The Celibate Mouse (16 page)

‘I do something boring for the government.’ I, too, can play this game. For God’s sake, don’t let them find out about me.

‘Don’t tell us you’re a cop or in ASIO, Susan,’ they joke. ‘You’re too pretty for that! So what are you doing in Emsberg? Have you got a boyfriend down here?’ A boyfriend? Do I look like a cougar? I am forced to use all my skill to evade their probing. At the centre of their interest are Edna’s photos.

‘If you’re cataloguing old Edna’s snapshots you must be bored sick,’ says Peter. ‘How about we go out one day and I’ll show you the sights?’

‘I’m doing it for Daniella,’ I explain. ‘As the Executor of Mrs Robinson’s Estate, she’s pushed for time.’ I don’t miss the look which flashes between them. Euon moves closer, urging me toward the distant roses; Peter lays a heavy hand on my arm and squeezes. We are headed for a secluded part of the garden. I sidle away, removing myself from his grasp. He can’t snatch me back without making it look like an attack.

Have I lost my nerve?

Yep.

I pretend to admire a flowering shrub almost at the side of the house and hit redial on my phone. Marli’s numbers rings twice and her voice answers curtly, ‘Yes, mum, we’re all right. We’re almost at Ann’s house, okay?’ She hangs up and I turn reluctantly to my escorts.

‘We are supposed to show you the rose garden, Susan,’ says Euon, purposefully taking my arm again.

I jerk my arm back. ‘I’m allergic to roses!’

Everyone at the house knows where I am. You fool, Susan. They couldn’t do anything to you. Not here. Has last night spooked you? Too right it has.
My heart is pounding so hard, I’m sure they can hear it. Perspiration breaks out all over my body, beading on my face.

‘In that case, Lady Ferna’s iris beds are spectacular,’ persists Peter, endeavouring to turn me in another direction. I need to take control of this situation. Get a grip, you fool.

‘Perhaps later. It’s almost lunch time. I want to talk to Sir Arthur and ring my daughter.’ They’re taken by surprise as I break away and march back toward the front of the house.
I am woman, hear me roar! More like squeak, squeak.

Courtesy demands they follow and we arrive at the verandah before they can complete their interrogation. ‘That didn’t take long!’ booms Lady Ferna. I excuse myself and move away from the crowd. Marli’s mobile almost rings out before I hear her voice.

‘Are you alright, darling?’

‘Mum, give it a rest, okay? Ann phoned and we’re at her house
right now
. Titch is with–’

The line drops out, but she’s safe. I sit beside Daniella, who is talking to a tall, languidly graceful new arrival, Father Mark Gordon, Archdeacon of St Matthews in the city and Lady Ferna’s son, mid to late fifties, but very well preserved. He is obviously not the progeny of Sir Arthur. As I respond to his polite conversation, his eyes focus on my scarf, which I casually smooth across the front of my throat.
Has he noticed the bruises?

My erstwhile escorts take their places opposite and to my right at the table. The elderly knight and his Persian Familiar sit beside me, on my left. The relief of being safe is such that I’m even prepared to put up with cat hairs in my food. Mark Gordon takes the chair directly opposite, next to one of two stalwarts to whom I have not been introduced. Lady Ferna, who is commanding the troops in the kitchen, directs Daniella to sit beside a rather determined-looking young woman, who is apparently Sir Arthur’s biographer.

Dianella rises obediently, gives me a wry smile and a shrug of her shoulders, an apology for not keeping me company. Now I am surrounded by Robinson men and I don’t believe for a moment it’s because of my ‘beau yeux.’ A moment of panic almost overwhelms me as my radar picks a singular vibe:

There is a malevolent presence at this table.

CHAPTER 22

Sprung

Susan

Thursday: late afternoon.

D
aniella spends endless minutes with each person sitting around the table. We’ve been at the Robinson stronghold since eleven o’clock this morning, but she continues to evade eye contact. I’ve rung Marli several times to check on her. Although I’ve been advised that this is a bad mobile phone area, each time I’ve at least been assured she is safe.

After some forced ‘girls-together’ monosyllabic conversation, I’ve arranged to ‘do’ coffee with Sir Arthur’s biographer and exchanged phone numbers. I wonder if Briony Feldman will be any more forthcoming on paper than she’s shown herself to be verbally. She doesn’t strike me as a shrinking violet type and wonder why she is pretending to be submissive.

If I don’t make a move to leave, Daniella will stay for dinner as well. I stand up, sweep my handbag off the chair and announce that I need to get home to my daughter. ‘Oh my goodness, Susan, I didn’t realise it was so late,’ Daniella trills, feigning surprise. ‘You should have told me!’ Itching to slap her, I say my goodbyes with determination. In a matter of minutes, we’ve trundled down the steps to the car and driven off, amidst a spray of gravel and waving hands from the house.

Daniella apologises for keeping me and then chatters about the family all the way back to the farm. This time I’m paying attention: Euon, a champion marksman in archery, Olympic standard, is the grandson of Grace Jellicott, one of the twins who were doing tapestry before lunch. Does his skill with a bow extend to a rifle?

Peter Robinson, nephew of Arthur, is an architect. George “Slimeball” Murphy, who arrived last, is apparently the much-admired son of the other twin, Constance, and her deceased spouse, Keith. ‘He’s doing so well, you know,’ boasted his mother.

Two forty-something men whose names I didn’t catch, revealed themselves to be Ferna’s younger brothers. It transpires that they’re unmarried, and consider themselves extremely eligible. Keen cricketers, they regarded me with licentious intent until I revealed that watching an ant cross the path is more exciting than a game of cricket. Their farm-roughened hands expertly twisted the tops off beer bottles, reminding me of the ones which had been wrapped around my neck. Perhaps I can find out about them at the joint wake for Jack and Edna, to which Arthur has invited me with great enthusiasm. Genevieve, his cat, signified her approval by permitting me to pat her.

Last, but certainly not least, there are young Doctor Jason Hardgreaves and Mark Gordon, the Archdeacon. I was unsuccessful in coaxing the doctor to discuss Edna. This was partly due to Libby, who wrapped herself around him like a python and sucked his earlobe. I dread to think what she did to him under the table; he squirmed rather a lot.

The Reverend Gordon is another proposition altogether. He oozes charm, no doubt a successful tactic to keep the Mothers Guild at the church enslaved, and asked me to dine with him at my earliest convenience, making it very clear this is a date, man/woman stuff. Grrrrrrrr! I manage to make a fool of myself, stammering and spluttering. Being out of circulation for thirteen years puts one out of practice, but of course my busy mouth helped me out: ‘Oh that would be nice. Thank you, yes, I’d like that.’
Shut up, Susan.

He beamed with satisfaction and whipped out his diary. Before I gather my wits, I agreed to be ready at half-past six the following evening. He would collect me from the farm. How did he know where I lived? ‘Everyone knows where you’re staying, Susan,’ he assured me. That kind of local knowledge I can do without. What the hell am I going to wear? And who would stay with Marli? Although she is seventeen, circumstances being what they are–I stifled a chuckle.
David!
Yes, why not? After all, he is moving in to protect us and wants to take up his mantle of fatherhood. Having him watch me date an attractive man will be a boost to my ego.
You’re so petty, Susan.

As we turn in at the main gate to the farm, a car horn starts tooting behind us. It’s Marli and Carissa in my car, smiling and waving. ‘Thank goodness they’re safe,’ I exclaim.

Blissfully unaware of last night’s attack, Daniella smiles and shakes her head at me, ‘You’re such a worrier, Susan. What possible harm could they come to in Emsberg?’

Fearing I’m about to let my tongue run away with me again, I smile weakly and for the umpteenth time, make sure my scarf hides my bruises. We park at the bottom of the steps, as Marli drives my car into the garage at the side of the house. The dogs break into glad cries. Daniella elects to wait in her vehicle for Carissa, so I stand by the driver’s door talking idly until the girls appear. With a, ‘That was, like, awesome,’ from Carissa to Marli, and, ‘I’ll ring you soon and we’ll “do” coffee,’ from Daniella to me, they pull away.

Apparently, Ann, Carissa’s friend has a rather attractive brother who is nineteen. As we walk up the steps, my daughter enthusiastically compares the charms of this undoubtedly licentious youth to those of Adam Winslow. Adam is on shaky ground, when we realise the door is ajar. I put my hand out and hold her back.

‘I told you to lock all the doors, Marli!’ My voice is husky with fright.

‘I definitely shut and locked it, Mum.’ She dangles the key on a loop in front of my nose. I jerk my head back, signalling silently for her to get behind me.

The hallway is full of a hollow silence. As I move further into the house, the pendulum ticking in the grandfather clock is the only sound. I pick up a jade statue from a nearby stand and start quietly toward the lounge room. At first glance, nothing is amiss, but then all is revealed. My carefully arranged piles of photographs are missing. Empty frames lie scattered on the floor; glass pieces litter the carpet. Cushions have been flung on the floor; books are half out of the shelves. My heart pounds; fear slithers down my arms like pins and needles.
He’s been back.

‘Mum, what’s happened?’ I set the statue down and we approach the table. A few photos remain, but liquid paper has been splattered over the subject’s faces. Unless I can gently scratch it off, they’re ruined. ‘Marli, put him away,’ I nod at the puppy she carries, ‘and get back here fast.’ She scuttles to her room, pops him inside and runs back to me.

‘When exactly did you and Carissa go out?’ I am aware of a whiff of a familiar smell.

‘Not long after you, mum. Ann rang and we left here at a quarter past eleven. I know because we were to pick up a video and I wanted to be sure Video Ezy was open.’ Her eyes widen as she realises the implications of what could have happened. ‘I’ll let the dogs out.’ Her words come out high and jerky.

A smell of burning–that’s it–gets stronger as I succumb to a desire for coffee. To my consternation, a heap of cold ash is in the kitchen sink. A few tiny photo fragments on the floor. What the hell am I going to tell Daniella? I am supposed to be looking after these family mementos, not losing them. But, did she get me out of the way for the day so someone else could destroy the photos? But she brought Carissa over to stay with Marli.
Stupid, stupid. Wake up to yourself, Susan.

Tears well up. I force myself to get control, because I don’t want to frighten Marli any more than she is already. I fling the windows and back door open to get rid of the smell. Can I still live here, now that our security is breached again? Maybe Marli really didn’t lock the front door properly.

I jump as a sound of nibbling comes from underneath the sink. ‘You little shit, this time I’m going to get you! You’re
sprung!’
I snarl and fling the door open. A furry blur streaks into the cleaning utensils. Angered beyond reason, I drag bottles of cleaner out, cursing. Then I see it. A perfect mouse nest, lined with rags and–forming an outer shield–photos. In the middle are a squirming pile of pink nodules. Our mouse is definitely not celibate.

I lean down, carefully pry the celluloid walls away from the nest and examine them in the light coming through the window. An innocuous scene of the mountains is torn, but the other is of a group of people looking embarrassed, possibly not used to being photographed. I recognise teenagers Grace and Constance, but the rest are strangers. I turn it over and try to read the faded inscription: “Grace and–” I can just make out the year, 1946. Perhaps they wafted over the side of the sink and floated under the table? A small piece of food is smeared on the back of the mountains, which may be what attracted the mouse.

Something is off-kilter about one of the slightly blurred faces in the second black and white photo. There’s a magnifying glass in one of the kitchen drawers, amongst the loose rubber bands, paper clips, half-empty reels of cotton and biros which only work when they feel like it. Even with its help, I need a couple of minutes to work out that someone has very carefully and from what I can see, deliberately put a pin hole straight through each eye of one of the men. The perforations are minute, but I’m shocked by the hatred implied by the mutilation. Perhaps another photo has been tacked over the top? No, it’s a deliberate stabbing.

Just then, Marli rushes into the room. I’m about to blurt out what I’ve found, but her words forestall me. ‘Mum, dad’s coming!’ she squeaks.
Harry?
No. Of course not, it’s David. My pulses rev up their tempo.
God, what are you thinking, you silly old fool.
I hastily shove the photo into my pocket and squat down in front of the cupboard. ‘I found the nest! Now all I need to do is catch the mouse,’ I announce lightly, but there is no answer. A hullabaloo from the verandah greets the conquering hero. I quickly re-arrange the bottles and tins to hide the nest, shut the cupboard door and stand up. If my instinct is correct, I need to focus my search on the 1940s. My search? ‘When did it become your mission, Susan? You weren’t going to get involved. Remember?’

I’m tired of being a wimp, tired of guilt. How could I allow two silly corporate rogues to “get to” me today? I should have made mincemeat of them. I’ve been handing my life to other people on a platter because I’ve allowed myself to wallow in self pity. I will not be driven from this house in which I feel comfortable, if not exactly safe at the moment–and I’m going to find this murdering bastard if it kills me, and him.

Detective Senior Sergeant Prescott is back in business.