Good Murder (18 page)

‘Gedday,’ he said, and in an extraordinary feat of compression managed to gorge the word with menace. He detached himself from the doorway and stood at the urinal.

‘You’re that actor,’ he said as he released a stream of beer-induced urine into the trough. At least he hadn’t accused me of being with the circus. I looked at his broad back, the shoulders rounded as he emptied his bladder.

‘I need to talk to you,’ he said.

‘I don’t think we’ve met,’ I said.

He swivelled, took one hand off his cock and offered it to me. His hand, that is.

‘Mal Flint,’ he said.

I raised my hand and gave him a sort of half wave, rather than clasp his recently occupied paw.

‘William Power,’ I said.

He finished, did up his flies, and said, ‘We have met. You were with Polly Drummond that time in the street and Fred was beating you to a pulp when I stepped in.’

‘I suppose I should thank you then, Mr Flint.’

‘Nah. I wasn’t rescuing you, mate. I was getting Fred, is all. It was good that he was distracted. Made it easier to lay the little bastard out.’

Violence hovered around Mal Flint like a force field. I could see that his solution to any problem would be a vicious one. Someone gets up your nose? Thump him, stomp on him. A sheilah steps out of line? Give her a backhander, show her who’s boss.

‘I understand Fred owed you money.’

‘He owed me fifty quid, the little prick.’

I wanted to get out of the toilets, away from the acrid smell of ammonia, but Mal Flint wasn’t moving.

‘The coppers have been to see me,’ he said. ‘Your mate in there. He came round askin’ questions. Now how would he know Drummond owed me money unless a little bird who overheard something told him?’

‘If you haven’t done anything, you don’t have anything to worry about,’ I said lamely.

Between clenched teeth he said, ‘I don’t want any coppers stickin’ their fuckin’ beaks into my business, and if you know what’s good for you you’ll tell that cunt Topaz to back right off. It’d be a pity if your other arm got broken, wouldn’t it. How’d you wipe your arse?’

He shoved me with the flat of his hand, not forcefully, but as a kind of physical exclamation mark.

When I returned to the bar, Topaz was nowhere to be seen. The barman, who saw me looking around, indicated that he’d gone outside, onto the pavement. He was talking closely and quietly to a young man of about eighteen or nineteen. When they saw me, the young man pulled away from Topaz and walked quickly up March Street. The speed of his departure was so singular that I asked Topaz who he was.

‘Just a bloke,’ he said.

‘He ran off like a startled rabbit.’

‘No one likes being seen talking to a copper.’

‘Except me, apparently.’

‘It’s a topsy-turvy world,’ he said, and laughed briefly.

‘I’ve just had an extremely unpleasant experience in the urinal,’ I said. He raised his eyebrows and turned his head to one side.

‘It’s not what you’re thinking. I had a run in with an ape named Mal Flint. Know him?’

‘Ape is a bit flattering for Mal Flint. I wouldn’t have thought he was one of the higher primates. I know him.’

‘He threatened me. Said that he’d break my other arm unless I told you to back off. Oh, and he called you a cunt.’

‘Mal Flint is a brainless thug. Stay out of his way.’

‘Fred Drummond owed him a lot of money. Fifty pounds. Why?’

‘Flint runs a two-up game and dog fights and God knows what else. Fred was a big loser.’

‘Is it possible,’ I said, ‘that the two murders are not connected? I can’t see why Flint would kill Polly, although he’s strong enough to take her up that ladder. But what if he went to the Drummond house, looking for his money, and was disturbed by Mrs Drummond? Would he be capable of cutting an old lady’s throat?’

‘Listen, Sherlock,’ Topaz said. ‘Don’t start playing amateur detective. You’ll get into all sorts of trouble. You could get yourself killed. I don’t think our culprit, whoever he is, is particularly squeamish about how he deals with people who get in his way.’

‘I’m right though, aren’t I? About Mal Flint. You think that’s a possibility. That’s why you went round to see him.’

‘Since Polly’s death I have spoken to dozens of people. Do you really think I’ve been sitting on my arse doing nothing? Flint was just one of them.’

At that point, Flint himself came out of the pub. He passed by us and spat on the ground.

‘He’s a dangerous man, Will. Don’t go poking around Flint.’

I watched Flint’s retreating back. He looked over his shoulder once, and the malevolence in his eyes made me think that severing a human head would cause him no more concern than decapitating a chook for the Sunday roast.

Buoyed by whiskey and beer, I was not affected by Walter Sunder’s surly presence in the kitchen during preparation for dinner. He sliced carrots and chopped onions, and shot me the odd, sideways glance. At six o’clock Tibald turned on the radio to hear the BBC news. As a crisp voice calmly enunciated that Stalingrad was expected to fall, I went in search of Augie Kelly. He was in the dining room, with Adrian, and laying the tables. I asked to speak with him privately.

Augie had a small office, not much more than a cupboard under the stairs, but it sat two people comfortably. It smelled of new paint, and was either feminine or military in its neatness.

‘What do you know about Mrs Charlotte Witherburn?’

‘She’s rich. Wouldn’t be seen dead here. Not grand enough.’

‘You’ve met her?’

‘Now where would I meet a woman like that?’

‘You seem to know a lot about what she thinks for someone who’s never met her.’

‘Oh, I get it,’ he said, leaning back in his chair. ‘She’s a looker. Am I right? Or am I right?’

I did not dignify this with a response.

‘What about her husband? What do you know about him?’

‘I’ve heard talk at the bar. He didn’t get rich by being nice to people. He’s got enemies, and the word is he’ll fuck anything in a skirt. I’ve never met him either. Seen him, though. Strutting around the place. Looks like a bulldog. If she’s a looker, she married him for his money, not his looks. Why all the questions?’

‘I met her today, with Annie and Topaz. At the Royal.’

He looked a little hurt.

‘Well, the Ladies’ Lounge here isn’t up and running yet. Maybe Mrs Witherburn will come here for a drink when it is. She’ll give the place a bit of class, Augie.’

‘And you’re going to get her here, are you? You don’t think she’s a bit out of your league?’

The sudden hostility in his voice was unexpected.

‘I’ve barely spoken three words to the woman. What are you so pissed off about?’

He calmed down immediately.

‘Sorry,’ he said, as the blush of anger which had stained his cheeks receded. ‘I can’t stand those sorts of people.’

‘I had no idea you were such a volcano of class resentment. I thought she was charming.’

‘That’s nice. But what did she think of you?’

He ended the conversation by returning to the dining room. I said aloud to no one, ‘What the hell was that all about?’

The melancholy figure of Charlotte Witherburn floated in and out of my dreams that night. I woke with no specific memory of these dreams except for the discordant image of a creature, half man, half bulldog, mounting her. There was no excitement attached to the image, I hasten to add, only loathing.

It was Annie who raised the subject of Charlotte Witherburn, at breakfast that Sunday morning.

‘Will and I met the richest woman in Maryborough yesterday,’ she said. ‘Charlotte Witherburn. Her husband’s a stinker, apparently.’

‘I see them at Mass,’ said Kevin Skakel. ‘They’re always together, but I’ve never seen them speak to each other. That woman has got some clothes, let me tell you.’

‘Do they always go to the same Mass?’ I asked, dismally attempting nonchalance.

‘Ten o’clock Mass. Every Sunday. They’ll be there today.’

‘Well, I heard that he bashes her.’

We all turned to look at Adrian.

‘That’s the word on the waterfront, is it?’ I said.

‘No need to get snippy. I’m just saying what I heard. He cheats on her and he thumps her.’ He pursed his lips in a caricature of haughtiness and added, ‘My source, I assure you, is impeccable and also well endowed, although that might not be quite relevant.’

Kevin Skakel, who despite his church-going never revealed the slightest disapproval of Adrian’s morals, said, ‘I’d believe that. She moves like a martyr.’

So he’d noticed it, too. I wondered if Mrs Witherburn had made an appearance in his dreams as well as mine.

We went our separate ways after breakfast. I walked down to the courthouse and around Queen’s Park with Arthur. I kept him informed of all that had happened, and held nothing back, not even my unsettling reaction to that briefest of meetings with Mrs Witherburn. I also expressed my relief that he would not be called upon to lie to the police and back up my alibi.

‘That might still be necessary,’ he said. ‘We don’t know what’s going on in the investigation. They aren’t amateurs.’

‘Arthur, I have to see Charlotte Witherburn again. Will you come with me to St Mary’s?’

‘I should say no. I should know by now that going anywhere with you is bloody dangerous.’

‘Come on,’ I coaxed. ‘The church is just around the corner, and it’s nearly ten o’clock.’

I had already begun walking towards it. Arthur followed and caught up with me.

‘Why do you want to see her?’

‘Because, because, because, because, because.’

‘She’s a married woman.’

‘An unhappily married woman. I just want to see her. I want you to see her, to tell me if I’m mad for thinking that she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.’

‘You’ve gone troppo,’ was all he said.

People were arriving at St Mary’s in large numbers. Some were going straight in; others were hanging about the door, chatting. Arthur and I waited by the gate in Adelaide Street. Just before ten, a car pulled up — the only one to do so. Everyone else had arrived by bicycle or on foot. The passenger door opened and Charlotte Witherburn stepped out, followed immediately by the driver, who I took from his resemblance to a bulldog to be her husband. She was taller than he, and she paid him no heed as they entered the churchyard. Harry Witherburn was the ugliest man I had ever seen. His lips were fleshy and pulpy, and glistened beneath a cauliflower nose. His eyebrows were bushy, nature having decided to grow hair there instead of on his head. The mean, black marbles that were his eyes offered shuttered windows to his soul, and on either side of that obscene mouth jowly pouches hung. How could she bear to be touched by him? He must have been fifteen years her senior, and those years had not been kind to him. He wore the marks of every epicurean indulgence all over his flabby, undisciplined body. They entered the church without speaking to anyone.

‘Well,’ I said. ‘What do you think?’

‘I didn’t get a good look at her. Nice hat, though. He’s no oil painting.’

‘When they come out, I’m going to speak to her.’

‘I’m not hanging around for an hour. My advice is don’t speak to her, but you’re not going to listen to me. You can tell me about it later.’

I entered the church halfway through the service and stood at the back. Charlotte and Harry were sitting in the front row, right on the aisle. They would be the first to approach the altar rail and receive communion. Harry Witherburn was obviously a man who expected to be first in everything. I left the church before the end of the Mass and waited by the car. To my surprise, Mr and Mrs Witherburn did not emerge together. Charlotte came out alone. He must have loitered in the nave talking to someone. She hurried towards the car, hesitating when she saw me, and then coming over, her hand extended.

‘Mr Power, how nice. Were you at Mass?’

‘Technically, no.’

‘Goodness me, you sound like a Jesuit.’

Over her shoulder I saw her husband barrelling towards us. His face was unreadable. It was incapable of registering emotion. Whether he was experiencing an orgasm or having a stroke would only be determined after the fact. Mrs Witherburn swung round on him and circumvented whatever he was about to say by speaking first.

‘Harry. This is Mr William Power. He’s in town with his acting company.’

Harry Witherburn looked me up and down, and made a small noise somewhere between a grunt and a dislodging of phlegm.

‘He and his actors are going to do scenes from Shakespeare at our Red Cross fund-raiser.’

I did not give away that this was news to me.

‘Well, that’ll be bloody boring,’ he said. ‘But you do what you like.’

He got into the driver’s seat and started the motor.

‘So that’s arranged then,’ she said. ‘I’ll let you know the date.’

They were gone before I had the chance to utter a single word.

By Sunday evening everyone had been told that we had been requested to do scenes for a Red Cross fund-raiser, and claims for the performance of a preferred party piece had been staked — every actor has a party piece.