by Robert Gott
When I returned to Clutterbuck’s house I allowed myself one more whisky from his depleted supply to celebrate the serendipitous confluence of events that had provided me with a successful parallel career to my acting, as well as a solution to the seemingly intractable problem of the illegal disposal of Gretel Beech’s body. With the murderer nabbed it wouldn’t be too difficult to explain the circumstances under which this had been essential, and given the outcome of my strategy, how could the courts argue with my method? Occasionally, in my past, after a particularly gratifying performance, I would permit myself the indulgence of private self-congratulation. As I sat in one of Clutterbuck’s uncomfortable chairs I permitted such congratulations to flow through me. It was a delightful sensation and I savoured it. I’m not a vain man. I had no wish to share it, or bruit my achievements abroad. This was personal; a well-earned luxury.
I telephoned the number James Fowler had given me. He was at his desk, and I simply told him that I had information that I’d uncovered in the course of an investigation, unrelated to the operation involving the Order of the Shining Knights, but which he would nevertheless find interesting. He stopped me and said that if this was connected in any way to national security it shouldn’t be discussed over the phone — he’d call on me as soon as he could get away. I was to stay put. I impressed upon him that there was some urgency, that the person about whom we were speaking might begin to destroy the evidence of his activities. He said he’d be at Clutterbuck’s as quickly as he could.
Fowler was as good as his word, and within three-quarters of an hour he’d arrived and I’d begun telling him all that I knew about George Beech. But I lost my nerve when it came to telling him the whole truth about Gretel. I couldn’t, understandably, bring myself to say, ‘I helped dispose of the body.’ It spoiled all the rest. I told him only that I was certain, more than certain, that Gretel had been murdered and that her husband had done it. He wanted to know, quite reasonably, how it was that I was so sure of this. Where was Gretel’s body? All I could do was ask Fowler to trust me; that locating the whereabouts of the victim was a part of my ongoing investigation. What I needed from him was an assurance that Beech would be confronted with the accusation of murder, and that he would be leaned on heavily. Fowler said that murder didn’t fall under his team’s terms of reference, but that he was sure it could be raised among the questions asked of Beech.
‘And yes,’ he said, ‘considerable pressure can be brought to bear.’
Fowler made a phone call and left, saying that George Beech would be picked up in a very short time and that he’d keep me informed of all developments.
‘Oh, by the way,’ he said on leaving. ‘Well done. I knew I’d chosen the right man. We may have to find you a permanent job.’
I slept soundly and woke with the pleasant expectation that the cast on my arm was to be removed that morning. I walked to the surgery of Doctor Spitler, a man who’d tended all our family’s ills from the time we’d arrived in Princes Hill. I had no memory of him ever being young, and when I looked down on his age-spotted skull as he cut away the cast, I couldn’t imagine how he might have looked as a young, vigorous man. I don’t know whether he was incurious, or discreet, but he made no inquiries as to how I’d come to break my arm, or how I’d managed to graze my face. I volunteered that I’d fallen over on both counts, although the accident with the arm had happened seven weeks previously.
Doctor Spitler’s nicotine-stained fingers wielded the shears skilfully, and in a few minutes my arm was released from the wretched plaster. I didn’t recognise the pallid, mottled limb as my own. Doctor Spitler assured me that with daily exercises it would rapidly return to normal.
‘Try to avoid falling over,’ he said.
I thanked him for his, as always, impeccable medical advice.
‘How’s your mother?’ he asked. ‘She’s a remarkable woman. She almost died having you. Did you know that? I trust you’ve made it all worthwhile.’
The world is packed to the gunwales with impertinent people.
I returned to Clutterbuck’s house at midday and was surprised to find him drinking whisky with Brian, who was either acting as if he was inebriated, or was in fact inebriated. Clutterbuck, as usual, showed no effects of the alcohol.
‘I’ve confessed,’ Brian said. ‘I’ve told Paul here that we got into his whisky.’
‘You mean that you got into his whisky, Brian.’
‘Oh, and I s’pose that you didn’t have any.’
‘I had some, yes, but not as much as you did.’
Brian sneered.
‘Anyway, we agreed to take it out of your wages.’
He burst into laughter and Clutterbuck joined him. Even though I knew Brian was acting as we’d decided he should act, I still flushed pink.
‘Oh, come on, Will,’ Clutterbuck said. ‘Brian’s just kidding. I don’t mind if you hop into my whisky. You know that. Here, have one yourself.’
‘No thank you. It’s a little early in the day.’
Brian pulled a face to indicate that my refusal was entirely consistent with his opinion of me as a wowser.
‘I’m sorry I wasn’t here to formally introduce my younger brother,’ I said.
Brian snorted.
‘It wasn’t necessary, Lady Bracknell. Paul and I got along fine without you.’
I saw one of Clutterbuck’s eyebrows rise a fraction — enough to tell me that he accepted the tension between Brian and me as genuine. I hoped Brian wouldn’t ruin it by taking too many liberties.
‘What are you doing here?’ I asked him.
‘I came to see you, and Paul here answered the door. I need a bit of cash, Will. Just to tide me over.’
‘Brian told me he’s just lost his job,’ Clutterbuck said.
‘Wasn’t the right fucking religion,’ Brian said. ‘Excuse my French.’
He’d got the tone just right; a good mixture of disappointment and resentment.
‘What line of work were you in?’ Clutterbuck asked.
‘Just a clerk in an office. Nothing flash. The boss is a king Catholic and he gave my job to another left-footer. Arsehole. Those bastards stick together.’
‘Indeed they do,’ Clutterbuck said. If he’d risen to the bait, this was the only proof of it. He was not a man who made any unconsidered remarks or movements, and he immediately changed the subject, as if the issue of the great Catholic threat was of no interest to him. I could see that the care he took to camouflage his prejudice was evidence enough that he was already considering how he might turn Brian’s bitterness to his advantage.
I had to admit that Brian was a naturally talented actor — with some training he could possibly achieve something on the stage.
We were rescued from the threat of Brian going too far in his performance by his need to go to the toilet and the simultaneous arrival of Nigella. There was no awkwardness between us. She acknowledged me gracefully, and informed Clutterbuck that she was taking him out to lunch so he could tell her all about his trip to Ballarat, and perhaps explain why he’d neglected to let her know he was going. This last was delivered rather icily. Clutterbuck wasn’t enthusiastic, but he acquiesced and they left before Brian returned. We were left to ourselves and Brian’s tipsiness was replaced by sober smugness.
‘Do admit,’ he said, ‘I carried that off very well.’
I agreed that he’d set himself up quite nicely, and was lavish in my praise of his performance. After all, he’d had a couple of nasty shocks recently and it cost me nothing to put a little salve on his bruised ego. I was happy to do it. I’ve never been stingy in my praise of others — when it was warranted.
‘What were you talking about before I arrived?’
‘I was telling Paul what a prig you can be.’
‘No, really Brian, what were you talking about?’
>
‘No, really Will, I was telling him what a prig you can be.’
I cautioned him again about over-exaggeration, and he said that nothing he’d told Clutterbuck had been a surprise. ‘I see your plaster’s off. That must be a relief. Your face is looking better, too. Soon you’ll be your old self Will.’
Brian’s chirpiness was strangely at odds with the dramatic turn his life had taken.
‘This isn’t a game, Brian. This is a dangerous thing that we’re doing. Paul Clutterbuck may not be a violent man, but I can’t guarantee that his friends are as civilised.’
‘I’ll meet them soon enough. Paul’s eager for new recruits. He’s already hinted that he might be able to find work for me. He said he’s got a friend who’s laid off some workers. I’m in, Will. Paul Clutterbuck can’t wait to sign me up. I don’t think he’s as bright as he seems. Money makes people look smarter than they are.’
‘Brian, I know he’s not as wealthy as all this makes him seem either. It’s inherited and squandered.’
As I said this I experienced a spasm of anger that Nigella was prepared to prop him up. I was anxious to get her alone again to demonstrate the compelling truth of my fervour. In a day or so I’d be able to shave again without damaging my face. I’d get a haircut and restore the shimmer of Hollywood that surrounded me. I believed I could then tempt Nigella Fowler into my now fully liberated arms.
Brian stood up and announced that he had to go home to weed the vegetable garden.
‘Come round for dinner,’ he said. ‘Mother’s got some half-way decent beef and she’s making a Scotch broth.’
I thought about it, and even though I knew that the essential element of barley would be replaced by inedible, but available, oatmeal, I accepted the offer.
‘Is there anything Mother needs to bulk out this broth?’
‘It’s only soup, Will. It’s no big deal.’
‘Good food makes life bearable, Brian. What else is she putting in this broth?’
‘I’m not a cook and as far as I’m concerned if it’s edible that’s all that matters.’
I ignored his culinary philistinism.
‘Do you have herbs?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ he said, with undisguised annoyance. ‘Darlene planted plenty. She was sending them off to the Australian Fighting Forces Herb Auxiliary. She used to say that her marjoram might just be making some poor bastard’s food palatable up in New Guinea.’
‘A paragon of patriotism. Shame about her loyalties closer to home.’
Brian would have bridled at this as recently as the day before. Now he accepted it without comment.
‘I’ll tell Mother to expect you,’ he said.
Brian had barely left Clutterbuck’s house, clutching a note scribbled to Mother showing her how best to use carrots in the broth (shredded so finely that they dissolve and provide background sweetness), when the phone rang. I didn’t recognise the voice until it introduced itself as Oakpate. It was impossible, I know, but I almost believed I could smell his foul breath travelling along the wire and emerging from the mouthpiece at my end. He had a message for Clutterbuck. He said it was imperative that the Knights meet with him that evening and it was even more imperative that the meeting be held at Clutterbuck’s house. I assured him I would pass this on.
‘Tell him we’re all coming. He knows where to contact me if there’s a problem.’
I assumed that Clutterbuck would be back from lunch soon — Nigella had work to do, after all.
I lay on my bed, flexing my hand, gently exercising the weakened muscles in my newly repaired arm. I heard Clutterbuck return and went downstairs to give him Oakpate’s message. Stopping outside the living room door, I heard two voices, both male. Clutterbuck’s voice was measured and calm, the other voice was raised so that words were audible.
‘It wasn’t my fault. It should’ve gone off.’
I leant down to the keyhole, like a maid in a farce, to hear Clutterbuck’s response.
‘If we can’t manage to incinerate a fucking country church, what chance have we got with St Patrick’s,’ he said.
Ballarat, I thought, or a church near Ballarat. Fowler was right. The Shining Knights were on the move.
I went back upstairs and ostentatiously slammed my bedroom door before descending again, this time in the throes of a manufactured coughing fit. I wanted to give Clutterbuck and his companion plenty of time to arrange their features into an approximation of bland sociability.
The living room door was open now, and a thickly bespectacled man in his late forties, with full jowls and hair the colour and dull sheen of axle grease, was walking towards the front door. No introductions were made. When I entered the living room Clutterbuck showed no sign of discomposure, or that he’d only moments before been speaking about blowing up St Patrick’s Cathedral. He was his normal self, but I now saw that there was something about him that was unsettling and a little frightening. It had always been there, I realised, but I’d missed it. This was an unusual and uncharacteristic lapse in perceptiveness. I gave him Oakpate’s message. He nodded and said that while he appreciated that I wasn’t enthusiastic about the Knights, perhaps I’d tell Brian that he’d be welcome to join that evening’s meeting.
‘You’re welcome, too, of course, but your scepticism won’t go down too well, so I’d advise you to stay upstairs if you’re going to be home.’
‘Will Nigella be at this meeting?’
He laughed.
‘Nigella and I don’t discuss politics. Like sex, we’re going to wait until after we’re married.’
‘I see. Well I hope you’ll excuse me if I don’t come.’
‘That suits me fine. I want you to be doing something for me then anyway.’
I inwardly rebelled at being spoken to like an employee, although in truth that was precisely how Clutterbuck saw me.
‘I want to know what Trezise is up to. I haven’t heard from Anna, and Trezise’s movements are of interest to the Knights.’
So he hadn’t been told. It surprised me that Trezise hadn’t mentioned Clutterbuck during what would undoubtedly have been a gruelling interview with the police. I’d given him Clutterbuck’s name, unadvisedly — although I’d been cured of feeling guilty about this by recent revelations concerning his character. Perhaps Trezise didn’t remember the name. It was far more likely, though, that the police were certain that they’d got their man, and any story he told about Anna Capshaw’s ex-husband would be compromised by the fact that the police would be aware, with very little checking, that Anna Capshaw didn’t have an ex-husband.
I couldn’t tell Clutterbuck that the woman he’d sent to seduce Trezise was lying in the morgue without exposing my connection to James Fowler, and I had no intention of doing that. I agreed, therefore, to spend the evening tracking the incarcerated Trezise down. I thought I would go to the pictures instead, or the theatre, maybe. A lightweight bit of nonsense called Robert’s Wife was playing at Her Majesty’s. But I knew it would depress me to see second rate actors garnering applause for undemanding rubbish — and getting paid handsomely for it — so I scotched the theatre idea.
‘How was lunch?’ I asked.
‘Lunch was fine. Nigella was a bit peeved that I hadn’t told her about going to Ballarat, but she came round as she always does. I’m having dinner with her and her father this evening. I’m becoming quite one of the family.’
A little wave of self-satisfaction passed across his face, and I experienced a similar emotion when I considered that in all likelihood, in a very short time, Clutterbuck and his cronies would be locked up. Nigella would surely be grateful that I’d played some part in saving her from marriage to a fascist bully. I was anxious to get away from Clutterbuck as soon as I could. The less we saw of each other the better. My attitude towards him was hardening into a kind of conte
mpt and the more time I spent with him, the more likely he would be to spot this.
‘I’ll start on Trezise now,’ I said. ‘He’ll be at St Patrick’s I imagine. I’ll tag him for the rest of the day.’
‘Nice building, St Patrick’s. All that money.’
If he was hoping for an argument, I didn’t oblige. I had no desire to get into a discussion which would provide him with a platform for the expression of his ugly philosophy — if his beliefs could be dignified by that term.
‘I’ll tell Brian about the meeting. He’s more inclined to your way of thinking than I am.’
With that, I left and headed towards Mother’s house.
I’d decided to telephone James Fowler from there, tell him what I’d overheard and tell him, too, about the gathering of the Knights that evening. I’d leave him with the impression that it would be me, and not Brian, who attended. This didn’t seem too deceiving. I didn’t think I was weaving a tangled web.
I didn’t go out again after settling into Mother’s house, but I helped in a desultory sort of way to weed the vegetable garden. It gave me an opportunity to talk to Brian about that night’s meeting. I stressed that Clutterbuck’s cronies — certainly the ones that I’d met — were awful people, and that some of them, no doubt, had the fascist taste for violence, although I’d seen no evidence of this in Clutterbuck. Brian thought that the idea of blowing up St Patrick’s Cathedral was laughable.