‘To tell the truth, I feel like I’d fall into pieces, only I’m too stubborn to allow it. I can’t believe she’s dead.’
‘You’re doing very well. A lot of girls would be in hysterics by now.’
His praise made me feel warmer, stronger. I sat down beside him. The tea was hot and strong and sweet and tasted marvellous. After taking a few sips, I looked across into the dark eyes that were so unlike Peter’s.
‘She was murdered, wasn’t she?’
The left side of his mouth quirked up as if jerked by the scar, but it formed into a grimace, not a smile.
‘Yes. It wasn’t an accident and I doubt it was suicide.’ He looked down at his tea, then up to meet my eyes again. ‘Let’s not talk about it. Let’s leave it to the police.’
He took out his cigarettes. There were already several cigarette butts in the saucer in front of him. He offered the packet to me, but I shook my head.
‘I don’t smoke.’
‘It’s a nasty habit,’ he admitted. His face visibly relaxed, however, as he breathed in the smoke.
‘So Pete did ask you out. I’m glad. He seemed to like you a lot.’
The steam from my tea made my eyes wet. ‘He asked me to dinner just after you left. We went out together until he left for England. A bit more than a year.’ I gazed into my cup. ‘You don’t look like him at all,’ I said, hoping I didn’t sound accusing.
He gave a short, sad laugh. ‘I’m sorry about that. I loved him too and I miss him dreadfully.’
I nodded, refusing to cry, but I found I couldn’t stop nodding and the cup was shaking in my hand. Tom took it from me and put it on the table.
‘Poor Doreen,’ I said. I was surprised to realise my face was wet with tears.
And then his strong arms were around me, holding me tight. I was really crying now, big gulping sobs, as images of Doreen and Peter, Tom’s hand and scarred face and Harvey came into my mind, and I thought of the war and of all the people who were dying and being hurt. My face was crushed against Tom’s chest; it was hard and warm and smelled of wet cotton and sweat. He was Peter’s brother, who loved him too and missed him dreadfully.
And I was snivelling all over his chest. Somehow I stopped the tears and pulled away, sniffing. I realised I didn’t have a handkerchief. Tom handed me one that was sticky and smelled of plums and I blew my nose. Embarrassed, I bent my head over the sodden handkerchief and Tom moved back to his own chair. We sat together, lost in our own thoughts, waiting for the police.
A few minutes later the sound of a motor brought us to the front porch, where we saw that a black police car had pulled up outside the house. There was a loud bang and a rush of thick black smoke from the ungainly charcoal burner attached to the back, then the doors opened and two uniformed policemen got out and stood beside the car, looking up at us suspiciously. One was tall and thin and the other short and round, like a pair from a nursery rhyme. I felt bubbles of nervous laughter build up inside me.
Tom gently touched my arm, just as he had done before. ‘I’ll take them to her. Why don’t you wait inside.’
Tom and the policemen disappeared around the back. Neighbours had started to gather in small groups, watching the police car and the Phoenix house. I was reminded of crows circling a dying sheep. I turned abruptly and hurried inside.
I washed my face and hands in the small bathroom off the hallway, and felt better for it. I was just entering the kitchen when Tom came through the back door with the taller policeman.
‘We’ve alerted Detective Munsie,’ the officer said. He was a few shades paler than when he’d arrived and was twisting his cap around and around in his hands. ‘Could you both stay here until he arrives? Constable Riley will stay with the body.’
Declining a cup of tea he went out to wait by the car.
I sat down at the table. My heart was racing. The body. It used to be Doreen Luca and now it was the body. Doreen had been so full of life. How could she be the body? Tom sat down across from me. I looked at him and he lifted the corner of his mouth in a joyless smile.
Four
The light outside now had a brassy dullness. Faint twitters and chirps could be heard in the garden, but inside the house the air was heavy and still. Although it was nearing sunset, the kitchen seemed to be hotter than it had been an hour before and I could feel a headache beginning behind my right eye.
Tom stood suddenly and went to the sink. He filled a glass with water and handed it to me.
‘Drink this. You look done in.’
I suspected my face was flushed and that I looked tired and hot. There was a thin sheen of perspiration on Tom’s face and I could see damp patches under the arms of his cotton shirt. Despite that, he seemed cool and somehow detached from the horror of the afternoon. I pushed wet hair off my face, sipped at my water and wondered how much longer we had to wait.
Not long. Muffled voices and footsteps in the hallway announced the arrival of Detective Inspector Jack Munsie of the Criminal Investigation Bureau. With him was a sour-faced man who I thought must be the police pathologist, because he was carrying a black doctor’s bag. I knew something of Detective Munsie, because he was a fairly regular visitor to Mr Goodley, the Crown Prosecutor, who was my boss.
Detective Munsie had a long, dour face, enlivened by a pair of clear grey eyes. According to Mr Goodley, ‘Jack Munsie is a Presbyterian plodder, but he knows what he’s about’, by which I understood that he was a teetotaller who lacked imagination, but he was a good policeman.
At the moment, Detective Munsie just looked hot. He removed his hat, reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and began mopping at his forehead.
‘Meg. Miss Eaton, I should say. What a nasty business,’ he said, skewering me with a look.
He turned to Tom and nodded curtly. ‘Captain Lagrange. So, you and Miss Eaton found her. I’ll take a look at the body and then you can tell me what happened.’ He glanced out of the window and frowned. ‘I hope they’ve brought good torches, it’s nearly dark. Things can be difficult in this blackout.’
I felt a sudden need to make it clear to Detective Munsie that it was entirely accidental I was with Tom Lagrange when Doreen’s body was found, but he left the room before I could say anything.
Detective Munsie returned some fifteen minutes later with a sombre look on his face.
‘The police photographer will be here soon,’ he said. ‘Once he’s finished they can remove the poor woman.’ He glanced at me. ‘Would you prefer me to speak to you first, Meg?’
I nodded, not looking at Tom. Detective Munsie gestured for Tom to leave the kitchen. He disappeared through the door into the hallway and I heard the front screen door bang after him as he left the house.
Detective Munsie sat opposite me at the kitchen table. A uniformed policeman took the chair Tom had vacated, opened a notebook and sat with pencil poised. The palms of my hands were moist.
I realised that I wasn’t carrying my personal identity card and felt myself blushing. Detective Munsie looked enquiringly at me.
‘My identity card is in my house, next door,’ I blurted out. ‘Do you want me to get it?’ We were supposed to carry the card at all times; it was an offence not to be carrying it.
Detective Munsie smiled. ‘I know you, Meg, it’s all right.’ Then his smile fell away and his face seemed to become sharper. ‘Now, young lady. Tell me what happened,’ he said.
I stared at the grain of the wood in the table, cleared my throat, and began.
I described meeting Tom Lagrange that morning, and meeting him again in the laneway in the late afternoon, and picking plums. My voice didn’t falter, until I got to the part where we found Doreen.
‘We could see her lying on the camp bed in the shelter and she did seem to be asleep, just as Mrs Phoenix had said. We called to her, but she didn’t answer. So we went into the shelter.’
I tried to sound calm, but I could hear my voice shaking. ‘It was clear she was . . . not alive. There was something
about the stillness and the smell. And . . . and she had flies on her. Captain Lagrange pulled the blanket away and I saw the blood on her chest. Captain Lagrange called the police. We took Mrs Phoenix to my house. She was dreadfully upset.’
I almost gabbled the last sentences. With a feeling of relief I stopped and raised my eyes to meet the steady gaze of Detective Munsie. The policeman beside him was laboriously writing down what I had said in a slow longhand.
‘Thank you, Miss Eaton. For the record, could we have your full name, address and date of birth?’
‘Margaret Amelia Eaton. I live at 34 Megalong Street, Hollywood, and I was born on the twenty-fourth of September 1921.’
‘And you work at the Crown Law Department?’
‘Yes. I am a stenographer. I generally work for the Crown Prosecutor, Mr Goodley. I’ve worked there for nearly a year now.’
‘How long have you known Mrs Luca?’
‘Since she came to live here in Megalong Street with her husband about two years ago. For the last six months she’s been sharing the house with her friend Betty Barwon.’
‘And her husband?’
‘Frank Luca. He’s in the Navy. Doreen told me she asked Betty to move in because she was lonely after he left.’
‘Have you met her husband?’
‘Yes, of course. He joined the Navy early last year.’
‘Luca is an Italian name?’
‘Yes. His parents were from Italy, but they’ve been in Australia for years. They have a fruit shop in North Perth. Mrs Luca told me they’ve been interned as enemy aliens.’
Suddenly I remembered Paulette.
‘Oh, Mr Munsie, she has a daughter, Paulette, at St Joseph’s in Subiaco. Someone will have to tell her.’
‘Don’t worry about that. We’ll take care of it.’
My heart ached for that poor little girl. I wondered if Betty had been told that her best friend was dead. And how would they let Frank know?
There were heavy footsteps on the porch. The screen door squeaked open and two men entered the kitchen, one of them carrying a large camera with flashbulbs attached. Detective Munsie directed them to the backyard. For the next few minutes I could see flashes of light as the police photographer recorded Doreen’s death. In my mind I had a clear image of her, lit up in the shelter, subject to flash after flash as she was photographed from every conceivable angle.
I realised Detective Munsie was speaking again. His voice was kindly now.
‘So, were you friendly with Mrs Luca?’
I dragged my attention back to him. ‘I suppose you would say we were friends. I liked her. We would talk at the shops or in the street.’
‘When did you last see her?’
‘A few days ago. She was at her front gate and we had a chat about the war. The Australian commandos had been found alive in Timor, and we talked about that.’
‘Was she close to Captain Lagrange? Did she mention him to you?’
‘No-o,’ I said slowly. I could feel the heat wash into my cheeks. ‘Actually, Doreen – Mrs Luca – had quite a few male friends, but I’d never seen Captain Lagrange in Megalong Street before.’
‘And you know Captain Lagrange well?’
‘No. Not at all.’
His look was quietly sceptical. I felt myself blushing again.
‘I don’t know him. I knew of him when I was working at the university in 1939. That was just before he left for Oxford. He won the Rhodes scholarship, you know.’
Detective Munsie nodded, waiting for me to go on.
‘And . . . and I went out with his younger brother for a year, before he went to England with the RAAF. He was killed there in July 1941. Peter and I didn’t start seeing each other until after Captain Lagrange had left for Oxford, so he didn’t know anything about it, really, until we spoke about Peter briefly this afternoon.’
Detective Munsie’s face gave nothing away. ‘Now, Meg, you say you met up with Captain Lagrange in the laneway this afternoon. Had you arranged to meet?’
‘No. I told you, I didn’t know him at all until today.’
‘What were you doing in the laneway?’
‘I told you. I was picking plums.’
‘And meeting Captain Lagrange was entirely accidental?’ There was a note of incredulity in his voice and I realised with a shock that he didn’t believe me.
‘I didn’t know him before this happened,’ I repeated. I could hear my voice becoming petulant. ‘I mean, I didn’t know him to talk to.’
‘You talked to him this morning,’ he said, his tone sharp.
‘I heard him talking to some neighbourhood boys outside our house and I went out to see what he wanted. They told him my name. We spoke no more than two or three sentences. He was looking for Mrs Luca. He asked if I knew where she was. I told him I didn’t. That was all.’
‘You must have been surprised to see Captain Lagrange in the laneway.’
‘I was.’
‘What did you discuss, in the laneway?’
‘I asked him if he’d found Mrs Luca and he said he hadn’t. We picked plums and we spoke about his brother. Then we heard Mrs Phoenix calling out to Doreen Luca.’
‘Then you found the body.’
‘Yes. Then we found . . . then we found her.’
‘Captain Lagrange went with you to Mrs Phoenix’s house?’
‘Yes. And I was pleased he offered. If Doreen had been intoxicated, which is what I imagined, then I would have found it hard to get her out of the shelter by myself.’
‘Do you know Mrs Phoenix’s yard well?’
‘I’ve been in it before, yes.’
‘So you knew about the air raid shelter?’
‘The whole street does. Mr Phoenix is the area air raid warden.’
‘Did Captain Lagrange know about the shelter?’
‘I have absolutely no idea, but I don’t see why he would. Why don’t you ask him?’
‘Is there anything else you would like to tell me at this time?’
‘No, sir.’
‘I may want to talk to you again, Miss Eaton. I will let you know. Please don’t discuss this with anyone.’
I felt exhausted, as if I’d run a race. I also felt strangely guilty, although I had no idea why I should feel that way.
‘Do you want me to send Mrs Phoenix in? She’s with my mother and sister at the moment.’
‘No,’ said Detective Munsie. ‘I can see her tomorrow. I’ll leave two policemen here and I’ll be back first thing. Could you let her know?’
‘Of course. I expect she’ll stay at our house tonight.’
He turned to the constable and asked him to get Captain Lagrange.
I rose and stood uncertainly by the chair, unsure whether or not he wanted me to leave. He was examining some papers on the table and seemed to be ignoring me. Tom entered the room with the constable a minute or so later. He gave me a dark, unreadable glance. Detective Munsie looked up.
‘You can go now, Miss Eaton.’
Tom slipped into the seat I’d just vacated.
‘How can I help you, Detective Munsie?’ Tom said.
He was the perfect army officer. Cool, self-assured and forthright.
I walked down the hall, pushed open the screen door and peered out into the front yard. A policeman was standing at the gate, facing away from the house. There was no one on the porch. Without thinking too much about it, I let the screen door slam gently, loudly enough to be heard in the kitchen, but not at the gate. I slipped quietly back to the bedroom by the kitchen, stood behind the door and listened.
‘Thomas Manton Lagrange.’
He had the same middle name as Peter. It was a family name.
‘Flat 11, Bayview Mansions, 15 Victoria Avenue, Claremont.’
Posh address, in the posh suburb next to Nedlands. I knew those flats. They overlooked a very pretty part of the river, near the Claremont Swimming Baths.
‘Eleventh of February 1916.’
So he was nearly twen
ty-seven. Peter would have been twenty-three next June.
‘I’m currently a liaison officer between the Australian and American forces in Western Australia. I’ve been moved from active service because of injuries.’
There was silence. I wondered if Tom had handed Detective Munsie his papers. I wondered if he’d held up his maimed hand.
‘You knew Mrs Luca?’
‘Yes.’
‘How well did you know her?’ I could hear a quaver in the detective’s voice and the image of an excited highland terrier on the scent of something sprang to my mind.
‘I met Doreen Luca when I was admitted to the military hospital for treatment, about three months ago. We became friends.’
They were friends? It seemed ludicrous. Whatever did they have in common? He was well out of her league. But I remembered that a lot of people – a lot of girls – thought Peter was out of my league. I lifted my arm to wipe damp hair off my forehead. The bedroom where I was hiding was dusty and airless. I felt perspiration on my forehead and trickling between my breasts.
‘You were friends?’ Munsie’s voice was politely disbelieving.
‘We were friends.’ Tom was polite but definite.
‘Nothing more?’ Munsie was less polite and more disbelieving.
‘Nothing more.’ Tom sounded bored.
There was a short pause.
‘When did you last see Mrs Luca?’
‘Friday night. At a party held by Mrs Ziko in Carrington Street, Hollywood. Do you mind if I smoke?’
There was no answer, but I heard the faint click of a lighter striking.
‘Did you leave the party with Mrs Luca?’
‘No, but she was waiting for me when I left about ten minutes after she did.’
I imagined him drawing on the cigarette and his face relaxing.
‘She said she wanted to discuss something with me, and suggested that I walk home with her. She thought it better if we weren’t seen going to her house together, so we went into the laneway behind the house. When we finished our discussion she went into her yard through a couple of loose pickets in the fence. I didn’t see her again until Miss Eaton and I discovered her body.’
A Stranger in my Street Page 4