The Dying Diplomats Club

by Matthew Benns

  ‘Oh do get on with it,’ he muttered.

  ‘Anyway, Aunt Mabel was at high risk of becoming a victim because of her love of cream. She was a big fan of the Devon cream tea as a break from her cream bun diet. Wonderful Nick got on the trail of the poisoner, who turned out to be a disgruntled farmer protesting at European Union regulations on cream production that were killing his business. It was likely he was going to have to turn his dairy herd into sausages and he was desperate. To make ends meet he was trying everything, raising litters of puppies for the local hunt, serving his own cream teas from his kitchen and letting out the spare rooms in his farmhouse as a bed and breakfast. He was also poisoning the cream to draw attention to the issue.’

  ‘So having identified him, we checked into his B&B for the night to snoop around and see how he was poisoning the cream. But unfortunately,’ said Nick, pausing to give his wife a hard stare, ‘he may have somehow got wind of the fact that we were onto him.’

  ‘Yes, well there is no need to go into that bit, darling. Nobody is interested in too much detail,’ said La Contessa hastily. ‘The point is that he realised the game was up and decided to do away with us.’

  ‘And the blighter might well have got away with it if it hadn’t been for good old Baxter there,’ said Nick. ‘When we retired to our room, the farmer had turned on the gas from the unlit heater and left it running. We would have been brown bread by morning and our sad demise would have been dismissed as a tragic holiday accident. Two more drunk Aussies dead in bed.’

  ‘But somehow one of the farmer’s beagle puppies got out of his pen, found his way to our door and sat whining and scratching until I got up,’ said La Contessa. ‘He would not settle but kept running over to the heater and yapping. Eventually Nick got up and realised what was happening and turned it off. By that stage he had also found the poison secreted in the dairy, so he called the police straight away and by the morning the “Cream Tea Killer” was behind bars.’

  ‘Which left the question of what to do with the puppy who had saved our lives,’ said Nick.

  ‘Oh there was no question at all really,’ said La Contessa. ‘We had to have him. I popped him in my bag and we made the arrangements for him to come back to Australia with us, and here he is today, still saving the day.’

  Baxter gave a contented sigh from his position on the rug and closed his eyes as the conversation turned back to speculation on what exactly had happened to the two diplomats who had begun the night as guests and were now both dead.

  CHAPTER 14

  A Trifling Problem

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying,’ began La Contessa cautiously. ‘The menu here in Kirribilli House seems rather wedded to the 1970s.’

  ‘Not the best period in Australian culinary history,’ agreed Karen, noticeably brighter now she had unburdened at least part of her secret and made clear her decision to quit. They were gazing at the individual sherry trifles, red jelly and yellow custard topped off with fresh whipped cream and a cherry, that were presented in Bormioli Rocco glasses from the same set that had done such sterling work with the prawn cocktails. Patricia had fetched them from the fridge and brought them out on a silver tray. She now placed the last one in front of her own place and sat down, leaning the tray against the side of her chair.

  Nick picked up his spoon, only to stop at the sound of Monaro tapping the side of his wine glass with his own spoon. He seemed to have gathered his composure after his earlier outburst, and the time spent deep breathing on the lawn had restored him to a semblance of his former commanding self. There were wine bottles on the table now and the company had been left to their own devices in keeping their glasses filled.

  ‘Friends, this has been a very eventful night and for that I can only apologise,’ the Prime Minister said, raising his glass and looking over it at those guests still sitting around the table. ‘But I want to thank you all for your patience and forbearance in this most difficult of times. To friendship.’

  ‘How can you make such a toast when two of your closest friends are currently lying dead and we have no idea who the killer is?’ fired Sir Aiden, slapping his hand on the table so hard that, yet again, the cutlery and crockery shook. ‘You are not only failing to inform the police, you are actively stopping anyone else from doing so. The killer or killers could be miles away by now.’

  ‘Actually, Sir Aiden,’ said Nick, interjecting before another diatribe began. ‘I think the Prime Minister is well aware that whoever murdered his two friends is not a flight risk at this time.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning that the killer or killers, just like the blackmailer, is here with us in this house,’ said Nick. ‘And we are getting closer to finding them.’

  ‘Oh really?’ sneered the Governor-General. ‘How so?’

  ‘Clearly . . .’ said Nick, pausing to take the cherry from the top of his trifle and chomp on it appreciatively. ‘Maraschino – decadent, carcinogenic but wonderfully old school. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, the common ingredient to the murders and the blackmail is Iraq.’

  The Governor-General drew breath as if to explode and Nick quickly carried on. ‘And getting to the actual bottom of what happened in Iraq lies in the telling of a few people in this room, not least you, Monsieur l’Ambassadeur.’

  ‘Ah, Nick, you flatter me I think.’ Armand shrugged modestly.

  ‘No, Armand, I don’t think he does,’ said his wife quietly. ‘Perhaps it is time to tell.’

  The French Ambassador took a spoonful of trifle and looked away, clearly unwilling to speak.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said La Contessa, quick to try and exploit the unexpected awkward moment between the French couple, ‘Anne-Sophie you could tell us what you know about that time.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps that is the way,’ Anne-Sophie said. ‘I know little, really. What I can tell you is that when Armand and I fell in love he was an impetuous young man. I was married to his commanding officer and much older than he, but that meant nothing to Armand. He loved me. It was magnificent, it made me giddy, he was a whirlwind of joy.’

  Anne-Sophie took a sip of her Sancerre, her eyes sparkling at the memory. La Contessa smiled across the table at her, willing her to continue.

  ‘Nothing was too much for him. The risks he took to see me. Dodging sentries and climbing the outside wall to steal just one kiss while my husband was in the other room. Magnifique. And then . . .’ She faltered, a cloud crossing her face.

  ‘And then?’ urged La Contessa as the other guests sat spellbound.

  ‘And then he was sent on a mission into Iraq. A dangerous mission, but that was not an issue – he had done many dangerous missions before. He was a Legionnaire, after all. But this one was different.’

  ‘How so?’ asked La Contessa.

  ‘That is his story to tell. His, or the friend he made on that mission: Robert Monaro, the Special Forces soldier who would go on to become your Prime Minister. All I can tell you is that Armand left to go on that mission a carefree young boy and he came back a man,’ said Anne-Sophie sadly. ‘A man carrying all the burdens in the world on his shoulders.’

  Armand let out a heavy sigh and looked sadly at his wife. He put down his spoon next to his half-eaten trifle and steepled his fingers under his chin, almost as if in prayer. ‘It is true, my love, but I have never heard you speak of it so eloquently or with such sadness,’ Armand said. ‘I will tell you what happened on that fateful day. That mission that cost so many lives and finally opened my eyes to the ways of the world.’

  The French Ambassador sipped his wine, squared his shoulders and took a deep breath to begin. The lights went out, the room lit up red from the first of the fireworks outside, and the sound of cheering and boat horns rippled across the harbour and through the verandah doors.

  ‘It’s midnight!’ said Armand, delighted at the interruption. ‘Happy New Year, everybody! We should go out for the fireworks and tell the story later, I think.’

  Nick was quickly on his
feet and around the table to help La Contessa to her feet and give her a warm, lingering kiss.

  ‘Happy New Year, darling,’ she murmured, melting into his arms. Baxter was on his feet between their legs, tail thumping enthusiastically as he looked up at them both with his tongue half hanging out. And then the guests were all clinking glasses and air kissing enthusiastically as the fireworks rumbled in the warm night sky. The traditions of that most bittersweet night of the year continued despite the terrible circumstances they found themselves in.

  ‘Come on, outside everyone,’ shouted the Prime Minister over the din. ‘Armand can finish his story next year!’

  ‘Although technically it is this year now,’ said La Contessa, taking Nick’s arm and walking out onto the verandah. Rather than stopping with the majority of the guests, Nick led her onto the middle of the lawn to stand next to Armand and Anne-Sophie. Baxter, completely unfazed by the multicoloured pyrotechnic display that was exploding almost directly above, remained faithfully by their heels.

  ‘This really is amazing,’ shouted La Contessa over the cacophony of exploding pyrotechnics, and hoots and yells from across the water. ‘I feel as though I am right in the middle of some Napoleonic battle.’

  Nick gave a start and his hand flew to his cheek. His fingers when he looked at them came away bright with blood. He pulled his white linen handkerchief from his top pocket and used it to dab at his face before holding it tightly against his cheek. He looked around but they were standing on their own; the Dieudonnes were heading now down towards the water.

  ‘What is it, darling?’ asked La Contessa, concerned. ‘Have you been hit by a flying piece of firework?’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Nick, looking around before fixing his gaze steadily on the far end of the verandah. The air seemed to sizzle and something ruffled his hair. ‘Come on,’ he said, grabbing La Contessa by the hand and pulling her down the slope. They cut right, Baxter still on their heels, and headed for the gate through to Admiralty House. The oryx, startled by the second round of noise in one night, had retreated up to the house and were seeking cover near the verandah.

  ‘What is it?’ gasped La Contessa, struggling to keep up in her red designer high heels on the well-watered lawn. The bandage on her ankle was supporting it well but she still favoured it slightly.

  ‘Someone is taking pot-shots. I don’t know who they are aiming at,’ said Nick tersely. ‘Using the sound of the fireworks to cover the shots. If they are shooting at us, we had better get away from everyone else in case they hit them by accident.’

  ‘Not to mention us,’ added La Contessa as Nick undid the gate and pulled her through. Baxter gave a yelp of recognition and darted off towards the harbour wall.

  ‘Who was shooting?’ said La Contessa.

  ‘I couldn’t see,’ said Nick. ‘It was dark and they were at the far end of the balcony. I wasn’t even sure until the second shot. I saw the muzzle flash and felt the bullet pass by too close for comfort.’

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ said La Contessa. ‘Getting shot at on the lawn of Kirribilli House. That’s positively un-Australian.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Nick. ‘We can go back when the fireworks stop. They were using the noise to cover the shots and hide their identity, so they won’t risk it again when the lights go on. What is that dog barking at?’

  Baxter was in a frenzy of barking, looking over the wall into the water. Nick and La Contessa hurried over and peered into the blackness.

  ‘Good evening,’ said Detective Inspector Cleaver. ‘Would either of you care to help an old friend up and onto dry land?’

  The police officer was wearing a double-breasted dinner suit that looked incongruous in the tiny rowing boat he had sculled to the side of the wharf at Admiralty House. Nick could see a private security employee in a lime-green high-visibility vest, similar to the guards the New South Wales Government had paid to guard the Harbour Bridge from terrorist attacks since the Sydney 2000 Olympics, standing with his back to them watching the fireworks at the far end of the wharf.

  ‘Detective Inspector, you are a sight for sore eyes,’ said Nick admiringly, as he stretched down a hand to his old friend. ‘Where did you find the rowing boat?’

  ‘I appropriated it from behind a tree across the water in Neutral Bay,’ Cleaver said. ‘Very handy how all these rich boaties leave their tenders lying around while they are not on their yachts.’

  ‘Not to mention the fact that you found the only one who is not out on his, or her for that matter, boat on New Year’s Eve,’ said La Contessa as she reached down and grasped Cleaver’s other hand. Both she and Nick leaned back to take his weight. The effect of their efforts propelled the boat away from the wall, leaving the Detective Inspector at an increasingly acute angle: a human bridge between the departing boat and dry land. He needed to make a decision before it was made for him and in that split second he leaped from the boat to land both feet on the wall. His body was now in a U shape with his feet and firmly gripped hands by the wall but the bulk of his weight projecting out over the water with his bottom at the apex.

  ‘I say, Detective Inspector, you are frightfully heavy,’ gasped La Contessa. ‘I think I might be losing my grip.’

  ‘No, no, no, hang on,’ said Cleaver desperately before his hand slipped through her fingers, leaving Nick holding him alone. The weight was too much and regretfully Nick let go. Cleaver toppled back into the harbour with a terrific splash. Baxter started barking again. Nick glanced anxiously over at the security guard’s distant back but he remained transfixed and clearly deafened by the pyrotechnic display overhead.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said La Contessa, from her position sitting on the bank, where she had fallen back at the release of the weight. ‘I’m afraid I rather let the Detective Inspector go, darling.’

  ‘I believe there may be some stairs around the corner by the jetty, Detective Inspector,’ Nick called down to the soggy officer. ‘Perhaps you should just breaststroke to there. It’s not far.’

  ‘An observation that would have been far more beneficial had you chosen to impart it five minutes ago,’ spluttered Cleaver. ‘Very well.’

  A few minutes later a dripping and decidedly unhappy Detective Inspector Cleaver had clambered up the stone stairs of the jetty at Admiralty House with a delighted Baxter wagging his tail and hopping up and down with canine encouragement. Nick shook his hand delightedly although La Contessa was less forthcoming with her usual kiss on the cheek given his rather damp demeanour.

  ‘I think we may have managed, remarkably, to achieve this unobserved,’ said Nick. ‘Most eyes are on the fireworks above us rather than the dramatic splashes below. Still we had better scuttle off and get back to Kirribilli House before our absence is noted. Hopefully the shooter has stopped taking pot-shots without the covering noise of the firework display.’

  ‘Marvellous,’ sighed Cleaver, his shoes squelching as he walked beside the crime-fighting trio. ‘Perhaps you can fill me in on what is happening and why I needed to get here by clandestine means rather than presenting my police badge and waltzing in the front door like a detective normally does.’

  ‘Well, Dave, er, I mean Detective Inspector, given that you are sort of on duty now,’ began La Contessa. ‘Two diplomats are dead and we don’t know who killed them, the Prime Minister is being blackmailed over something that happened in Iraq but we don’t know what it was or who is doing the blackmailing, and just as we left someone started taking pot-shots at us on the lawn and poor darling Nicky got a cut on his cheek. Look.’

  ‘Perhaps we could start again at the beginning, but a little more slowly,’ said Cleaver, looking imploringly at Nick.

  ‘Absolutely, old friend,’ said Nick. ‘And now you are here, once we get this resolved you can summon up the cavalry.’

  Cleaver looked solemnly at his friend and former colleague and sadly shook his head. He reached into his tuxedo jacket pocket and pulled out his mobile telephone. Tapping it twice and then pressing the home
button for several seconds he eventually held it up for Nick to look at.

  ‘Dead,’ he said. ‘Completely waterlogged. I may be the only cavalry available at short notice, I am afraid.’

  ‘You will be more than enough when the time comes,’ said Nick, opening the gate back into the grounds of Kirribilli House and poking his head through to check the lie of the land. ‘Good, we are unobserved – but the fireworks must be about to finish. So we had better be quick. This is what I want you to do . . .’

  CHAPTER 15

  Death Valley

  ‘Nick, what happened to your face?’ asked the Prime Minister. ‘There is blood on your cheek.’

  They were gathered back in the sitting room at the western end of the house and Patricia was busy refilling glasses with Champagne. A glowering Hayden had insisted his hands be re-tied in front of him so that ‘at least I can hold a bloody glass’ and Taylor was deliberately ignoring him and instead listening intently to Brett, who was doing his best to charm her.

  ‘Yes, I took a little nick on the cheek,’ said Nick. ‘I think it must have been from a flying firework fragment. We are very close to them here.’

  ‘Even so, that should not be happening,’ said Monaro. ‘I will have to have a word with the organisers and that tree-hugging mayor of theirs. I can’t have my voters getting injured by fireworks – very bad policy.’

  Charlotte, who had already treated Nick once that night, stepped up and examined the cut. She gave Nick a long, silent appraising look and seemed to read the quiet plea in his eyes not to reveal aloud what her medical expertise told her.

  ‘Darling, I have found a Band-Aid,’ said La Contessa, bustling across from the kitchen. ‘And I brought you this because I knew it would make you feel better.’