A Lethal Lesson, page 23
“Actually,” said Angela, suddenly thoughtful, “there’s been no one there for a good week. I suppose they don’t want to work in this weather, though now that you mention it, I could swear I heard a car going up that back road last night.”
“Well, night is any time from four in the afternoon on these days. I thought I heard your bloody dogs at about one in the morning,” Reginald said.
“Yes, you’re right!” Angela said, with unfailing good nature. “It was the dogs that alerted me. Though, Reggie, they were in the house, so I’m not sure how you think you heard them. I woke up because the dogs were restless and that’s when I heard the car. I’m fairly sure it was well after two, actually.”
“Restless!” Reginald snorted. “Is that what you call it?”
“Now that’s interesting,” said Mabel. “I had a strange car drive up to the edge of our driveway yesterday, have a good look around, and then back out. Big black thing. Did you hear them leave again?”
“No. I don’t think so. Mind you, if they left early in the morning, I wouldn’t hear them. A steam shovel could be operating in the yard and I wouldn’t hear a thing while I’m getting the children ready for school.”
“Now why would someone be arriving at that time of night? If the construction has stopped, then nothing would be hooked up,” Gwen said.
“Really, you lot are getting more and more like Miss Winslow, as she insists on calling herself against all human decency,” said Reginald. “You’d all be better off minding your own business.” He’d had to raise his voice to be heard above the tractor that had now arrived. “Turn that bloody thing off!”
Robin turned off the tractor and sat staring at the gathering with his eyebrows drawn together in a look of irritation. “What’s going on?”
“Oh, nothing, Robin. We’re just waiting for Eleanor to sort the mail. I think the steamer arrived a little late today,” Angela said.
“Actually, Angela was just telling us that she heard someone heading up the back road toward the Anscomb house at two in the morning. Did you hear anyone drive into King’s Cove?” Gwen asked.
Robin lived right at the turnoff, and if he was home, he was in a good position to see the traffic, rare as it was, turning up the road into the community. He had complained to Gladys over a cup of tea the week before about the steady stream of builders’ vans and equipment trucks going past him and up to the house.
“I didn’t, as it happens. Sleep of the dead.” He turned to look at the post office door. “What’s holding up the proceedings?”
Just at that moment Kenny came out with the dog and his wood basket. “All right, all done!” he said, and then he made his way to the woodshed around the side of the house.
Gwen and Mabel were first to the door and opened it just as Eleanor slid up the window with a friendly bang and gave them her toothy grin. “Something for you and Gladys. A big handful of Christmas cards. Some from the old country. It’s wonderful you still have ties there!”
“Various sorts of cousins. Hardly know them at all anymore. I expect most of them are ninety if they’re a day,” said Mabel, taking the mail. “Have to keep up the whole charade of cards for form’s sake, I suppose. Mummy likes it. You didn’t hear. Angela said someone was driving up the back road at two in the morning.” Mabel leaned forward as she said this, aware of the waiting group behind her.
“Goodness! I wonder what that means. Here you are, lovey. I know it’s coals to Newcastle, but your mumsy did say she enjoyed my spiced biscuits.” She handed Mabel a packet of cookies wrapped in greaseproof paper.
When it was Angela’s turn to collect the mail for the Bertolli household, Eleanor handed over a larger bunch of cookies to accommodate the appetites of the three boys. “What do you make of it, then?” she asked.
“I’m not sure. I’m tempted to wander up there and have a look around, see if they have made any progress, though as I told the others, I don’t think there’s been anyone working there for at least a week. I don’t know who would come there in the middle of the night last night. Still, if it’s someone from Vancouver, it’s a long way to drive, so they’ve arrived late and are sleeping over in an unfinished house. I wish Lane wasn’t having to go into the school every day. She’d come along with me.”
“Would you like me to send Kenny? He’s as nosy as they come! You could pretend you were a delegation of locals coming to welcome them, and, if what you say is true, offer them a cup of coffee and a cooked breakfast,” Eleanor suggested.
“No, that’s all right. I walk the dogs near there anyway. But that’s a brilliant idea. If there’s anyone there, I can just welcome them to King’s Cove and make sure they have everything they need!”
November 1947
SERENA DEVLIN PARKED her rented Chevrolet at the side of the road, though she doubted she’d be in the way if she parked it right in the middle of the road. It looked as if no one ever came along here. She threw her right arm over the seat and leaned so that she could look out the passenger window. The grassy track she was looking at extended into the woods. Clearly a vehicle had been driven on it, so perhaps she could risk it. She put the car in gear and turned onto the track and drove forward slowly.
She was rewarded after about two hundred yards by the appearance of a cottage, remarkably, she thought, painted a bright sky blue. An old battered DeSoto was parked at an angle in front of the cottage. Serena pulled up next to it and got out, surveying the yard. On the near side of the cottage, a small vegetable garden that had been outlined with what looked like discarded railway ties had brown and dying remains of runner beans on pole teepees and a few small, worm-eaten cabbages. Otherwise the surrounding forest and bush seemed to have been allowed to encroach.
As she approached the stairs, she saw the curtain move, and when she reached the third of four steps, the door was opened. The woman from the fishing lodge with the striking blue eyes stood before her, one hand on her hip, the other holding the door, as if uncertain whether to shut it or to open it wider. She was dressed in a faded plaid shirt and blue jeans. Her dark hair was pinned back on both sides, more a testament to convenience than fashion. Serena was surprised that close up, in spite of her weathered face, she looked younger than she’d imagined.
“Mrs. Devlin. I’m very surprised to see you here.”
“You remember me,” Serena said. “Can I come in?”
“Suit yourself.” The woman held the door wider.
The door led directly into a little sitting room with an iron stove as its centrepiece. A neat pile of wood was in a box beside it, and a fading hand-braided rag rug in blues and greens occupied the space in front of the stove. A collapsing easy chair with a side table held a half-empty cup of coffee and two books turned over. Against a small window, a tiny kitchen table with one wooden chair suggested the woman’s dining facilities.
Serena stood uncertainly for a moment and the woman pulled the wooden chair forward. “Please, sit down,” she said, seating herself on the arm of the easy chair.
As Serena turned to sit, she saw that the whole back wall, between the window and the door, was fitted with a bookshelf that was crammed with books.
“Thank you. I’ve come to ask how you know my husband. Your name is Denise Irving, is it not?” Serena asked. “I asked at the lodge.”
The woman nodded and crossed her arms, then she made as if to get up. “May I get you something?”
“No, thank you.” Serena sat with her hands folded on her lap, her legs crossed, causing her emerald-green skirt to fall gracefully. She had not removed her calfskin driving gloves. She waited, but Denise Irving did not speak. Instead she sighed, looked out the window, and then down at her hands.
“I saw the way you and he talked on the boat. I could see that you knew each other, and I just wonder how, you see.”
“You didn’t ask him?” Denise asked.
“I didn’t. I knew he would lie to me. I suspect you are more likely to tell me the truth,” Serena said this in a matter-of-fact way. She lifted her chin slightly as she spoke, in a kind of unconscious defiance.
“I read in the papers about your marriage some years ago. How I know him is immaterial in every way to you. I knew him twenty-four years ago. I had not seen him since ’23. I imagine he was as taken aback as I was.” Denise tilted her head slightly, as if trying to understand why this young, beautiful, and smartly dressed woman had made the trek out into the middle of nowhere.
“Were you lovers?”
Denise looked at her. She was certain that Serena must already know they had been. “Yes. He was young; I was married. It didn’t work out. I don’t understand why you’ve come to rake up such ancient history. Is it because he’s running for office? Because if so, he must have had scores of lovers since me. You will exhaust yourself trying to track them all down. Let me reassure you now, I pose no danger whatsoever to you, or him, or his political aspirations, though I see he’s running as a Tory. He must not expect my vote.”
“There was a child.” The bluntness of this declaration, the sudden chill with which it was delivered, caused Denise to stand abruptly and walk toward the window.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” Serena insisted. “It turns out they are quite gossipy at the lodge.”
“Again, I have to ask why it matters,” Denise said, turning back toward her guest.
“Don’t misunderstand me. I don’t care about your sordid history or grubby affair, or your brat, but my husband cannot have in his background a child born out of wedlock. It would ruin him. I need to know that whoever that child is, he or she is not going to spring out of the weeds at the least opportune time.”
Denise shook her head, her forehead contracted. Her voice caught, and she quickly controlled it. “You amaze me. Let me put your mind at rest. I have no idea where the child is, or indeed who she is anymore. I am certain she does not know the identity of her real father. My husband tossed me out, and I felt it better to leave her with him, since I was broke and had no place to live. In a weak moment I called her school a year later, just to get some news of her, and they told me he’d taken her to live with an uncle, his religious maniac of a brother. No doubt she was married at fourteen and is tethered to some ghastly farm and five children by now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
DARLING SAT BESIDE MISS SCOTT’S bed, waiting. When he’d first been shown in, Miss Scott had looked up eagerly. Dr. Edison had said, rather loudly, he thought, that here was Inspector Darling from the police. But moments later the patient had sunk into this state of lethargy. Miss Scott was looking down at the pale green coverlet and folding and unfolding it between her fingers.
“Miss Scott?” he said.
She shook her head. It was hard to tell if it was to clear her thoughts, or an expression of some decision not to talk after all.
“You asked for someone from the police to come and talk to you. How can I help?”
“Where is the other one?” she said, finally, her voice weak.
“The other which?”
“The dark one. I like him. He’s kind.” She finally looked at him but only sidelong, and only for a moment.
“Constable Terrell. Would you feel more comfortable speaking with him?” Darling’s heart sank. Miss Scott had so far shown a very uneven ability to remember things, and he was afraid he would lose whatever advantage he had if he did not find out quickly what had prompted her to ask to speak to the police.
“I can probably get him here in fifteen minutes. Would that be soon enough? I know you seemed very anxious to talk to someone right away.” He was aching to ask her about where her car was, but he was afraid she might shut down.
Miss Scott lifted her hand, either acquiescing or dismissing him, Darling could not tell which, and closed her eyes. Quelling a muttered “Blast!” he went back out to the nurse’s desk.
“Could I use your telephone?”
“Yes, of course. This one here will reach the exchange and you can call outside the hospital.”
Tapping his fingers on the desk impatiently as his call was put through to the station, Darling looked toward the room where Miss Scott lay, burdened, he hoped, with something that might be of use in solving the question of who hit her. Finally, O’Brien came on.
“Nelson Police Station.”
“Put that paper down and get Terrell on the line, and quickly.”
“Certainly, sir. I mean, I would, but he’s gone next door to the café to get a sandwich to bring back to his desk,” O’Brien said. Darling closed his eyes and shook his head. If O’Brien had seen this show of impatience, he would have responded by becoming more stolidly and reproachfully respectful. “Then kindly go and get him. Tell him he is to drop everything and come to the hospital to speak to Miss Scott instanter. He can eat sandwiches on his own time.”
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. But the phones—”
“O’Brien.” There was enough warning sounded in this one word.
“Righty-ho, I’m on my way.”
When Darling returned to Miss Scott’s room, she appeared to have drifted off to sleep. Wishing he had a newspaper, he settled down to keep watch over her until Terrell showed up. Looking impatiently at his watch, he calculated the time it would take for O’Brien to get on his coat, stagger into the street to the café, and converse with Terrell. Possibly the sandwich was just on the point of being prepared and needed only wrapping. They would wait. He shook his head to shake himself away from this pointless impatience and turned instead to the matter of the hit and run.
The discovery of the car opened up possibilities. Would the owner prove to be the driver? What, he wondered, was this powerful impetus to see justice done in cases like this? After all, it was likely an accident, and doubtless the person who did it must suffer at the thought that he had hit someone on the road. Knowing that would not bring Mr. Gaskell back. He batted away the suddenly intrusive thought that the world wouldn’t want him back in any case, with his mistreatment of his child and his poisonous notes, and who knows in what other ways he had been a repellent presence among those who knew him.
Darling shifted in the chair and sat back, crossing his legs. But order and justice were the point. Yes, it might have been an accident, but it was against the law not to stop and render assistance. This alone made the effort of finding the culprit of value. Doubtless he, or she, would get a negligible sentence, but it would send a message: There is order in society. There is right and there is wrong. But what if in the whirling snow conditions the driver had not even been aware that he had hit a person? What if he thought he had hit an animal? He himself had hit a coyote one summer when it had bolted out from under a bush right into his car. He hadn’t stopped because he had been responding to a frantic call from a woman who had found her husband dead.
He had just concluded again that Gaskell’s death might remain unsolved, and that the major focus should be on solving the assault on Miss Scott, when he heard Dr. Edison’s voice in the hall outside.
“Constable Terrell, good afternoon. Your boss is in there waiting.”
Darling went out to join them. He would have to bring Terrell up to date. “Constable. Thank you for making good time. Sorry about your sandwich. There will be others. In the meantime, you seem to have sprinkled fairy dust in Miss Scott’s eyes. She won’t talk to me. Only wants you. According to Dr. Edison here, she was urgently asking to speak to the police. I’m assuming that it’s because she remembered something, so if you could step along smartly and find out what it is, I’ll give you a lift back and we can get on with getting this sorted before Christmas. Oh, and see if you can get her to tell you where her car is.”
Terrell, who had removed his hat and was holding it in both his hands, nodded and turned to go in to see Miss Scott. Darling and Dr. Edison watched him and then she said, “He’s a very nice young man. Where did you find him?”
“Yes, I suppose he is. We had a vacancy and he applied. Came highly recommended by his department in Nova Scotia. Good war record.”
“I wonder if he ever feels a bit like a fish out of water here,” she said. She smiled. “I know I do at times. It was all very well in the army. People soon stopped thinking of me as a woman, and I became someone who patched people up, and directed others to patch people up. In a small town like this I am certainly an oddity. But at least when I get out of my lab coat I look like any other woman. His colour makes him a beacon wherever he goes.”
Darling nodded toward the door of the hospital room. Miss Scott was talking earnestly to Terrell, who was leaning in to listen and nodding encouragingly. “So, apparently, does his charm,” he said.
Dr. Edison smiled. “True,” she said.
“HE WASN’T THAT scary,” Rafe said, as Lane closed the book on Dickens’s Christmas ghosts.
“That’s interesting, Rafe. Why is that, do you think?”
Rafe looked up for a moment to think about this. Lane could see Gabriella’s hand waving at the back.
“Because, it’s what you said. Scrooge didn’t really go anywhere, and he woke up in his bed, safe and sound.”
“Good point. What about you, Gabriella? What do you think?”
“I think he was kind of scary, but what made it not seem scary after all is that he woke up and it was Christmas Day, and he was happy. He gave money to the poor people and gave away a big turkey to Tiny Tim and then went to his nephew for a nice party, and so he forgot about being afraid.”
“It sounds like what you are saying is that when something bad has happened, having good things happen afterward can help you maybe feel a little better?”
Gabriella glanced at Samuel, who had his arm stretched out across his desk and was resting his head on it. “Yes. I think that’s true.”
Lane looked around at the children. “What does everyone else think about this?” The children nodded solemnly.
Samuel had sat up, and now put his hand up. “Yes, Samuel. What do you think?” Lane could feel herself almost holding her breath. She had not expected him to want to speak.
