A Thing of Blood (32 page)

‘You’ve spoken to her already?’

‘Now isn’t the time to explain. As soon as she’s gone I’ll tell you everything. I promise.’

‘This gets more interesting by the minute. Two weeks ago I was telling little boys not to pick their noses. Now I’m up to my neck in murder and mayhem, and you know what Will? I love it.’

‘I tried for you at Paul’s house,’ Nigella said when she saw me, ‘but he said I’d find you here, and here you are.’

I immediately spoke about the matter that was on my mind.

‘Have you made a decision about Clutterbuck?’

‘As I haven’t yet given him my answer I’m hardly likely to tell you first, Will. Besides, I haven’t come here to discuss that. I’m here because my brother asked me to deliver a message
I
don’t understand, but which he said you would, and I’m to relay your reply to a friend of his in his department.’

It struck me as a bit risky entrusting someone so close to Clutterbuck with a message that would concern him, however it was coded.

‘How intriguing,’ I said, feigning surprise that James Fowler would wish to pass on a message to me.

‘James said to tell you that he’d be out of town until early next week, but that if you could confirm that appointment you were to let me know. I didn’t know that you and James were, well, what are you and James? Does this message mean anything to you?’

I had to think quickly here.

‘I discovered recently that the Vienna Boys’ Choir sang in St Patrick’s Cathedral. I mentioned it to James — I don’t know when — and he asked me to find out when he could hear them. That’s all. Nothing mysterious after all.’

‘I see. James has never expressed his interest in choral music to me. It must be a private passion.’

‘You almost make it sound sordid.’

‘And is it?’

‘What an extraordinary question!’

‘We live in extraordinary times.’

Because extricating myself from the implications of Nigella’s innuendo might reveal too much about James’ work, I chose to play along to some extent and said only, ‘That we do.’ I’d clarify the situation with Nigella later. For now it was critical that I give her my vital information.

‘Tell James’ friend to tell James that the performance is at St Patrick’s this Sunday morning during nine o’clock mass. It’d be a shame if he missed it, but if he’s away, well, maybe someone else in his office might be interested.’

‘You think there’s been a sudden outbreak of enthusiasm for boys’ choirs in the department of Native Policy for Mandated Territories?’

I didn’t want the conversation to go any further, so asked Nigella to just pass on the message exactly as I’d given it. She stood up to go and I offered to walk with her across the park, but she said that she wasn’t going back to Clutterbuck’s house and that she preferred to walk alone.

All in all, my reaction to this brief meeting was mixed. I was relieved that James, or someone from Army Intelligence, would now know where and when to intervene, and I was impotently livid at Nigella’s perverse reading of my relationship with her brother.

‘What’s wrong with people,’ I said out loud.

‘That’s her all right,’ said Brian as he came into the room. ‘I saw her leave from upstairs. I wouldn’t have thought she was Clutterbuck’s type. She’s a bit, I don’t know, unglamorous.’

‘Clutterbuck has a great deal of time for her money.’

‘She’s a good artist.’

‘And did she draw just exactly what was in front of her?’

‘I couldn’t help it. None of the horses bolted, so no harm was done, and I managed to get the name of every person in the room.’

He reached into his pocket and handed me the piece of paper he withdrew. ‘Mission accomplished.’

If I was going to tell Brian that I’d sent him on a wild goose chase, now would’ve been the time. I hung fire because he would have become sulky and churlish, and I needed him to be cooperative and alert when I filled in some, but not all, of the gaps in his knowledge.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Now we should stop talking about the drawing class. There are some images that should never enter a person’s head, and a fully tumescent brother is one of them.’

He performed a caricature of concentration.

‘It’s funny, Will, I’m trying to see you like that, and I’m getting nothing. Hang on … nope, nothing at all.’

‘That might be because you have no imagination, Brian.’

‘So you agree that the idea of you with a decent erection would require a pretty good imagination.’

‘Brian,’ I said indulgently, ‘we don’t have time for these silly word games. There are some things that you need to know. I suggest that we go for a walk so that we won’t be interrupted, and I think you should then go to Clutterbuck’s and find out what they’re planning in more detail. I’m sure he’s expecting you. At some stage they’re going to have to give you a weapon and show you how to use it.’

Brian looked genuinely perturbed, a look I preferred to the smug expression that lingered when he thought he’d won a verbal joust.

‘Well, they’re not going to get you to kill Mannix by pointing the bone at him, are they. I think they’re looking for more immediate results.’

‘I hate guns.’

‘Don’t worry. You won’t have to fire one. Army Intelligence knows all about it.’

As we walked around Princes Park I told Brian about James Fowler and his cover in the Native Policy for Mandated Territories department. He couldn’t fit Nigella neatly into the picture until I said that she had no idea, and neither did their father, that James was something more than a civil servant. The relationship with Clutterbuck was unfortunate, and I’m afraid I betrayed a little of what Nigella had told me about her reasons for marrying him.

‘Do you think there’s more to it than that? Do you think James Fowler is in the awful position of having to investigate his own sister? I can’t believe she knows nothing about Clutterbuck’s politics. If she told you that, Will, she could be lying. What if she’s the brains behind the whole thing?’

When Brian began to postulate this absurd theory I redirected him by telling him about Anna Capshaw and the first day I’d followed her and John Trezise, whose name I thought at the time was Cunningham.

‘I swallowed Clutterbuck’s story about his divorce. Now it seems so obviously unlikely that I can’t believe I accepted it. In my defence, one doesn’t expect a well-dressed, well-spoken man to be a type of criminal. When Clutterbuck told me they’d be in the bookshop at two o’clock I should have twigged that the only way he could have known that was if Anna Capshaw had arranged the time with him.’

Brian’s jaw dropped when I told him that Trezise was now in custody for the murder of Anna Capshaw.

‘It’s funny how things work out, isn’t it? Clutterbuck wanted to get at Trezise because of his connection to the Catholic Social Studies Movement. I’m sure now that what he intended to do, with Anna Capshaw’s help, was expose Trezise’s sexual peccadilloes and shame him out of the Church. Trezise did his work for him. Fanatics of any stripe are unbalanced in some way, so we shouldn’t be surprised that Trezise snapped when he found out the truth about Anna.’

There was a lot for Brian to take in and when I’d finished the Trezise story, I mentioned, just in passing, that I’d also uncovered a ring of forgers while working on something else, and that the leader of that ring was now being interrogated by Army Intelligence. He pressed for more detail.

‘No one can accuse you of sitting on your arse since getting back from Maryborough,’ he said, and I noted with pleasure the unmistakeable tone of respect in his voice.

‘Yes, well, some things have fallen into my lap, I admit, but I’ve always believed that you make your own luck mostly. You need to be ready to grasp opportunities when they present themselves.’

By the time I’d filled Brian in on most of the details — there was no reason to discuss either Gretel Beech or my interest in Nigella Fowler — we were on the Royal Parade side of Princes Park, and from there it was a short distance to Bayles Street. Brian said that he wasn’t looking forward to handling a gun, and that he hoped Clutterbuck was alone.

‘That MacGregor bloke is seriously creepy. He’d slip a knife up under your ribs as soon as look at you.’

‘We’re at a very dangerous stage, Brian. Luckily, Clutterbuck has absolute faith in you as the patsy who’ll do his dirty work for him.’

‘They’d get rid of me afterwards, wouldn’t they?’

‘Yes, Brian, I think they would, but there isn’t going to be that sort of afterwards. Clutterbuck is in for a big surprise.’

I left Brian and went back to Garton Street. I was going to spend as little time as possible at Clutterbuck’s house before Sunday. Except to take a decent bath and to change my clothes there was no reason to hang about there.

A few times in my life I have experienced a strange and foreboding stillness that presages a violent storm. Thursday night and the Friday following felt like that. It wasn’t just the depressing and frightening news from Europe and New Guinea, or the government’s announcement that Christmas was more or less cancelled. A ban had been placed on any Christmasy words in advertising, including the word ‘Christmas’ itself. Words like ‘festive season’ and ‘yuletide’ were forbidden, and pictures of Santa Claus were taboo. No tinsel, no holly, no window displays. The prime minister’s voice, so desperately in need of elocution, exhorted people from their radios to observe Christmas 1942 ‘soberly, confidently, realistically’, and to exchange savings stamps instead of gifts. They were getting in early — this was still only late September — but I suppose they wanted people to get used to the idea.

When Brian came home late Thursday night he said that the plans were unchanged and that MacGregor was going to show him how to fire a pistol next morning. He’d done a good job, he’d thought, of further convincing Clutterbuck that he, Brian, was the ideal assassin.

Peter Gilbert had departed, for a few days at least. Mother didn’t mention him, or discuss her relationship with him, despite having ample opportunity to do so, and I certainly wasn’t going to raise the matter with her.

Friday passed slowly. There was no word from the police; Brian learned how to load, point and discharge a hand gun; Clutterbuck was silent; James Fowler was absent, and Nigella made no contact. Somewhere in the bowels of the police building John Trezise was cooling his heels, and so too was George Beech. I spent the day learning speeches from
Timon of Athens
, and blocking out in my head the opening few scenes. Once all this hideous business was over I’d begin the process of gathering together another company and
Timon
would be our inaugural production. The hours slipped by in a pleasant fantasy of as yet unrealised performances.

Mother, Brian and I had dinner together — another vegetable curry made from produce in the garden.

‘Nothing on your plates has been touched by Captain Brisket’s torso,’ Mother said. ‘It was quite obvious where it had fallen in the garden, and I picked vegetables well outside the crushed area.’

Nevertheless, we ate slowly and cautiously after that, as if caution alone would prevent ingesting a leaf or a floret that might have touched the mutilated torso. We all went to bed early and I fell deeply asleep very quickly. I hadn’t realised how exhausted the last few days had made me.

I awoke to a shrieking noise that at first seemed a part of the soundscape of my dream, but continued at a pitch that made me sit bolt upright. A woman was screaming so insanely downstairs that I think the hair on my head actually stood up. I rushed into the hall and collided with Brian who was struggling into a pair of pyjama bottoms. The screaming continued, followed by the crashing of furniture. I’d never heard sounds like these before. They were inhuman, wild, terrifying. It wasn’t Mother because she appeared at the top of the stairs, her nightgown visible in the dark. Her voice quavered when she asked, ‘Who is it?’

Brian said, ‘It’s Darlene,’ and began to descend the stairs. I followed, and told Mother to stay where she was.

Light seeped from beneath the living room door. The screaming intensified and as we came closer we could hear the ripping and tearing of fabric, along with the smashing of china and glass. Brian threw the door open, and there was Darlene, rampaging among the torn and shredded furniture, the air full of floating feathers and horsehair. She’d just plunged the knife into the padding of a beautiful chair when she became aware of Brian’s presence. She stopped for a moment, looked at him with mad eyes, and resumed screaming, but at an even higher pitch than previously. It was completely unnerving. If I’d believed in possession I’d have thought I was now a witness to it.

‘Stop it!’ Brian called, ‘Stop it!’

His voice was loud but it made no impression on Darlene. He stepped towards her and there followed a confused flurry of movement. Darlene was suddenly standing near him. She screamed the word ‘Murderer!’, made what appeared to be a small movement with her hand, and then fell silent. It was as if a plug had been pulled. Brian leant forward slightly and said, ‘She’s punched me.’ His eyes were focussed on her face; she was looking at his stomach, and when he turned towards me, incredulous that Darlene had had the gall to punch him, I saw what Brian hadn’t yet seen — the handle of the knife protruding from his abdomen, just above the waistline of his pyjama bottoms. He looked down then, and it was apparent that he couldn’t comprehend that Darlene had driven the knife into his exposed belly. He touched the handle gingerly before dropping to his knees. I hurried to him and prevented him from falling forward. I placed him on his side and called for Mother to telephone for an ambulance.