by Carol Smith
“I think I’ll hop on a plane,” Duncan told his mother, “and go look him up for a couple of days.”
“You do that,” she said, sorting the ironing. “You get along and see your friend and don’t you go worrying about your dad and me. You’re a good son and you were here when I needed you. Reckon I can manage once he’s home from the hospital.”
There was something on his mind, she knew; more than he was telling her. Best if he could sort it out while he was still here. Besides, with all this waiting around, he only got under her feet. She smiled as she folded the sheets. He was worse than his dad.
Chapter Forty-nine
Sally never did show up the night of Vivienne’s dinner party, but two days later she telephoned to apologize for her absence. It turned out she had dropped by to see how Eleanor Palmer was faring and found the old lady in a very distressed state and a little the worse for drink. By the time Sally had sorted her out, made her a pot of black coffee and persuaded her to drink it, then sat with her until she had calmed down, the dinner had completely slipped her mind. She was truly sorry and hoped she hadn’t messed things up too much.
“What was Georgy’s old man like?” she wanted to know.
“Absolutely charming,” said Vivienne, a touch abrasively. Sally’s facile excuses cut little ice with her. Manners maketh man, as her old nanny was wont to say; Sally had definitely dropped several points through her casual behavior.
“But you’re bound to get a chance to make your own assessment,” said Vivienne, “since he is still in town and wants to meet all Georgy’s close associates before he leaves.”
Vivienne had wanted to tell Emmanuel what Oliver had found out from Addison but Oliver said she had better not. When all was said and done, it would be transgressing medical etiquette and, until they had some reason to believe it was truly germane to the case, it was best to honor Addison’s confidence and remain mum. It worried Vivienne but she could see his point. There was no reason to suppose that Sally had anything whatever to do with Georgy’s accident, so why drag the poor girl into things unnecessarily? It would only muddy the waters and add to the general complicatedness of things. It was just curious that Duncan was so interested in her medical past.
• • •
Father Paul Costello lived in a spacious flat in the top half of an old converted house overlooking the water in Parramatta. To reach it, you had to walk up a wide staircase made of ornately carved oak, with ecclesiastical stained-glass windows even though the house was not actually built on sanctified ground.
“It’s just like living in a church,” said Duncan in delight, dropping his flight bag on the floor and looking around in appreciation. Except that, at this level, the rooms were wide and airy, with white canvas blinds rolled up to reveal a stunning outlook of sunlight striking on the choppy surface of the river. The two men embraced then Duncan perched himself on the windowsill while Paul, in his shirtsleeves, rummaged in the fridge for a couple of beers.
One of the great things about friendship, Duncan reflected, was that you could jump straight back into it even after a distance of something like fifteen years. Paul’s hair had receded and he had thickened round the waist but it was already clear that he was, in essence, still the same exuberant guy Duncan had hung around with in the bars of Perth when they had so much growing up still to do and their mark to make on the world.
“So how’s it going, cobber?” asked the priest, handing him a chilled can of Foster’s and flipping the lid of his own.
“Not so bad. How’s yourself? Ever make it to London these days?”
“No chance. Church funds wouldn’t rise to it.”
Duncan laughed. “It might sound irreverent but I still can’t get my head around you being a priest.”
Paul smiled, a trifle awkwardly. “It’s just one of those things that happens in life. Blame my Auntie Alice, she always said I’d come to no good. Let’s face it, I could have swung either way—drink and the devil or this—but as it happened, God won. Hasn’t changed me, I think you’ll find. Not where it counts.”
“Are you happy?”
“As Larry. And you?”
“Can’t complain.”
That established, they spent some time catching up on old times, old friends, old places, and then Duncan washed up and changed his shirt and the padre took him out for a Thai meal.
• • •
“Do us a favor, old sport,” said Duncan later, over more cold beers in a waterside bar. “There’s something I need to find out and you’re the only person I know in this place with the sort of connections that might open doors.”
“You mean God?”
“I mean Establishment.”
“Go ahead, shoot.”
It wasn’t an easy one to explain, especially to a man of the cloth and one he hadn’t spoken to for a decade and a half, but Duncan did his best. And found, to his delight, that he had a ready listener with an alert mind and a sympathetic ear.
“It’s not really any of my business,” Duncan confessed. “I just feel I have to find out the truth before something else catastrophic happens.”
Paul cocked an ear, ever alert where something more than altruism was involved. He listened to Duncan’s story, then sat very still and stroked his chin while he reflected.
“Let me get this straight,” he said eventually. “What you are looking for is a private clinic in Gladesville where, some fifteen years ago—while you and I were still bumming around in Perth—an operation, perhaps illicit, was carried out on an underage girl?”
Duncan nodded.
“And you really believe that, even if we can find it, they’ll be willing to let you look at their confidential records? Records they wouldn’t even disclose to a distinguished London gynecologist at a major hospital? You, a Pommie vet from the other side of the world and, as far as I can make out, with no direct connection whatsoever to the patient?”
Put like that it did sound a trifle ludicrous. Ruefully, Duncan nodded—only to reel back in surprise when his spiritual friend burst into a cackle of merriment and punched him matily in the biceps.
“Knock that back,” he said briskly, “and follow me.”
“Where are we going?” asked Duncan, grabbing his jacket.
“On a family visit. To see my Auntie Alice, where else?”
• • •
Emmanuel was getting nowhere and beginning to admit defeat, though he really hated to do so. He had studied the cast of characters Vivienne had drummed up for the dinner party but had come to no firm conclusions about any of them, except for a renewed conviction that Beth was innocent. She was far too straightforward and up-front to have done it, not to mention too smart to risk leaving the weapon around for the police to find. And what possibly could be her motive? She seemed genuinely fond of Georgy and anxious for her welfare, which was why she was so keen to give the police the fullest possible cooperation.
The police had suggested jealousy as a possible motive, since Georgy was so caught up with chasing the ex-husband, but that, to Georgy’s father, was patently absurd. It was clear that any residual affection between the Hardys, who certainly made a handsome couple, had more of a sibling quality these days and was in no way sexual. Besides, he had also picked up on the vibes between Beth and the smarmy husband of Emmanuel’s new friend, Vivienne. He was pretty certain something was going on there, even though Vivienne appeared entirely oblivious to it. He was sorry about that; he liked Beth’s openness and apparent honesty and was surprised she would indulge in anything underhanded. He would have preferred to be able to think better of her, but that was Emmanuel’s professional specialization—the unpredictability of people.
The number one suspect, as far as the police were concerned, continued to be Karl, Gus Hardy’s former lover, but Emmanuel was not convinced. He had not had a chance to meet the German yet, as the police had him back in custody but his personality profile did not match up to the likely perpetrator of such a savage crime. He m
ight be hostile and uncommunicative, packed tight with anger and a frightening pent-up aggression, but that did not automatically make him a murderer, even though the police had unearthed a history of thuggery back home in Berlin, before he emigrated to New York.
He might well be the victim of jealousy, for it was not impossible that he held Georgy responsible for the bust-up of his relationship with Gus, and it was also possible that he might have tried frightening her in order to scare her off. But Emmanuel was pretty certain he would not go so far as to hurt her, certainly not in any premeditated or studiedly vicious way. Push her downstairs, maybe, or even into the path of an express train, but cold-blooded butchery like the attack on Georgy was the work of a different type of warped mind, something far more sinister. Only a psychopath could have acted like that, leaving apparently no trace. And on that particular subject Emmanuel Kirsch was an expert.
• • •
It was ten o’clock and the cypress trees surrounding the stone doorway were densely black and seemed to be crowding inward. Duncan recalled his boyhood nervousness of the dark and waited for an owl to add to the ghostly feeling.
“Where are we going?” he whispered, as if he were still ten years old, but Paul merely wagged a finger at him and told him to wait and see.
The door itself was made of heavy, weathered oak, studded and bolted in black cast iron, and the bellpull was right out of a Hammer Horror movie, setting off an antique jangling from somewhere deep within. Duncan was intrigued and beginning to enjoy this; trust his old mate Paul to show him an unusual time. There was a sudden click and a pale face appeared at a grill beside the door which Duncan had not noticed, and waited wordlessly for Paul to explain his business. But speech turned out not to be necessary. Paul simply made the sign of the cross, the grill was sharply closed, and they heard the sound of bolts being withdrawn on the other side of the door.
“Enter,” said Paul cheerfully, leading the way, and Duncan stepped into the dimly lit hallway with a vaulted ceiling and white walls on which were hung some of the most exquisite examples of High Renaissance art he had seen outside a national gallery. Behind him, he heard the jarring sound of the bolts being slid back into place.
“Pardon the theatricals,” hissed Paul, in a loud whisper, “but several years ago there was a spot of bother here, since when they have acted as if they were a cover-up for Fort Knox.”
“What sort of bother?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
The ghostly presence who had admitted them stood holding the door and Duncan realized, with a start, that it was not the janitor he had expected but a little old lady clad from head to foot in gray, with a white wimpled headdress concealing all but her small face. A nun.
“Welcome to the Convent of the Holy Child,” said Paul.
• • •
Sister Annunciata listened to Duncan’s request with patient thoughtfulness and Duncan was rocketed backward to childhood when, as Paul’s Auntie Alice, she had so often swatted his backside for bad behavior.
“I know it’s a tall order,” he ended lamely, “and forgive me for trespassing on your time like this. It’s just that I have this intuition that all is not as it should be, and Paul thought you might be able to help.”
She stared into space, ignoring him, her plump fingers fiddling with her rosary beads, then suddenly the far from ascetic face broke into a familiar broad grin and she leaned across and touched his hand.
“Leave it with me, mate,” she said with a wink just like Paul’s. “This is far too intriguing not to follow up.”
• • •
Deirdre was taking her family to the Isle of Wight for the holidays, though not exactly looking forward to it.
“It’s bound to rain,” she said gloomily, tying her apron around her ample waist and preparing to cut up the bread for the quails eggs en croutade.
“Nonsense,” said Beth briskly, poaching tiny eggs and leaving each one to drain. “The sun always shines in that part of the country, I had holidays there as a kid. I remember it as being like Monsieur Hulot’s Holiday, all sandy beaches and Punch and Judy shows, with sandy shoes and shrimping nets left in the hall to dry.”
“And gruesome boardinghouse meals—ham salad with Heinz salad cream and sliced white bread, and one egg each for breakfast,” grunted Deirdre. “And out of your rooms by ten so the maid can tidy up and nothing to do with the kids on a wet afternoon.”
Beth laughed. Deirdre’s pessimism never failed to cheer her.
“Try looking on the bright side,” she said comfortingly, “there’s probably a fossil museum or something elevating like that. And there’s bound to be bingo, if not a cinema. And just think of all the knitting you’ll be able to do.”
Listening to Deirdre—day in, day out—a person might think she did not have a happy home life but actually the opposite was true. Deirdre was very content with her equable draftsman husband, Jack, and adored her four noisy children. She just liked to put it about that life was all a bit too much for her. Beth was well inured to her moanings; she made an excellent sideshow where Beth’s friends were concerned.
“The day Deirdre actually gets a kick out of something,” said Beth, “I shall know things are seriously wrong.”
August was a good month for Deirdre to take her annual holiday since business was always at its slowest then, and the occasional booking that did come up Beth was perfectly capable of handling on her own.
“I can always rope in Sally if needs be,” she said, since Deirdre also liked to worry about leaving Beth to cope.
Now she came to think of it, Sally would probably welcome some work, since she was nearly always broke. Summer was the season to start bottling and preserving for winter, while everything was at its lushest and business was slow. They could have a lot of fun together, trawling the street markets and generally stocking up. Sally was always brilliant company, prepared to pitch in and help, but Beth was determined she should only do so this time on a proper business footing. She did not approve of using people, not even old Sal who was virtually one of the family.
She made a note to talk to her about it next time they spoke.
Chapter Fifty
The Mother Superior came straight to the point. Father Costello and Sister Annunciata had done their work well and when Duncan finally came face-to-face with her in her stark, businesslike office, she knew exactly why he was there.
“Your request, Mr. Ross, is a most unusual one,” she said, “and under normal circumstances I would not be empowered to help you.”
Far from the sumptuous surroundings of Sister Annunciata’s closed order, St. Margaret’s, Gladesville, had more the demeanor of a prison, which in many ways, of course, it was.
“However,” she continued, “Father Costello has convinced me, so, subject to the usual constrictions of absolute discretion, I have the file you are asking for here for you to view.”
From the woven leather girdle round her waist, she selected a key, unlocked her desk drawer, and extracted a plain green file marked “Strictly Confidential,” which she laid out on the mahogany desk in front of him.
“And now I must go and attend to Vespers. You have exactly one hour in which to examine it.”
As she rose and glided across the room, Duncan stood to attention and almost felt he should bow. She was a severe-looking woman but humane; that was reflected in the calm, wise eyes beneath her starched white wimple. He really appreciated this concession and was determined not to betray her trust unless it should turn out to be crucial, literally a matter of life and death.
• • •
Sally O’Leary was just sixteen when she made her first break for freedom. Week after week she had stood at the convent window, gazing down into the courtyard, watching the other girls greet their families and friends and be whisked away at weekends for special events and quality visiting time. But never Sally. No one at all came to visit her these days, other than sanctimonious welfare workers and the occasional p
sychiatric busybody, asking eternal questions, forever attempting to probe into her mind. It was years since her father had bothered to make the trip into the city, while the rest of the world appeared to have abandoned her completely.
It was early October and the fine spring sunshine filtered between the bars on the window, bringing with it the scent of rising sap, reminding her that life was out there for the tasting and rapidly passing her by. That particular weekend she was on kitchen duty and it was the work of only minutes to throw together a handful of things she might need, stow them, wrapped in a plastic bin liner, at the bottom of one of the vast aluminum garbage containers, then carry the whole thing out to the dustcart and climb aboard. It proved that easy. Maybe they thought nuns and their charges lacked sophistication or, more likely, they had simply lost interest. But by late afternoon, Sally found herself, beneath a mountain of sour-smelling vegetable waste and other things far worse, rumbling across the courtyard, out through the iron gates, and into the world outside.
In fifteen minutes she was free, dodging like the kid she still was through the back streets of Sydney, looking for a public lavatory where she could wash and comb some of the stinking refuse out of her hair and swap her telltale convent uniform for the jeans and T-shirt she had had the foresight to bring along with her.
She had no money but that did not deter her. Just walking the streets like a regular person, inhaling the freshness of the air, looking in shop windows, and generally hanging out, filled her with such excitement, she hadn’t a thought about how on earth she was going to survive. Something was bound to turn up, something always did. Caution, however, told her to get the hell out of Gladesville as fast as possible before they noticed her absence and the balloon went up. The first truck she hailed, full of sheep crammed into wooden pens, stopped for her and the taciturn driver, asking no questions, carried her as far as Wagga Wagga, where she told him her uncle lived. Then she was on her own again but no longer in a hurry.