Depth of Deception (A Titanic Murder Mystery) (28 page)

"
From 1909?
"
she asked nervously.

"
Precisely.
"

"
What if they’re sealed as well?
"

"
Just let me know…
"
de Kirkhaugh was distracted by a sudden swell of voices from upstairs.
"
Page me when you’ve found something.
"

De Kirkhaugh dashed up the stairs to the ground floor as some constables were scrambling out the door. He saw his husky colleague, Detective Sergeant Milton, putting on a coat that would have been more like a tent on most men.

"
Milton? What the devil is going on?
"

"
Explosion
,
sir! Just came on the two-way!
"
Milton yelled.

"
What?!
"
De Kirkhaugh exclaimed as he felt his breathing pause in anticipation. He dreaded asking the next question for fear of what the answer would be,
"
Where was the explosion?
"

"
Kelvindale Lane!
"

Chapter
XXXVI

Natalie had hardly slept. She had been on pins and needles since the cryptic message from Myra yesterday
.
Edward had been able to decipher the taps and had hung up without giving her any details. She had left a message with the clinic to page her if he called her back.

When his call finally came in, Natalie had interrupted another session to take it, prattling off a dozen questions before Edward could even say ‘hello’.

"
Myra is fine. She’s safe and sound. A far cry better than Mr. Kybartis I dare say.
"

"
Where is he?
"
Natalie asked.

"
He’s dead,
"
Edward said nonchalantly.

"
What? How?
"

"
I won’t bore you with the gory details. The police were here getting a statement this morning. They’ve ruled it as self-defense.
"

"
My god,
"
exclaimed Natalie.
"
Can I speak with her?
"

"
She’s fallen asleep. The poor dear was half-frozen when we found her in the snow.
"

"
Does she require medical attention?
"
Natalie asked.

"
She’ll be fine,
"
Edward replied, then asked,
"
Could you fax me that information about Myra’s Laudanum poisoning you were telling me about?

"
Yes, of course. Mr. Hoffman
…,
"
Natalie tried to sound professional again.
"
I would like Myra to return here for further examination. We still need to get to the bottom of who she really is, and why she’s manifesting this delusional behavior.
"

"
Yes… of course… but can it wait for a few days?
"
Edward asked. Even through the phone receiver, Natalie could hear the reluctance in his voice.

"
I think the longer we put it off
,
the harder it will be to break down the mental barriers,
"
she added.

"
Of course,
"
he replied after a moment.
"
I’ll leave it up to Myra to decide when we return from England.
"

"
England?
"

"
Yes, I think the key to solving this mystery lies there. If I’m wrong, we shall be back by April 15th and we’ll connect again.
"

"
But...
"

"
I’ll talk to you then. Thank you for everything, Doctor. Bye.
"

Before Natalie could interject the line went dead.
Bye?
Perhaps she was overreacting but his voice sounded so final when he said that. She sat looking at the phone for a moment, wishing she had his phone number to call him back. England? Was there something in Myra’s past there? She couldn’t even hazard a guess as to what they could find. Natalie had the disturbing feeling that Edward wasn’t being upfront with her.

Did he somehow believe the Titanic tale?
Natalie wondered. It would seem unlikely that a man of his experience and intellect would become swept up in this preposterous fantasy. Perhaps there was some sort of codependent disorder at play. Was he somehow in need of a surrogate mother? It defied logic, yet Natalie was at a loss for any other explanation.

_ _ _

After hanging up the phone, Edward turned to see Myra still asleep on the large plush sofa, surrounded by encyclopedias. She had 70 years of history to catch up on, and more advancement had happened in this century than in the past thousand years.

He found it touching to see her reaction to the fact that a woman was the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom. When
Titanic
set sail in 1912, women were still not allowed to vote, and in spite of their academic achievements, were denied their PhD's because of their gender. Now she marveled that there were female psychiatrists, and other such professionals. She had seemed so pleased that he’d chosen not to dwell on the darker chapters of the 20th Century. Even with all the advancement in technology, this century had also seen the most violent and destructive side of humanity.

Edward’s thoughts were interrupted as Myra groaned in her sleep. Gently grasping her hand, he was alarmed to feel how icy she still was. He had given her three blankets but she still had trouble warming up.

He limped over to the fireplace, added another log and stoked it, waiting for it to catch. Then he stood up and watched her as she slept. He couldn’t stop looking at her. She was his mother. Her voice was the one he used to dream of as a child. The warm loving look in her eyes was what he had been longing for
. He could feel
in his heart
that she was who she said she was. Yet, his mind had trouble grasping it. How was it even possible?

If she truly was his mother, who was the woman who claimed to be Myra all these years?
Why would someone take on an identity that wasn’t theirs?

Or, more logically, was he just wishing this young woman here was his mother because the one who had been in his life had always been cold and distant?

He had the sudden urge to call up the old woman in England whom he had always called ‘Mother’ to set the record straight. He marched over to the kitchen doorway and picked up the phone receiver and started to dial.

Then he hung up.

What was he going to say,
‘Hello Mother, who are you really? What’s your real name?’
No matter what scenario played through his mind, he would sound mentally unstable.

He looked back a
t Myra, asleep. Perhaps it would be better to see what the reaction would be if the two met face to face. Edward hoped the truth would reveal itself. He slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out Myra's necklace. He opened the locket, looked at the photo of himself in the sailor suit, and smiled. He had a vague recollection of wearing that outfit long after it had gotten too small. Then, Edward studied the other sepia photo. It was unmistakably his father. He remembered when his father had still looked that way, and there was no denying the woman with him was the young woman asleep on his couch.
How?

Edward turned the locket over and saw the engraving:

To Myra,

Happy Anniversary!

Archie

December 31.

Edward read the date again. It read ‘December 31’. This made no sense. All his life, his parents celebrated their wedding anniversary on April 14…
the same date that Titanic struck the iceberg.

He looked at his watch and calculated in his mind. The United Kingdom hasn’t started Daylight savings time yet, so their clocks would be six hours ahead. It was still business hours there.

He picked up the phone and dialed ‘0’. Hopefully he could find some answers.

Chapter
XXXVII

Damn me for finding this address for Toughill! What have I gotten myself into,
wondered de Kirkhaugh as he saw black smoke billowing from what was left of 66 Kelvindale Lane. Fire lorries and police cars surrounded the charred remains of the townhouse. Like vultures amassing around the carcass, the camera crews were already on the scene, vying to get the most spectacular and sought-after shot that would be played repeatedly on the news. The media and their thirst for sensationalism had been a bone of contention for most of de Kirkhaugh’s career as a detective. As a reporter once said to him,
‘Blood and Fire sells.’

"
Was this the work of radicals, or the Argentines retaliating?
"
a reporter screamed as they shoved a microphone into his face.

"
It’s too early to comment one way or the other before the investigation is complete,
"
de Kirkhaugh said, and before they could ask another stupid question, he marched toward the charred townhouse.

The Fire & Rescue Brigade had doused the flames and the Fire Marshall was already inspecting the area. De Kirkhaugh and Detective Sergeant Milton showed their warrant IDs as they passed the yellow barrier tape.

"
Was there anyone in there?
"
de Kirkhaugh asked one of the paramedics.

"
No-one yet, but they haven’t finished sifting through all the debris.
"

De Kirkhaugh turned to Detective Sergeant Milton,
"
If there were any witnesses, get whatever statements you can from them.
"

Milton nodded, then crossed to the crowd of onlookers as de Kirkhaugh continued into the house. He knew that Milton’s intimidating build was an asset for encouraging people to tell the truth.

Strathclyde firemen were tossing smoldering cushions and anything else that could still re-ignite through the windows and onto the street. De Kirkhaugh heard a crack under his foot, and looked down to see a broken picture frame. The photo had water damage from the fire brigade but the face within it was still recognizable. The unmistakable features of Edward Hoffman. De Kirkhaugh had seen his picture in the paper recently regarding a second
Titanic
or something like that. This photo was obviously taken long ago, as his hair was still dark, but the face was the same. De Kirkhaugh made a mental note.

Using a flashlight, the Fire Marshall traced the source of the fire. He was hovering around the gas stove.

"
What do you think, Allan?
"
de Kirkhaugh asked as he approached.

The Fire Marshall turned and smiled,
"
Awrite
, Don!
What brings you here?
"

"
Seeing if this is connected to a case I’m working on,
"
de Kirkhaugh lied.

"
The fire originated here. No sign of accelerant. Old gas stove, no pilot or electric switch, so it still uses matches to light. My prelimina
ry guess: s
imple gas leak.
"

"
Was there anyone inside when it happened?
"

"
Not so far as we know,
"
Allan replied, as he positioned himself in front of the stove.
"
They would have been standing here to light it. If the gas had been left on for whatever reason, or leaking, a simple spark could have caused the explosion. They would have been thrown against this opposite wall.
"

De Kirkhaugh looked over to where the Fire Marshall was pointing. Then he noticed the hallway next to the wall. He walked over to it.

The Fire Marshall, upon seeing him standing in the rear hall added,
"
The angle is off. Nobody would have been thrown that way.
"

De Kirkhaugh wasn’t listening as he rounded the corner and saw the back door. He pushed it open to see it lead to the backyard. He had hoped to find Callum or the old lady but there was no way either of them would have reached this far if the gas explod…

He paused as something reflected the light into his eyes. Taking out his pen, he knelt down and pushed a 9mm casing that was resting near the doorframe. Callum Toughill’s gun was a Walther P38 – a 9mm pistol. He turned and looked back toward the kitchen. He could still see a part of the stove, but the Fire Marshall was right. If it had been ignited by a match, they wouldn’t have been thrown in this direction.