Black Light

by Bedford, K. A.

  I headed home, hardly able to see where I was going. “Oh, Julia … ” I whispered, fighting fresh, cold, tears.

  26

  Rutherford was running down the driveway. “It’s Miss Templesmith!” I had not heard him actually scream before, but he was doing it as he hurled himself towards the Tulip as I drove up. It was unnerving, seeing him so distressed. Last night, before we set out, Rutherford had looked the very image of a resolute man on a just mission. Now he looked like a scared boy.

  He ran alongside as I brought the Tulip up to the door.

  A police vehicle, a black boxy sedan with POLICE stencilled on the doors, and the Shire of Rockingham coroner’s wagon, were already there.

  Rutherford said, without my having to ask, “They’ve been here approximately — ” he glanced at his pocketwatch, “ — forty minutes, ma’am. This time … ”

  This time?

  I could see he wanted to ask me where I had been, but knew this was not the time to ask.

  I said, “And you’ve directed the staff to see to the gentlemen’s needs in my absence?”

  “Of course, ma’am. They have asked us some questions, I should point out.”

  “Which you all answered to the best of your ability?”

  “Yes, ma’am, as far as we were able.”

  I felt very strange, playing this part. It felt that way to me, like a performance of calm composure and control in a crisis. In truth I felt the way Rutherford looked — which was like death itself.

  Inside, standing by the grandfather clock, listening to its unhurried clacks, I noticed the time. It was twenty minutes before six o’clock. I realised, as I heard heavy footsteps along the upstairs hallway heading towards the stairs, that Gordon and I had been out last night for over seven hours.

  No wonder I felt exhausted.

  And seeing two of the local policemen carrying what must have been Julia’s draped body on a stretcher down the stairs, negotiating the landings with no skill at all, did not help. I could not look away from the stretcher. The Julia-shaped figure under the sheet was still. One could not have mistaken it for sleep, even the deepest, darkest sleep one could experience, simply lying there, barely breathing, not even dreaming. Death was something else again, a profound lack of everything that had ever made Julia the person she had been. I watched, nevertheless, for the merest hint of breathing. There had been too many stories in the popular press of dead people who had returned to some sort of life, because they had merely been comatose. I knew there once were places where bodies were stored and watched for a considerable time, to make sure they were dead, and where they were assaulted with sticks and whips and flails, in a desperate attempt to bring about some sort of vital response. It was the most ghoulish business imaginable. So I watched her, as the young uniformed policemen brought her to me and asked me quietly if I would “do the honours, ma’am”, which meant, could I just make sure it was who they had been told it was. Horrified in a way that must seem surprising, considering how I had spent my evening, I consented and, when one of the officers pulled the sheet away from Julia’s face …

  “It’s her,” I said, hand over my mouth. Tonight I had conversed with a demon from a realm I could not directly perceive and in which I had never particularly believed. For the first — but not the last — time in my life I had worked magic. But I had never been more heart-in-my-throat terrified than that moment, when I had glanced at what was left of Julia.

  I forget what happened after that point.

  The next thing I knew, I was sitting on a sofa by the fire, with a blanket over my lap, and I was holding onto a cup of steaming, very sweet tea, as if my life depended on it. Shivering, I looked around. On an adjacent couch two plain-clothes detectives sat. The older one asked if I was all right, and when I said I was not quite sure, the older one decided to get on with it. He made the introductions. He was Detective Inspector Carmody, a mild-looking man who seemed unhappy at having been called all the way down here to Pelican River. Carmody was tall, with the build of a former football player gone somewhat to fat. He spent a great deal of effort stroking his gingery moustache into correct shape. Carmody was assisted by Senior Sergeant Sills, who hung back and concentrated intently on his notepad, flicking pages back and forth, always checking things, as if every secret of the universe lay in those pages, and it was all his to know. Once he saw that I was capable of being interviewed, a look of determination stirred into his bland face; he led the initial interview.

  “We’ve just got a few questions, ma’am. We’re hoping you can help us with our inquiries.”

  “Will this take long?”

  Sills said, “Oh no, I shouldn’t think so, ma’am.”

  Inspector Carmody sat back and watched me.

  Sills asked, “Now let’s just check some facts here, all right? You are Ruth Elizabeth Black? Is that right?”

  I stared at him, wishing the whole miserable business were over. “I am, yes.”

  “And you are a widow?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “A War widow?”

  “Yes.”

  All this, I thought with a bitter amusement, was somehow to do with Antony, and his “alleged” lies to me. And now it had claimed the life of my harmless, talkative aunt. I had been furious with Antony — at least in so far as one could be furious with someone who might be alive — but if it should turn out that a consequence of his intrigues meant not only the death of my father but also of my aunt, then he had better watch himself. When I found him …

  “Mrs Black? Are you all right?” Sills waved a hand up and down in the path of my vision. I had been staring at the fire, quite unaware.

  I composed myself. I wished the shivering would cease. “Sorry.”

  A flash of memory shot through my mind: the image of the elven shaman, tattooed with spirals, wearing that bowler hat, ancient as the earth itself, its eyeless sockets swollen black with malice, pointing that device at Gordon.

  Pointing it at Gordon because it could not see me, because I was protected by Gordon’s protection charm.

  “Er, Mrs Black? I’m sorry, you must be tired … ”

  Blinking, I looked up. “I am terribly sorry. It’s just … ” I let my voice trail away.

  “Of course.”

  Inspector Carmody, doing his best to look avuncular and mild, smiled gently at me. “Mrs Black, you’ve been nursing that cuppa for nearly half an hour. Would you care for a top-up?”

  Indeed, my tea had gone cool. Nodding vaguely, I saw the inspector turn to Sills, telling him, “Get the lady a fresh cuppa, would you? There’s a good lad.” Sills took my half-finished cup and clomped out to the kitchen. I knew Murray and Ryan were up, preparing the day’s meals, working out what to purchase from the markets, clinging to routine. Vicky and Sally would be about somewhere, too, in case they were needed, and probably in shock just as I was, hoping they could be helpful. As for Rutherford: I had not seen him since he went out to put away the Tulip.

  Carmody smiled. He said, “It is a beautiful house you have here, Mrs Black. Would I be mistaken in believing this must be the most expensive home in this whole town?”

  I shrugged. “I do not keep track of such matters.”

  “Your staff tells us that you are something of an author. Is that right?”

  I looked at him, annoyed and tired.

  He went on, “Oh don’t mind me. I’m just chatting whilst we wait for the sergeant.”

  Sighing, I went to say, “Yes, I write popular novels — ”

  But he interrupted me. “Ah, Sergeant Sills to the rescue!”

  Sills had returned, large shoes clicking on the polished floorboards. He bore a steaming cup of tea, with an Empire Cream biscuit perched on the saucer, and handed it to me. “There you go, ma’am,” he said, showing a polite smile. “Get that into you.”

  Carmody was saying, “Sergeant, I was just asking Mrs Black about the value of this house.”

  Sills was already deep into hi
s notebook. He said, “Built twenty years ago, Federation style, formerly owned by the Westland family, who were graziers, though not for long. They returned to England, er, twelve years ago, unable, apparently, to accept the local insect life, most particularly the bull ants, I believe.”

  I sipped my steaming and very sweet tea. It helped.

  Then Sills said: “Mrs Black — where were you this evening?”

  Ah, it was time for this question. I looked up at Inspector Carmody. “I was out.”

  “Just … out?” Carmody glanced at Sills, who made a visible point of spelling, under his breath, as he wrote, “O … u … t. Out.”

  Carmody said, “And was anyone with you last night, who could verify your being ‘out’?”

  I said Mr Gordon Duncombe was with me. Sills nodded. “Of course, of course,” he said, scribbling. Watching him scribble, I could not help but be reminded of Variel scratching in his own notebook.

  “So,” Carmody said after a pause, “Mr Duncombe could conceivably corroborate your story that this evening you and he were both ‘out’.”

  “He could.”

  As I sipped the tea, I felt some of my faculties restoring themselves. I realised what was going on, at last. “You believe that I was involved in Julia’s …?”

  Carmody gave Sills a serious look this time. He said, “Not at all, not at all. I’m terribly sorry if we conveyed that impression. Your staff has been very loyal in your defence, and they have told us at considerable length that you and your Auntie Julia were quite devoted.”

  I felt a fleeting moment of great pride in my staff.

  Then Sills said, “We’re only trying to eliminate you from our list of suspects.”

  Then, before I could protest, Carmody said, “And, of course, there is the other matter.”

  He noticed my shocked pause. He looked as though he could smell my fresh dread. “Oh?”

  “The other murder,” Sills said, businesslike, flicking pages.

  “It’s been rather a busy night, Mrs Black,” Carmody said. “Busy, busy, busy.” He stroked his moustache.

  “Someone else has …?”

  “An acquaintance of yours,” Sills said.

  “Judging by your correspondence,” Carmody added.

  I was confused. “I don’t … ”

  “Mrs Black … ” Carmody said, staring at me like an entomologist at an insect.

  “Inspector?”

  “Where were you last night?”

  Sills said, “We are prepared to obtain a court order permitting us to take a specimen of your fingerprints, unless you voluntarily provide us with same.”

  I opened and closed my mouth. I set the teacup down on the saucer. It landed badly on the edge of the uneaten Empire Cream. It spilled. The sound of porcelain scraping porcelain seemed far too loud. I frantically fiddled with the cup, and tried to clean up the mess. I knew I was muttering things. I knew Sills would be jotting it all down in his quick and spidery shorthand. All shorthand looked spidery, I knew that. Panic built. I struggled to fight back hot tears. Where had they come from? Nothing made sense. Outside I knew the sun was rising. I could hear a flat chorus of crows. They did this every morning, but today it felt worse. It felt like they were laughing at me, telling me I was done for. I held my face; my hands were cold.

  “Mrs Black,” Sills said, softer this time. “We need you to account for your movements of last night.”

  “Just to rule you out, of course,” Carmody said. “It’s only a formality.”

  “Purely routine,” Sills said.

  “We’re not accusing you of anything, are we, Sergeant?”

  He sputtered a weak laugh. “Of course not.”

  “But we would like you to tell us what you were doing last night.”

  Then Carmody asked, very softly, “Tell us about the extortion letters.”

  “God … ” I said.

  “Mrs Black?”

  “Your butler, Mr Rutherford, he told us you have received a series of notes. He said that the most recent one included a demand for money in exchange for some sort of information?”

  “Oh … God.” Of course Rutherford would have told them about the notes. He would see no reason why the police ought not to know.

  “May we see these notes, Mrs Black?”

  “It’s just … they’re … ”

  I almost said: potentially extremely dangerous to the psychically inclined, but I stopped myself.

  Carmody, nonetheless, saw that I had held something back.

  He said, “We really do not consider you as a suspect in what happened to your aunt, Mrs Black. I can give you my word as an officer of the law. Fair dinkum. It’s just that your staff mentioned them, and it seemed strange that all these things should happen in the same short period of time.”

  “Of … of course,” I said, at last, looking at the inspector, and starting to believe that he might in fact be as decent as he was pretending to be. “They’re upstairs. They’re in my study, in the top drawer of the desk. Shall I …?”

  Carmody nodded to Sills, who left to go upstairs.

  “Why would anyone try to extort money from you, Mrs Black?” The irony in his tone suggested that, in his view, people would be foolish not to try to get money out of the eccentric rich author woman who wore men’s clothes.

  I shook my head. Where was his nice-copper routine now? “I do not know. I wish I did.”

  “And what were you and Mr Duncombe doing last night?”

  “We were just out! We were out driving around. We were talking. We talk. Is that all right with you? That two people should just drive around talking?” I needed to take a breath after that.

  “Bit of a chilly night for driving, wasn’t it? I heard it was going to get down around thirty-five degrees or so. Good night for staying tucked up in bed, I’d have said. Actually, I was tucked up in bed when the call came … ” He made it sound like he was wryly amused.

  “I like cold nights. Reminds me of home.”

  “I see,” he said, “of course. It would, too. Yes, I can see that.”

  I said nothing, and sat feeling foolish for my outburst. I sipped tea.

  “Not me, though. No, not me. Born here. Local lad.”

  I wished the whole miserable experience would cease.

  Sills clumped down the stairs. He had the notes. They seemed to cause him no discomfort, as the first one at least had caused Julia.

  Julia … My breath caught; fresh shivers washed over me.

  He handed them over. Carmody said, looking at them, “This is it?”

  “That’s all so far.”

  “You’re expecting more?”

  “Yes … ” Oh yes. My correspondent would not be pleased with my activities last night. Taking away his demon — he would not like that. He would need to strike back. That was something to consider. Presumably his anger towards me, which now would be doubled, would drive him to strike at me — but Gordon’s charm should see to that. So what else could he target? Gordon? The house?

  God, my house …

  Carmody said, “What’s all this — sorry, I don’t mean to be tedious about this, it’s just my job, you understand — what’s all this about your father and your husband? Eh? What’s that about?”

  I groaned. I tried to explain something about Antony and Father, but I was so tired.

  “And this character, he was going to tell you something in exchange for money? Is that the deal?”

  “I just want to go to bed, Inspector. I’m quite exhausted.”

  Carmody handed the notes over to Sills, who studied them closely, even to the point of sniffing them, and looking puzzled. The inspector said, “And you don’t know who sent these notes to you?”

  “No, Inspector. I don’t know.”

  Sills said, “Your Mr Rutherford said you had resolved not to cooperate with the extortionist. He said that he spent the evening sitting by your letterbox, waiting for a courier in the extortionist’s employ. Seems a bit strange. Why
not use some remote dead drop? If he just fronted up to your letterbox, surely you’d get a good look at him, maybe even catch him, and the game’s up. So why would he do that?

  “I do not know,” I said. “Perhaps he’s simple.”

  “It’s still rather odd,” Sills said, consulting his notes, looking like this one element would keep him awake for days as he worried over it.

  “And why might that be, Sergeant?” I asked, wishing only these men would go away and leave me be.

  “Nothing, really, ma’am. It’s just that your Mr Rutherford told us he did not recall seeing anything of a suspicious nature during the entire time he sat out there in the cold for you. Not a sausage.”

  “Funny, that,” Carmody said, nodding a little, looking at me.

  No-one had come by to check the letterbox? That was not right. Variel had told me he had been here and seen that there was no money. He was incapable of lying.

  But then, I thought, he would only respond to the questions asked of him. He would not volunteer information.

  Something was terribly wrong, more wrong than I had thought.

  “Mr Rutherford also said that your Aunt Julia had come out from England in something of a hurry, that she had something important to tell you. What was that?”

  At this rate, Rutherford would put me in prison. Still, I could not fault him for doing his job. I said, “She had a premonition.”

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am?” This from Sills, who looked up, amused, from his note-taking.

  “She had a premonition, in which I was in some sort of danger.”

  “Was she right?” He smirked some more.

  “No! She’s inclined to the dramatic, she … ” I held my hands over my face.

  “But as soon as she arrived, these notes started arriving?”

  “That’s right, but — ”

  “And this last note contains an implied threat, doesn’t it?” Carmody was peering at me now.

  I did not know what to say. I was tired, confused, sick at heart.

  At last, I managed to pull myself together enough to say, “If you’re not charging me with anything, gentlemen, I would appreciate it very much if you would leave me be. I should be only too pleased to discuss things with you once I have had some sleep.”