A Thing of Blood (25 page)

I went back upstairs and ostentatiously slammed my bedroom door before descending again, this time in the throes of a manufactured coughing fit. I wanted to give Clutterbuck and his companion plenty of time to arrange their features into an approximation of bland sociability.

The living room door was open now, and a thickly bespectacled man in his late forties, with full jowls and hair the colour and dull sheen of axle grease, was walking towards the front door. No introductions were made. When I entered the living room Clutterbuck showed no sign of discomposure, or that he’d only moments before been speaking about blowing up St Patrick’s Cathedral. He was his normal self, but I now saw that there was something about him that was unsettling and a little frightening. It had always been there, I realised, but I’d missed it. This was an unusual and uncharacteristic lapse in perceptiveness. I gave him Oakpate’s message. He nodded and said that while he appreciated that I wasn’t enthusiastic about the Knights, perhaps I’d tell Brian that he’d be welcome to join that evening’s meeting.

‘You’re welcome, too, of course, but your scepticism won’t go down too well, so I’d advise you to stay upstairs if you’re going to be home.’

‘Will Nigella be at this meeting?’

He laughed.

‘Nigella and I don’t discuss politics. Like sex, we’re going to wait until after we’re married.’

‘I see. Well I hope you’ll excuse me if I don’t come.’

‘That suits me fine. I want you to be doing something for me then anyway.’

I inwardly rebelled at being spoken to like an employee, although in truth that was precisely how Clutterbuck saw me.

‘I want to know what Trezise is up to. I haven’t heard from Anna, and Trezise’s movements are of interest to the Knights.’

So he hadn’t been told. It surprised me that Trezise hadn’t mentioned Clutterbuck during what would undoubtedly have been a gruelling interview with the police. I’d given him Clutterbuck’s name, unadvisedly — although I’d been cured of feeling guilty about this by recent revelations concerning his character. Perhaps Trezise didn’t remember the name. It was far more likely, though, that the police were certain that they’d got their man, and any story he told about Anna Capshaw’s ex-husband would be compromised by the fact that the police would be aware, with very little checking, that Anna Capshaw didn’t have an ex-husband.

I couldn’t tell Clutterbuck that the woman he’d sent to seduce Trezise was lying in the morgue without exposing my connection to James Fowler, and I had no intention of doing that. I agreed, therefore, to spend the evening tracking the incarcerated Trezise down. I thought I would go to the pictures instead, or the theatre, maybe. A lightweight bit of nonsense called
Robert’s Wife
was playing at Her Majesty’s. But I knew it would depress me to see second rate actors garnering applause for undemanding rubbish — and getting paid handsomely for it — so I scotched the theatre idea.

‘How was lunch?’ I asked.

‘Lunch was fine. Nigella was a bit peeved that I hadn’t told her about going to Ballarat, but she came round as she always does. I’m having dinner with her and her father this evening. I’m becoming quite one of the family.’

A little wave of self-satisfaction passed across his face, and I experienced a similar emotion when I considered that in all likelihood, in a very short time, Clutterbuck and his cronies would be locked up. Nigella would surely be grateful that I’d played some part in saving her from marriage to a fascist bully. I was anxious to get away from Clutterbuck as soon as I could. The less we saw of each other the better. My attitude towards him was hardening into a kind of contempt and the more time I spent with him, the more likely he would be to spot this.

‘I’ll start on Trezise now,’ I said. ‘He’ll be at St Patrick’s I imagine. I’ll tag him for the rest of the day.’

‘Nice building, St Patrick’s. All that money.’

If he was hoping for an argument, I didn’t oblige. I had no desire to get into a discussion which would provide him with a platform for the expression of his ugly philosophy — if his beliefs could be dignified by that term.

‘I’ll tell Brian about the meeting. He’s more inclined to your way of thinking than I am.’

With that, I left and headed towards Mother’s house.

I’d decided to telephone James Fowler from there, tell him what I’d overheard and tell him, too, about the gathering of the Knights that evening. I’d leave him with the impression that it would be me, and not Brian, who attended. This didn’t seem too deceiving. I didn’t think I was weaving a tangled web.

I didn’t go out again after settling into Mother’s house, but I helped in a desultory sort of way to weed the vegetable garden. It gave me an opportunity to talk to Brian about that night’s meeting. I stressed that Clutterbuck’s cronies — certainly the ones that I’d met — were awful people, and that some of them, no doubt, had the fascist taste for violence, although I’d seen no evidence of this in Clutterbuck. Brian thought that the idea of blowing up St Patrick’s Cathedral was laughable.

‘It sounds to me like they’re a bunch of Don Quixotes, more dotty than dangerous.’

The Scotch broth was excellent and afterwards Mother produced some first class brandy that had escaped use in Darlene’s Comfort Fund fruitcakes. At nine-thirty Brian said he was going for a walk around the park while Mother and I chatted about Fulton and what he might be up to in Darwin. This was a topic that she could both happily and unhappily speculate upon for hours at a time, and in so doing she was not as likely to stray into one of her incidental analyses of my character. She went to bed finally, and felt less concerned I think about the danger Fulton was in for having spoken about it at uninterrupted length.

I intended to wait up until Brian returned from Clutterbuck’s meeting, but when he still hadn’t shown up at 2.00 a.m., I surrendered to sleep.

When I woke at seven, Brian had still not returned. I wasn’t concerned, but I knew Mother would be, and as she’d retired last night in an almost euphorically exhausted state, induced by her unimpeded monologue about Fulton, it seemed a shame to wake her with worrying news. Her Fulton monologues didn’t bother me at all, but her claim that her affection for her children was evenly distributed was patently untrue. I couldn’t imagine her falling into a blissful sleep with my name on her lips.

I left her a note explaining that Brian and I had decided to go to the Melbourne Baths for an early morning swim. As this was something Brian did from time to time, she would be unsuspicious and remain pleasantly combobulated. I hurried across the park to Clutterbuck’s house and found Brian asleep in my bed. The air was positively vaporous with whisky fumes. He’d obviously made a night of it. I shook him awake and the groans that issued from him were painful to hear. We went downstairs and I made him a cup of Clutterbuck’s purloined coffee with cream. I told Brian that he should appreciate the fact that the entire American military establishment was now being used to cure his hangover. Before he could reply, Clutterbuck joined us, and, as usual, he showed no ill-effects from the previous night’s drinking. I watched him closely, looking for any sign that Brian in his drunkenness had given us away. Clutterbuck seemed inordinately pleased with himself and, from the manner in which he put his arm around Brian’s shoulder, clearly he thought he’d found in my brother a fellow fanatic. God knows what vile rubbish they’d spent the evening discussing.

‘Your brother,’ Clutterbuck said to me, ‘is a good man.’

‘By good, I presume you mean that his unsavoury views mesh with yours.’

‘Get fucked, Will,’ Brian said, with a completely convincing edge of detestation in his voice.

He pushed past me into the living room. Clutterbuck followed him and I stayed where I was. I’d find out soon enough from Brian what had transpired the night before. For now, he and Clutterbuck could continue to strengthen the bond between them under more sober conditions. I went up to my room and very carefully shaved. I took an unpatriotically deep bath, luxuriating in being able to put both arms under water. Perhaps it was the warmth of the water, or the freedom from that wretched plaster cast, or the pleasing knowledge that the Shining Knights had been infiltrated, but I felt for the first time in a very long time indeed, that God was in his Heaven and all was right with the world. By this hour the following morning God had changed his address, and chaos had been unleashed in my world.

Chapter Eleven

pieces of brisket

I DIDN’T SEE BRIAN
for the remainder of that Tuesday. He and Clutterbuck went off somewhere together — probably, I thought, to that dank little Camelot up in Brunswick where they could hatch some vile plan in an appropriately vile atmosphere. Clutterbuck hadn’t asked for any details about Trezise’s movements, which surprised me, and the only way to account for it was the probability that something big was afoot.

Brian’s absence meant that I didn’t yet know what anti-Catholic outrages had been planned. When I was in possession of pertinent information I’d have to pass it on, of course, to James Fowler. Would I then tell him about Brian’s unsanctioned role? I thought not. Having found in the past that the truth is more of an impediment than a lubricant to good relations, I opted for avoiding James Fowler altogether.

I spent the day wandering about the city, checking the theatres and despairing that the people of Melbourne were turning out in large numbers to hear Gladys Moncrieff sing, or queuing to see barely dressed showgirls stand stock still at the Tivoli (the rule being that any movement would transform an artistic tableau into something of interest to the police). I noticed in that day’s
Age
that a production of
Othello
was being mounted by a group called the Art Theatre Players, but it had the air of amateur theatricals about it, and there are few things more dispiriting than Shakespeare’s lines flattened, mangled and stuttered in characterless suburban vowels. Whenever my thoughts turned to such matters I felt a profound longing to get back on stage to reveal the exquisite beauty of properly read verse.

I returned to Mother’s house at six o’clock and she told me that a man I assumed to be James Fowler had telephoned for me. I needed to catch up with Brian, who was having a bath, before talking to Fowler. As there was little chance of Mother hearing, or intruding upon, our conversation while he was in the bathroom, I sat on a chair over which his clothes were draped, and listened as he told me the Order of the Shining Knights’ extraordinary plans.

‘There seem to be only about eight of them,’ he said. ‘Last night that Oakpate bloke got hot under the collar about some other bloke’s incompetent arson attempt near Ballarat. The arsonist then started yelling about second-rate equipment, and Clutterbuck had to come between them. Talk about a bunch of misfits. I’m surprised someone like Clutterbuck has anything to do with them.’

‘I showed you his underwear drawer. He’s a different kind of misfit — but he’s a misfit, all right.’

I didn’t want to give Brian the impression that I lacked confidence in him, but I needed to know if he’d been indiscreet under the influence of what had been rather a lot of alcohol. When I asked him he accepted the question without rancour, although he shifted uncomfortably in his shallow, tepid bath.

‘I told Clutterbuck about Darlene and Captain Spangler Brisket, and I added for good measure that I thought Brisket was a Catholic. I think that was a good lie to tell. It certainly gave him the impression that I had good personal as well as professional reasons for hating popery.’

‘So you didn’t let anything slip?’

‘Of course not. He trusts my hatred. No one held back at the meeting. They spoke openly in front of me about attacking St Patrick’s, and today, Will, at Oakpate’s house, Clutterbuck and a bloke called Crocker decided that what they’d do instead of blowing anything up was assassinate Archbishop Mannix.’

He delivered this plum with the enthusiasm of a little boy who knew he was pleasing an elder whose good opinion he craved. I couldn’t wait to pass it on to James Fowler.

‘Assassination is a more manageable abomination. How and when?’

‘They haven’t worked that out yet. They think he’s the most dangerous man in Australia. They really do. Mannix is the face of everything they despise.’

I told Brian that I thought he’d done a good job and that I had to inform Fowler immediately.

Although it was close to six-thirty, Fowler answered the phone. Did he have a home to go to? I told him what I’d learned — withholding, of course, Brian’s role in the collecting of information. He was disappointed that the details were vague, but I assured him that Archbishop Mannix’s life was now officially in danger. Would he be told? Fowler thought not; at any rate, not yet. There was no point agitating the Catholic hierarchy until something more definite was known.