and their eyes locked. She looked away quickly, something inside her rising and sinking at the same time, as if a curtain had been momentarily pulled open on her own fate. The mess felt hot, and she wanted to go out and feel the icy winter air cool her face. She had just turned toward the door when he was beside her.
“You don’t appear to enjoy this any more than I do,” he said. He stood stiffly, one hand holding a bottle, but his other arm behind his back, as if he were a particularly correct waiter. He held up the bottle and reached for her abandoned mug.
She sighed and took the mug. “Thank you.” Looking out at the laughing group, she said, “It doesn’t change anything, does it? The Boche are still going to hammer us, and we’re still going to be covered in blood by the end of the day.”
She was surprised to see a smile flit across his face. He lifted his own drink. “To devotion to duty.” The smile was gone as quickly as it appeared. “You are from somewhere near Nelson. I know of your family.”
“I am sorry.” It had been a pale attempt at sarcasm. She found herself unable to make out how to talk to this man.
“Why? They seem quite respectable.”
She almost snorted. “Respectable? They’re bohemian to the core, all a bit unconventional, I’m afraid, and I’m the sorry result. The only one with any sense is my brother Billy, and he doesn’t like me at all. Anyway, most of them are dead except my grandmother.”
Renshaw had a sudden sense of unease at her words, at the mouth that said them, at the blue eyes that looked at him for only a moment, and then away. He could feel his face redden. He wanted to turn away, to leave her. He felt vaguely out of control. He put down his own mug, as if it might be to blame. Of course, she was wrong. He would put her right on that, at least. He had a fleeting thought that she was like a child and needed care.
“William MacDonald. He is in my command. He is a good soldier.”
At the far side of the room someone began to play a waltz on the upright piano that had not seen a tuner for some time. An accordion joined in. They struggled unsuccessfully together for a common pitch. Couples began to dance. Renshaw put up his arm.
“Do you dance, Lieutenant MacDonald?”
“I’m surprised you do. If you like my brother, I assure you, you cannot possibly like me. I would reconsider, if I were you.”
But he had taken her hand, put his arm around her waist, and led her around the dance floor. Someone had dropped a glass, and she became aware that his officers were watching him, astonished.
“You are very lovely, Lieutenant.” He said this awkwardly, as if he’d been coached by someone. “I’m sorry you don’t get along with your brother. We must fix that.”
“I’m sure I’m not the first person who does not get on with a brother. It is of no consequence, really.”
“It is of every consequence. I have an elder brother. We are loyal to each other because we are family. Family loyalty is surely the greatest virtue.”
Francine felt a wave of sadness and exhaustion. Billy was certainly not loyal to her, nor, if the truth be known, she to him. She was there even now, being rude about him to his commanding officer. “I’m sorry. I’m being very offhand. I’m tired, I think.”
His response was to press his guiding hand more firmly into her back, and she felt a jolt, her breath faltering. He leaned in and almost whispered, “I could look after you. Get you out of this.”
Was it the exhaustion, the hopelessness of the endless stream of broken men her days were filled with? The unending struggle to keep a sense of independence from her brother? She felt at that moment that being looked after was the most desirable thing in the world. It almost overwhelmed her. She leaned into him, and felt his sigh encompass her whole being.
July 1917
they were to be married in less than a month. She stared down at her writing box. She wanted to write her usual sort of letter, not confess that she and Ben had briefly become lovers again. She shuddered at the thought of what saying that would result in. No, maybe not that they were ever lovers. She could just say that she knew him before, back home. She had to say something. But her fiancé would wonder why she bothered telling him that. Would he guess there was something more?
The whole idea of her even having a fiancé had become somehow distant, with the scramble of her own work and the fact that she hadn’t seen him for months. That was no excuse for her behaviour, she knew. She almost wavered, decided against saying anything, but the danger of Ben telling Renshaw, especially now, was too great. He could be crazy, Ben, if he lost his temper or got drunk or something. Or he could tell any chum of his. Anything would be better than this gnawing fear of what Renshaw might do if he heard it from one of his own men. As it was, she didn’t trust Ben not to gloat about it with his fellow soldiers. Renshaw would hear it sooner or later that way. It was amazing, she thought, how longing and fear felt so little different, one from the other.
She took out a piece of writing paper and placed it, with the small bottle of ink and the pen, on the closed lid of the box. Before she had time to change her mind, she opened the ink bottle and dipped the nib into it. She would not give it to him until they were married. “My dear, there is something I must tell you . . .”
* * *
darling ate his lunch at his desk instead of with Ames and Terrell in the café. He was surprised to realize that he didn’t feel like company. If he was going to be alone, he might as jolly well be alone. His bottle of Coke half gone and the ham and cheese sandwich dispatched, he was surprised that pining had not made a dent in his appetite.
Where were they with the missing Ben Arden? He moved the bottle aside and brought his pad of foolscap to rest in front of him and took up one of his perfectly sharpened pencils. The case reminded him of an overgrown pot of chrysanthemums. It had started out as a missing call and had exploded into a bouquet of contradictory views of the man himself and his behaviour. A possible blackmailing effort, or a suicide bid, an awol from the Great War, theft, adultery . . . could murder be far behind?
With a sense of his own silliness, he drew a pot of flowers on the paper and began to label each bloom with a possible aspect of the case. He drew frowning eyebrows on each flower for good measure. He gazed at his inexpert handiwork and threw his pencil down with a sigh. So, this is what pining did to him. He was about to turn and look out at Elephant Mountain when his phone rang, making him jump.
Seizing the handset, he barked, “Yes?”
“Dalton, sir.”
“The mayor? Put him through.”
“No, sir. He wants you over there in person.”
* * *
darling, irritated and filled with trepidation, was issued into the mayor’s office. Last time he’d made the trip, his career had very nearly ended. He wondered now what fresh horror was in store for him.
“Ah, Darling. Sit. No, no, don’t worry, you’re not here to be raked over. Listen, I’ve had a visit from Dominic Renshaw. You know the name. Mining outfit. Big contributors to civic life. Apparently his long-missing sister-in-law has been found outside of London somewhere in a bombed house. She’s called”—here the mayor peered down at some notes he’d scribbled—“Mrs. Francine Renshaw. He’s putting rather a lot of pressure on me to have someone go over to look into it. I don’t know why exactly. This Mrs. Renshaw obviously isn’t the first Canadian to die overseas.”
“She must have been the wife of Major Richard Renshaw, who was the commanding officer of the man who’s gone missing. Our current case sir. A small world. As I understand it, our missing man and his commanding officer were on the same patrol and were ambushed. Nearly everyone was lost. My missing man was presumed dead by his regiment, but he’s been living here quite comfortably since the end of the war, it seems.”
“Very small world. Of course, when all is said and done, Nelson is a small town. People are bound to be connected in one way or another.”
Darling began to wonder why he was in the mayor’s office for what was beginning to feel like a chat. “Wasn’t there a Renshaw on council at one time? I seem to recall him when I first came here.”
“That’s right. They are a sort of founding family. Fading a bit, but can still pack a punch, so I’d like to get this resolved. He’s a bit difficult to deal with.”
“How does this involve me?” Darling asked.
“As I understand it, Francine was one of two nursing sisters from Nelson to go over to France during the Great War, only she never returned. Her husband, Major Renshaw— that’ll be Dominic Renshaw’s brother—died in battle, and she just disappeared. Now Dominic Renshaw wants this looked into, personally. I’m not able to go over.”
“I still don’t see why anyone has to go all that way,” protested Darling.
“I suspect there might be some sort of scandal about the whole thing. At a guess, he wants it tidied up and put to bed without the involvement of the papers. He says there were rumours at the time that upset his parents.”
“What sort of rumours?”
“I don’t know, do I? He said his parents were horrified by the marriage because the woman was a bit bohemian. That covers a multitude of sins. He wouldn’t say more. Just that he wants someone over there. He found out about the discovery of the body from a British paper he gets. Didn’t I hear your wife has gone over to Blighty? You could get this sorted and then join her for a holiday.” He attempted a winning smile. “I’m sure you’re owed one.”
Darling, who had indeed begun to see the benefits of such a trip, said, “By the time I get there, I’m afraid she might be on her way home.”
“You won’t be lounging about on the Queen Mary, Darling. You’ll have to fly. Bloody awful expense, but there you are. I’ll authorize it. You can go get more details from Renshaw. Retired out to their farm near Slocan.”
* * *
farm did not adequately describe the palatial house at the end of a very elegant treed drive. Darling stopped on the curved driveway near the front steps and looked across at a pristine lawn and the burgeoning spring growth in the flower beds surrounding the house. If Renshaw lived here on his own, he was certainly not letting the place go to seed. The front door was opened by a young woman in a white apron and a lace cap who gave a little bob.
“He’s expecting you, sir. Through there in his study.” She held out a hand for his hat and placed it on a table near a coat rack.
Renshaw’s study looked out onto the lawn, and beyond it a bank of trees and then the river. It was darkly panelled and full of books. He expected to see a large desk dominating the room, but the desk was small and near a glass-front bookshelf full of what appeared to be war memorabilia. Darling could see photos of stiff men in uniform, a battered silver box, and several medal displays.
