The Autumn Murders

by Robert Gott

  ‘Why upstream?’ Guy asked.

  ‘Because hydrogen sulphide gas will roll towards a point lower than where it emerges. I know this sounds absurd, but it could have rolled down to Mr Lillee, and he wouldn’t have known what he was breathing in. The gas would shut down his sense of smell. He may have sat up and become disoriented, which explains why he was found on his stomach, but he would have died very, very quickly.’

  ‘Has there ever been a recorded case of someone dying like this?’ Joe asked.

  ‘I don’t know enough about it to answer that. I certainly know from what I read this afternoon that hydrogen sulphide gas has been implicated in some industrial accidents, and of course in fish kills. What we know for certain is that hydrogen sulphide poisoning causes blood to discolour to purple.’

  ‘Why wasn’t the autopsy explicit about that?’

  ‘I imagine it would have been, and Inspector Lambert either didn’t understand it, or hadn’t read it closely when he gave you a précis.’

  ‘I believe that Clara is right about this,’ said Helen. ‘This was death by misadventure. It was a freak accident. There is no lover, no thug, no assignation gone wrong, and Lillian Johnson and Ron Dunnart are in the clear.’

  ‘And you say this gas would have killed Peter quickly?’ Ros said.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Lord. Mr Lillee wouldn’t have suffered. He would have become unconscious, and his heart would have stopped. He’d have had no time to be afraid, no time to panic.’

  ‘I suppose I should be comforted by that, but it was a lonely death.’

  Helen reached across and put her hand on her mother’s wrist.

  ‘No, Mum. It was clean and painless. He was alone when he died, but he was never lonely.’

  Ros tried to smile, but her eyes filled with tears, and she left the table and went into the kitchen. Helen followed her.

  ‘It’s all a bit much to take in isn’t it?’ Clara said.

  ‘It’s not what you told us that upset her,’ Guy said. ‘Her brother is dead. I’m sure Mrs Lord just gets hit sometimes by his absence. The dead can fuck you around much more than the living. Pardon my French.’

  Joe could tell that Guy was slightly drunk. He wished he wasn’t, because it made him unpredictable. He wouldn’t suddenly overturn the table or become abusive, but unpredictability can manifest itself in all sorts of ways. To Joe’s and to Clara’s astonishment, Guy’s eyes closed, and his head lolled forward. This wasn’t the result of intoxication. After exchanging a glance, they watched in silence. Then Guy’s eyes opened again, and he lifted his head.

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ he said. ‘It happened, didn’t it? I fell asleep. How long for?’

  ‘About ten seconds,’ Clara said.

  ‘I’m so sorry. It’s …’ Guy struggled to finish the sentence.

  ‘I know what it is.’

  ‘Do you know how to fix it?’

  The question wasn’t belligerent.

  ‘No, Guy, I’m sorry I don’t.’

  Helen came back into the dining room and saw that something had happened in her absence.

  ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Guy just fell asleep for a moment,’ Clara said.

  ‘It is late.’

  ‘No, I’m not tired, Helen. I’m ill. I fall asleep suddenly, sometimes for seconds, sometimes for minutes. It’s called narcolepsy, which is a word I can barely bring myself to say. It happens anywhere and everywhere. I’m afraid I find it deeply humiliating.’ This last he said firmly, as if it were a bland statement of fact. He didn’t wish to provoke sympathy or, worse, pity. ‘I won’t be applying for a job in a munitions factory.’

  Further discussion of his condition would have made Guy uncomfortable, so Joe thought it was time to drop his grenade into the conversation.

  ‘George Starling is in Melbourne.’

  AT THE CONCLUSION of his story, Joe said, ‘Mrs Lambert is having the room repainted and recarpeted.’

  ‘Have you seen those flamethrowers in the newsreels?’ Guy said. ‘I’d use one of those on the room.’

  Ros Lord hadn’t emerged from the kitchen, and they could hear the sound of her washing up.

  ‘We have to flush him out,’ Joe said. ‘We can’t wait for him to find us.’

  ‘And it is “us”, isn’t it? He has unfinished business with me as well as you,’ said Helen.

  ‘Precisely. He won’t stop at me.’

  ‘What does Lambert say?’

  ‘Inspector Lambert doesn’t have a plan. How do you find one man in a city this size?’

  ‘You control how he finds you,’ Helen said.

  ‘I have an idea, and it’s not guaranteed to work, and you and your mother might find it offensive.’ Joe was peripherally aware that Clara was watching him with interest. Over the course of the dinner, he’d stopped feeling like a tongue-tied schoolboy, but he hadn’t been able to shake the suspicion that she wasn’t impressed by his intellect. Would she be appalled by what he was about to suggest? ‘When is Mr Lillee’s funeral?’

  ‘It’s on Thursday. We wanted it to be on Friday, but we forgot it’s Good Friday. It was all sorted out this afternoon. I hate to admit it, but the Melbourne Club has been incredibly generous and helpful. They’re managing everything. Someone telephoned Mum and offered to take care of all the ghastly organisation and preparation. It’s at St Paul’s Cathedral, which thumbs the nose at the Catholics. Mum and I had no idea how influential Uncle Peter was. The man at the Melbourne Club said that St Paul’s would be full.’

  ‘What if we could get Starling to show his face at the funeral?’

  ‘Go on,’ Helen said. ‘But I don’t want my uncle’s funeral disrupted by that bastard.’

  Joe thought quickly.

  ‘St Paul’s is too big for him to do anything. What about afterwards?’

  ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘Starling doesn’t know who Peter Lillee is, but he knows your name, my name, and Tom Mackenzie’s name. If he knew that we were all going to be in one place at the same time, it might prove irresistible.’

  ‘The newspapers,’ Clara said. ‘The funeral notice.’

  Helen was now ahead of both Clara and Joe.

  ‘Yes, but a notice that’s not just in one newspaper, but in all of them, and on the front page. We’ll buy the space in Wednesday’s papers.’

  Joe withdrew a notebook from his pocket, and Helen began to dictate.

  ‘“The funeral of Mr Peter Lillee will be held at St Paul’s Cathedral on Thursday, sixth of April. Beloved brother of Rosalind Lord, beloved uncle of Miss Helen Lord, and beloved friend to Mr Joseph Sable and Mr Thomas Mackenzie. A reception will be held afterwards at the Portico Room at Melbourne Town Hall. Invited guests only.” Is that too contrived? Uncle Peter didn’t know Tom Mackenzie.’

  ‘Starling doesn’t know that. A stranger reading it will just think it’s a typical funeral notice.’

  ‘But Starling isn’t a stranger,’ Guy said. ‘I think you should leave Tom’s name off. It does look contrived. Starling will twig.’

  ‘I think Guy’s right,’ Clara said, ‘and I don’t think you should put “beloved” in front of Joe’s name. Just “friend” would do.’

  When they’d completed the notice, Helen said, ‘We can’t do this without Mum’s agreement. She knows the bare minimum about George Starling.’

  ‘You’re kidding,’ Clara said.

  ‘We don’t talk about those things.’

  ‘Well you bloody well should. She’s your mum, and, unlike my mother, she’s lovely.’

  ‘I know. We just have never talked about my work.’

  ‘She was married to a policeman. Do you want me to talk to her?’

  Helen was tempted to say yes, but said that she’d talk to Ros that night and let people know her decision in the morning.
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br />   ‘It’s a bit hit and miss, isn’t it?’ Helen said

  ‘It feels like we’re doing something,’ Joe said. ‘If Mrs Lord agrees, I’ll telephone Tom Mackenzie. He’ll want to be involved.’

  When Mrs Lord returned to the table, she was composed, although her eyes were red-rimmed from crying.

  ‘I’m going up to bed. Your room is ready, Clara. I’m sure you’ll be comfortable.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Lord, I’m sure I will. I’ll be going to bed soon, too. I have an early start.’

  Helen stood up and followed her mother upstairs.

  ‘That’s going to be a difficult conversation,’ Clara said.

  ‘Do you think Mrs Lord will be shocked?’ Joe asked.

  ‘The only thing that will shock her is that Helen is talking to her about something that actually matters.’

  ‘There’s brandy in the library.’

  ‘No, thanks. I really do have to get to bed. It’s been a long day.’

  ‘Guy and I will tidy up down here.’

  ‘We will catch him, Joe,’ Clara said.

  Joe nodded and was unable to respond. She must have noticed how awkward he was. The thought made him feel worse, and he was relieved when she left the room.

  In the library, he and Guy drank Peter Lillee’s brandy from beautiful balloons. Guy said nothing about Joe having made a fool of himself in front of Clara, so perhaps he hadn’t looked as silly as he’d felt. Joe told Guy about the incident in the gymnasium.

  ‘You have to tell Lambert.’

  Joe shook his head. ‘He warned me this would happen, and he also warned me that there was nothing he could do.’

  ‘What about the pen I found in the car?’

  ‘I handed it over to Inspector Lambert. I haven’t heard anything further. What are your plans, Guy?’

  ‘It would be nice if I had any. I don’t. I can’t go home. I can’t stay here. I need work, but who’s going to employ me, Joe? Who wants someone who falls asleep on the job?’

  ‘You don’t have to leave here in a hurry, Guy,’ Helen said from the doorway.

  ‘What did Mrs Lord say?’

  Helen came and sat with them.

  ‘She listened and got more and more angry. Not at me, at Starling. My mother never swears, but she said it didn’t matter what it cost, we had to stop that bastard. She may burst into tears when she sees you tomorrow, Joe. I told her everything. She already knew about the flat, of course.’

  ‘Everything about me, or everything?

  ‘I told her what Starling did to me. She wants him dead.’

  Helen didn’t say that her mother had kissed her and said, ‘No more secrets, Helen. I don’t need protecting.’

  Guy announced that he was going to bed.

  ‘Tell me the truth, Helen, if I asked Clara to come to the pictures with me, would she say yes?’

  ‘I have no idea, Guy. What’s your batting average with women you ask to the pictures?’

  ‘Not enough experience to work as a useful statistic. I’ll ask her in the morning. Good night.’

  Joe looked into his brandy glass rather than at his friend.

  GEORGE STARLING WAS bored. There was only one way to find Joe Sable now that he was homeless. He would have to wait outside Russell Street and follow him. This was risky, but he could think of no other solution. If he hadn’t burned down his flat, it would have been simple. Still, even though it complicated matters, he was glad he’d done it.

  He couldn’t face sitting in his room at The Victoria all day. He went down to the foyer, thinking that he might while away the day visiting the War Memorial, or even Wirth’s Circus. He quite liked the circus. He admired the lion-tamer’s ability to subdue a wild animal. There was, too, the pleasurable frisson that it might go horribly wrong.

  The door to one of the two telephone booths in the foyer was open, and the directory caught Starling’s eye. He entered the booth and found Joe Sable’s name and address in the directory. This was no good to him, of course. The address given was now a pile of ashes. However, he had another name: Helen Lord. He ran his fingers down the Ls. There was no ‘H. Lord’. In fact, there were no Lords listed at all.

  There was one more name that he had. When he’d cleansed the world of those two fairies, he’d set fire to their sad, decadent club, and he’d returned to the alley off Little Bourke Street the next day, to see his handiwork. He’d followed two smug detectives afterwards, and had walked so close behind them that he’d overheard that one of them was named Reilly. Reilly had said something that had annoyed him. He couldn’t remember exactly what it was, but he did remember thinking that Reilly would benefit from being given a fright. More importantly now, he might be persuaded to tell him where Joe Sable could be found. They worked together after all. But what was Reilly’s first name? Starling telephoned Russell Street police headquarters.

  ‘I have a message for Detective Reilly,’ he said. ‘I don’t need to speak to him, I just need to make sure he gets it.’

  ‘Go ahead, sir.’

  ‘It needs to be the right Reilly.’

  ‘There’s only one Detective Reilly, sir. Detective David Reilly.’

  Starling hung up.

  There were three D. Reillys in the directory. Two of them lived in the far western suburbs. A telephone call to each revealed, through the women who answered, that one was Donald Reilly and the other Daniel Reilly. That left D. Reilly in Northcote. He telephoned the number. There was no answer. That was fine. He had nothing better to do, so he decided to pay the address a visit, just on spec. It might be a waste of time. David Reilly might not have a telephone. Reilly would be at work, though, which might explain why no one answered. He probably lived alone — if he was married, surely Mrs Reilly would have picked up the phone. That was good. He’d break in, make sure he had the right house, and come back later, when Detective Reilly was at home.

  RON DUNNART SUSPECTED that Inspector Lambert was playing a waiting game, watching to see the effect O’Dowd’s accusation was having on him. The fountain pen had rattled him, that was true, but he’d thought on his feet. Lambert would need more than a dropped fountain pen to stitch him up for murder. It looked like Bob O’Dowd was staying away for a second day in a row. This meant working more closely with David Reilly, Lambert’s spy. Although he couldn’t stand Reilly — and this was a long-standing detestation, predating Reilly’s now open efforts to prove him guilty of murder — although he couldn’t stand him, he would maintain a cool distance from him and share whatever new information came in about the cases they were working on. He’d be the consummate professional, despite the forces ranged against him.

  When Reilly came in, checking to see if O’Dowd had turned up, Dunnart handed him some case notes and said, ‘He’s supposed to be going through these. Looks like you’ll have to do it. I’m going to the dunny. I may be some time.’

  Dunnart took off his suit coat and hung it over the back of his chair. Reilly, who’d wondered about the gouge down the side of Lillee’s car, looked at Dunnart’s coat. He’d told Inspector Lambert that he didn’t believe that Ron Dunnart was capable of murder. He still held this view, but he also had no doubt that he’d been attempting to blackmail Lillee, and proving that would be a feather in his cap.

  Reilly put his hand into the left-side pocket of the coat. He pulled out a bunch of half a dozen keys, tied together with a thin, round leather thong. They were house keys, although one of them probably opened a shed, another a gate, and a third perhaps a strongbox. Not expecting to find anything, he examined each of them. The most used key, no doubt the front door key, was obvious from the wear on it. The least used of the keys, dull with age not wear, made Reilly’s heart skip a beat. Caught in the grooves along its edge were small pieces of paint.

  Reilly’s fingers fumbled with the knot in the thong. Had Dunnart been serious when he’d said
that he’d be gone for some time, or was this something he always said to be humorous? The knot hadn’t been untied in years. Reilly found a paper knife and used the tip to force the knot apart. He heard Dunnart’s voice. He’d stopped to talk to someone on his way back from the toilet. Reilly’s fingers managed to free the knot and the key. He retied it in a hurry, and knew he hadn’t got it right. He dropped the keys back into the pocket, picked up the case notes Dunnart had given him, and returned to his own desk in the office next door.

  He remembered too late that he’d left the paper knife on Dunnart’s desk. He took out an envelope, wrote ‘Urgent’ on it, and slipped the key inside. On a piece of notepaper, he wrote, ‘The paint on this key, which belongs to Ron Dunnart, should be checked against the paint on Peter Lillee’s car.’ He slipped the note inside, next to the key. He then put the note on Inspector Lambert’s desk.

  When he came out of Lambert’s office, Dunnart was waiting for him.

  ‘You left this on my desk, Sherlock.’

  That was all he said, which unnerved Reilly.

  WHEN JOE STEPPED over the threshold of police headquarters, the passage to the office he shared with David Reilly was like running the gauntlet. No one spoke to him, and he caught several sotto voce obscenities directed at his back. The only person who did speak to him was the woman on the front desk, who asked him to pass on to Inspector Lambert that Sergeant O’Dowd had called in sick. No surprise there, Joe thought. Dunnart of course would be at work as usual. Staying at home would be an intolerable sign of weakness.

  David Reilly wasn’t at his desk. He had taken the notes Dunnart had given him and gone to another part of the building. He wanted to be as far away from Dunnart as possible. Inspector Lambert wasn’t at his desk, either.

  Joe took the opportunity to telephone Tom Mackenzie and brief him on the plan that had been agreed to the previous evening. He invited him to dinner at the Kew house that night. Helen had suggested it as he’d left for work that morning. It was to be a strategy meeting, and Tom needed to be a part of it.

  GEORGE STARLING ALMOST changed his mind about visiting David Reilly’s house. He’d go to the pictures instead. He liked the pictures, and there were one or two showing that he wouldn’t mind seeing. There was Suspicion, a Hitchcock picture. He liked Joan Fontaine and he quite liked Cary Grant. No, he’d see it later that afternoon, after he’d made his visit.