But Joan realised she was being rash, even selfish. If she persuaded Hugh to go snooping, she was putting him in danger of blowing his cover as a double agent, perhaps even risking his life. In a few days, she was about to see behind the closed doors of Kingsmere for herself when she and Bernice attended the meeting of the Ladies’ Bacchus Club. It was up to Joan to take the next step. She could not in good conscience ask Hugh to do any more. He had already stuck his neck out to help, purely out of love for her.
Joan raised her glass and toasted her modern-day Robin Hood. He was just like Premier Lang, who wanted to levy a tax on the wealthy to maintain some human dignity for the wretched unemployed. Not that Hugh would like that comparison!
‘Here’s to stealing from the rich!’ she said.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Saturday morning arrived hot and bright with barely a puff of breeze off the harbour. Joan forced herself out of bed early and hastened to the typewriter while her memories of the Tempe meeting were fresh. She knew she would have to change all the names of her ‘characters’ when it came to a final draft, but for now she found it easier to keep track of her story if she worked with real names.
Unbelievably, Mrs Dawson could not recall the name of the man who was wooing her own daughter! How was that even possible? ‘Be reasonable,’ Armfield chided herself. ‘Just think how much this poor woman’s life has been turned upside down in the last year or so.’ It was one of the hazards of the job: expecting everyone to have perfect recall.
Bernice rose around ten-thirty and made them both a cup of tea. She had spent Friday morning over at the offices of Smith’s Weekly to talk about any commissions coming up and had then caught up with an old friend for a pub counter lunch. She’d asked everyone she encountered if they knew of any available accommodation, she told Joan, but these enquiries and a perusal of the Rooms Vacant columns in the papers had produced nothing promising. ‘Let’s hope we don’t end up in the bloody suburbs,’ said Bernice, pulling a face. ‘I’d rather be dead!’
At around twelve-thirty, they both headed off to the Noble Order of the Evil Itchy’s usual manic carnival of lunch at the Roma. ‘Hello, you two! Take a seat!’ At the head of the long table sat Sam Rosa, ordering his favourite dish of fried octopus. Steaming plates of spaghetti, ox marrow bone, and steak and cutlets soon crowded the table amid proliferating bottles of red and white wine. ‘Welcome, brothers and sisters!’ cried the Grand Master once the assembly was seated. In response all joined in the jaunty chorus of the Neapolitan song ‘Funiculì, Funiculà’.
The cast did change from week to week, but the regulars were all here today, including Cecily the red-headed virgin poetess, the sweet-natured bricklayer-poet Frank (a one-time novitiate of the occultist Aleister Crowley and now known affectionately as the Black Magician), the handsome and kindly Walter (an overgrown country boy and editor of Aussie magazine who paid writers for dollops of bush doggerel) and journalist Eric (who had been excommunicated for the sin of writing about the Noble Order in a daily newspaper but later apologised abjectly to Sam and was fined a bottle of wine and readmitted). Guests who had come and gone in the past included Mary Gilmore, Christopher Brennan, the Lindsay boys, even the fastidious Ken Slessor.
As Grand Initiator, Bernice sat at Sam’s left hand. New members were sworn in, their oath sealed with a kiss from Bernice or Sam. Wine and conversation then flowed gaily. Joan felt utterly at home in the company of her fellow bohemians. The club’s pledge to help a sister or brother ‘fallen by the wayside for want of wine’ may have been uttered tongue-in-cheek, but it did capture the camaraderie of the Noble Order. And the spaghetti was cheap and the men chivalrously shouted the women bottles of mostly potable plonk.
Here, for at least a few hours on a Saturday afternoon, all the miseries and anxieties of the outside world were forgotten in an atmosphere of childish playfulness and happiness. Sam, the incorrigible anarchist with his wicked goblin grin, thumped the table rhythmically and led the diners in song and chant.
Praise boss when morning work bells chime
Praise him for scraps of overtime
Praise him whose wars we rush to fight
Praise him, the leech and parasite—oh Hell!
The numbers of the Noble Order had thinned over the last two years of the Depression and there were ominous rumblings about the closure of the Roma if business did not pick up. While these few hours were a happy refuge from the grimness of reality, Sam’s political chants and songs served as an outlet for the collective discontent.
And then there came, as always, Sam’s invitation for a brother or sister ‘to make a few remarks upon the general situation’. These impromptu speeches on wide-ranging topics (Christian Science, vegetarianism, the rise of the Nazis in Berlin) were largely for entertainment, but if things got overheated, Sam would leap to his feet and proclaim, ‘Brothers and sisters, I rise to a pint of order,’ whereupon the matter was resolved with the ordering of more wine or beer.
But today, Sam himself had something to say. ‘It is not often I take the floor except to make a ruling that a speech is in accordance with the sacred statutes of our Noble and Illustrious Order. But today I would like to say a few words on a serious matter.’
The convivial banter of the table died down for a moment and all eyes were fixed on the Grand Master.
‘No one has a monopoly on suffering. We all have burdens and afflictions to bear. But in the spirit of enlightened companionship, I would like to express the Noble Order’s deepest sympathy to two of our most loyal members, Bernice and Joan. As some of you will have heard, a young woman of their acquaintance—dare I say a friend—and a tenant of their boarding house was brutally murdered last Saturday.’
There were several shocked gasps and some earnest nods of acknowledgement and looks of compassion directed at the two flatmates.
Sam continued: ‘Alas, I have no words of wisdom to offer as consolation. Life is a bloody mystery. But if there is anything any of us can do to lighten your burden, please ask. On a practical level, it has been brought to my attention that your seemingly cursed boarding house Bomora has been condemned for demolition and you are both in urgent need of new accommodation. If anyone knows of a suitable atelier for Joan and Bernice …’
Cecily, blushing and stammering as was her wont, stuck her hand up. ‘There … there … is an empty flat in our building. On Bayswater Road. The tenants moved … moved out two days ago. It’s furnished and everything.’
Joan turned to her eagerly. ‘Can we come and take a look?’
Cecily beamed. ‘Of course. I’m … I’m sure Mrs Woolwich would … would be pleased to show you round. I will let her know you’re interested.’
Bernice rose to respond briefly. ‘Joan and I are touched by your kind words, Grand Master, and by the abundantly clear concern of our fellow Itchies, for which we thank you.’
Frank could not contain his enthusiasm. ‘Grand Master, listen! Every cloud has a silver lining. I propose that we hold a house-cooling demolition party at Bomora! I can bring the equipment if everyone else is prepared to provide the grog.’ The assembly cheered this suggestion with gusto. Joan had heard about such orgies of destruction held in near-derelict houses where tenants were being evicted, but she had never attended one.
The idea of taking hammers and saws to the interior of Bomora appealed to Joan as profoundly therapeutic: a channel for all her rage as well as a chance to literally strike a blow against the unjust, savage world all about her. Bernice likewise needed no persuading, and the proposition was put to the vote with the ayes carrying the motion heartily. The date was set for the following Saturday evening and members were assigned duties to help organise the event. Meetings of the Noble Order were no place to dwell on maudlin feelings, and once these formalities had been concluded and the table cleared, the small, grey-haired chap whose name no one could ever remember played the piano while everyone danced with joyful abandon.
At around six o’clock, the Grand
Master led a smaller party—including Joan and Bernice—to a shabby, second-floor club half a block away on Campbell Street. This was Theo’s Club, run by an Estonian chap who had once cooked for Red Betsy over at Café La Boheme on Wilmot Street and who (according to Betsy) had stolen her spaghetti recipe to set up a rival eatery. Theo’s also sold liquor after hours and was therefore hidden away behind an undistinguished green door in a disreputable street of Chinese cafes, cramped emporia of ginger jars and incense, and several opium dens (one of which Bernie had visited as an undercover journalist).
Regulars pressed the doorbell in a secret code of one long then two short rings; the shutter on the peephole then shot back and, once the bouncer was satisfied, the door was opened. Climbing the narrow, pitch-dark stairway and parting a curtain, Sam and his Itchies entered the main room: plain and white-washed with a long trestle table and benches. At the far end a theatre-prop scimitar hung over a dusty, broken-down sofa. On the wall by the door was a notice: IN GOD WE TRUST, ALL OTHERS MUST PAY CASH; on the opposite wall was a portrait drawn in charcoal by no less a personage than the grand old man himself, David Souter. The subject of the portrait was Bernice, depicted as a fauness with hooved and hairy goat legs below and naked female torso above, her body arching in animal ecstasy, right arm raised triumphantly, nipples discreetly masked by long tresses and a necklace of stones. Bernie smiled every time she passed it and was delighted to inform young men who bought her drinks and gave her a spin on the dance floor that the erotic hybrid was none other than herself.
Theo was a tremendous cook, famous for his pot roasts and impromptu performances of ‘The Song of the Volga Boatmen’ in a mellow baritone, as well as an excellent host and manager. Not only did he tolerate the gramophone squawking Duke Ellington’s ‘Jungle Nights in Harlem’ at full volume and the floorboards groaning under the thump and spring of the Black Bottom and the Charleston, Theo sometimes joined in the shenanigans himself.
Joan’s favourite game at Theo’s was a madcap version of callisthenics—incorporating push-ups, squats, star jumps and wheelbarrow races—which, thanks to the liberating influence of more wine and the close proximity of male and female bodies, became increasingly suggestive and feverish. A high-kicking contest performed by the women provided male judges with flashes of thigh and garter, which gave the room the heated ambience of the Moulin Rouge. As a tall, broad-chested blond, Theo’s participation was warmly welcomed!
Tonight the party had settled for simply drinking and dancing, which the Itchies were undertaking with serious artistic commitment. It was hot and close in the club and Joan’s face was glossy with sweat. She decided to take a short breather on the sofa and ordered a glass of lemon, lime and bitters. She noticed Paavo, the club’s baby-faced bouncer, doing the same.
‘Hey, Paavo, can I ask you a question?’
The bouncer gave her a boyish smile, so charming in a man with such a giant, muscular body. ‘Of course, Miss Linderman.’
‘Did anyone from the police call round here this week?’
Paavo’s eyes widened. ‘Yes. A police lady! She had a talk with Theo. I was shitting myself she was going to shut us down.’
‘Did Theo say what it was about?’
‘Not really. Just told us to keep our hair on.’
‘So the policewoman never talked to you personally?’
‘No.’ Paavo regarded Joan with a puzzled expression. ‘What is this all about?’
‘Someone Bernie and I know was killed last Saturday night. Murdered.’
‘Shit. Sorry to hear that. Not one of the Itchies, I hope?’
‘No, thank God.’ Paavo had the sweetest face really. Joan leaned closer to him and lowered her voice. ‘The Itchies came in as usual, right?’
Paavo nodded.
‘Can you remember how long Bernie hung around for?’ Joan tried to keep her tone light and casual.
‘Bernie?’ Paavo looked up at the ceiling for a moment. ‘She left around ten-thirty, I think. She and Sam and a couple of others headed out together.’ That corresponded with what Bernie had told the police: that she had left Theo’s at half past ten then walked across town and up William Street to meet Ellie at the brothel. So it seemed she was telling the truth.
‘She wasn’t here that long,’ added Paavo.
‘Sorry?’ Joan had presumed Bernie would have arrived with the rest of the Itchies from the Roma between six and seven o’clock, as usual. ‘What do you mean?’
‘She didn’t get here till … I don’t know … close to eight o’clock. Anyway, she made up for lost time. If you know what I mean.’ Paavo grinned. He rarely indulged in drinking himself but it amused him to watch Theo’s guests get shickered and carry on like idiots as long as he didn’t have to throw anyone out for behaving badly. ‘Anything else I can help with?’
‘No, that’s great. Thanks, Paavo.’
‘I hope they catch the person who killed your friend.’ Paavo drained his glass and lumbered back to his post at the door, leaving Joan lost in thought. So it seemed there was a gap between the time the Itchies left the Roma and Bernie turning up at Theo’s at around eight o’clock. What had happened in that interval?
Someone tapped Joan on the shoulder and she startled. Turning, she saw a good-looking, dark-haired man grinning at her. Who on earth was this? By his overly familiar smile, he seemed to recognise her.
‘Thank you,’ he said in heavily accented English.
Dear God! She recognised that voice. It was the stranger who had made love to her less than a week before in the linen cupboard at Elizabeth Bay House. Joan laughed lightly, desperate not to appear unworldly.
‘May I buy you a drink?’ her anonymous lover asked.
Joan nodded. ‘Yes, thank you.’
And so they drank wine together and laughed. Could life get any stranger? Joan wondered. She felt as if she were in some gangster flick or screwball comedy, acting as bright and brittle as that vamp adulteress who Tallulah Bankhead played in Faithless, tipsy and carefree and dangerously tragic all at once.
Meaningful conversation was neither possible nor even desirable with this chap. When the manic Charlestons and Lindy Hops had given way to a slower, dreamier waltz, her gentleman friend—whose name, she learned, was Janusz—steered her gracefully about the floor. Grand Master Sam had made acquaintance with an attractive Jewess while Bernie smouldered at a violet-eyed youth over a watered-down jug of plonk.
In the arms of this stranger, pressed up against his cheap tobacco-stained jacket in the semi-darkness, Joan felt an inexplicable freedom. She had stepped outside the drama of her own life momentarily. For a dance or two. It was an escape, no matter how brief, from the enmeshment of obligations to those people she knew (and invariably disappointed), and the many threads of personal history that threatened to encase her.
At around ten-thirty, the party began to disperse, and Sam gallantly walked Joan and Bernie back to the Cross. ‘I hope the flat works out on Bayswater Road, my dears.’
They both gave the Grand Master a kiss on the cheek. ‘Good night, Sam. And thank you.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Rimbaud had been out most of the night, patrolling the neighbourhood rooftops, but had decided he wanted an early breakfast. When Joan did not respond to his insistent yowling and scratching at Bernice’s bedroom door, Rimbaud resorted to leaping onto the divan bed and clambering all over Joan’s inert body. ‘Bloody cat! What time do you call this, T.S.?’
Joan could never stay cross with T.S. for very long. What was it about cats that was so irresistible? Joan asked herself as she scraped some leftover scraps into his bowl. People assumed they were aloof and self-contained, but every cat Joan had ever known had been unashamedly affectionate and enjoyed her company. But unlike dogs, cats also had a self-possessed air that Joan envied. And they were all so beautiful! Even scrawny street tabbies and battle-scarred ginger toms. It was common wisdom that writers loved them: these perfect companions, curled up next to one’s desk, endlessl
y amusing and so graceful to watch.
Joan looked longingly at her typewriter and her manuscript under its river stone. She thought about the steady progress she had made so far on her murder mystery. She already had more promising leads than the police—leads she should probably inform them about. ‘Just a few more days, that’s all I ask,’ she said aloud to the cat. ‘Once I’ve finished gathering the jigsaw pieces I’ll hand them over to Sergeant Armfield to piece together.’
It was true that Armfield had all the resources of the police force at her fingertips, including its famous Rogues’ Gallery, known as ‘the Specials’. Bill Jenkins had shown Joan these photo-portraits of suspects and convicted crims, forced to look straight into the camera. What an oddly moving parade of humanity was this. Eyes downcast or slanted sideways, mouths set in a grimace or snarl or with the cheeky trace of a smile. Hair slicked back or uncombed. A genteel attempt at one’s Sunday best: suits and ties, waistcoats and spats, bow ties and boaters, cloches and veils, fur collars and silk blouses, high-buttoned boots or polished pumps. Trimmings of dignity. But the Specials would have been of little help to Joan’s enquiries; with the exception of Frankie Goldman, no one on her list of suspects was likely to turn up here. Joan knew that not all criminals were so easily identified and catalogued.
She cast another glance at the typewriter and the growing pile of her manuscript under its river stone. So far that had proved her own best method for piecing together clues …
‘You want me to make you one of these?’ asked Bernice.
Joan looked up. She’d been so lost in her work she’d barely noticed that an hour had passed. Her flatmate had risen and was now cracking a raw egg into a glass of tomato juice and adding a dash of Worcestershire sauce mixed with vinegar and tabasco. Clearly she felt a little fragile after the excesses of the day before.
Death in the Ladies' Goddess Club Page 14