by Robert Gott
‘Don’t worry about dinner,’ she said. ‘It was just mince on toast, and I may have been too generous with the curry powder.’
ROS LORD HAD indeed been too heavy-handed with the curry powder — a culinary error that bothered neither Helen nor Clara, particularly as both were distracted by the news that Joe and Tom had gone for a ‘spin’ in a hire car. All three women knew that they were headed for Prescott’s orchard in Nunawading. Helen was quietly furious.
‘I told Joe to stay away from that place.’
‘You sound like a prefect, darling,’ Ros said. ‘Joe is a grown man, not some girl in the lower fifth.’
Helen felt the reprimand.
‘He’s also an employee.’
As soon as she’d said this, she realised how pompous it sounded.
‘I’m just worried about him, Mum. I know he’s desperate to find the man who killed Guy and who nearly killed him, but he has a head injury. It must have been his idea.’
‘No. I think it was Tom’s, but I’m sure Joe didn’t need persuading.’
‘Why on earth would Tom Mackenzie want to get involved in this?’
‘The motivations of men are usually depressingly simple,’ Clara said. ‘Instead of speculating, why don’t we ask them?’
It took Helen a moment to understand. She smiled.
‘What a brilliant idea, Clara. Let’s drive out to Nunawading.’
‘I don’t think women’s motivations are any more complicated than men’s,’ Ros said, looking directly at her daughter.
IT WAS A long drive to Nunawading, and Joe talked easily about Guy and his difficult relationship with his parents.
‘His mother is a real piece of work. All Catholic rectitude and no Christian compassion. His friendship with me was incomprehensible to her.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m Jewish. I killed Jesus. They thought they’d raised a nice, obedient Catholic boy. Guy turned out to be something of a disappointment to them. If they knew half of what he got up to, they’d spontaneously combust. He wasn’t interested in farming, which was unmanly of him. I think his father was one of those awful proponents of muscular faith. Mens Catholica in corpore Catholico.’
‘Is that an expression?’
‘I just made it up.’
‘I like it. Do we have a plan?’
‘It will be well and truly dark by the time we get there. Do we announce ourselves, or do we commit trespass and look inside the women’s hut before anything else?’
Working on the assumption that only Prudence and Justice would be on the property, and that the hut would be unlikely to be in use, they decided that an examination of its contents might be quite straightforward.
‘Prudence didn’t strike me as having surrendered herself to Prescott. I think they were a team, and if there are any documents that might be sensitive, the best place to hide them would be in a place with highly restricted access. No such documents might exist, of course. Still, this feels like I’m doing something.’
Tom parked the car where Joe knew it couldn’t be seen, and they walked up the driveway towards the house. There weren’t any lights visible, but perhaps they still put up blackouts, or perhaps the women were in the back of the house and saving on electricity by illuminating only the rooms they were in. There was no moon, and the darkness was deep. Joe turned on his torch, but covered much of the light with his hand. They needed its feeble glow to find their way. They crept slowly and carefully to the back of the house, and kept going till they reached the taboo building that was the women’s hut. There was no light on in the hut. The blind in the single window was up. It wasn’t late, so if either Prudence or Justice was inside, surely she wouldn’t be sitting in the dark? They listened for any sound. Nothing. After a minute or so, Joe took the risk of trying the handle. He turned it, half-expecting an exclamation from within. There was silence. There was a bolt, above the door knob, but it was pulled back. The door opened soundlessly, and Joe and Tom slipped inside. They closed the door and stood for a moment in the silence.
‘That wasn’t too difficult,’ Tom whispered.
‘Let’s do this as fast as we can,’ Joe said. They each had a torch. Joe pulled the blind down, and they turned their torches on. As Guy had discovered before them, the room had very little furniture in it. There was a bed, the prie-dieu, and a small table. There was a single drawer in the table, but it contained a Bible and nothing else. Tom flicked through it, but no loose pages fell out. Joe lifted the mattress and felt it all over. Nothing. He examined the prie-dieu, looking for a cavity or secret drawer. It was solid.
‘If you wanted to hide something in here, where would you put it?’ Joe asked.
‘Under the floor, in the ceiling, or behind the walls.’
The hut was a simple construction. The walls were lathe and plaster, the floor timber, and the roof space open to the rafters. It must have been stinking hot in here in summer with nothing under the corrugated-iron roof to provide insulation. Joe swept his torch over the room. A dado ran the length of one wall.
‘Is that just for decoration, do you think?’
Tom looked at it closely.
‘It’s not actually flush with the wall. It’s built out slightly.’
They tested each of the wood panels, and each was secure until they moved the bed to get to the panels behind it. There were four panels, which gave a little when pressed, and it didn’t take long to discover that if pushed up they came out easily from the skirting board beneath them. There wasn’t much room behind them, but there was enough to hold a couple of folders and a bound notebook. Joe took them out and put them on the table. As he opened one of the folders, both he and Tom heard a sound outside. They snapped off their torches and listened intently. What they heard was the unmistakable sound of the outside bolt being pushed home. Two other bolts, which they hadn’t noticed — one at the top and the other at the bottom of the door — were also slid into place. Then there was silence.
‘Oh fuck,’ said Tom. ‘I bet that window doesn’t open.’
‘THIS IS SUCH a beautiful car,’ Clara said.
‘It’s the car I learned to drive in, so I take it for granted, which I shouldn’t do.’
Tom’s hire car appeared in Helen’s headlights as she rounded a corner on the unmade road to Prescott’s orchard. She stopped the car and got out. She and Clara walked around it and shone torches into its interior. The doors were unlocked, and the hire papers in the glove box confirmed that this was definitely Tom Mackenzie’s car. It was Clara who noticed that the air had been let out of all four tyres.
‘That doesn’t happen by accident,’ Helen said.
‘They’ve been deflated, not slashed. That suggests restraint, I hope.’
‘We’re going to drive up to the door. I’m certainly not leaving the car here.’
There was a light on in one of the front rooms, and as Helen parked the car a light came on the veranda. The front door opened, and Prudence came outside, followed by Justice. Helen noted that Prudence was wearing a pale-blue cummerbund that cinched her tunic at the waist. Justice’s tunic was unadorned.
‘You’re welcome,’ she said disarmingly, and invited Helen and Clara inside. This was disconcerting. One of these women had disabled Tom Mackenzie’s car; unless, of course, there was someone else on the property. The room they entered was well lit and familiar to Helen from her earlier visit. There was no sense of threat. Helen introduced Clara, and an offer of a cup of tea was accepted. Clara decided that she’d only drink hers if all their tea was poured from the same pot, and if Prudence drank from her cup first. She’d seen enough movies where someone was slipped a Mickey Finn to be wary.
‘You must be wondering why we’re here,’ Helen said.
‘You did say you might return. I presume it’s about Walter Pinshott. He isn’t here, I can assure you of that. Only Justice and I
are here at the moment. Are you also a private inquiry agent, Clara?’
‘No. I’m a doctor.’
Prudence’s eyebrows shot up.
‘A doctor? A medical doctor? How marvellous, although I imagine you meet men every day who disapprove of you.’
The benign look she bestowed on Clara needed a little more rehearsal, Helen thought, but clearly Prudence had begun to inhabit the role she’d created for herself.
‘It’s not only men who disapprove,’ Clara said.
Prudence nodded sympathetically.
‘So many women have lost the knowledge that all power flows from the mother. She raises the men who usurp her power.’
This sounded like an inchoate manifesto for the new Church of the First Born, a church without a messiah, but with a divinely ordained mother at its head. To avoid any further sermonising, Helen said, ‘We passed a car on the way up here, near your gate.’
Prudence didn’t miss a beat.
‘Yes. Two men entered our property, uninvited and unannounced. One of them is your employee, the man named Joe. The other I don’t know. Justice let their tyres down because their trespass should inconvenience them more than it does us.’
‘Where are they?’ Clara asked.
‘No one knows better than you, I imagine, how the first tendency of men is to underestimate women. Joe and his friend thought they were unobserved as they crept up the path. They compounded their trespass by entering the most private place here. That’s where they are, locked and bolted inside the room we withdraw to when we bleed. They’ve shown no respect, and have been shown none in return.’
‘You can’t keep them locked in there,’ Helen said. ‘That’s a crime.’
She realised how lame this sounded. Prudence smiled.
‘Do you want us to rescue them?’ she asked.
‘How long have they been in there?’
‘About an hour.’
‘Let’s leave them for another half an hour,’ Clara said.
Justice entered the room with the tea things, and, forgetting her suspicion that the liquid might be drugged, Clara sipped it as soon as it was handed to her.
‘I want to find Pinshott as much as you do,’ Prudence said. ‘But this is my home, and although I have nothing to hide, I don’t like people, men, creeping around it, looking for stuff that isn’t here.’
‘So you know what they were looking for?’ Clara said.
‘I presume they’re looking for a list of all the people who belong to our church. The inspector I spoke to didn’t believe me when I said there was no list.’
‘Prudence, Guy Kirkham was Joe’s closest friend. He came here because …’
Prudence’s face lost its studied calm.
‘My sister and my nephew are also dead!’
She said this with some force, and Helen caught a glimpse of a formidable quality in Prudence, a quality she’d need if she wanted to lead and control others.
‘Where do you think Walter Pinshott is now?’ Helen asked.
‘I have no idea. All I can tell you is that he isn’t here.’
‘Do you have a photograph of him?’
‘No.’
Joe had described Pinshott to Helen, and she had a clear idea of what he looked like. ‘A poor man’s Old Testament prophet,’ Joe had said. ‘Thick white beard, long hair. The full cliché, only he doesn’t look biblical. He looks like a tramp.’
Clara wanted to ask Prudence and Justice if they genuinely believed that Anthony Prescott was the Messiah. The idea was so ludicrous to her that it seemed inconceivable that these seemingly intelligent women could embrace it. She wasn’t in a position, though, to ask such questions. She didn’t want to compromise Helen’s work.
‘How are you managing the orchards with just the two of you here?’ Helen asked.
‘Nepheg will come back.’ It was Justice who said this. These were the first words she’d spoken since Helen’s and Clara’s arrival.
‘He telephoned. He doesn’t like the people he’s being forced to stay with, and they don’t like him. He can’t return until this is over, though.’
‘Who actually owns the farm?’ It suddenly occurred to Helen that she’d always assumed it was Prescott’s property, but maybe it wasn’t.
‘I share ownership,’ Prudence said.
‘With your husband?’
‘With my sisters, and since Truth’s death, just with Justice.’
‘It seems very prosperous.’
‘Our congregation is generous, but what price can you put on salvation?’
‘Your husband must be good with money.’
Prudence laughed, and so did Justice.
‘Accounting wasn’t one of Anthony’s strong points. His mind was on higher things. I, on the other hand, am an excellent accountant.’
‘So Anthony Prescott has no financial interest in this farm at all?’
‘None, and when we married he made no claims to assume any. He is a spiritual man, chosen by God.’
Clara couldn’t prevent a small snort of disbelief from escaping. Prudence turned her gaze upon her.
‘They crucified Christ,’ she said, and offered nothing more, as if this observation contained enough wisdom to make further discussion unnecessary.
THE BATTERY IN Tom Mackenzie’s torch was failing, and his bladder was full. He tried the window again, just in case it gave way on this, the fifth attempt.
‘I really need to piss, Joe. This never happens in the movies, does it? Humphrey Bogart never needs a piss.’
‘All I can think of is how angry Helen is going to be. This is just going to confirm her poor opinion of my skills.’
‘Seriously, Joe, I’m nearly at the point where I’m going to have to wee in the corner, or in the drawer of the desk. I can’t do that, can I?’
‘Why didn’t you go before we left Kew?’
‘I did. It’s the adrenaline. Is there any sort of container in here? A bottle? Anything?’
‘There’s a jug and wash basin at the foot of the bed. No chamber pot. No need for one with the washhouse so close by.’
‘Which would be the least disrespectful, the jug or the basin?’
Joe picked up the jug and turned it upside down. The light from his torch picked out two crossed swords on the base.
‘It’s Meissen,’ he said. ‘You’re going to defile beautiful Meissen porcelain.’
‘Given that these people may have murder on their minds, I don’t think I care, actually.’
Joe returned to the disappointing documents he’d removed from the wall cavity. There was no list of church members. It was a collection of poems, adolescent diary entries, and sketches. They were precious, no doubt, to the person who’d written them — precious and private enough to justify hiding them — but of no real interest to anyone else. Perhaps buried amongst the welter of material were juvenile reflections on love and attraction, but reading the small scrawl by torchlight was difficult, and Joe’s torch, too, began to fade. Both he and Tom switched the torches off and stood in the darkness. Joe pulled up the blind to allow whatever vestiges there were of cloud-obscured moonlight to seep in. They each became aware of the taint of urine in the air.
‘Sorry about that,’ Tom said.
‘This is so humiliating. We can’t just stand here. We have to smash the door open.’
‘It’s a pretty solid door, Joe.’
As he said this, they heard the sound of the centre bolt being drawn back, followed by the top bolt and then the bottom one. The door was pushed open, but no one appeared in the doorway and no one spoke. It was as if it had been opened magically. Tom thought he heard retreating footsteps. Was this another trap? If they stepped outside, would they be struck down? The hideous murders at Fisher’s farm made the idea of an axe-wielding maniac less ludicrous than it might
otherwise have been.
‘What do we do?’ Tom whispered.
‘I’m going first. If there’s anyone there, they’ll be expecting us to be standing, so if they’ve got some sort of weapon, they’ll swing it at head height.’
Joe crouched and scuttled through the door. No one attacked him, and he stood up.
‘There’s no one out here,’ he called, and Tom joined him.
‘What’s going on, Joe?’
‘I have no idea. Someone’s playing a game.’
The back of the farmhouse could be seen from the women’s hut, and in the surrounding darkness the rectangle of light from an open door was dramatically visible.
‘We’re supposed to go into the house, aren’t we? We’re supposed to be attracted to the light. They’re treating us like moths,’ Tom said.
‘Based on our performance so far, they’re right to think we’ve got the brains of moths.’
‘We could leave.’
‘Oh no. I’m not leaving here with my tail between my legs, and with no information.’
‘Do moths have tails?’
‘Let’s at least go around the front of the house. That back door might be booby-trapped.’
Neither of them supposed that an approach from the front would take the occupants by surprise. Clearly, they were way ahead of Joe and Tom, and when they reached the front they found the door invitingly open. The biggest surprise was Peter Lillee’s car.
‘Oh, God,’ Joe said, ‘Helen’s here. Why?’
There was no sound from inside the house, and the silence made Joe’s heart pound. Oh, Christ, not now, he thought, not now. The familiar nausea didn’t arrive.
‘They’ve got Helen,’ he said. ‘We have to go inside.’
The thought that Helen Lord might be in danger galvanised Tom, and he broke away from Joe and headed for the veranda.
‘Tom!’ Joe hissed, but he was ignored, and Joe followed him, aware with every step that this was reckless and foolish. They had no idea what they were dealing with, although what they did know was that whoever was inside was ready for them. Tom had thrown caution to the wind, and Joe had no choice but to follow him into the house. They burst, one after the other, into the front room. The four women, all seated and holding teacups, looked up at them. None of their faces registered surprise. Justice stood and said, ‘I’ll make another pot of tea.’