“Yes.” Josephine did not take her eyes from him. “But there are no tracks of them back from the potting shed to the door, though there are some on the way out.”
He stared at her. Her gaze was direct, troubled. She was waiting for him to reply.
“You are sure?” It was not really a question, just a delaying of the moment he had to acknowledge it. He stared at Josephine. She had seen something she understood and could not deny.
“I’m sure there’s something wrong.” She bit her lip. “Lucas, he went out, but he did not walk back, not on his feet. Can we look the other way and still face ourselves? Exactly what were we all fighting for in the war? Not for another war, God knows, but not to avoid it using any means, including joining the enemy or becoming him.”
Of course, she was right, but exactly right? He could not answer that because he could see so little ahead of him.
She waited for him.
“We must tell the police that they should investigate Stoney’s death, because it’s murder.” He stood up slowly. He was stiff. There would have been no crick in his knees ten years ago. His mind would have been quicker. He would not have seen so many clouds of obscurity ahead, uncertain and full of the possibilities of war. Was he wrong then…or now?
* * *
—
Josephine went with him to the police station. It was at least half an hour before the inspector came out to see them. He was clearly tired at the end of the day, and was straining his patience to deal with two elderly people whose grasp of reality seemed tenuous, at best. It was only because they were obviously grieved and completely out of their depth that he exercised as much patience as he did.
Josephine explained what she had seen in the potting shed.
“And did you see this lost spade, sir?” he asked Lucas.
Lucas kept his temper with difficulty. “Do you mean on another occasion? No, we did not meet in the potting shed. We sat in Mr. Canning’s study.”
The inspector’s face showed his rapidly shortening temper. “Did you find Mr. Canning quite well?”
“Yes,” said Lucas. “I’ve known him since we were both students in Cambridge and that was approximately half a century ago. And on and off, all the years between. Better during the war, of course.”
“That was a long time ago, sir.”
“Fifteen years. Blink of an eye in history,” Lucas dismissed it. “Most of us alive now can remember it. We still have our scars, and our losses.”
“Yes, sir. I lost my father and I’m in no hurry to see the signs of violence again, especially when it is no more than the sad death of an old man who had a heart attack and fell down the stairs. I’m sure he had a great record during the war, but he’s lucky enough to die quickly in his own home, and at a good age. Go back to your house and take your wife with you. She has had a long, sad day. Don’t look for violence and crime where there isn’t any.”
“But—” Lucas began.
“Take an honorable retirement, sir,” the policeman said patiently. “And let Mr. Canning be buried in peace and dignity. Do you feel well enough to drive home, or would you like me to have one of my men drive you?”
Lucas felt as if someone had closed black curtains all around him, shutting out all the light. He stared at the younger man for several seconds before he spoke. “Mr. Canning served in MI6 during the war and after it, right up until his death. He risked his life in high and dangerous causes, without ever asking for or expecting any recognition. I know that because at one time I was his commanding officer. I owe him this much, at least. And I will see that you accord it to him.” He stood up and took Josephine by the arm.
“You were…MI6?” The policeman appeared stunned, and then his expression reflected profound awe and respect.
“And I’m trusting you to keep that between us,” said Lucas.
With that, he and Josephine walked out into the gathering night.
CHAPTER
12
“There’s no point in going back,” Aiden said grimly, as he and Elena walked along the quayside and turned sharply down one of the narrower streets, the alley walls closing in on them. He was slightly ahead of her. He stopped suddenly and caught hold of her elbow, pulling her to a stop. He leaned forward, and for a moment, she thought he was going to kiss her.
“Look at me and listen,” he said quietly. “You brought me a message. London may not be certain that Max’s cover has been blown, but I am. I can’t rely on him. In fact, he may already be dead.” He went on quietly, urgently, “You can either go back toward the center of the city—I’ll take you until you’re safe, and you can make it the rest of the way—or, if you come with me, you do as I tell you. It’s dangerous…very dangerous. If they killed Max, they’ll think nothing of killing either of us, or both. Body into the canal. One more suicide…”
Elena looked at him, puzzled. It was not that she doubted what he said; it was his emotion that confused her. Did he want her to go or to stay? His voice was scraping with the intensity of his feelings, but was he scared, angry, or horrified that this should all happen here, in this beautiful city, where the light was so pure, touching the ancient stones so tenderly? Did Aiden even see that? Had Max been a friend, as well as his contact with Peter Howard, his only link with England and any of the things he was risking his life to save?
“Of course,” Elena said as levelly as she could. “We have to find out if Max is alive or not, and if he isn’t, then who killed him. And if possible, how much he told them. It would be foolish to go back to any place they know to look for us.”