The Holiday Murders

by Robert Gott

  ‘Maybe it’s an actress’s conceit — she doesn’t exist outside her roles, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Maybe, but if it’s a conceit, who gets to see it in operation? I don’t think Miss Quinn feels a strong attachment to this house. I’d like to know why.’

  Titus and Joe came downstairs a few minutes before Mary Quinn was due to arrive, and they checked the room where Xavier Quinn had been killed. Although the body had been removed, the room hadn’t been cleaned, and the rank smell of rotting blood assailed them.

  ‘I just want to remind myself,’ Titus said, ‘that what happened here was deeply, viciously personal. We can’t lose sight of that.’

  ‘Personal and political?’

  ‘Both, possibly. I can’t see politics behind Xavier Quinn’s torture. His father’s death? Intelligence might be on the right track there. I hope Chafer and Goad aren’t holding something back from us. I’d hate to think that they’re knowingly sending you into a very dangerous situation.’

  ‘They did warn me, sir.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but there’s danger, and then there’s the threat posed by the person who crucified Xavier Quinn.’

  A knock on the front door signalled Mary Quinn’s arrival. Titus and Joe met her in the hallway. Sheila Draper was with her, but she understood immediately that she wasn’t needed, and asked if she might make cups of tea for them. Titus said that that would be appreciated, but that Miss Quinn would be occupied with them for at least an hour.

  ‘I’ll go home, and come back,’ she said.

  Joe caught her eye, and he thought again that she was a remarkable woman. He doubted she’d ever been told that she was beautiful, and yet this hadn’t lessened her sense of herself in any way. Joe found her self-confidence remarkably attractive. When all this was over, he’d get in touch with her, even if the protocols surrounding murder investigations proscribed such contact.

  Mary didn’t look like she’d slept much the night before. She sat opposite Titus in the living room, in the same chair she’d sat in the previous day, and wrung her hands absent-mindedly.

  ‘I’m sorry this has to be done on Christmas Day, Miss Quinn.’

  ‘Call me Mary. And the day means nothing. It won’t mean anything ever again.’

  ‘I’m afraid you might find some of the questions I’m going to ask difficult, even offensive.’

  ‘Nothing you ask me could be more offensive than the sight of my brother’s body, Inspector.’ She looked at Titus, and he saw in her eyes that she’d reflected on his subtle insistence the day before that she identify Xavier in situ, and that she disliked him intensely for it. Her general demeanour had changed overnight. Yesterday she’d been shocked, but something of the carefree, young actress had remained. Now it was as if she was reading from an altogether different script. She was frightened, but there was resolve, too, in her manner.

  ‘We haven’t had time to talk to any of your father’s acquaintances yet. But in any case, before we do, I need to understand how things stood inside the house.’

  ‘I’ve already told you, Inspector, that none of us got on.’

  ‘Yes, of course. However, there’s a difference between not getting along, and active hostility.’

  ‘We weren’t actively hostile.’

  ‘You were about to spend Christmas without exchanging a single gift.’

  As soon as Titus said this, Joe realised that there was indeed no evidence in the house that Christmas was about to be celebrated. He hadn’t noticed this before, probably because Christmas had never been a part of his upbringing.

  ‘We haven’t celebrated Christmas since my mother died.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘She liked to pretend that we were a happy family, even though she knew perfectly well that my father kept a mistress. I’m sorry to use that mediaeval term. My father was a whited sepulchre, Inspector. He cheated on my mother; he cheated on us. He’d commit his grubby adultery, and then run off to his tame confessor at St Patrick’s and get absolution.’

  ‘This is the priest you mentioned before — Father McGrath, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. You won’t get anything out of him, of course. The seal of the confessional, and all that rot.’

  ‘Did your father know that you were aware of his adultery?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I despised him for it, for what it did to Mum. It killed her. When she was diagnosed with cancer, she just gave in to it. She didn’t see any reason to put up a fight. Afterwards my father actually thought that Xavier and I would be won over by a big speech about love, about how you can’t choose who you fall in love with. I’m ashamed to say I spat at him.’

  ‘And Xavier?’

  ‘He said nothing. He never said anything. I have no doubt that he believed Dad would burn in hell — and you know what, Inspector, I hope he’s right.’

  ‘You’re not doing a very good job of eliminating yourself from suspicion, Mary.’

  ‘If you suspect me, you’re a lousy detective, and I don’t think you’re one of those. If I’d been in this house at the wrong time yesterday, you’d have had three corpses to deal with. I think we both know that.’

  Joe wanted to ask if Mary knew that her father did unofficial work for Intelligence. He didn’t dare jump in with that question, though. If Titus was holding off asking it, he had to have a reason.

  ‘Did your father continue his relationship with his mistress after your mother’s death?’

  Mary snorted.

  ‘Of course he did. He was going to marry her and install her here.’

  ‘Did you meet her?’

  ‘No, never.’

  ‘Do you know her name?’

  ‘Carmel something-or-other.’

  ‘We’ll need to speak to her.’

  ‘You’ll need a ouija board. She’s dead.’

  Titus’s eyebrows went up at the callousness of this response. Mary noticed this.

  ‘You’re shocked, aren’t you, Inspector? Grieving daughters aren’t supposed to say nasty things like that. But if there’s one thing I’m not, it’s a hypocrite.’

  ‘Do you know how she died?’

  ‘It was a year or so ago. It was a car accident of some sort — I’m afraid I don’t know the details. My father had the gall to be inconsolable.’

  ‘And you didn’t speak to him about it?’

  ‘I didn’t speak to him, full stop. He spent more and more time out of the house — at his club, I presume, or with his priest.’

  ‘And Xavier?’

  ‘Oh, Xavier spoke to him, but only to tell him that Carmel’s death was divine retribution. They didn’t have much to do with each other after that.’

  Mary Quinn looked from Titus to Joe.

  ‘I don’t feel safe, even with that policeman outside Sheila’s house. I think somebody wants everyone in the Quinn family dead.’

  ‘That’s a frightening prospect, Mary,’ said Titus, ‘but such an extreme ambition would generally point to somebody known to you.’

  Mary Quinn’s face revealed her dismay.

  ‘I know, Inspector. And, believe me, if I had the slightest suspicion about anyone, I’d tell you. I can only assume it’s someone known to my father. But, as I told you, I know nothing about his life outside the house, beyond the bare bones.’

  ‘I think you’ll be quite safe at Miss Draper’s, at least for this evening. We’ll leave a policeman on duty there for one more night.’

  ‘No. That won’t help.’

  ‘Do you have another place you can stay?’

  ‘I think so. The producer of The Red Mask has a flat in the Manchester Unity building. I’m sure she won’t mind taking me in for one night. I’ll move into the Windsor after that, until you find this monster.’

  ‘Would you like me to te
lephone your producer on your behalf?’

  ‘No, but I’d appreciate it if you were in the room when I called her, just in case I lose my nerve. It’s Christmas Day and she’s, well, unconventional. She’s marvellous, and she’s been marvellous to me, but I’m not sure …’

  ‘She’ll understand that this is something of an emergency. In fact, now I think about it, I’d prefer to telephone her and organise her to billet you. Sergeant Sable will take you down there and make sure you’re settled. I’ll brief your producer and stress how important it is that the details of this tragedy aren’t made public. What’s his name?’

  ‘Her name is Constance — Constance Thorpe.’

  ‘We’ll do our best to keep this out of the papers. I’m sure Miss Thorpe will appreciate the need for discretion.’

  Mary Quinn nodded.

  ‘Constance understands discretion, Inspector, better than anyone else does.’

  Joe and Mary were driven around to Sheila Draper’s place, and found her on the point of returning to the Quinn house. Mary quickly went to collect her suitcase, and told Sheila that she’d contact her as soon as she was settled at the Windsor. She didn’t mention that she’d be spending that night in Constance Thorpe’s flat — perhaps, Joe thought, to avoid offending her. Sheila Draper’s rooms were certainly not what Mary Quinn was used to. While Mary was gathering her things together, Joe asked Sheila if she’d remembered anything that might be relevant. He told her that Mary Quinn had been frank with them about how things really stood in the Quinn household. When he mentioned John Quinn’s mistress, Sheila’s eyes widened in surprise, and Joe realised too late that Mary hadn’t been as intimate with Sheila as he’d assumed.

  She composed her features when Mary appeared, and Joe was fairly certain that Sheila would understand his error and not exploit it. She behaved impeccably, kissed Mary on the cheek, and said that she’d wait anxiously for her to telephone. She smiled reassuringly at Joe, and said, ‘I’ll help in whatever way I can, Detective.’

  But Sheila Draper wouldn’t be able to honour that promise. Within a few hours, she would be dead.

  -6-

  Ptolemy Jones walked from Glenferrie Station up Glenferrie Road to Riversdale Road, turned left, and turned right a few streets along into Kooyong Koot Road. Magill must be loaded to live in a street like this, he thought. Simultaneously, he thought of what a pleasure it would be to milk him of his pounds, shillings, and pence. He knew Mitchell Magill by sight, having seen him at an Australia First meeting at a theatre in Collins Street the year before. He hadn’t been much impressed by the group. Its members said the right things about the Jews and Adolf Hitler, but they were sentimental about the blacks, with policies that seemed to treat them as fully human — an idea that was abhorrent to Jones, who knew for a fact that they weren’t. Jones could see that Australia First wasn’t advocating real National Socialism, but it was as close to it as he was going to get. What the group had going for it, Jones thought, was structure — and Mitchell Magill’s money. All it needed was a proper leader.

  And so it was that, at lunchtime on Christmas Day 1943, Ptolemy Jones stood outside Number 3 Kooyong Koot Road, a Spanish-mission marzipan of a house, and felt the pull of destiny He went into the portico and listened. There was a burst of laughter from both male and female voices.

  Jones had telephoned Magill late on Christmas Eve, and for all intents and purposes had invited himself to Christmas lunch. This had come about because Jones had friends, or at any rate he had influence with one person who knew Magill — not well, but well enough to ring him and give him Jones’s name, and convince him that Jones would be an invaluable addition to what was left of Australia First. Under Jones’s careful instruction, this person had stressed that Jones was a simple man who would take orders and provide muscle where it was needed. He’d told Magill to expect Jones’s call. Magill had been interested because Australia First meetings had been disrupted, on more than one occasion, by rowdy opponents of the fledgling party, and fights had broken out. When Jones telephoned, Magill was quickly seduced by the passion in his voice, and flattered by Jones’s lie that Magill’s speeches at the theatre in Collins Street had been inspirational. In the course of their conversation, Jones let slip that he’d be spending Christmas alone, and so it was that Magill had issued the invitation.

  Jones knocked. The laughter didn’t stop, which reassured him that his visit was welcome. The door was opened by a man in his late thirties. He was tall — just over six feet, by Jones’s estimation — lean, with short dark-brown hair, and with a carefully tended moustache. He was smiling, and balancing a thin cigarette-holder between his fingers. Jones was revolted by this effeminate affectation, and despised him on sight.

  ‘Mr Magill, I’m Ptolemy Jones. I believe you’re expecting me.’

  If the dead tattooist had overheard Jones’s introduction, he would have been astonished that the brute who had turned up at his door could appear both polite and suave. Mitchell Magill held out his hand and shook it. Magill felt Jones’s strength, and was immediately both fascinated and repelled by this pale-skinned and pale-eyed visitor with the not-entirely-convincing educated accent. His response to Jones was visceral. He knew that this man was dangerous, and yet he invited him in enthusiastically.

  ‘Join us,’ Magill said.

  Jones followed him into the house. The corridor was cool, and smelled of floor polish and cooking, which was not unpleasant. Conversation issued from a room halfway along, towards which Magill ushered Jones. It was a dining room, and seated around a handsome table, laden with an unpatriotic display of black-market poultry and beef, were three people — two women and a man. Jones was discomforted by the general air of complacent wealth that hung about the room. It came from the furnishings, the paintings on the walls, the food on the table, and the clothes on the seated people.

  ‘This is Ptolemy,’ Magill said, and each person in turn stood and shook his hand. The first of these, a man in his fifties, bald and running to fat at a high speed, said, ‘I’m Arthur. That’s a remarkable name you’ve got. I like it.’

  Jones smiled graciously, as if he was pleased by this toad’s imprimatur.

  ‘I’m Arthur’s wife, Margaret. How do you do?’ said a loose-fleshed, red-armed woman also in her fifties. She was wearing too much make-up, Jones thought. Why did women of a certain age think that painting a ruin improved it?

  ‘And I’m Peggy,’ said the other woman. ‘Merry Christmas.’

  Peggy looked about twenty-five to Jones. She was small breasted, a fact made all too obvious by the beautifully cut pale-blue silk blouse she wore. She had slender arms and carefully waved, blonde hair. She was worth looking at. Jones supposed she was maintained by Magill.

  ‘You’re welcome to our Christmas lunch, Ptolemy.’ She giggled. ‘I’m sorry. It’s such a strange name. I hope you’re not offended.’

  ‘It won’t sound funny if you say it often enough,’ Jones said — unable, despite his intention, to fully excise a faint nastiness from his tone. Peggy, who was clearly too solipsistic to bother with other people’s tones of voice, laughed heartily. The others chortled politely, and Jones relaxed into his feeling of utter contempt for these soft, decadent frauds who didn’t in the least resemble the sort of people who could lead Australia into the security and certitude of a National Socialist future. He’d show them soon enough what that meant.

  The food on the table spoke eloquently of Magill’s wealth. A lot of it had probably been bought from American servicemen who’d pilfered it from their well-supplied canteen. Jones sat down, and they began to eat — or, rather, Jones began to eat, and the others resumed their meal. They hadn’t been completely taken in by Jones’s unconvincing tilt at educated speech; but even if they had been, the manner in which he handled his fork would have betrayed him as having been raised outside the civilising milieu of the middle class. Each of them noti
ced, with silent condescension, that Jones held his fork as if it were a spoon, with the tines pointing upward; and that was how he used it, too, as a kind of scoop. It made them feel comfortably superior to their visitor, and went some way towards taking the edge off the unease he elicited. Jones ate in silence, aware that he ought to say something, yet enjoying the growing awkwardness. Magill relieved him of the need to find a way to bring up the purpose of his visit.

  ‘I understand from our mutual acquaintance that you’re keen to work with us.’

  ‘As I mentioned on the telephone’, Jones said, ‘I saw you … heard you, at the Savoy Theatre, back in March. I thought that what you had to say made sense. Since then I’ve read back-issues of The Publicist, and I think we have a lot in common, politically.’

  The emphasis he put on this last word made it clear that Jones was perfectly aware of how these people saw him. More importantly, it let them know what he thought of them.

  ‘Unfortunately, our government thinks we’re the enemy. We’re sadly depleted in terms of membership.’

  ‘Our government is the real enemy, Mitchell.’

  Jones glanced quickly from face to face to gauge the effect of these words. Arthur smiled nervously, and scratched behind his shirt as if troubled by a flea. Margaret stared at him blankly, having reassessed him as being vicious as well as gauche. Peggy didn’t catch his eye, but it was from lack of interest more than anything else. Mitchell managed to maintain a neutral expression, and went on chewing. Finally, he said quietly, ‘You’re absolutely right, Ptolemy. Not many people have the courage to say that out loud. May I quote Herr Goebbels without alarming you?’

  ‘I have nothing against Herr Goebbels. I hope we all see the sense in much of what is said in Germany.’

  Margaret and Arthur nodded, and Magill said, ‘It’s my belief that art is more important than politics. Indeed, Herr Goebbels has pointed out that art is a fine way, the best way, to lift the hearts and spirits of people in times of great sorrow and duress. Art is the measure of a culture’s strength. Do you know about the Great German Art Exhibitions, Ptolemy?’