Good Murder Page 5

  When Fred returned he took his seat and held out his cup, expecting Polly to pour tea into it. Polly stood, took the teapot by its handle and walked towards him. She tipped it as if to fill his cup, but at the last moment swung her arm back and, with the momentum gained, brought the teapot down hard on the side of his head. Its lid flew off, and tea sprayed over Fred and onto the furniture. There was a frozen moment when no one could assimilate what had happened. Fred’s hands flew to his face, and then he roared his rage and threw himself at Polly. They crashed to the floor, the thud of Polly’s head as it hit the floorboards competing with the clatter of toppling china figurines. Mrs Drummond woke and screamed incoherently, not looking at the scene before her, but lost somewhere between waking and sleeping, staring open-mouthed into the middle distance.

  ‘They’re here! They’re here! The papists have come!’ she screamed.

  Fred’s hands were closed around Polly’s throat, and she was gurgling and kicking. I launched myself onto Fred’s back and dragged him off. He didn’t put up much resistance but sat with his legs splayed, feeling the side of his head. I think he was crying. Polly lay still for a few seconds but, like a thing possessed, she let out a yowl and attacked Fred with renewed ferocity. Her hand found his genitals and she squeezed so that he doubled over and made an unholy sound that was a mixture of pain and nausea. I attempted to wrench Polly’s grip away. With her free hand she raked her nails across my neck. I felt the warmth of flowing blood immediately. I staggered to my feet and backed out of the room. The last I saw of Polly Drummond was the flip flop of her bob as her head moved back and forth in rhythm to the tightening of her hold on her brother’s testicles. The scene before me in that dim, yellow light was like something out of Dante. Mrs Drummond screamed, Fred moaned, and Polly grunted with the effort. I hurried down the corridor and into Richmond Street. A light rain was falling. The cool drops stung my neck where Polly’s fingernails had ripped my flesh.

  It was later that evening that Polly Drummond was murdered.

  Chapter Three

  at the wrong time

  ANNIE HUDSON HAD READ in Modern Screen that Joan Crawford never left the house without full make-up. She had, Miss Crawford said, a responsibility to her fans to look like a movie star at all times. Annie, hilariously, felt a similar responsibility, which is why, when we went to Wright’s Hall on Monday for the first time, she was wearing the kind of make-up you would apply if you were expecting a Klieg light to be turned on you. I can’t be sure, but I think Adrian had applied a hint of mascara as well. I don’t think Mr Wright had had much to do with theatre people, and we were a little overwhelming. The whole company came with me to the hall, except for Tibald, who was organising the kitchen to his satisfaction. After the first few successful dinners, and a growing profile in the town, he had begun to assert his right to be temperamental.

  ‘I can’t work without a proper mise en place,’ he snapped when I suggested that he come with us to Wright’s. ‘And I can’t organise my mise unless I’m left alone!’

  It was obvious that Augie’s Tour d’Argent delusions were contagious.

  The interior of the hall was bland and exhausted. Its windows were filthy — not that that mattered as they would be covered by our blacks. The floor was uneven, and badly rutted and dented with skate damage. There was a small room off to the side at the back. This would serve as our dressing-room and our off-stage space. We would erect a small stage and work without curtains in the authentic, Shakespearean way. I would instruct the company to refer to the audience as ‘groundlings’, to help them get in the mood. You would be surprised how details like that can affect performance and commitment. The hall wasn’t ideal and the acoustics were dreadful, but the price was right. I took the key from Mr Wright and shook his hand. He was to come that night to the George to seal the deal with Tibald’s three-course, war-time austerity miracle. When he had gone I turned to my company and said, ‘Our real work can now begin.’

  ‘Your neck’s bleeding’, said Annie, and her revulsion was a little overdone, considering that the ooze was the merest trickle.

  Our first rehearsal went badly. I had hoped that, as professionals, they would have learned their lines. Adrian was word perfect, but he was the only one. Walter Sunder, whose age (he was sixty-five) was his only real asset, barely had a third of his part off. He was almost impossible to direct. He could never be heard from beyond the third row. Still, we needed someone to do the elderly parts, and with only minimal make-up available all he had to do was appear shirtless to provide an audience with a convincing demonstration that all flesh was indeed grass. In his case, rather dry and withered grass.

  Kevin Skakel wasn’t much better. In fact, he was worse. When I pressed him to prove his claim that he had his part down, he took umbrage and limped to the back of the hall, his club foot hitting the boards just that bit harder than his good one. If he’d been able to act he’d have made a decent Richard the Third.

  Annie, to give her credit, knew most of her lines, although in the brief run-through I did with her she was as animated as a table-ready flounder. I attempted to explain, yet again, my vision of the play to the company, and to convey roughly how I saw it being blocked out in this space. The men weren’t happy about the leather posing pouches I wanted them to wear. I thought the pouches were both dramatic and sensible. They certainly cut down on costuming costs.

  ‘I’m not serving somebody in the hotel one night and parading practically naked in front of them the next,’ said Bill Henty.

  ‘And putting them off their food for life,’ said Annie.

  I stepped in to stop the argument descending into a slanging match, aware that there was no love lost between Bill and Annie. They were forever sniping at each other. I think perhaps Annie may have turned him down at some stage. I don’t inquire too closely into the private lives of the members of my company.

  After a few futile and frustrating hours at the hall we returned to the George to prepare for dinner. We had adopted a routine by now. Each person knew his job, and nobody seemed to mind too much doing it. I think waiting on tables was preferred to acting. With each day the George was becoming a bit more spruced up. Augie Kelly’s delusions of grandeur had prompted him to try to turn the dining room into some sort of palm-court fantasy. He had the walls and ceiling patched and painted, even though this meant people ate their dinners with the smell of paint and turpentine stripping their nasal passages. He had put large potted palms in strategic places, and made sure that there were flowers on every table. I had to admit, the room looked elegant. The inappropriately heavy drapes he had hung hid the ugly black-outs from the diners. In a matter of only a few days, the George had established itself as a place to take a girl for a decent meal. Word spread through the services, and most of our customers were air force or, occasionally, army — officers of course, showing a local girl a good time and hoping for something in return.

  When we returned from the hall I retreated to my room and went over the script. I needed to drop four characters to make it work. Fatigued by rewriting Shakespeare, I decided to take a bath before going down to help out with the serving. There was no one in the bathroom when I entered, although someone had taken a bath recently. It had probably been Kevin Skakel, who shed extravagant amounts of hair whenever he bathed, and never cleaned up after himself. Sluicing out the tub was essential to avoid contact with the disgusting detritus of the Skakel moult. There was no hot water, but the water that came out of the tap was comfortably tepid. I slipped in, adjusted to the initial shock, and closed my eyes. I must have fallen asleep. How else would it have been possible for someone to enter the bathroom without my knowing it? That, however, is what happened.

  I opened my eyes suddenly and, sitting on the edge of the bath, was Sergeant Peter Topaz staring at me. I was comprehensively discombobulated, sat up violently, and spilled water over the edge. Topaz stood quickly, but not
quickly enough to prevent his trousers being doused. There was nothing else to do but to play this calmly, as if waking to the sight of a policeman perched on the edge of one’s bath was a perfectly ordinary experience. I slid back down into my previous, comfortable position.

  ‘I don’t suppose it occurred to you to knock,’ I said, trying not to sound peevish.

  ‘I did knock. There was no answer, so I thought I’d better check that you were all right.’

  ‘I’m touched. You get a lot of drownings in baths in this town, do you? What are you doing up here? I don’t think I know you well enough to meet socially under these conditions.’

  ‘I was looking for you. I was told you might be in here, taking a bath.’

  ‘So you thought you’d come and watch.’

  Topaz walked over to the door that he had left half-open and closed it, quietly. He returned to the bath and once again stared down at me. I confess I felt at a considerable disadvantage.

  ‘That’s a nasty scratch on your neck,’ he said. ‘You have to watch those things up here. They get infected.’

  My hand flew automatically and guiltily to the wound inflicted by Polly’s nails.

  ‘I did it in my sleep, last night.’ I closed my fingers over when I said this so that he couldn’t see that the nails were blunted by careful filing. I look after my hands. They are expressive. I didn’t tell him the truth because it was none of his business and because I hadn’t yet considered properly how I felt about the incidents of the previous evening. At the time, while walking home, I had told myself that I could not possibly see her again; that there was madness there. In the light of day, however, my resolve had weakened. There was something exciting about her. Perhaps I would see her again, after all, but stay well away from her house and its inhabitants.

  Topaz seemed to be examining my body almost forensically. His eyes travelled up and down it in unembarrassed assessment. It made me uncomfortable and self-conscious, and my decision to remain calm mutated into umbrage.

  ‘What the hell is this about?’ I snapped, and there was real rancour in my voice this time.

  ‘Have you seen Polly Drummond today or yesterday?’ he asked, his eyes settling on the scratches on my neck.

  ‘What? No. Why would I have seen her?’

  ‘So you do know Polly Drummond?’

  ‘She was at dinner. The night you came. Yes, I know her.’

  I didn’t like the way this was going.

  ‘You saw her after that, though. After that dinner, I mean.’

  There was no point lying. I had no reason to lie. I saw her. So what?

  ‘She came here the other day. Friday. Asked me to walk her home. Arthur came, too. We went to see the circus arrive, and the movies.’

  ‘All three of you. You, Arthur, and Polly.’

  ‘Are you investigating something, or are you genuinely interested in my social life?’

  ‘Her brother’s worried about her.’

  ‘Hah!’ I said contemptuously. ‘Her brother is insane.’

  With that, I stood up, wrapped a towel around my waist, and clambered out of the bath. Topaz made no move to leave.

  ‘You were with Polly on Saturday night.’

  It was a statement, not a question. I wasn’t about to deny anything.

  ‘If you are insinuating that I spent the night with her, I most certainly did not. We went to the movies, saw two wretched films which she inexplicably enjoyed, I walked her home, and that’s it. I stayed for a bit until Polly and Fred started arguing, and then I left.’

  Topaz stood between me and the door, not aggressively, but deliberately, with his arms folded. I pulled the plug in the bath and began to move past him. He turned slightly to allow me through but, just as I touched the door handle, he said coolly, ‘She’s missing.’

  ‘What do you mean, “missing”?’

  ‘Her bed wasn’t slept in on Saturday night and she didn’t come home on Sunday. She’s not home yet and she didn’t turn up at work this morning.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, she’s a big girl. She probably got fed up with the arguing — the whole family’s crackers, you know — and went to a friend’s house.’

  ‘Nope,’ he said.

  I opened the door and walked into the corridor. Topaz followed.

  ‘Her brother says she left the house about ten minutes after you did. Catch up with you, did she?’

  ‘If she had caught up with me, Sergeant, that wouldn’t be any of your business, but as it happens, she didn’t.’ It seemed inappropriate to call him ‘Peter’, given the professional tone he was adopting.

  ‘Her brother is worried, that’s all. I said I’d ask around. So if you do know where she is, even though it’s none of my business, I’d like to be able to pass on that she’s all right. So, can I tell him she’s all right?’

  I had reached the door of my room by this stage.

  ‘You can tell him what you like, but I have no idea where she is. I didn’t see her after I left the house. Now, unless you want to look under my bed, can I please get dressed? I have to help with downstairs.’

  ‘Make sure you put disinfectant on those scratches. They look nasty.’

  His solicitude was actually a threat. He hadn’t believed a word I had said.

  ‘One last thing,’ he said. I sighed noisily.

  ‘Yes, Sergeant.’ I stressed his title to indicate that I felt he had put distance between us.

  He lowered his head so that I could see its crown, and patted it with one hand.

  ‘Tell me honestly — do you think I’m losing my hair?’

  I believe the American expression ‘out of left field’ just about covers this question. Without missing a beat, not wishing to give him the satisfaction of thinking that he had taken me by surprise yet again, I examined the top of his head and said, ‘Actually, yes. I think you’re thinning on top there.’ It was a lie, but it wouldn’t hurt to give him something to worry about.

  The next two days of rehearsals were draining. Titus was starting to take shape but it was going to be a struggle to sell it to a town used to dancing bears and second-rate vaudevillians. Bill Henty snidely suggested that Annie should appear with one breast exposed. At least people would show up. I think she was flattered by the notion that just one of her breasts would be sufficiently magnetic to ensure full houses.

  ‘Which one do you think?’ she asked. ‘Left or right?’

  ‘It doesn’t bother me,’ said Henty. ‘I’ve only got one good eye anyway.’

  It was when we had returned to the George on Wednesday that Annie plonked the Chronicle down in front of me. There it was, confirmation that Polly Drummond was now officially missing and that foul play was suspected.

  SEARCH FOR MISSING GIRL

  The search for Maryborough girl, Miss Polly Drummond, entered its third day yesterday. Last seen at home on Saturday night, police are without any real clues as to her whereabouts. Any information which would assist in the investigation would be welcome. The search will continue.

  ‘So where have you put her?’ asked Annie salaciously.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Will. We all know you were keen on her.’

  I bridled at this impertinence.

  ‘I took her to the movies. I knew her for precisely two days. I was not keen on her.’

  ‘All right.’ She made a gesture to indicate that she thought I was lying. ‘Far be it from me to pry.’

  Everyone in the company, except for Arthur, made some snide remark about my having gone to the pictures with a missing girl. The reason I didn’t think it was cute, or funny, was that I had a growing suspicion that Fred Drummond had had something to do with his sister’s disappearance. For the next few days I opened the paper with a sense of
dread. There was a small notice every day, asking for help in finding Polly and letting people know that she was still missing. By the fifth day it had become clear that she was probably dead. The police began searching the river banks and local dams. I was expecting a visit from Peter Topaz, but he didn’t come. Perhaps he, too, suspected Fred Drummond, and was directing his questions to him.

  The Saturday night of the Comfort Fund dance was lit by a brilliant moon. The Town Hall filled quickly, and soon a pall of cigarette smoke hung in the air. I took the stage and faced the people of Maryborough for the first time.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen’, I announced into the inadequate microphone. Although it made my voice sound a little flat, there was nothing I could do about it, and so I ploughed on. I introduced myself suavely, gave the Power Players a plug, and thanked the organising committee of the dance as well as the ladies who had given of their time to decorate the hall so beautifully. Well, I was hardly going to tell the truth and declare the paper streamers and arches of bougainvillea tired and tacky. The Brown-Out orchestra struck up a jaunty swing tune, and the dance floor became crowded with couples. There were a lot of uniforms there, almost all of them airforce.

  I scanned the crowd from the side of the stage, trying to get a feel for the citizens of this town. Under the subdued lighting inside the hall, they scrubbed up pretty well. The women were well dressed, probably hoping to score a description in the next day’s paper. There was little evidence of clothes that conformed closely to the government’s austerity dress code. Several men were wearing double-breasted suits, and several others were wearing waistcoats beneath their jackets. Both of these were considered wasteful of cloth and labour, but perhaps they were ancient items taken from the back of the wardrobe and seen only at dances and funerals. The mayor was wearing the drab Dedman suit, the preferred official style, setting an example. I saw two men who I recognised from the bar of the George, as well as some of the people who had eaten in Tibald’s dining room. Adrian was there, hoping to pick up some soldier boy, no doubt, and no doubt he would succeed; and Bill Henty was there, too, wearing tails which fitted him snugly, and he knew it. Annie Hudson hadn’t yet arrived, but she was coming. ‘And not alone,’ she had said pointedly.