A Thing of Blood (17 page)

‘So it must surprise and disappoint you to learn that she lied to you, and that she’s divorced, not widowed.’

I felt as if I was regaining some ground, and with the memory of Trezise’s arm crushing my larynx, I didn’t spare him.

‘As far as I know Mr Trezise, Anna Capshaw isn’t even a Catholic. That, too, must come as something of a surprise.’

Trezise plunged his hands into his pockets and said, ‘Frankly, Mr Power, where women are concerned, I’m not surprised by anything.’

The priest gave a little nod of approval, indicating, by this slight gesture, that vulnerable men would always be subject to the predations of rapacious women.

Neither the priest nor Trezise had any intention of preventing me from leaving, so I assured Trezise that I would no longer be tailing him, and slipped into the cathedral proper. The angelic, displaced
Hitlerjugend
were still warbling a hymn of praise. I could hear it faintly even after I’d passed through the front door.

I saw James Fowler immediately. He was on the opposite side of the street; standing, watching. I didn’t react and he must have believed that he hadn’t been spotted because he moved off quickly, but in a studied way, as if he didn’t want to draw attention to himself. I hurried after him, and by the time I’d reached the spot where he’d been standing he’d disappeared. I couldn’t join the dots here. Why was Fowler following me? His interest, from whatever motive, was in Clutterbuck. The resolution of this puzzle would have to wait.

I thought Clutterbuck would be relieved to hear that Trezise was an engineer and that Anna Capshaw wasn’t attempting to interfere with his engagement to Nigella. Where had Clutterbuck acquired the notion that Trezise was a lawyer? I needed to sit down and marshal the facts of these matters on paper. Maybe then I’d see connections that weren’t yet apparent to me.

On the whole the encounter with Trezise had turned out better than it might have. I thought that Clutterbuck could rest easy, and that the outcome reflected well upon me. I’d been unprepared for what Trezise had told me, it’s true, and I’d shown my hand too early — a lesson from which I would learn — but on the whole a difficult matter had been brought to a satisfactory close. As I walked from the cathedral I began to think about Gretel Beech. She’d been buried for just over twenty-four hours. It was urgent that I find her killer and allow her the dignity of a decent funeral. The need to find Darlene vaguely asserted itself, too, although I’d be a hypocrite if I declared that it compelled me in quite the same way as poor Gretel’s murder.

I walked slowly down Collins Street. The pavement was thick with drones making their way grimly to their soul-destroying, pointless jobs. I was filled with a longing to speak Shakespeare’s verse, to be elevated by the majesty of his poetry. I wanted to spread my arms, or my good arm at any rate, and declaim something grand to these drab subjects of a stuttering king. I missed the stage. My skills as a PI were growing, but how marvellous it would be, I thought, if I could combine the ecstatic joy of acting with the satisfying grind of detection.

It was the grind that concerned me now. George Beech and James Fowler. I turned these names over in my mind and may even have spoken them out loud. Pursuing Fowler was the option I favoured. I’m not ashamed to acknowledge that Beech’s propensity for thuggery over conversation was at least partly responsible for my decision to go after Fowler. Besides, I had no straightforward way of locating Beech, and I wasn’t in the physical condition to match him if I did find his lair. I knew James Fowler was close by, having seen him, and I wasn’t afraid of him, although if he had killed Gretel Beech I might have good reason to be. Still, the educated killer was a more attractive option than the drunken, murderous brute.

I lingered outside the Melbourne Club on the off chance that Mr Fowler Snr. might emerge. I would ask him for his son’s business address if he did do. The offices of Native Policy for Mandated Territories would surely be in the city — if such a bizarre occupation warranted an office. It sounded more like the kind of job done out of a tent. No one went in and no one came out of the Melbourne Club. I toyed with the idea of knocking on the door and asking to see Mr Fowler but, unshaven and gravel-rashed, I didn’t think I’d get a positive reception.

The decision about what to do next was taken out of my hands by James Fowler, who tapped me on the shoulder and asked, ‘How was confession?’

‘I wasn’t at confession. Not that it’s any of your business, I’m not a Catholic. You’ve been following me.’ I thought it best to avoid obfuscation.

‘Well, Will, I was always told at school that I was more likely to follow than lead, so I guess old Mr Pyers was quite a perceptive fellow after all.’

‘So you don’t deny it.’

‘No.’

He stood grinning, as if he was acknowledging nothing more controversial than that it was an overcast day.

‘Why? Why would you want to follow me?’

‘I have your best interests at heart, believe me.’

I scoffed theatrically.

‘You’re being drawn into things,’ he said, ‘that are unpleasant and dangerous. If I were you I’d move back to your mother’s house and leave Clutterbuck to his own devices.’

There was a lot to digest in this brief riposte. How did Fowler know about my mother? What ‘things’ were dangerous?

‘You know a lot about me for a person who met me only yesterday.’

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

‘You’re barking up the wrong tree if you think you’ll scuttle Clutterbuck’s marriage plans by tailing me. Is that what it’s all about?’

‘No, Will, that’s not what it’s
all
about, although I’ll be frank and admit that Nigella could do better. Don’t you think so?’

James Fowler couldn’t have detected my inclinations towards his sister. I wasn’t fully aware of them myself during yesterday’s afternoon tea. I felt, though, that he was offering a kind of mild imprimatur to me as a suitor, and my feelings towards him shifted accordingly. It was with a jolt that I remembered that he may well have ransacked Clutterbuck’s room, and worse, that he may have murdered Gretel Beech.

‘I’ve only known Paul Clutterbuck for a few days,’ I said. ‘Your sister’s attraction to him is understandable, but …’

‘But his to her is less comprehensible? I quite agree, Will. I think you and I both know that Paul Clutterbuck is not a respectable man, and that he thinks he can marry and change that.’

Our conversation was interrupted when a car pulled up at the kerb and a man got out and hurried over to where we were standing. He drew James Fowler away, and the two of them spoke briefly. Fowler came back to me and said that he’d been called to his office. He didn’t elaborate, but I found it hard to believe that there’d been a sudden crisis in the area of native policy. Before getting into the car he asked if I’d have dinner with him that night, at the Menzies Hotel. He’d pay, he said, and he’d explain to me then why he’d been following me, and a few other things besides. I agreed, believing that I would learn much that was useful about James Fowler and his family.

I was now at something of a loose end, and I needed time to think. As I passed the Australia Cinema the poster for
Romeo and Juliet
caught my eye. I couldn’t quite see Leslie Howard as Romeo, and the idea of Norma Shearer as Juliet was grotesque. Nevertheless, it might fulfil my craving for a bit of the bard, so I bought a ticket and went in just as the morning session was beginning. ‘Advance Australia Fair’ (which had recently supplanted ‘God Save the King) was played and people dutifully stood. It was followed by ‘The Star Spangled Banner’ and several patrons sat down before it had concluded. After this, an amateurish bit of propaganda thundered at us from the screen. I hoped this wasn’t one of Nigella’s efforts. Fields of rippling wheat and pastures of grazing sheep flickered behind an insistent, almost hysterical voice, decrying:
Australia. To the Japanese Australia has always meant room to live in. It has long been eyed with malicious envy by Japanese jingoists. In Australia just beyond their reach are many of the strategic minerals of warfare — wealth that would make Japan one of the world’s most powerful nations. They believe that once they have Australia and its seven million people to work for them as slaves, their position will be impregnable.

Here images of serried ranks of Japanese soldiers marching before Hirohito, seated grandly on a horse, reinforced the fact that we were in terrible peril of being over-run. No one in the theatre uttered a sound during the short. The idea of enslavement made whistles and cat calls die in the throats of the usual wags who might have been tempted to make them.

Romeo and Juliet
surprised me. I’d expected it to be laughable. Instead it was lavish and not at all silly. Someone had coached Norma Shearer well enough to enable her to speak the verse adequately. Leslie Howard I never could abide, and it was a bit of a stretch to imagine two middle-aged people as teenagers, but I’ve always been willing to suspend disbelief when occasion demanded.

Looking back on it, I calculated that it was while I was watching Romeo and Juliet that Anna Capshaw was murdered.

Chapter Eight

shining knights

I EMERGED FROM THE AUSTRALIA CINEMA
into the lunchtime crowd. There was no point remaining in town, so I braved a tram and headed back to Carlton. I arrived at Clutterbuck’s house just as he was letting himself in. He was wearing his American army uniform again. I felt sure that there was more to this deception than the acquisition of sex and pantry items.

‘Were we running low on cream?’ I asked.

He made a small noise of assent and said, ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’ His words were slightly slurred, as if he’d been drinking. ‘Still, I’m glad you’re here.’

Once inside, Clutterbuck went upstairs to change and told me to help myself to a whisky. I don’t usually drink at lunchtime, but Clutterbuck’s whisky was first rate and a single malt at any time of the day isn’t to be declined.

When he came downstairs he was wearing a thick woollen shirt and baggy, casual trousers. I’d never seen him so dressed down.

‘There are some people I want you to meet,’ he said, and brooking no opposition propelled me to his car. ‘We won’t be long and you can tell me how you’ve been earning your money on the way.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘Never mind. You’ll see. Now, tell.’

The car headed up Sydney Road and Clutterbuck wasn’t driving as carefully as he might have. He impatiently blew his horn at a horse and cart, spooking the horse and infuriating the cart’s driver.

‘I’ve met with Trezise,’ I said.

I thought he might react badly to this, but his response was muted.

‘Oh, yes?’

‘You have nothing to worry about there. He’s not a lawyer, and he thought Anna was a widow. He didn’t know you existed.’

‘But he does now.’

‘Well, yes, but it’s not information he can do anything with, and besides, he’s not interested in you or your engagement at all. You got the wrong end of the stick with Trezise. He’s just a sad, lonely bloke who’s eaten up by guilt because he was intimate with someone outside the sacred bonds of marriage. You don’t have to worry about him at all.’

Clutterbuck leaned towards his open window and yelled an obscenity at another horse-drawn cart, this one with the name of a grocer printed on its side.

‘You should be interned, you Italian bastard!’

I’d never seen Clutterbuck like this.

‘You seem a bit rattled. Trezise isn’t a problem, believe me.’

‘I’m not worried about Trezise. Not at all.’

Having said this he assumed his usual demeanour and even managed a small smile. We drove deep into Brunswick, an area of Melbourne with which I was unfamiliar. We turned right into Albion Street and a few streets along, left. Here there were rows of workers’ cottages which might have been pretty in their day but which were now showing the neglect that poverty and indifference promoted. I could see why Clutterbuck had changed his clothes. I felt grimy just looking at these houses. He parked the car — it was the only car in the street — and knocked on the door of a residence with a small, riotously overgrown patch of garden. This was no Victory Garden bursting with healthful vegetables. It was a tangle of thistles, milkweed and dandelions. There could have been splendid rows of produce in the backyard, but I doubted it.