by Robert Gott
‘You have to stop blaming yourself, Titus.’
‘Have you stopped blaming Joe?’
The question wasn’t a spiteful one, and Maude didn’t take it as such.
‘Yes, and when I did, I stopped feeling wretched. I’m very glad he’s not on his own.’ She paused. ‘Do you think he knows that Helen Lord is in love with him?’
Titus turned on his side to face her.
‘Is she?’
‘Honestly, Titus, my question was rhetorical. You’ve seen them together much more frequently than I have. You can’t not have noticed. You’re as bad as Joe, who I’m quite certain doesn’t have a clue.’
‘Perhaps he’s more distracted than unobservant, darling.’
Maude laughed gently and moved into her husband’s arms. ‘Where men are concerned, that might be a distinction without a difference.’
‘You have my full attention.’
ANTHONY, THE PORTER at the Melbourne Club in Collins Street, opened the door as soon as Peter Lillee had placed his foot on the bottom step to the entrance. He liked Mr Lillee, who was one of the members who didn’t feel it was his duty to remind the porter of his place.
‘Good morning, sir.’
‘Good morning, Anthony. Has Sir Marcus arrived?’
There was the faintest hint of disdain in Anthony’s response, so faint that Peter Lillee missed it.
‘Yes, sir. Sir Marcus has gone upstairs to the library, I believe.’
Peter paused on the stairs, as he always did, to admire the Streeton landscape, which hung, he felt, too high to be appreciated properly. It was the best of the paintings in the club’s collection, although there were many who disagreed and who preferred the dull, dark portraits of celebrated, and dead, members. Most of them were painted by competent, journeymen portraitists, who preserved the dignity of the sitter at the expense of revealing anything of his character. The result was a picture where the rendering of a cuff or a watch chain was more admirable than the face. Peter intended to bequeath to the club the portrait done of him in the manner of John Singer Sargent. Well, it was more than just in the manner of. It was in fact a remarkably skilled copy of Sargent’s portrait of Dr Pozzi, with his head being the only point of difference.
Sir Marcus Ashgrove, who’d recently engaged the services of William Dargie to commit his florid features to canvas, was standing by a window, looking down into Collins Street.
‘Sir Marcus.’
He turned at the sound of Peter Lillee’s greeting. He admired Lillee, or rather he admired his business acumen, and had been instrumental in securing Lillee’s current appointment and his acceptance into the Melbourne Club. Sir Marcus’s elevation to a knighthood had been the result of his own facility in banking and finance, and he recognised this facility when he saw it in others — and this was by no means a common occurrence. Although he would never say it out loud, he had one serious reservation about Lillee. He suspected him of vanity. Lillee’s suits were the best that money could buy, and his hair was too carefully trimmed and combed into place. Sir Marcus was indifferent to his own appearance, and loathed sitting for Dargie. He’d agreed to do it simply to silence the nagging of Lady Ashgrove. The Melbourne Club would inherit it, so that was something. Sir Marcus made a distinction between the small fillip of pride he felt at the thought of his portrait hanging in the club, and personal vanity.
‘Lillee,’ he said. ‘Good of you to see me at such short notice.’
‘Not at all, Sir Marcus.’
‘I’ve taken the liberty of ordering two whiskeys. My chit of course.’
They moved to two large chairs in the corner of the library. The whiskeys arrived, and each man breathed in the aroma and took a sip.
‘This is the last place in the whole bloody country where you can still get a decent drink,’ Sir Marcus said.
‘My sister tells me potatoes, of all things, have become scarce.’
‘Not in here, Lillee. I had a decent dauphinoise just last week.’
‘Is Lady Ashgrove well?’
‘As well as can be expected with no household staff to help out. She had me cleaning the bathroom yesterday. I suppose we all have to pull our weight while there’s a war on.’
‘And your son?’
Lillee asked this question automatically and immediately regretted it, remembering too late that Matthew Ashgrove had been captured by the Germans in 1942.
‘As far as we know he’s still alive and healthy. The Germans have moved him twice. He’s an officer so one hopes they’re civilised enough to treat him accordingly. I keep telling my wife that his biggest problem will probably be boredom.’
Sir Marcus made no inquiries as to Lillee’s family. He knew he was a bachelor, and was anyway not in the least interested. He’d heard that Lillee lived in a rather grand house, but he’d never visited, and as to his domestic arrangements, well, that was a subject not worth broaching.
‘I won’t beat around the bush, Lillee. The bloody Capital Issues Advisory people have knocked back a perfectly reasonable investment opportunity, and a lot of people, me included, are unhappy about it.’
‘And how can I help you, Sir Marcus?’ The question was disingenuous. Peter Lillee knew precisely what was expected of him. As a member of the Capital Issues Advisory Committee he was aware of Sir Marcus’s consortium and its request for permission to enter the Wombat State Forest near Daylesford and dig for gold. The job of the Advisory Committee was to grant investment privileges only to projects that minimised personal returns in favour of their advantageous potential to boost the war effort. The Wombat mine, apart from a consequential loss of a large area of forest, was exclusively about personal wealth speculation, although ludicrously the consortium had suggested that the vast amount of timber that would be felled would help alleviate the shortage of wood for heating and cooking in Melbourne. There was a shortage of wood, that was true, and the previous winter had been harsh and uncomfortable for many. Sir Marcus’s clear-felling did not strike the Advisory Committee as an exemplary addition to the war effort, particularly as the consortium would profit from the sale of the wood.
‘We’re not talking about pin money here, Lillee. We’ve already invested a considerable sum in investigating the viability of the mine. I’m assuming you know what I’m talking about.’
‘The Wombat mining lease.’
‘Good. So you’re up to speed. We started work on that lease back in 1938, before this bloody war got going. I’ve got serious money tied up in it and so have several other very important people. Serious money, Lillee.’
‘I’m not sure how I can help you, Sir Marcus.’
‘Don’t be obtuse, Lillee. I didn’t pull strings to get you into this place for your looks.’
‘Looking around the club, Sir Marcus, I’d say looks were never a criterion for entry.’
The waspishness of that riposte unsettled Sir Marcus more than it warranted. It was the delivery, the tone, the ease with which it fell from Lillee’s lips. Was Lillee queer? he wondered. Christ, he better not be, or if he was, he better be inhumanly discreet about it. The Melbourne Club tolerated acceptable indiscretions from its members — fraud, adultery, manslaughter — but it drew the line at Jews and perverts.
‘I don’t care how you do it, Lillee, but at the next Capital Issues Advisory Committee meeting we expect you to go in to bat and protect our investments. Push the wood angle. We need to take down God knows how many trees, so there’ll be loads of the stuff.’
‘I’ve read your submission, Sir Marcus. Profiting from the trees and the mine is not in your favour.’
‘If there’s no gold there, Lillee, the money from the trees might be the only reward.’
‘If the removal of the trees and the consequential profits were managed by a separate group who diverted those profits into a war industry, the committee might re-examine the mine
lease. I say might. I stress might.’
‘Out of the question, Lillee. I didn’t get to where I am by compromising. My son is in a bloody prisoner-of-war camp. That’s all the sacrifice I’m willing to give to this war, which was entirely avoidable in the first place.’
Lillee raised his eyebrows.
‘Read The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, Lillee. Educate yourself about who’s really behind this war. You will argue for us, and you will alter the committee’s decision in our favour. If you can’t do that, I can’t guarantee that your position in the club will be secure.’
Peter Lillee’s reaction to this took Sir Marcus by surprise.
‘Are you threatening to have me blackballed, Sir Marcus?’ He said this quietly and with a smile that was entirely at odds with what Sir Marcus saw as a grave situation. ‘I’ve always admired you, Sir Marcus, and it is amazing to me how many years of admiration can evaporate in a matter of seconds. I’d always thought of you as a decent man. Dull, but decent. Your indecency is shocking to me. I have no doubt that you could organise a block to have me blackballed. I could save you the trouble and resign, but I don’t think I’ll do that. You’ll have to work for it. I have no intention of supporting your consortium. On the contrary, I will do everything in my power to prevent it from being successful. So, line up your forces against me, Sir Marcus. I don’t flatter myself that I can defeat you, but I won’t go quietly, and it will be instructive to see who stands with you.’
Sir Marcus had too much self-discipline to bluster and fume, although that’s precisely what he was doing internally. He felt betrayed and appalled that it was he, Sir Marcus Ashgrove, who’d brought this viper into the heart of the Melbourne Club. Getting rid of him wouldn’t be too difficult. He wasn’t old money, after all. He’d only risen through talent, and that was brass to the gold of inherited, pastoral wealth and position. Blackballing wasn’t the only way to drive Peter Lillee out of the Melbourne Club.
2
DETECTIVE SERGEANT RON Dunnart parked the car a street away from Peter Lillee’s house. He’d signed out the car with Bob O’Dowd — things had tightened up about vehicle use since petrol rationing had begun to bite — and he was confident that no one would question him too closely about why he needed to drive to Kew. If one of the pen-pushers did demand an explanation, he’d simply say that he was following up a lead in the murder of two queers, which, in an obtuse way, was true. Not that Peter Lillee was a suspect. In fact, if Dunnart could arrange it, he was about to become a victim.
‘So, what’s the drill here, Ron?’
Dunnart suppressed the slight irritation O’Dowd aroused in him whenever he spoke.
‘We find out as much as we can about him before we show our hand. The first thing I want to know is who answers his door when we knock.’
O’Dowd looked doubtful. Dunnart stepped out of the car, and without waiting for O’Dowd he began walking. O’Dowd caught up with him and asked, ‘What if Lillee answers the door?’
‘He won’t. He’s at work. But even if he did, it wouldn’t matter. We’re not pretending to be anyone we’re not. We’re police officers and we’re making inquiries about a spate of burglaries in the area — and yes, I know there hasn’t been a spate of burglaries.’
‘We’re saying we’re policemen?’
‘Yes, Bob. Yes, we are. The person who answers the door will be a housekeeper, probably a young man who Lillee is keeping house with, if you see what I mean.’
Dunnart’s brazenness made O’Dowd nervous. He was of a much more timid disposition. Dunnart, however, had been squeezing queers and low-lifes for years and had never been in danger of exposure. Dunnart knew what he was doing, and going along with him would put money in O’Dowd’s wallet.
Peter Lillee’s house was extravagantly fenced with elaborate iron railings. The gates were open, and Dunnart and O’Dowd walked down the manicured driveway to the front door.
‘Christ!’ Dunnart said. ‘There must be a fucking army of gardeners to maintain this place. This Lillee clown must know people in high places if he’s still employing staff.’
‘Maybe he does it himself.’
Dunnart snorted.
‘He wouldn’t want his hands to get calloused. Rough skin rubbing a smooth cock or arse? Nah.’
Dunnart raised the knocker and looked at it for a moment before he used it to rap on the door. It was in the shape of a mythical creature, a phoenix perhaps, and had been polished to within an inch of its life. He knocked and stepped back.
‘Try to look a little less shifty, Bob.’
O’Dowd had become used to Dunnart’s frequent snide digs at his expense. He didn’t like them, and he was storing them away as fuel should he one day need to convert his current alliance with him into righteous opposition. There was no answer, so Dunnart knocked again.
A muffled voice called, ‘I’ll get it, Mum!’ A reply, less muffled and just behind the door, told the first voice to stay where she was.
‘I’m closer. I’ll get it.’
The door opened, and Ros Lord stood before the two policemen. She was wearing an apron, and her hair was pinned back away from her face. Dunnart and O’Dowd removed their hats.
‘Yes? How can I help you?’
Dunnart produced his identification card and showed it to Ros Lord.
‘Senior Sergeant Ron Dunnart,’ she said, and looked from the card to him, and then to Bob O’Dowd, who also produced his card.
‘May we come in?’ Dunnart asked.
‘Perhaps you could tell me why you’re here.’
Dunnart was taken aback by this. Housekeepers in aprons weren’t supposed to backchat. Keeping his temper under control — a measure Ros Lord noticed, and which confirmed for her what she already suspected, that these were men who couldn’t be trusted — he said, ‘We have routine inquiries regarding a series of nasty burglaries in this area.’ He hoped the inclusion of the word ‘nasty’ would give this biddy a fright.
‘We haven’t been burgled, and I haven’t heard of any burglaries in the area recently.’
Dunnart smiled.
‘I think we’d know more about that than you would, Mrs …?’
The question elicited no name from Ros Lord.
‘Well, I haven’t seen anything or heard anything, so I’m afraid I can’t help you.’
‘Perhaps there’s someone else in the house we could talk to?’ O’Dowd asked.
‘If anyone here had heard of someone being burgled, I can assure you it would have been the subject of conversation, so, no, there’s no one else who could help you. If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.’
As she closed the door each of the detectives was aware that she was committing their features to memory, and each of them found this disconcerting. This had not gone to plan. Outside Lillee’s gate, Dunnart turned to take in the house.
‘What a fucking bitch,’ he said.
‘That didn’t go as expected,’ O’Dowd said, and was more than a little pleased to be able to say so.
‘She doesn’t like coppers. I wonder why. I hate women like that. She’ll get hers, though. I’ll see to that.’
‘WHO WAS AT the door?’ Helen asked.
Ros Lord rubbed her hands on her apron.
‘Two policemen.’
‘What? Who? Why didn’t you ask them in?’
‘There was something odd about them. I know a rotten copper when I see one. God knows I saw enough of them in Broome. These two lied to me for a start. They wanted to come in, and thought they could frighten me with some nonsense about burglaries in the area.’
‘Did they give their names?’
‘Ron Dunnart and Bob O’Dowd.’
‘Dunnart and O’Dowd? They’re in Homicide. Why would they be investigating burglaries?’
‘You know these men?’
‘I know abo
ut them. I know Inspector Lambert doesn’t trust Dunnart. Maybe they wanted to speak to Joe. He must have told them he was staying here.’
‘They didn’t mention Joe. They lied about burglaries in the area, and I’ll wager we’re the only house they visited. I’ll check on that later. I’ll telephone the Davieses and ask if two policemen came to call.’
‘They must have wanted Joe, Mum, even if they didn’t mention him.’
Ros Lord shook her head. ‘No. They weren’t here for Joe. You should try to find out something about them, Helen. The man named Dunnart is a very bad egg.’
‘It couldn’t be anything to do with Uncle Peter, could it?’
Ros caught the slight panic in Helen’s voice.
‘Why would two policemen want to talk to Peter?’
In a household where personal subjects were easily and regularly broached, the answer to that question would have been explored. However, Helen had always been reluctant to discuss delicate matters with her mother, and although Ros Lord had never discouraged it, they’d fallen over the years into a pattern of unhealthy silence. Helen knew nothing about Peter Lillee’s private life. She suspected he was queer, although her knowledge of that world was practically non-existent. She knew about it mainly through the vicious, foul-mouthed references made to homosexuals by the police officers with whom she worked. None of what they said married with her sense of her uncle. Nevertheless, his discretion about his private life was so absolute that she knew he had secrets he felt compelled to protect.
‘Perhaps they want his advice on something,’ Helen said, lamely.
‘Those men would no more come to Peter for advice than they’d fly to the moon.’
If Helen had asked her mother whether Peter was queer or not, Ros would have said, without demur, that she suspected he was. Helen, however, had no clear idea of whether or not Peter and his sister discussed such private matters. She knew they were close, but when it came to her family, her critical faculties — those same faculties that made her such a fine detective — failed her utterly. She didn’t so much suspend them as lose the capacity to engage them.