The Orchard Murders

by Robert Gott

  ‘I knew you’d find my initials, Winslow.’

  ‘I almost didn’t.’

  Winslow decided to curtail the small talk.

  ‘How did you come into possession of that note?’

  ‘Mr Torajiro handed it to me himself.’

  ‘You’ve been to Loveday?’

  ‘It took months to get approval to visit my husband, and then I had to get the travel permission. It was awful. I thought I’d never get there.’

  ‘And how did you get there?’

  ‘I took the train from Adelaide. I wasn’t allowed to stay there, of course, so I stayed overnight in Barmera and headed back here the next day. At least I know that Toshiro is well. They don’t feed the Japanese as well as they feed the others, but he’s healthy. He’s lost weight, but that’s because he’s working in the vegetable gardens. He didn’t complain. He said the Japanese didn’t treat their prisoners this well. That’s true. I understand why people hate them. But that’s not the Japanese we know, is it?’

  ‘War perverts the whole world. When did you get back from South Australia?’

  ‘Two days ago. I got the note to you as soon as I could. I told Mr Torajiro that it would upset you and that there was nothing you could do about it. He said you’d want to know.’

  ‘How did Torajiro-san know that Etsuko was sick? How could he possibly have heard?’

  Katherine Hart stood up and crossed to a small table. She opened a square, black lacquer box, and took from it a folded piece of paper.

  ‘I was told to give you this, but only in person. It’s nothing mysterious, Winslow, or seditious. It’s a name and an address, that’s all. Well, not a full name. Just initials.’

  ‘It sounds both mysterious and seditious.’

  ‘Family members visit Loveday whenever they can get permission. Mr Torajiro wouldn’t tell me who, but someone came into the camp who’s known you and your wife. Whoever this person was had heard from a third party who’d been in touch with people in Hiroshima. I don’t know how, and I don’t want to know how. If the authorities knew, they might accuse me of consorting with the enemy, which I am not. All that I’ve told you is all that I know. The initials in that note mean nothing to me, although they gave me the idea of putting my initials on that envelope.’

  ‘The vagueness of all this is troubling. It feels like a trap.’

  ‘I’m not part of any trap, Winslow.’

  ‘Not knowingly, I’m sure.’

  ‘Anyway, what sort of trap? All I’ve done is pass on some initials and an address, and I only agreed to do it because I thought you might want to find out about your wife’s health.’

  The unappealing note of pique in Katherine Hart’s voice made Winslow certain that Etsuko’s assessment of her character had been accurate. He had no wish to linger in her house. She’d pushed the note under his door reluctantly; he’d come to her reluctantly; he’d reluctantly taken what she’d given him. The only thing he hadn’t done reluctantly was leave her house.

  CLARA HAD SLEPT well at the Kew house, and was still asleep when Helen and Joe returned from the office. Over a dinner of corned beef and vegetables — the smell of which had brought Clara downstairs — they repeated, for her benefit, Joe’s concerns about Guy. Helen had reassured Joe that Guy was capable of taking care of himself, and that Prescott knew that he, Joe, was expecting Guy to return, and that a failure to do so would invite suspicion and possible police intrusion. Neither of them believed this, but it helped a little to say it anyway.

  Visitors were rare at the house, so the knock on the door at 8.00 pm made everyone nervous. Joe opened the door to find Inspector Lambert standing there, his hat in his hands.

  ‘Titus.’

  Joe was pleased at how easily that informality now came to him.

  ‘Is Dr Dawson still here?’

  ‘She is.’

  ‘An informal discussion with all of you would be good.’

  Once, Joe might have found such a request coming from Inspector Lambert intimidating, with the probability that it implied an imminent dressing-down. He didn’t feel that now.

  Ros Lord brought a bottle of red wine into the library, and discreetly retreated upstairs to read. None of them knew the first thing about wine, but they assumed that it must be a good one, because it went down easily.

  Titus began by saying that there’d been no progress in finding Kenneth Bussell. Clara told him about her meeting with Adelaide Matthews, which Titus was frank in expressing his disquiet about. Clara was mildly stung.

  ‘I was responding to a grieving woman’s need to talk to someone, Titus.’

  Titus held up one hand in a gesture of capitulation, but his eyes betrayed that he was sceptical of this claim. Clara read his scepticism, and it was she who capitulated.

  ‘All right, Titus. I can see that you don’t believe that my purpose was so pure, and of course you’re right. I was curious. I wanted to see what kind of woman would shackle herself to a man like Gerald Matthews.’

  ‘And what kind of woman did you find?’

  ‘I suspect a frequently drunk one and one who endured a bad marriage for the sake of her children.’

  ‘Did she love her husband, do you think?’

  ‘There is no yes-or-no answer when it comes to love, Titus. Maybe “sometimes” is as close as we get.’

  As far as Titus was concerned, there was a yes-or-no answer to that question. Did he love Maude? Yes. It was simple, and unnuanced.

  ‘I presume there’s no difficulty about you staying here for a few days?’

  ‘That might be sensible, but I’m not going to do that, Titus. I was shaken when I saw Bussell, but I’m not shaken now. Now I’m just royally peeved, and I’m not going to have my life cabined by Kenneth fucking Bussell. Or anyone else.’

  She glanced at Helen and Joe.

  ‘Besides, I couldn’t just leave Pat and Susan there on their own.’

  ‘They could come here,’ Helen said.

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake. I know this is a big house, but it’s not a fucking hotel. I can’t tell you how good it feels to swear in a room as swanky as this.’

  Despite further protestations from her companions, Clara remained adamant that she intended to return to her shared house. Of course she would take precautions. Of course she would be brutal with Pat about locking the fucking doors.

  Inspector Lambert, who’d been instrumental in ensuring that Helen was granted her private inquiry agent’s licence, was nevertheless uneasy about her decision to allow Guy Kirkham to go undercover on Anthony Prescott’s property. Helen wasn’t offended when he expressed his unease. On the contrary, she admitted that she shared it, but that the suggestion had come from Guy himself, and he’d convinced her that he was capable of looking after himself. He’d also made the point that it was precisely the kind of work that the police force was unable to do.

  Joe felt compelled to support Helen, so he didn’t tell Titus that he was worried sick about Guy. He detailed his impression of Prescott and the strange set-up of the Church of the First Born. Helen spoke at length about the Nunawading Messiah, and both Titus and Clara were mesmerised as she piled detail upon detail.

  ‘I know,’ Helen said, ‘it beggars belief. It’s a shame that there’s not a law against being stupid.’

  ‘If there were,’ Clara said, ‘every second person would be locked up — which isn’t such a bad idea.’

  ‘From everything you’ve told me,’ Titus said, ‘there isn’t anything illegal happening at Prescott’s place. No one is being held against his or her will.’

  ‘In the 1870s case, the ludicrous Messiah was polygamous. He collected the whole set of Prudence, Justice, Truth, and Meekness. If Prescott is doing the same thing, surely that’s against the law,’ Joe said.

  ‘You only suspect that. Anyway, I imagine the marriages wouldn�
��t be registered, and a marriage ceremony performed inside the Church of the First Born wouldn’t be considered a legitimate marriage.’

  ‘So all it means is that he’s sleeping with more than one woman, which might be frowned upon, but isn’t illegal,’ Clara said.

  Helen laughed. ‘You went with “sleeping with”, Clar. That was uncharacteristically discreet of you.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t want to shock Titus, or cause the wallpaper to start peeling by swearing a second time.’

  ‘Was anybody killed in this 1870s cult?’

  ‘No,’ Helen said. ‘From all that I’ve read, there was petty in-fighting, but there’s no record of anyone being murdered, or sacrificed.’

  ‘That’s disappointing,’ said Clara. ‘You’d expect any decent cult to sacrifice something.’

  ‘I am concerned,’ Titus said, cutting through Clara’s levity, ‘about Zachary Wilson. We had to oppose bail, given the hysterical public response to these killings, but he’s not coping with imprisonment. He looks terrible, and he’s an emotional wreck. He needs to be either condemned or rescued as quickly as possible.’

  ‘Can I see him to assess his medical condition?’

  ‘I can arrange that. It’s irregular, but I can arrange it.’

  ‘I can go straight from my shift, so 8.00 am tomorrow?’

  ‘I’ll let them know you’re coming.’

  They spoke for another hour, with Titus asking Helen and Joe to expand on their respective meetings with Meredith Wilson and Emilio Barbero’s landlady. At ten o’clock, Clara said that she’d have to leave for work. Titus insisted on driving her. The hospital was more or less on his way home. In the car, Clara asked him how police command would feel about him sharing information with a private inquiry agent.

  ‘Helen Lord and Associates is sharing information with me. I’m not providing them with any information that would compromise the safety of my officers or the integrity of the investigation. But how would they feel about it? I have no doubt at all that I’d lose my job.’

  ‘Is it worth the risk?’

  ‘For Zachary Wilson’s sake, I hope so.’

  GUY HAD SPENT Monday morning harvesting strawberries. His back ached. Nepheg harvested beside him, and for him it must have been agony, given the rawness of his back. Lunch that day had been served by Justice, a young woman whose shyness had made her all but invisible in the household. At least Guy assumed it was shyness; it might have been an extreme expression of reticent humility. She had delicate features and pale skin, which would suffer under Prescott’s regime of farming. Her hair, which she wore long, was gathered away from her face and constrained within a head scarf. She was beautiful, Guy thought, and the way that Prescott’s eyes followed her as she served the soup suggested he thought so too. When she placed Prescott’s soup before him, she leaned in close. She didn’t say anything, but the movement was intimate.

  In the afternoon, Guy found himself working alongside Justice in the pear orchard. Conversation with the women who lived in Prescott’s house wasn’t forbidden, but there was something about Justice’s manner that made talking to her seem transgressive. He’d heard her voice only once. It wasn’t harsh or unpleasant, but it was unrefined and unmusical. He had his back to her when she unexpectedly spoke to him.

  ‘The Master says you are welcome here, Absalom, and that I am to cut your hair and wash your clothes.’

  Guy turned to face her. Her lovely features were blank. They showed neither resentment nor acceptance.

  ‘Thank you. You don’t need to do that.’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ she said simply.

  ‘May I ask you something?’

  ‘Nepheg will answer your questions.’

  ‘It’s not a question Nepheg can answer.’

  ‘Then it’s not a question you should ask.’

  Guy realised that he’d underestimated this young woman. It was easy to assume that Prescott’s acolytes were unintelligent, because how could an intelligent person believe that he was the master of anything?

  ‘Is the Master your husband?’

  ‘The Master is my Master.’

  ‘I’ve accepted him as my Master too.’

  ‘No, you haven’t, Absalom. You can’t disguise the doubt in your eyes. When he shows you a miracle, you will believe.’

  ‘Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe.’

  ‘Perhaps he should have named you Thomas.’

  ‘Who was Absalom?’

  ‘Nepheg will tell you.’

  ‘Is it a good name?’

  ‘The Master gave it to you, so it is a good name.’

  ‘I do have doubts.’

  ‘Stay long enough to witness a miracle.’

  There was feeling in this statement, and Guy didn’t doubt that it was genuine. The fact that it was so counter to Prudence’s warning made Guy wonder if there was tension between the two women.

  ‘Prudence wasn’t at lunch today.’

  ‘My sister is in the women’s house. It is her unclean time.’

  ‘Your sister?’

  ‘Leave your laundry outside your bedroom door, and come to me when you need a haircut.’

  With that, Justice moved away from Guy, leaving him unclear about her relationship with Prudence. Was ‘sister’ simply an affectionate term, or did it denote a familial relationship? He watched her as she walked among the pear trees. Emilio Barbero’s landlady had said that Anthony Prescott had visited Barbero, accompanied by a young woman whose hair fell across her face so that she resembled Veronica Lake. He hadn’t seen Justice’s hair free of its scarf, but she did look vaguely like the movie star.

  It would be impossible to raise Emilio Barbero’s name without exposing the falseness of his position at Prescott’s orchard, but Guy wondered if he could somehow encourage someone to mention him — or Fisher, for that matter — inadvertently. Prescott would never make such a mistake, and Guy had made no connection at all with the old man, Abraham, so a casual conversation with him was unlikely. Nepheg struck Guy as being deranged by religious fervour, but such derangement might lead to him blurting something useful about Fisher’s competing claim to be the Messiah.

  It was Prudence, though, who offered the best hope of providing information, or so Guy believed. He had nothing to go on, except her sudden warning, but the intensity of that warning hinted at the possibility that Prudence wasn’t the surrendered acolyte that Prescott supposed her to be. It would be dangerous, but Guy decided he would visit her later that night, in the outhouse forbidden to men. Nepheg was a sound sleeper who drew in long, deep breaths, without snoring. Guy had been aware, on his first night, that he’d had a nightmare. He’d woken himself and had heard his own small cry. Nepheg, just a few feet from him, hadn’t stirred. So deeply asleep was he that Guy thought he might have taken some sort of draught.

  Dinner that night was a mutton stew, but the meat portion was small. Each of their plates was crowded with vegetables, for which Prescott praised the earth for its bounty. Abraham praised Prescott for his bounty, and Prescott bowed his head in gracious recognition of this deference.

  Guy studied Abraham throughout the meal. His beard was full and white, except for tar stains around the mouth, which indicated a smoking habit that Guy hadn’t yet seen him indulge. Perhaps this was a vice that had to be kept private in the Church of the First Born. Who was he before he grew a beard and swapped his clothes for a tunic? Guy tried to imagine him clean-shaven and in a hat and suit, with skin unroughened by working outdoors. He might have been an accountant or a lawyer. He made a convincing rustic, but there was an intelligence in his eyes, and a self-assurance in his manner, that made Guy think that his reverence for Prescott was a performance. Or was this the thinking of a sane man who couldn’t bring himself to believe that anyone could be taken in by Prescott? However, his own upbringing was proof that rel
igious fervour dimmed the light of intelligence. He remembered how he had once sincerely believed in the Holy Trinity, and had invested in dull-witted priests the power of transubstantiation. Perhaps Abraham was simply a damaged man who’d been seduced by the false hope of immortality that Prescott offered.

  Prescott announced to the table that Prudence was indisposed. This was for Guy’s benefit, he supposed, because he also reminded the men that the women’s hut was off-limits. Neither Nepheg nor Abraham would have needed such a reminder. Had Prescott somehow intuited that Guy intended to break this rule?

  Conversation over dinner was sparse. Nothing was said about the war or politics. Indeed, no reference was made to the outside world. Guy realised that he’d seen no newspapers, no books, and no radio. This was a closed society that depended on Prescott for any information that it might need. And yet there were adherents outside the property who gave Prescott money and who believed in him. The inconsistencies and contradictions that secured Prescott’s position were incomprehensible to Guy. Such things were glossed over as faith.

  There was a brief prayer meeting after dinner, during which Prescott once again warned of false claimants and false prophets. He also warned each of them to be wary of those who would seek to tear down the Church of the First Born.

  ‘They seek to silence the word of God, and they will be silenced instead.’

  ‘Amen,’ Abraham said.

  Lying in bed, Guy wondered if those words had been directed at him. When he’d spoken them, Prescott hadn’t been looking at him, so perhaps it was a routine admonition. They’d only just switched off the light, and Nepheg was still awake.

  ‘Nepheg? May I ask you a question?’

  ‘Of course, Absalom.’

  ‘The Master has mentioned false Messiahs and false prophets more than once. Has there been a false Messiah?’

  ‘There have been many throughout history. They are always found out.’