Good Murder Read online

  ‘This is now officially a murder investigation, and I need you to accompany me to the station.’

  Wearily I rolled off the bed and held out my good hand as if to receive handcuffs.

  ‘Don’t be melodramatic,’ he said. ‘This isn’t a Hollywood gangster picture.’

  I walked with Peter Topaz from the George to the police station. He said very little. He seemed preoccupied. The silence made me uncomfortable, which perhaps was what was intended. I felt conspicuous, too, with my arm in a sling and with a police escort. Several people stared at us, and I fancied that more than one of them whispered to their companions.

  ‘This is humiliating,’ I said. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong. It looks like I’m being taken in for questioning.’

  ‘You are being taken in for questioning.’

  ‘Outrageous,’ I said sulkily.

  ‘Why don’t you do yourself a favour and accept the fact that you were the last person to see her alive and that we might be interested in that small fact.’

  ‘I was not the last person …’

  ‘Shut up, Will.’

  He said this so savagely that I was shocked into silence.

  I took Topaz’s coolness towards me personally. It might seem odd, but it bothered me that his certainty about my guilt was getting in the way of his liking me. As we approached the police station I had the ghastly realisation that I had been looking forward to impressing him with our production of Titus Andronicus. Let me tell you, your chances of showing off are severely diminished by the possibility that you might have murdered someone.

  Inside the police station, Topaz put me in the room where he had interviewed me previously. He left, and I sat for ten minutes breathing its foetid, dead air. I presumed this was a police device for unsettling a suspect. It worked. When he returned he brought with him a tall, unnaturally thin man with dark, straight hair in need of a trim, and with a prominent Adam’s apple. He was wearing a suit. It was not a very good suit, but a suit nonetheless.

  ‘This is Detective Sergeant Conroy,’ said Topaz. ‘He’s heading the investigation, and he’ll be asking the questions.’

  Conroy had large, brown eyes, and one of them quivered in its socket in the most disconcerting manner. He took in the person before him — me — and sat down. Topaz sat at his side, but slightly behind him. Before Conroy spoke, he cleared his throat noisily.

  ‘I ‘spose you’re gonna tell me we’re pickin’ on you because you’re with the circus.’

  Who on earth did he think he was talking to? I felt a rush of indignation that he would mistake me for one of those squalid, shifty, slightly sinister circus types. Hadn’t Topaz briefed him at all? These thoughts crashed through my headache and came out in the form of an incredulous ‘Whaaaa?’

  Conroy, who had affected to be checking some notes, looked up at me.

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘I am not,’ I said, trying to summon the dignity that would support what I was about to say, ‘I am not a member of a travelling circus. I am an actor. Do I look like some swarthy gypsy?’

  ‘To be frank, Mr Power, just at the minute you look like shit.’

  ‘Obviously, you’re not seeing me at my best.’

  I caught Topaz’s eye and detected a smirk.

  ‘We won’t keep you, Mr Power,’ said Conroy. ‘This isn’t a formal interview. We’re not keeping a record of it. I wanted to introduce myself, get a few details from you, and let you know that you’re not to leave town for the time being. OK?’

  The ‘OK’ was spoken with the condescension usually reserved for the very young or the very, very old.

  ‘Just ask your questions and get it over with,’ I said resignedly.

  At the end of my informal interview with Detective Sergeant Conroy, I felt wrung out by the conflicting emotions raging within. On the one hand, I felt mortified by Conroy’s failure to make even the slightest feint at an assumption of my innocence; and on the other, I felt a sort of elation at having been able to provide him with a list of alternative suspects. There was Smelt, who’d come with Polly to the first dinner at the George, and there was the chap who’d told Polly to warn Fred about the money he owed — the same chap who had inadvertently rescued me from Fred’s fists. There was Fred himself, of course, although his being dead was inconvenient. Apart from anything else, he was the only other person who could have corroborated that when I left the Drummond house Polly was still alive. Mrs Drummond could not be relied upon to give an accurate account. The fact that Polly had left soon after wasn’t helpful, but Fred would have told the police eventually what he told me — that he knew I was innocent and that he knew who was guilty. There were the circus people and the RAAF people …

  ‘Thank you, Mr Power,’ Conroy said when I ran all this by him. ‘We are not stupid.’ He made a play of writing down the names of the individuals I had mentioned, but it was clear that his heart wasn’t in it.

  ‘And I,’ I said, ‘am not guilty.’

  He managed an ugly little grin when I said that, and his quivering eye seemed to quiver just a little bit more.

  By the time I reached the point where I was to cross Kent Street it was four o’clock, and the bicycle exodus from Walkers Engineering had begun. I scanned faces as they whizzed past in their hundreds, but I did not see the man who had belted Fred Drummond so viciously at the ACF dance. He was bound to be among the riders, but spotting him would have been like trying to identify a particular bird in a flock of flamingos. I didn’t have any clear notion of what I would do if I saw him. It occurred to me, though, as the moving blur of cyclists passed, that I could not sit back and allow Topaz and Conroy to build a case against me unopposed. I had an advantage over them. I was able to eliminate their chief suspect. I wasn’t hamstrung by the limiting belief that this murder had been committed by William Power.

  When Kent Street had been cleared of cycle traffic I crossed it, and before I had reached the opposite footpath I had made the decision that I would nail Polly’s killer. I was able to think confidently of nailing the killer because it was broad daylight. and I had not properly considered that the process might be a dangerous one. My bravura was, I realised later that night, attached to the absurd belief that I could organise clearing my name along the lines of a three-act murder mystery. Standing on the corner of Kent Street I had been swept away by the imagined climax of presenting the culprit to Topaz and Conroy, trussed and bleating his guilt, in a brilliant coup de théâtre. Reclining in the tepid waters of the bath that night, it occurred to me that the person who had killed Polly Drummond might resist discovery, and would, quite likely, use any means to do so, including killing again. The chap seeking to nail him might be a prime candidate. I would need help, and I believed that I could call on Arthur’s loyalty to assist me.

  I didn’t linger in the bath. The cast on my arm had taken most of the pleasure out of a good, long soak. I could tell from the noise coming up from downstairs that the dining room was full. Arthur wouldn’t be back in his room for two more hours at least. I used the time to try to sort out a plan. I made a list of people I wanted to talk to. It was a small list of three.

  —Man on bicycle.

  —Smelt.

  —The person Polly visited after we had watched the circus come to town.

  This was discouraging. I had no idea how to find the person whose name I knew, let alone the other two. I also jotted down, ‘Search Drummond house’. Polly had said that she kept a diary; such a diary might contain a vital clue, or the names of her friends. It would have been unnatural, also, if I had not been curious to read her impressions of me. The police may have already found this item, but I had no way of knowing this, and there was every chance that they had overlooked it. Just reading my jottings made me nervous. I believed, though, that this was something I had to do, and how difficult could it be? Mrs
Drummond slept deeply, that much I already knew, and she wasn’t exactly compos mentis. I could hold a bagpipe rehearsal in Polly’s bedroom and it wouldn’t register.

  When I told Arthur my plans, he was enthusiastic but a bit wary about the house search. ‘If you get caught you’ll be charged with burglary on top of everything else. My God, they’ll think you’re a one-man crime wave.’

  ‘I won’t get caught and I’m not stealing anything. It’s more of an unannounced visit than a break and enter.’ I failed to mention that his being with me was a part of the plan. He wasn’t ready to hear this. He then made a brilliant suggestion.

  ‘You should go to the funeral tomorrow.’

  ‘Is it tomorrow?’

  ‘The notice is in the Chronicle. It’s for both of them. It would be good to see who turns up.’

  The funeral was a big affair. It would have been cruel to expect Mrs Drummond to bury her children on separate occasions, so there were two caskets in the aisle of the Lutheran Church in John Street. The church was crowded. There were many uniforms there, but the majority of mourners were civilians. I arrived late, not wanting to draw attention to myself, and stood in the shadows at the back. I was not the only latecomer, and was soon hemmed in. An order of service had been distributed at the door, and when I ran my eye over it there were no names that were known to me. It provided me, though, with a more complete list of people I would need to talk to.

  The eulogies for Polly were quite moving. A young woman, Shirley Moynahan, who said that she was her closest friend, spoke of Polly’s love of the movies and her generosity. It was a pity somebody hadn’t given her words (she read them) a quick once-over. This would have eliminated the poor grammar, which rather spoiled the effect — for me, anyway. She broke down halfway through, and had to be helped to her seat. There were three other speakers for Polly. Only one person spoke for Fred. This was an air force officer who gave the unfortunate impression that he didn’t know Fred all that well. Indeed, he seemed anxious to let the assembly know that Fred wasn’t actually a good friend, but more a subordinate under his command. This was a duty eulogy, not a cry from the heart.

  Mrs Drummond didn’t speak. She was protected from the hideous, wrenching tragedy of the double burial by her madness. At least I thought this until I saw her face as she walked behind the coffins as they were carried out of the church. She looked stricken. There was no protective madness here, just the raw and savage truth of almost incomprehensible grief. As she passed, she caught my eye, and she stopped. One hand went to her mouth, and the other pointed at me. It trembled in the air, and many eyes followed the direction of the pointing finger. Because of the crush of people around me, it couldn’t have been clear to observers whom she was indicating. A sudden shriek echoed through the church. It sounded like the word ‘Him!’, but it was entangled in the frightful sounds that wrapped themselves around it as they emerged from Mrs Drummond’s throat. She fell to the ground, and in the confusion I pushed my way out of the church and into the grey day outside. Before I had reached the gate, a voice called out, ‘Wait a minute.’

  It was Augie Kelly.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked, puzzled. He had made a serious effort to present himself as the sophisticated hotelier he felt he had become.

  ‘Paying my respects,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t hurt to be seen at these things in a small town. Show you care, that you’re part of a community. That sort of thing.’

  ‘So you see all these grieving people as potential clients.’

  ‘If they breathe, they eat, and they might as well eat at the George.’

  He had the grace to laugh. I couldn’t laugh with him because Mrs Drummond’s hysterical outburst had unsettled me, and it was still ringing in my ears. How many people had realised that her finger had been pointed at me? How many would report this terrifying J’accuse to the police?

  Augie walked with me back to the George. We made small talk about the hotel and how everything was going so well. He pretended to be interested in Titus Andronicus, but I knew that he was hopeful its premiere would be delayed as long as possible. He hadn’t thought about who he would employ to wait on tables when we were performing. I was able to reassure him that my injuries were interfering with rehearsals, which would almost certainly mean a postponement of opening night.

  When we reached the George, I went into the kitchen to see Tibald. Walter Sunder was there. I hadn’t seen him for a couple of days and I assumed he had been immersed in learning the script. He suddenly seemed like an old man, much older than his sixty-five years.

  ‘I’m not well,’ he said, and left the kitchen.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ I asked.

  ‘He wants to leave,’ Tibald said, without looking up from his surgical preparation of a bullock’s heart.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s tired, and he doesn’t want to work for a man who murders young women.’

  Tibald’s tone was as neutral as if he had asked me to pass him the salt.

  ‘Oh, really?’ I said, exasperated. ‘I thought he’d have more sense.’

  Tibald looked up when I said that.

  ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Because he’s older than the rest of us? That’s not sixty-five years of accumulated wisdom, you know. It’s sixty-five years of accumulated stupidity.’

  ‘Still, I’m disappointed. I’ll talk to him.’

  Tibald shrugged and went back to the bloodied mess that would cause small moans of pleasure to escape from diners that night. I could not beard Walter immediately. It was imperative that I speak to Arthur. He did not yet know that I had woven him into my scheme. His wariness about my involvement in a burglary escalated into dismay when I told him I needed him to come with me to the Drummond house that night.

  ‘We’ve only got two arms between us,’ I said. ‘That’s the bare minimum required for burglary.’

  There were several arguments that Arthur put forward in favour of staying safely at the George. He pointed out, quite reasonably, that after the trauma of the funeral Mrs Drummond would surely have company. I said that the people who were at the funeral were there for Polly. Possibly some were there for Fred, and probably a good number were there because in Maryborough a funeral constituted a day out. Mrs Drummond was so peculiar, I argued, that even if she did have friends to support her she would probably order them out of the house at her earliest convenience, with the charge of being a papist hurled at their backs. Arthur wasn’t convinced.

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘I won’t ask you to come into the house with me. Wait at the gate and warn me if anyone arrives.’

  ‘And how will I do that? Whistle something from Gilbert and Sullivan? Cough in Morse code?’

  ‘I have to do this, Arthur. I don’t care how insane it seems. My life might depend on this. Please don’t throw obstacles in my way.’

  This was the first time I had spoken aloud the dread that had been percolating through me ever since Topaz first voiced his suspicions.

  ‘They could hang me, Arthur. They could pin this on me and hang me.’

  I had been standing up while Arthur sat on the edge of his bed, but when I heard myself utter the word ‘hang’ I felt weak at the knees and had to sit beside him.

  ‘All right,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll do it. I’ll come with you. But I’m not going into the house. And they can’t hang you in Queensland. There’s no death penalty here.’

  I should have felt relieved to hear that. But I didn’t.

  At 2.00 am we went downstairs quietly and passed through the dining room on our way to the front door. Just as we were about to reach it, it opened, and two figures entered. We dropped below a table. The figures stopped within a few feet of us and moved together in an embrace.

  ‘Not here,’ said Adrian. ‘Upstairs.’

  The other man laughed softly a
nd said, ‘I hope you can take nine inches.’

  ‘I can give it, and I can take it,’ whispered Adrian, and the two of them headed upstairs.

  ‘Honestly,’ I said. ‘Living opposite the wharf, Adrian’s like a kid in a toy shop.’

  Outside, the air was cool and moist, and it was so dark I could barely see my hand in front of my face. Thick clouds obscured the moon completely and there was not even the faintest wash of light. There was barely a breath of wind. The Mary River slapped against its banks, and the vague odour of its swampy edges wafted on the air. We moved quickly up March Street, away from the wharf where, even at this hour, people were working. By the time we’d crossed Alice Street, not a soul stirred. In less than fifteen minutes we had turned into Queen Street and we were only a block from the Drummond house in Richmond Street. When we reached its gate, we stopped and spoke for the first time since setting out.

  ‘We’re here,’ I said unnecessarily.

  ‘That’s exactly what Polly said that time we came here.’

  The house loomed in the darkness, the trees that softened its outlines by day forming frightening shapes by night. The palms on either side of the staircase looked like shadowy sentries. We opened the gate, expecting it to creak alarmingly. Its well-oiled hinges swung soundlessly.

  ‘This is as far as I go,’ whispered Arthur. ‘That was the deal.’

  I walked around the side of the house, not wanting to enter it from the street. The back stairs were not as grand as those at the front. They were steeply pitched with a rail that had become splintery over time. They had been well made, though, and did not offer any complaint as my feet met them, one by one. My heart was racing, and I had to pause to gather my nerve. The silence, which should have been my ally, felt threatening, as if it contained something secret and nasty. I had brought a torch with me, with all but a narrow line of its face blacked out. I turned it on and directed the feeble beam towards the doorhandle of the back door. I hadn’t given much thought to what I would do if the doors were locked. I was counting on Mrs Drummond being too batty to bother. I tried the knob and it turned, the tongue sliding smoothly out of its catch. I pushed gently and the door opened inwards. The house exhaled a waft of warm, slightly stale air … and something else. I couldn’t place it, but my nose is a sensitive instrument, and there was an odour, drifting among the household smells, that was sweetly metallic. I closed the door gently. The click as the latch fell into place sounded to my nervous ear like a gunshot. My senses were so alert, so taut with the fear of discovery, that I felt rather than heard a movement in a further room. It was almost as if I were feeling the sudden tensing of someone else’s muscles. I strained eyes and ears for the faintest indication that I had been heard. Nothing. I must have been mistaken.