The Celibate Mouse (25 page)

CHAPTER 36

A Flag-raising Occasion

Susan

Saturday: afternoon.

I
n spite of my good resolution to not allow heartbreaking memories of Danny Grey’s death to upset me, I need to summon all my courage to attend Edna’s funeral. White roses and lilies fill the cavernous reaches of the church, distributing a heady cloud of perfume over the congregation.

They are a sombre crowd, composed of diverse groups. The local gardening club I recognise because I met their president at Ferna’s luncheon. The Lion’s Club are in matching blazers with emblems on the pockets; a cluster of red and purple identifies the Red Hat Club. Edna’s Country Women’s Association–the CWA–proudly wearing their badges, troop in and occupy a prominent position on one side of the church, leaving just enough space in front of them for the immediate family.

The next wave consists of locals with whom I’m not acquainted, but some of whom I’ve seen in the street. I move into a short, empty pew behind the lesser members of the family who are roosting opposite the Robinson heavyweights. Euon Jellicott leans around the cricketing twins and their down-trodden girls, and winks at me. I nod coolly, wondering how I can get out of going to dinner this evening.

I glance around, pinpointing the chief players. The family occupy the front row. Lady Ferna, heavily disguised as the Queen, and Sir Arthur are flanked by the twins, Grace and Constance. Next to them is a scruffy old man I think is Arthur’s brother, John. On the other side of him is Kathleen, whom I’ve not met, mother of Daniella. Edna’s granddaughter, Libby, and young doctor Hardgreaves are plastered together by the wall under a picture of a somewhat distressed looking Saint

Edna’s coffin, covered by the Australian flag, rests at the front of the church. Masses of colourful tulips, dahlias and camellias counter the profusion of white roses throughout the church, bringing a sense of warmth to this cold, sad day.

Briony Feldman, resplendent in deep mauve, sits next to me and jogs my elbow. ‘There’s Lily, Sir Arthur’s first wife,’ she hisses, jerking her head in the general direction of the opposite front pew.

‘Dark blue, Melbourne Cup hat,’ Briony has mastered the useful art of speaking without moving her lips.

Lily is a small, elegant woman, at least seventy-five and groomed to perfection. Her face is suspiciously unlined and there are plenty of diamonds on display. She has done well for herself and it shows. ‘How many husbands has she outlived so far?’

‘She’s had four, all rich, three dead and Sir Arthur. None of them had kids, so guess who got the loot every time?’ Lily strikes me as a rather practical lady.

‘By the way,’ Briony continues, ‘Edna filled four exercise books in 1947, but nothing untoward so far in the one I’m reading now. The other three are here for you to go through.’ Briony taps her cavernous black shoulder bag.

‘Okay. I’ll get them from you when it’s over and look at them after the wake.’ I can hardly wait to get my hands on them.

Penelope Harlow stands beside Daniella, with Carissa on the other side of her mother. They’re all wearing black, which goes well with Penelope’s blond hair, but turns mother and daughter into extras in the Adam’s Family. In the distance I hear dogs barking, the guard of honour for the next event. I’m tempted to attend for the pleasure of seeing Lady Ferna spontaneously combust.

Mark Gordon, immaculate and suave, the officiator of both funerals, is attired in the majestic robes of priesthood. He hovers by the vestry door, watching the remainder of the mourners file into the back of the church. I’m barely able to equate this stately Archdeacon with the man who took me to dinner, charmed, then kissed and groped me last night.

I hear the entrance door to the church close, and a few moments later, he glides down the aisle to his place at the front of the congregation. Across from him, is the star of the show, Edna, who could reasonably have expected a few more years. Anger cuts through me at the thought of her terrifying final moments, smothered by someone she might have known and trusted.

Bastard.

A gang of local businessmen and a person I recognise as the regional Member of Parliament, bustle importantly into the pew across the aisle from me, out-grandstanding each other. I can’t be bothered watching them and pass the time reviewing my action-packed previous night and aborted sexcapade this morning.

David had roared off to the hospital, vowing to tear John Glenwood’s attacker apart with his bare hands. He admitted a personal interest in the senior constable’s survival; his ability as an investigator is being challenged. A short time later, he called me to explain how the attempt was carried out. ‘He pasted a poinsettia flower inside the front of a Get Well card, and then glued another page over the top, so the petals were sandwiched between the two pieces of card paper. Then he poked pin holes through it so the latex would ooze out. As soon as Glenwood opened it, he got a full blast of the stuff. He’s lucky to be alive’

‘I guess most of the Robinson family are aware of his allergy?’

‘The whole bloody town knows! Glenwood was born here, so the city fathers chopped all the poinsettia trees down when he was a kid. He came back to work at the station ten years ago, so they did another chop around.’

‘What if Mrs G had opened the card?’

‘It wouldn’t matter, because Glenwood’s allergy is so bad he can’t even be in the same room as latex. This arsehole knew that sooner or later he’d read it. As a way of getting to the poor bastard, it was ingenious.’ David’s disgust and frustration came through loud and clear.

After his reminders to be careful and of what to observe at the funeral and the wake, after he left I settled down to research newspaper archives on the net, looking for reports into the deaths of the three members of the Robinson family in 1947. Call it a combination of woman’s intuition, combined with the photograph with the pin holes, but I feel the answer will be found during that year. According to Edna, one of the so-called farm accidents was murder, but which?

I finished locating, downloading and printing the articles relating to the agricultural tragedies for that year by about midday. Warren Caldwall, checking the depth of the wheat in a silo on his own, leaned in too far, lost his balance, fell into the grain and suffocated. His wife went looking for him when he didn’t come home for tea, heard his dog barking and found the animal tied onto the back of Caldwell’s truck. No sign of Caldwall.

The neighbours, summoned by the hysterical woman, found the top access cover to the storage tower lying open. The silo needed to be emptied before the body could be retrieved from deep in the grain. I shuddered, imagining the dreadful death. Farm accidents are a way of life and farmers can be notoriously careless, but Caldwell
must
have known how dangerous it would be to check the level of the wheat on his own. During my research, I read that at that time, silos didn’t have an outside gauge to check the level of the contents. But did he have help falling into it?

The next report wasn’t any better. Bob Jellicott, for reasons best known to himself, entered a small yard containing a wild, aggressive, scrub bull. He was found hours later by his mother-in-law, Agatha Rose Robinson, who’d summoned help. The bull was subsequently shot and eaten. Why on earth would Jellicott put himself into a position where he could be cornered by a dangerous animal? I’d like to see the scene where he died. Perhaps he dropped something into the yard and foolishly climbed in to retrieve it? Did he try to go over the top of the rails? Maybe the bull was too fast or perhaps another party locked him in with the animal. Butchering and eating the unfortunate murderer would be an excellent way to hide incriminating evidence.

The two incidents raised questions: why were both men doing such dangerous things on their own? And the most important question of all–if both or either of these men was murdered, then
why?
I still need to check out the tractor accident, but concede it would be harder to organise a deliberate rollover. My eyes wander back to Lily, Arthur’s first wife, the unknown quantity. ‘What do you know about Lily? Will she talk to us if we ask nicely?’ I murmur to Briony, under cover of the chatter around us.

‘She’ll probably hit the sauce at the wake. We can corner her there.’

So, Lily is a ‘tippler.’

The service is beginning. The congregation stands and focuses on the lavishly decorated back of Mark Gordon who stands at the head of the coffin facing the altar. ‘I am the resurrection and the life,’ says the Lord. ‘Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.’ And the service is underway.

From time to time in my career, I’ve been blessed with strong feelings of intuition and I’ve learned not to ignore them. Now I’m feeling my stomach muscles tighten. A presentiment of evil and tension surrounds me. I gently stroke my throat. The bruises are less obvious today, but I’m still wearing a high-necked blouse and pearl choker to hide any signs of attack. Only the murderer, David, his colleagues and our daughters are aware it took place.

We listen obediently to several attention-seeking eulogies. George ‘Slimeball’ Murphy, extols Edna’s virtues as a good Aussie pioneer-type woman. Briony snorts softly into her handkerchief. We make eye contact and stifle smiles. Her gaze flickers in the direction of the family, sitting motionless, like a line of black crows on a fence, not a fidget to be seen, as Murphy rolls on and on.

A shaft of sunlight shoots through a stained-glass window, sending bright flashes of colour over the casket. A chill wind sweeps through the church. Has someone opened a door? A movement catches my eye. The Australian flag quivers as though alive and slowly lifts. Someone sniggers.
Oh dear Lord, what next?

The congregation gasps, as the flag hovers above the coffin. Murphy stands, open-mouthed, and blessedly speechless.

An ear-shattering scream rends the air, followed by a commotion as Lily leaps to her feet, fighting for air and bolts down the aisle toward the front door of the church, heels clacking on the stone paving like rifle shots. As she runs, her toe catches on an uneven flagstone and she almost hurtles into the person on one end of a pew. A hand comes out to steady her. She pushes it aside and keeps going. The usher in the last row darts forward and flings open the door, allowing her to escape.

The assembled company erupts into excited speculation. I switch my attention to the Robinson family. Lady Ferna is snarling like a wolf at Daniella and Carissa. The twins, Grace and Constance, are trying to calm them down. John Robinson is trumpeting into a huge white handkerchief. Euon Jellicott, laughing outright, catches my eye, realises I’m watching and true to form, winks.

‘Please be seated,’ bellows the Archdeacon, attempting to bring everyone to their senses and remind us of the seriousness of the occasion.

‘What in God’s name happened to Lily?’ Briony muses, as we struggle to obey. The muttering ceases, the flag has settled over the coffin again. Ashen-faced and tight-lipped, Mark Gordon resumes the service.

‘Do you think we should go and see if she’s all right?’ whispers Briony, under cover of the rustling of hymn books.

‘Can you get out over there?’ I flash a glance at a solid wooden side door a metre or so away. She nods and quietly slips along the pew. The door creaks mightily as she opens it. Everyone in the immediate vicinity cranes their necks. Briony’s flushed face is momentarily visible as she turns to close the door.

‘All things bright and beautiful, all creatures great and small, all things wise and wonderful, the Lord God made them all,’ we chirp resolutely.
God wasn’t looking out for Edna.
The organist, a CWA stalwart, fumbles, almost loses her place and then scrambles to catch up as we forge ahead, like the good Christian soldiers some of us might be.

Refocusing my attention on the Order of Service pamphlet complete with hymns, I realise someone is watching me. I try to keep my eyes resolutely on the page, but to no avail. My gaze wanders to Sir Arthur and I catch my breath. Gone is the bumbling, genial, elderly knight and cat-loving eccentric, in his place is a ruthless man of steel. He’s exchanging complicit stares with someone, but because people are now sitting and preparing to kneel for prayers, it’s impossible to figure out whom.

A cold lump settles in my stomach. This case has to be solved. Fast.
God, please give me a clue.
What is it that someone doesn’t want known? And why would a long-ago incident make these killings necessary? My thoughts scurry back to the mutilated photograph. Lily and Arthur’s sisters would no doubt know who he was. My mind races around the notion of those elderly ladies in 1947. Did either Warren Caldwell or Robert Jellicott serve in the armed forces? A notion is stirring in my brain. If I’m right, one or both of these men remained on the farm during World War 2, with the women and girls of the family...

I’ve been lost in the past and the service has ended. I get up quickly, trying not to allow Euon Jellicott to make eye contact, but he leans across, eyes sparkling. Edna’s funeral has obviously provided him with much entertainment. ‘Pick you up at six o’clock, Susan. Looking forward to it!’ Before I can cancel the date, he’s stepped through the side door and vanished. After gathering my purse and watching the family file out of the church, I follow, anxious to pounce on Lily.

I hope Briony has managed to corner the much refurbished old trout before she escapes.

CHAPTER 37

All About Control

The Killer

Saturday: afternoon.

T
he nightmare of the first funeral was almost over. He braced himself for the second. The only difference in the congregation at Harlow’s would be exchange of the CWA and gardening club for the sheepdog fraternity. He’d be obliged to look at and talk to pretty much the same people, not only at both services but during the wake as well.

Lily bolting out of the church unnerved him, but he was more than equal to shutting her up. Unreliable, drunken Lily might spill the beans or clam up completely. Lily, who knew the whole story, who’d been there when it all happened, but who also understood what would happen to her if she talked.

He quite liked her but felt no compunction in leaving a carefully-wiped bottle of whisky, laced with rat poison, on the floor under the dashboard of her car before he entered the church. He knew the sight of it would negate all her struggles to remain sober and her fingerprints would be all over the bottle. She might take a day or two to die, maybe a week or two if he got lucky. Vomiting blood was also a symptom of an ulcer burst through alcoholism.

Of course, the police would find out she’d been murdered, but not until the autopsy. ‘Pity it has to be this way but it’s so easy to buy rat poison ‘off the shelf.’ Terror was a great incentive. Catching her eye while that idiot Murphy was pontificating had been a masterstroke. A draught lifting the flag was a bonus.

But John Glenwood remained the greatest threat. The latexed card should have done the trick, but at least Glenwood hadn’t recovered his memory. According to Cecily, his source in the hospital, the man still didn’t remember anything, even his wife. Getting information from his inside source, an ex-girlfriend had a limited life, even though she’d not showed any curiosity over his interest in John Glenwood’s welfare. After all, he was known to be a good friend of John’s and his position in the community made his enquiry unremarkable.

And then there was Susan Prescott, who had watched Lily running out of the church, and looked very thoughtful afterwards. Was she beginning to get ideas? He feared so. His stomach erupted with rage. It sounded as though there were burbling pipes in his gut. He sighed and pressed his hand to his abdomen, trying to suppress the commotion. Things were getting out of hand. If it hadn’t been for Arthur’s biography and the family meeting to caution those ‘in the know,’ not to even hint about the family secret. He had to get to Arthur.

‘ ... all creatures great and small. All things wise and wonderful, the Lord God made them all.’

‘They always pick that bloody hymn when some fucking animal lover dies.’ His anger churned deep inside, a vast ball of ectoplasm threatening to blow him apart. The dogs barked outside, waiting to form a guard of honour for Jack Harlow, rapist and suspected molester of young girls, including, he suspected Carissa. Why Jack couldn’t have stuck to his wife and let well alone, he couldn’t imagine. His breath was coming in short gasps and he stopped pretending to sing.

He’d eyed Penelope’s nicely rounded bum, as she turned to look at the congregation. He wouldn’t have minded a piece of it, but eyeing the rest of her–too fat. He admitted to himself that a well-rounded, normal woman made him feel inadequate. They needed to be like a boy, or he couldn’t get it up. What does Penelope know?

The service was coming to an end. He coughed, forcing himself to breath slowly and regularly.
Calm now, calm.

‘...kindle our hope, and let our grief give way to joy; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.’

Control was everything.

And control was something he was losing.

Rapidly.