Good Murder Read online

  Scribe Publications

  GOOD MURDER

  Robert Gott was born in the small Queensland town of Maryborough in 1957. He has published many books for children, and is also the creator of the newspaper cartoon The Adventures of Naked Man. He lives in Melbourne. This is his first novel for adults.

  For my parents, Maurene and Kevin Gott, who raised a family in love with words, and for Ed and Sheila Rooney, who provided generous access to their phenomenal memories.

  Scribe Publications Pty Ltd

  18–20 Edward St, Brunswick, Victoria, Australia 3056

  Email: [email protected]

  First published by Scribe Publications 2004

  Text and illustrations copyright © Robert Gott 2004

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher of this book.

  Edited by Margot Rosenbloom

  Cover illustrations by Bryce McLoud

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication data

  Gott, Robert.

  Good murder : a William Power mystery.

  9781922072122 (e-book)

  1. Murder - Fiction. I. Title.

  A823.4

  www.scribepub.com.au

  This is entirely a work of fiction. All of the characters are products of the author’s imagination, and they bear no relation to anyone, living or dead. Only the streets they walk down are real.

  Cast of Characters

  The Power Players

  Adrian Baden

  Tibald Canty

  Bill Henty

  Annie Hudson

  William Power

  Arthur Rank

  Kevin Skakel

  Walter Sunder

  The Drummond Family

  Mrs Drummond

  Fred Drummond

  Joe Drummond

  Polly Drummond

  The Police

  Detective Sergeant Conroy

  Senior Constable Harvey

  Sergeant Peter Topaz

  Constable Valentine

  Significant Others

  Mal Flint

  Augustus (Augie) Kelly

  Patrick Lutteral

  Shirley Moynahan

  Charlotte Witherburn

  Harry Witherburn

  Contents

  Map of Maryborough

  BOOK ONE

  OneMaking an Entrance

  TwoIn the Wrong Place

  ThreeAt the Wrong Time

  FourSo Many Questions

  FiveSo Few Answers

  SixMeeting Charlotte

  BOOK TWO

  SevenFreedom and Capture

  EightUnpleasant Encounters

  NineSoupe du Jour

  TenBetrayal

  ElevenWild Night

  TwelveErrors of Judgement

  ThirteenJudgement of Errors

  Look round about the wicked streets of Rome

  And when thou find’st a man that’s like thyself,

  Good Murder, stab him; he’s a murderer.

  Titus Andronicus. Act V, Scene 2.

  Book One

  Chapter One

  making an entrance

  THE WATER TOWER IN MARYBOROUGH sat on the corner of Adelaide and Anne Streets. It held one million gallons of water and, for two weeks in August 1942, it also held the body of a 24-year-old woman named Polly Drummond. Afterwards it was impossible not to be appalled by the realisation that each time we drank a cup of tea we were imbibing Polly Drummond, and that each time we took a bath we were splashing ourselves with Polly Drummond. As she slowly dissolved up there, bloating and exuding the corrupt gases and liquids of the dead, we in the town strained her through our teeth, gargled her, washed our hair with her, and imbedded her in the very clothes we wore.

  I was among the gawkers who gathered at the bottom of the tower when word was passed around that her body had been found. My interest was not entirely voyeuristic. I was, after all, the main suspect in her murder.

  She had been discovered by two city council workers who had climbed the 52 feet to the top of the tower to fix a faulty indicator. They knew immediately who it was floating face down in that reservoir. The Maryborough Chronicle had been publishing almost daily accounts of the search for the missing woman. In a small town like Maryborough, everyone knew Polly Drummond, and everyone had a theory about what had happened to her. Many of those theories featured me.

  Getting Polly out of the tower and down to the ground was no easy task. I can understand the reluctance of those helping to simply sling the body across the shoulder and climb down. Eventually, using a block and tackle, Polly’s body was clumsily lowered to terra firma. This took more than two hours, and by this time most onlookers had given up and gone home. I hung well back, in the grounds of the Christian Brothers school opposite. There was no one from Polly’s family to accompany the body to the morgue. Her brother, who I knew slightly, had himself died two days previously, and her mother was barking mad. I did not believe my presence would arouse anything more than further suspicion. Under cover of the gathering darkness I walked back to the hotel where my company and I were staying.

  There was a war on, don’t forget, and I was doing my bit. That’s why we were up there, in Maryborough. The William Power Players were boosting morale all over rural Queensland by bringing Shakespeare to the barbarians. We had played Gympie before coming to Maryborough. It had not gone well, to be perfectly honest. We had underestimated their readiness for a daring tilt at Troilus and Cressida. It was an artistic triumph for those with eyes to see and a heart to feel, but Gympie was a bit light on in those departments. It didn’t help that the crowd had been agitated by the news that there had been heavy losses in the Solomon Islands and that the Germans were advancing rapidly on Stalingrad. The progress of the war often had a detrimental effect upon how our performances were received. Only a handful of people turned up for the second night’s performance. Gympie is a small pond, and I had overestimated the population of pond life that might wish to drag itself out of the slime for one evening. We decided to move on to Maryborough and mount a challenging new take on Titus Andronicus.

  The ‘we’ I mention was my troupe, my company, the Power Players. There were eight of us: my leading lady Annie Hudson (not a great talent, but very easy on the eye); Kevin Skakel (clubfoot, unfit for active duty); Bill Henty (blind in one eye, unfit for active duty); Arthur Rank (one arm, and one testicle as a matter of fact, unfit for active duty); Walter Sunder (65 years old, unfit for active duty); Adrian Baden (queer, unfit for active duty); and Tibald Canty (morbidly obese, unfit for active duty). I happened to be slightly flat footed, although not in any obvious way. In fact, I didn’t even know it until I enlisted and had the medical. I wouldn’t have been accepted anyway. Entertainers, particularly first-class ones, were considered a reserved profession. What we offered was more than a bag of flesh to stop a bullet.

  Despite Annie Hudson’s frequent suggestion that, in view of its personnel, playing a scene with the Power Players was like working in a field hospital, we were a professional outfit. Everybody had been connected in some way with the business before the war. Theatre was in our blood, no matter how small or large our parts had been. Tibald Canty, to choose just one of the troupe — the largest one, as it happens
— had had quite a successful career in radio, although his real love was the kitchen, and he had trained under some of the best chefs in Europe. Unfortunately he couldn’t appear as his character when it was mooted to put his radio show on the stage. Listeners thought he was a 25-year-old dentist, lean and smouldering, with coal-black hair and crisp blue eyes. The sight of a 40-year-old obese man with thinning, dirty yellow hair was considered too disillusioning, even in the early days of the war. He was replaced on stage, and afterwards his replacement slipped into his radio part, too. That freed him up to join my company.

  In 1942, I was in my prime. I was a serious actor. Whether I was a great actor is for others to judge. I have learned, though, to take the judgements of others with a grain of salt. I have presence. I can hold the stage. I can drag an audience to its feet with the lift of an eyebrow. I have elegant eyebrows, shaped by nature, not by tweezers. I looked like Tyrone Power (no relation) only finer, not so swarthy, higher-browed, bluer-eyed.

  When the Power Players arrived in Maryborough, the war was going badly. American soldiers were everywhere down south and causing trouble. A man named Leonski had been charged with the brownout murders in Melbourne. He’d strangled three women and was going to hang. We all talked about it, and I thought the time was right to do a Grand Guignol piece of our own devising about the wickedness of human nature. The mass murderer would be a Eurasian with impeccable credentials. He wouldn’t be unmasked until the final scene when we learned that his mother was Japanese and his father was German. No-one in the troupe thought it was a very good idea. Annie Hudson, who I thought might jump at the chance to play three different victims in the one piece, said it was a particularly lousy idea. I suspected she realised that it was outside her range.

  The Power Players travelled everywhere by truck. We had been allocated fifteen thousand miles annually for travel, and we had to be careful not to exceed them. With theatrical runs that were much shorter than expected we found ourselves on the move a great deal, and it’s surprising how quickly we ate up those miles. Strictly speaking, it was Annie’s truck. She’d paid for it with the money she’d made from her advertisements, and she’d made quite a few. They were print advertisements, mostly, and drew on her resemblance to Greer Garson — a rather low-rent version of Greer Garson, but she certainly resembled her. She’d also done a couple of radio spots. You only had to ask her and she’d tell you all about it. In 1942 she peered out at you from every magazine and newspaper you picked up. She was Connie, the bad-breath girl in the Colgate advertisement. There she was, looking all wide-eyed and lonely in the first frame and saying, ‘I’d like to go places and do things.’ That would be OK, she is advised, ‘but first check up on your breath’. All it takes to turn poor Connie into a social success is a quick brush with Colgate Dental Cream. I’m in that ad, too, in the last frame where Connie is pictured smiling at two tuxedoed admirers, apparently breathing in the mint-masked effluvium from Connie’s mouth. I’m the one with his back to the camera. The moron who managed to get his face shown gave the photographer a blowjob. There are some things I won’t do. It’s a matter of class.

  That’s where I met Annie, on the bad-breath girl photo shoot. I was setting up the Power Players in Melbourne at the time, and I offered her a place, promising her all the leading lady parts. When she said that she would buy a truck, the deal was sealed. Later, though, her pointed reminders as to who owned the vehicle made me think that I had paid a high price indeed for transport. She claimed that the only reason people came to see us at all was to see her. She was the bad-breath girl and the Tampax girl (‘All dressed up and then couldn’t go! …’) and people knew a star when they saw one. I kept quiet when she was doing one of her star turns. As actor/manager I had a responsibility to the whole troupe, and part of that responsibility involved not losing the truck. We were regularly reminded, half-jokingly, that it was her truck and that she might just drive away in it.

  The truck sat three in the front, or two if the passenger was Tibald, who weighed twenty stone at the time. The rest of the troupe rode in the back with the costumes, the props, and bits of all-purpose scenery. We wove stage magic with a minimum of scenery. It was all about the voice; my voice, mainly. Annie was at her best when looking distressed in grainy newspaper ads about her bad breath or untimely menstrual flow. There was no music in her voice. None at all. The truth is that the success or otherwise of her stage career was entirely dependent upon the reliability of her truck and the availability of petrol.

  It was a cool August morning when we lurched down Ferry Street in Maryborough for the first time. My initial impression of this almost-coastal town was that it was unnervingly flat. The eye ran up and down its wide streets unimpeded by dip or hillock. There had been no attempt made to soften the brutal simplicity of these thoroughfares with trees of any kind. For a person used to the huddled houses of inner Melbourne (albeit the house I grew up in was rather grand), Maryborough’s homes seemed unnecessarily generous in size, although this was partly an illusion created by the stilts on which many of them sat. The imagination of the inhabitants did not extend to their gardens. The enormous Queenslanders perched above either a riot of grasses and vines, with the odd ragged and shapeless paw paw or mango, or a blasted heath of sour and ugly earth.

  We’d chosen Maryborough because we’d heard that the war had had a remarkable effect upon it. The influx of airmen and soldiers, and the shifting of industry to a war footing, had shaken it out of the drowsy torpor that anaesthetised the inland towns we had visited and failed to arouse. The awful truth — something best avoided in the normal course of events, or at any rate left undisturbed by poking at it—was that the Power Players were ideally suited to performing in small, remote places, where our limitations might pass unnoticed, camouflaged by the greater limitations of our audiences. I had ambitions or, in this context, dreams, that my own talent might provide somebody in one of those godforsaken towns with the transformative experience of art.

  I was optimistic about Maryborough, prospering as it was in response to the need to build ships to keep Hirohito at bay. And build ships they did. Walkers Engineering was the pumping heart that kept Maryborough going. If ever proof was needed that war could quicken the economic pulse of a community, Walkers was it. Twelve hundred men beavered away in there, turning out Corvettes for the navy. They travelled to and from work in a great shoal of bicycles that flowed up Kent Street each morning at seven o’clock and ebbed back down Kent Street each afternoon at four. To be unemployed in Maryborough, a man would have to be dead and buried. Surely, here Titus Andronicus would release its power to mesmerise and appal.

  My troupe drew curious gazes on that first morning. There were few cars about, and the only truck we saw was a military vehicle. We turned into Kent Street and began looking for a suitable hotel. The Royal Hotel would have been ideal, but it was far too grand for our budget. It had obviously been built at a time when the town was flush with money from timber and gold. There were well-dressed women drinking in the lounge, looking prosperous and metropolitan, and doubtless the wives of officers put up there for the duration.

  We found a place we could afford close to the river but close, too, to the centre of town. The George Hotel, on the corner of March and Wharf Streets, had three storeys that seemed to have a tentative grasp on the site. They leaned nervously away from the Mary River as if not wishing to attract its attention. The Mary River runs at speed through the town, its waters muddied by the churning drag of energetic tides. It floods with a viciousness that is almost personal. People were still talking about the flood of ‘37 and declaring that the town was about due for another drowning. They got their drowning all right, but it wasn’t quite what they were expecting.

  The proprietor of the George was a sinewy, pale-skinned man with hair the colour of copper wire and eyes of a most peculiar, insipid, yellow-flecked green. He welcomed us with open, hairy arms. Customers who stayed and paid were obv
iously unusual in his hotel. I wondered if the insistent wash of the Mary River, audible through the open door of the bar, had anything to do with it. There were a few men in the bar, and they looked us up and down before returning indifferently to their beer. The proprietor, who declared that his name was Augie Kelly, ran the place more or less on his own.

  ‘The food’s not great,’ he said. ‘I do the best I can, but there’s not a big demand and there’s not much in the way of decent stuff available.’ As he said this he looked at Tibald, wondering, I suppose, if he was expected to provide enough food to maintain his weight. ‘I’m not a good cook either,’ he added. ‘I had a good cook, but he joined the AIF.’ Turning those unsettling eyes in my direction he explained further, moving his large hands about apologetically. ‘You may not know, but the government is going to bring in austerity measures that will affect public eating houses. Three courses only, and no hors’d’oeuvres.’

  I did not imagine that three courses of anything had been served in this hotel for a very long time.

  ‘It’s twenty shillings a week, each,’ he said.

  ‘That,’ I said icily, ‘seems rather high, especially in the absence of hors d’oeuvres.’

  ‘If you can do better anywhere else, be my guest,’ he said, folding those hairy arms aggressively.

  Tibald interrupted him.

  ‘My good man,’ he declaimed in his deepest Falstaffian voice, ‘show me your kitchen.’

  Augie was taken aback. ‘Why?’ His eyelids twitched suspiciously as if he thought Augie was already on the hunt for any available food.

  ‘If the space is agreeable and if the equipment is even a few steps up from primitive, I will cook for your establishment in consideration of a reduction in our tariff.’

  ‘Now why would I do that? How do I know that you can even cook?’

  Tibald raised an eyebrow. ‘Do I look hungry?’ he asked.