A Thing of Blood (34 page)

At some point in the afternoon I heard Nigella’s voice. Almost immediately Crocker let himself into my bedroom, presumably to prevent me going downstairs and causing some sort of scene. Crocker said that Nigella and Clutterbuck were going to the pictures. He left me alone when he was sure they’d departed. Nigella would be giving Clutterbuck the answer to his proposal for a quick, post-assassination wedding. It was too bizarre to comprehend.

I insisted that I be allowed to speak by telephone to Mother. This, I was told, was impossible. I was assured that she was quite comfortable and being treated with the utmost respect.

The afternoon darkened into evening, and Sunday morning arrived with all its callous and disinterested regularity. There were no portents in the weather. It promised to be fine and sunny — a day for lounging in parks, not a day for shooting archbishops dead.

MacGregor took me to St Patrick’s Cathedral early, so that we could claim a seat in the front pew. The great, cavernous, and ribbed interior, designed to make the spirit fly upwards, had no such effect upon me. I experienced no glorious ascension, only a terrifying and crushing sense of impending havoc. What if Nigella hadn’t passed my message on? What if there wasn’t a single person who’d been deputised to rescue me?

The cathedral began to fill with people. The front pew was soon fully occupied, with one man giving a little sniff of displeasure at finding two unfamiliar people in what he obviously considered his seats. Before long a low murmur rolled from the congregation towards the altar, and it indicated what in a theatre would have been a full house. My legs had turned to jelly, and when Archbishop Mannix entered and blessed the congregation, the effort required to stand was monumental. I had to clutch at the side of the pew to maintain my balance.

Almost everything from this point on remains a jumble of images and sounds. Mannix was a tall man, and seemed taller than he was because he was so ramrod straight. He looked magnificent in a glittering, gold chasuble that hung about his shoulders like a shield. I could discern his Irish accent through his carefully enunciated Latin. The Vienna Boys’ Choir sang, and the congregation stood, knelt and sat, and responded as one with the practised precision of well-drilled church goers, familiar with the arcane demands of the Roman liturgy. I stole a glance to the left and right, but couldn’t see Clutterbuck anywhere, and I couldn’t see, either, anybody who looked as if he could have been from Army Intelligence.

I don’t recall a word of Mannix’s sermon. My head was fizzing and pinging with fear. I could hear, or fancied I could hear, the blood rushing up my carotid artery into my head — and for a while, this was all I could hear. This was nothing like stage fright. This was naked terror, primal and unstoppable. I heard myself making small, simpering and gasping sounds and felt tears running down my face. MacGregor nudged me sharply in the ribs. I buried my face in a handkerchief to disguise my distress from those near me.

I’d been told to ready myself when the altar boy tinkled a bell three times and the words ‘Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus,’ rang out. I missed the bell and the words, but MacGregor was there to warn me that the time was imminent. We were all kneeling, and I looked up and saw that Mannix had faced the altar and was uttering words, audible but not intelligible, and anyway in Latin. He then genuflected and raised a host above his head. The bell rang three times again and I heard Lady Macbeth’s bell tolling in my fevered brain. MacGregor rammed his fingers sharply into my armpit and I stood up — for what else could I do?

But where were they? Where were the people who would prevent this from happening? Out of the corner of my eye I saw a movement, in the shadow of a chapel off to the side. A priest in a black cassock stepped forward — only it wasn’t a priest, it was Clutterbuck. He raised a rifle to his shoulder, the familiar .30 calibre, semi-automatic, M1 Garand rifle that the Americans favoured. Of course, he wasn’t going to leave this up to me. Of course, he wanted the thrill of executing the man he believed was the incarnation of evil. At the end of the pew, a nun rose to her feet and from within the folds of her voluminous habit she produced a pistol, aimed it with absolute assurance, and fired a single shot. Clutterbuck fell to the ground, the clatter of his rifle lost in the echo of the gunshot.

On the other side of MacGregor the man who’d sniffed his displeasure had pressed a pistol to MacGregor’s head and slipped a handcuff around one of his wrists. I have to presume that what happened next was chaotic, but my mind and body had by this time had enough, and I slipped into a blessed faint. In keeping with the pattern of my life, at a moment of supreme stress I’d retreated into the relative safety of unconsciousness.

When I woke I found I’d been carried into the small room where I’d met with Trezise and his priest in what now seemed like another life. As the room and the people in it resolved themselves I could make no connections that made sense. There was a flurry of activity in the crowded space and a nun was bending down and asking me if I was all right. She looked vaguely familiar, but the veil and wimple framed her face so closely that I couldn’t be sure. I sat up and said, ‘I saw a nun shoot Clutterbuck. Nuns don’t shoot people, do they?’

‘No, Will,’ said the nun, ‘nuns don’t shoot people, but I’m not a nun.’

She turned away and removed her wimple, and when she faced me again I was staring, open-mouthed, at Nigella Fowler.

‘Paul Clutterbuck is dead,’ she said, ‘and all his cronies have been rounded up.’

‘But you were going to marry him this afternoon.’

‘Unfortunately, I had to kill him this morning. I’m glad it wasn’t the other way around, or now I’d be a widow.’

In a fog of bewilderment I heard myself saying, ‘I know nothing.’

Nigella leaned down to my ear and whispered, ‘Ain’t that the truth, Will Power, ain’t that the truth.’

I was sitting in Mother’s dining room that Sunday afternoon, drinking tea with Nigella Fowler and listening with a mixture of awe and something like love to her telling me that both she and her brother were with Army Intelligence. Mother was upstairs soaking off what she called the ‘filth of a filthy home.’ She was unharmed, although she complained that conversation with Mary Rose Shingle was more than was required of most in a time of war.

‘Paul Clutterbuck wasn’t really such a very smart man, Will,’ Nigella said. ‘His mind wasn’t a subtle instrument, which is why I could get so close to him without him suspecting that I was anything more than a potential source of income for him. He believed absolutely in his own magnetism. He believed in the gratitude of a plain girl for the attentions of a handsome man. In many ways he was a dangerous fool.’

‘You were magnificent,’ I said, and was unashamed of the tears that blurred my vision.

‘I was terrified, Will. It wasn’t supposed to happen like that, but when James was called away I had to take charge. It was never our intention that I’d be anywhere near the cathedral.’

‘Where is James?’

She waggled her finger at me.

‘Clutterbuck’s group isn’t the only one of its kind in the country, Will. More than that, I can’t say.’

‘There’s a man named John Trezise and he’s been charged with the murder of a woman named Anna Capshaw. He’s innocent.’

All that I knew about Paul Clutterbuck tumbled out in a rush, including the fact that he’d killed Gretel Beech. I saw no reason, however, to reveal that I knew the whereabouts of the body. I judged that there was nothing to be gained by so doing. When I’d finished, Nigella said that John Trezise would be released as soon as was practicable, given that the police would have to be convinced that I was telling the truth. Similarly, the murder investigation against George Beech wouldn’t be pursued.

I was conscious of the fact that Nigella must be experiencing strong and confusing emotions, having shot and killed a man, even one as fundamentally loathsome as Paul Clutterbuck. She agreed that the reality of having taken a life hadn’t yet hit her, and as soon as she said these words she went quiet and then began to sob. She tried valiantly to control herself, but failed, and when I reached for her she fell into my arms and wept and wept until my shirt front was wet with her tears.

This was how Brian found us when he entered the dining room. He moved stiffly and I could see through his half-buttoned shirt that his abdomen was tightly bandaged.

‘Mother’s just told me what happened this morning,’ he said. ‘Christ Almighty.’

Nigella turned her tearful face towards Brian, and in a wild change of emotional gear she threw her head back and laughed.

‘You! Ziggy what’s-his-name. You’re Will’s brother! Now I’ve seen everything, and I mean that literally.’

‘Let me explain,’ I said firmly.

The next day, on our way to meet with James and Nigella Fowler in James’ tiny office in the Victoria Barracks, I asked Brian who he thought had attacked him on the train on the way back from Maryborough.

‘Sarah Goodenough, of course. She’s crazy. You don’t believe any of that guff she gave the police about me being obsessed with her, do you?’

‘Are you going to have her charged with anything? She shouldn’t just get away with it.’

‘Are you kidding? I want to forget the whole thing. I’ll put it down to experience, and remind myself never to get involved with a lunatic again. It just ends in tears.’

James Fowler wasn’t altogether happy with Brian’s unauthorised role in infiltrating the Order of the Shining Knights, even though Brian and I had agreed to downplay it, but he was so pleased by the outcome that his displeasure was expressed in the mildest of terms.

‘Archbishop Mannix has officially expressed his gratitude to Intelligence and he’s included a note of thanks to be given directly to you, Will.’

He passed a piece of thick, embossed paper to me.

‘Privately, he’s let us know that shooting people dead in his cathedral is not the purpose for which it was built. He also said that he didn’t think his homilies were so boring that they’d benefit from the interest added by gunfire. At least he’s got a sense of humour about it.’

Fowler went on to explain that it was in the nature of Intelligence work that there could be no public recognition for a job well done. We’d have to be content with knowing that the relevant authorities were silently grateful.

‘Which brings me to the point of this meeting. Nigella? If you’d like to take over from here?’

Nigella cleared her throat.

‘Since the beginning of this war the forces have been using civilian entertainers to keep the troops happy. I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but whole Tivoli shows have been staged at various bases — costumes, music, the lot. Obviously these groups can’t be sent forward into combat areas, so LHQ — that’s Land Headquarters to the uninitiated — here in Melbourne have decided to set up small concert parties to go into dodgy areas, do their act, and get out again quickly.’

I interrupted.

‘And you’re looking for performers.’

My heart was beating with excitement. I am, after all, an actor above all else. Whatever skills I bring to other areas of my life, they are underpinned by those peculiar gifts which good performers possess. We’re a rare and happy breed, sometimes despised, but always, I suspect, envied. We can throw off the shackles of the drab and everyday, and rule whole kingdoms, fall grandly in love, and die heroically, and we can do all these things in the course of a single evening. Nigella, who’d glimpsed a little of my talent in her brief exposure to it, was about to soothe the awful ache of withdrawal that all actors feel when away from the stage, with the offer of work. If I didn’t love her before, what I now felt was unmistakably that emotion.

Nigella looked at her brother, who continued what she’d begun.

‘It’s a little more complicated than that. What we’re looking for are performers whose real job is something else entirely. We have a problem in Darwin. Your brother Fulton has been doing superb work in a unit that very few people know anything about. It’s called the Northern Australia Observer Unit, and it’s a bit of a guerrilla outfit. These are tough men. Someone doesn’t like what they’re doing, and we suspect it’s either someone inside the unit or certainly someone inside the armed forces. Three of these men have been found dead, and they didn’t die of old age. We want to send you two up there as part of a concert party, and we want you to make contact with your brother and find out as much as you can. We’re hopeful that this can be sorted out in a matter of weeks. Nobody, and I do mean nobody, up there will know that you’re working for us. You’ll be on your own.’

‘What sort of entertainment do these concert parties put on?’ I asked.

‘We’ll put you in touch with the right people down here who’ll give you a crash course, but my understanding is that you pretty much do what you like. If you’re willing to slip on a dress, apparently that goes down a treat.’

‘And when would this happen?’ Brian asked.

‘Immediately,’ Nigella said. ‘Do you need time to discuss it?’

‘No,’ I said, and looked at Brian who nodded his agreement. ‘We’ll do whatever we have to do. I’m sure Brian will shave his legs if it’s for the good of the country.’

‘I can’t overstate how dangerous this is, Will. You’ll have to watch each other’s back like hawks. Trust no one.’

I only half-heard those last words. My head was swimming with the glorious prospect of bringing
Timon of Athens
to Shakespeare-starved troops. All I could hear at that moment was thunderous applause.