A Thing of Blood (6 page)

‘And how’s the Company? How are they getting on?’

‘Since you left? Never better, Will. Never better.’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘Let’s drop the pretence that this is a social call.’

‘No pretence at this end, Will. I imagine you want something.’

‘I need your help,’ I said, and let this startling admission sink in.

‘All right,’ he said, ‘but the only reason I’m listening is that you’re two thousand miles away. So whatever it is, I won’t be tempted to thump you.’

‘It’s about my brother Brian,’ I said, and told him all that had happened. He wasn’t in any way censorious about Brian’s having had an affair, but he said Sarah Goodenough wasn’t the ideal choice of mistress.

‘Given who he’s related to, that’s hardly a surprise though, is it?’ he said.

He told me that Sarah Goodenough was known to the Maryborough police, although she had never been charged with anything. The owner of the Royal Hotel had had suspicions that she had been using her room there as a brothel. It was true that she entertained a lot of men, but there had been no evidence that money had changed hands.

‘There’s no law against giving it away for free,’ Topaz said, ‘so you might like to tell your brother that he’d been cultivating a well-ploughed furrow, and that if Sarah Goodenough told him she loved him she was lying.’

Topaz said he’d do some checking, but that any information would be passed to the Melbourne police, who would, he assumed, be contacting the Maryborough police in due course, if they hadn’t already done so. He would, however, ring later that afternoon and tell me anything he thought was relevant as long as it didn’t compromise the investigation. I gave him Paul Clutterbuck’s number and said that I would be there about 5.00 p.m.

‘I liked your brother, Will. I’m doing this to help him. I still think you’re a complete dill.’

‘Give my regards to everyone,’ I said.

‘Now why would I want to ruin their day?’ he said, and hung up.

I congratulated myself on not having risen to any of Topaz’s childish taunts, and was pleased to admit a little rush of professional superiority. I felt I had passed some sort of test. Private inquiry agents don’t allow their emotions to run away with them.

The Leonardo bookshop sat at the eastern end of Little Collins Street in an area that was favoured by a louche crowd who thought themselves modern. Here one could see men in corduroy trousers, (I recalled my mother’s advice that corduroy was always a mistake), and with beards, and with the self-conscious swagger of the determined and committed outsider. Artists and writers and communists gathered here, but I wasn’t interested in what they painted or what they wrote. I am not, I hasten to add, a philistine, but I don’t believe that verses penned by badly dressed, scrofulous comrades pose a serious threat to the sonnets of Mr William Shakespeare. It seemed to me that the only thing these people had in common with the Bard was facial hair.

I wasn’t entirely comfortable in this part of town but, drawing on my acting skills, I affected an appropriate slouch and entered the bookshop at a quarter to two. It was an odd place. There was no counter at the front. Instead, the man who I took to be the proprietor sat behind a table in a far corner. He nodded when I came in, and went back to reading his book.

I began browsing casually: there was a table in the centre of the room and I picked up one of the titles that lay upon it. It was a collection of poetry written by someone with an unpronounceable name and translated by someone else with an equally unpronounceable name. I read the opening line of the opening poem and recognised the words as being English, but could force no sense from them. I put it down and browsed through a volume of photographs. There were some rather beautiful nudes among the pretentious still lifes and brooding landscapes, and I was surprised that such a book had not been seized by the police. I could see that the Leonardo catered for a literary crowd that differed markedly from book-buyers in Melbourne’s more staid establishments. I imagined that material of a particularly racy nature could be obtained under the counter from the corpulent owner.

There was one other customer in the Leonardo when I entered. He was a man who looked to be in his early forties, and was clean-shaven, though sporting a neat, Ronald Colman moustache. He was wearing a Dedman suit, the austere lines of which had been softened by its being made from expensive material. This compromise made me think that he might work in a government position where adhering to the clothing regulations would be expected. Perhaps he’d come down from Parliament House, which huddled behind sandbags just a few minutes’ walk away. He looked up expectantly when a woman came in, but returned his eyes to the page as soon as he’d seen her. This shabbily dressed creature was unmistakably a comrade. Her hair, dragged back from her plain face, was ragged from the rigours of self-cutting.

‘Gino,’ I heard her say, and she kissed the proprietor on both cheeks.

As she did so, a second woman came into the Leonardo, and this, without a doubt, was Anna Capshaw. Clutterbuck had exaggerated her beauty, but she was rather remarkable nonetheless. If she had been impoverished by her divorce it didn’t show in her appearance. Her dark hair was parted in the middle and fell in carefully regulated waves to her shoulders. No penny-pinching Victory Bob for Anna Capshaw. When I saw her face in full light I couldn’t help but notice that she bore an arresting resemblance to Hedy Lamarr.

Anna Capshaw went over to the man with the neat moustache and they touched each other lightly on their respective forearms. I found the gesture peculiarly intimate, more intimate than a social kiss. There was something furtive about the touch, something deliberately restrained which nevertheless revealed that their relationship was sexual and illicit. They left immediately and I followed them.

In Little Collins Street they headed uphill towards Parliament House, but ducked into a café on the way. It was called the Petrushka, and as soon as I went inside I realised that I had entered a grim ventricle of Melbourne’s bohemian heart. Heads were raised when I came in and lowered when people had reassured themselves that I was neither a literary enemy nor the police. The café was noisy, and if the food was as poisonous as the place smelled I didn’t think its patrons could look forward to a long life. Anna Capshaw and her male companion were sitting at a table at the back of the café. I caught her eye unintentionally, but it seemed to be of no more consequence to her than if she had caught the eye of anyone else in the room. I sat down and a waiter asked, ‘Wine?’ This was such a singular question to be asked in a café that I automatically replied, ‘Yes.’ A chipped mug was placed before me containing a liquid that was wine only if that term is expanded to include sump oil. I took a small sip, and felt that if I had any more my teeth would dissolve.

I couldn’t hear anything of what passed between my quarries, and couldn’t get any closer, but they were deep in conversation and, from the looks on their faces, this wasn’t chit-chat. They left at exactly two thirty. This is noteworthy only because Anna Capshaw arrived at the Leonardo at exactly two. She seemed to be running to a timetable.

Once outside, they began to walk briskly towards Parliament House again but before they reached the top of Little Collins Street, they turned down an alley which cut through to Collins Street. This was the sort of narrow space where American servicemen took their dates for a quick exchange of fluids. I followed warily. If one of them had turned around he or she would have formed the inescapable impression that they were being tailed. Fortunately this didn’t happen, and I emerged in Collins Street undetected. I kept them in view until they disappeared into the foyer of the Menzies Hotel. By the time I’d stepped through its doors, they were nowhere to be seen — they must have hurried upstairs.

At this point I became acutely conscious of my inexperience in matters of pursuit. Bribing the concierge was out of the question, not only because the idea of doing so was mortifying, but also because I had no money. I thought I had nothing to lose by asking him a simple question.

‘Oh, yes,’ he replied. ‘Mr and Mrs Cunningham.’

‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘I’ve just forgotten what room they’re in.’

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ll be happy to let them know you’re here, but I can’t tell you their room number. Hotel policy. I’m sure you understand.’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I understand completely. I’ll catch up with them later.’

‘Do you wish to leave a message?’

‘No, no,’ I said. ‘I’m seeing them this evening.’

At least I now had a name. Clutterbuck should be happy about that at any rate. I assumed that Anna Capshaw and her companion had gone upstairs to make love, and I wasn’t going to hang about waiting for them to re-emerge. Besides, I needed to be back at Clutterbuck’s to take Topaz’s phone call.

When I got back to Clutterbuck’s, or my place, as I would have to get used to saying, it was empty. I went up to my room and was immediately aware that someone had been there. It only took a moment, though, to deduce that it had been Mrs Castleton. My clothes had been pressed and my socks, underwear and handkerchiefs had been arranged in neat rows in their drawers. The socks, which I had rolled into a ball, had been pulled apart and folded flat. This had the unfortunate effect of drawing attention to their ragged condition. I would have to sacrifice some clothing coupons and do something about my wardrobe.

In an attempt to feel more comfortable in my digs I explored the house from top to bottom, although I didn’t poke about in cupboards or drawers. It was absurdly big for two people. How on earth had Clutterbuck come to own such a place? There were no clues anywhere. There wasn’t a single photograph to be seen. I thought this odd, but then perhaps they had been put away in order not to compromise the rigid formality of each room’s design. Clearly there was no place for sentimentality when decorative integrity was at issue. When I entered the living room, I was struck forcibly by the sense that space had been disciplined and maintained by a brutal hand. Mrs Castleton must be a formidable woman, I thought.

The telephone rang at 5.00 p.m. precisely, and the operator said that she was connecting me to Sergeant Peter Topaz of the Maryborough police in Queensland. Without niceties of any kind, Topaz said, ‘Sarah Goodenough got on the train at Maryborough at the same time you did, but she got off at Brisbane, and she’s still in Brisbane, staying with her sister, and that’s been confirmed.’

‘Well, that just doesn’t make any sense,’ I said.

‘It makes perfect sense to me, Will. She got on at Maryborough. She got off at Brisbane. Doesn’t seem too complicated. That’s all I can tell you. The police down there know what they’re doing, so I suggest you stay well out of it and let them do their job.’

It didn’t seem politic to tell him that I was making it my job now as well.

‘So she’s got an accomplice,’ I said.

‘Just let the police handle it, Will,’ he said, and without so much as a cursory farewell hung up.

Topaz hadn’t said whether or not Sarah Goodenough had been questioned, but I supposed that she had. Had she denied writing the note? Had she also denied striking Brian?

I picked up the phone, gave the operator Mother’s number, and wondered whether it was really such a good idea to give this information to Brian. He answered the phone, and before I had a chance to speak, said, ‘Those detectives were here this arvo. Sarah’s in Brisbane. They wouldn’t tell me what she told the Brisbane coppers, but they looked at me in a funny way, and one of them, Strachan, sort of shook his head and said, “Quite a story”, like he was accusing me of something.’

‘Don’t get agitated, Brian. Sarah Goodenough probably said that it wasn’t over between you, and that you’d promised to leave your wife.’

Brian was stricken.

‘Why would she say that?’

‘That’s a question that doesn’t need answering, Brian. You know perfectly well why she’d say something like that. Firstly, she’s nuts and, secondly, if she really does hate you it would be a good way of making things difficult for you. Hell hath no fury and so forth.’

There was silence on the line, then he said quietly, ‘Fuck.’

‘The problem now is that the police don’t have any suspects — except for those of us who were conveniently on the premises at the time that Darlene was abducted. Believe me, the longer it takes to find the culprit, the more impertinent and aggressive the dicks will become.’

The front door opened and closed.

‘I have to go,’ I said. ‘I’ll talk to you later.’

‘I have to go back to work tomorrow,’ he said irrelevantly.

‘I’ll call tomorrow night, if not before.’

I hung up.

Paul Clutterbuck came down the corridor to the small alcove that housed the telephone.

‘Ah, there you are,’ he said, as though he had been searching for me. ‘Come upstairs while I change, and tell me what you found out.’

Clutterbuck was no longer wearing his American army uniform, but a beautifully cut suit with cuffs, pockets and buttons. It would have given the Austerity Committee conniptions. As I followed him up the stairs, wafts of cigar smoke and alcohol drifted from his clothing. In the bedroom he took off his shoes and placed them at the foot of the bed. He took off his coat, socks, tie, shirt and trousers, laying each item carefully on the counterpane. In his vest and underwear he went into the adjoining bathroom and ran a bath. He came back into the bedroom and opened the door to a large, custom-made wardrobe. I had never seen anything like it before. His shirts — and there were dozens of them — were grouped according to colour, and within each colour group they were graded from dark to light. Each shirt was separated from its neighbour by a stay on the rack on which they hung, so that no hanger could slide into the one beside it.