Good Murder (27 page)

ON SATURDAY MORNING
it began to rain heavily. For a brief period it was so heavy I could barely see across the street to the river. I was sitting in the empty bar, staring out a window into the rain, trying to recall my speech from
Coriolanus
. I didn’t see how I could retrieve my copy of the play from Charlotte before the performance on Monday, so I was going to have to paper over any cracks with my own inventions. The locals would never pick it, so I wasn’t particularly concerned. My ruminations were interrupted by Augie Kelly.

‘I don’t like this rain,’ he said.

‘Worried about the river?’

He nodded.

‘It’ll be all right if it doesn’t go on like this all day. It doesn’t take much to make the Mary slip her banks.’

‘It smells damp in here,’ I said.

‘Rain always does that. We’ve been flooded before, and rain draws out the smell somehow.’

Just as he said this the downpour eased off. The Mary River looked unchanged to me, now that I could see it again, but its latent power was apparent even as it moved ponderously beneath the dimpling spatter of more gentle rain.

‘It’s a full house tonight,’ Augie said.

‘Good. You must be glad you took a chance on us, Augie.’

‘Oh, yes,’ he said, and sat down opposite me. His pale green eyes, flecked with yellow, were watching me intently. They made me uncomfortable.

‘Did something happen yesterday?’ he asked.

‘No. What do you mean?’

‘I just thought something happened, that’s all. You and Arthur weren’t yourselves last night.’

‘Well, I can’t speak for Arthur, Augie, but apart from some pain, yesterday was a normal day.’

He didn’t believe this and was waiting for some small intimacy from me. I was wary of his insinuations into my private life. He ran one hand over the hair on his sinewy forearm and plucked at something at his wrist.

‘You should trust me,’ he said quietly.

‘It’s not that I distrust you, Augie,’ I said clumsily, ‘it’s just that I don’t have anything to trust you with. No secrets.’

His lips were tight, and it was clear he was restraining feelings hurt by my apparent failure to honour the conditions of an established friendship. The fact that this friendship was a figment of his imagination was neither here nor there. There was some quality about him that I found depressing and creepy. I cannot explain why, but he had about him the air of a chronic masturbator, given to bouts of onanism remarkable for their frequency and for the perverse nature of the fantasies that fuelled them. As he was leaving the bar, he said with a viperish little sneer, ‘By the way, Harry Witherburn and his wife are booked to eat here tonight.’

If he had wanted to agitate me beyond my already fairly comprehensive level of agitation, he succeeded in spades. I retreated to my room, anxious to avoid meeting Annie, or any of the troupe. Augie would have told them that Maryborough’s richest and ugliest man was coming to dinner, and that he was bringing his beautiful, bruised wife. Speculation about how well I knew her would be rife. I didn’t suppose that Augie had failed to pass on the fact that I had driven away with her in her car, despite his assurance that he would say nothing. I didn’t even wish to speak to Arthur. Something had changed between us.

As I lay on my bed, wrestling with
Coriolanus
, there began to seep into my consciousness an awful, poisonous suspicion. An insistent Iago in my mind urged me to consider the horrifying possibility that Arthur was not just capable of murder, but that he was guilty of it. I resisted this traitorous flirtation as strongly as I could; but once admitted, it grew like Topsy, and as I examined each of the Drummond deaths I could not provide Arthur with an alibi that would definitively exclude him from suspicion. Polly? He knew her movements because I had told him everything. He could easily have followed us that night and waited for an opportunity. A one-armed man managing to get her up the water tower presented some problems, but Arthur was strong and resourceful, and so I did not wonder
that
he did it, only
how
he did it. Mrs Drummond? Arthur waited outside. Or did he? I didn’t see the figure who emerged from Mrs Drummond’s bedroom, but I sensed strongly that he knew I was there, in the darkness. And Joe? There was a period — brief, it’s true — when Arthur was in the kitchen and I was in the bedroom. He could have done it then. I couldn’t explain the dogs or the fleeing footsteps ahead of us. Nevertheless, the seeds of doubt had been sown, and I didn’t think I could look at Arthur ever again without a damaging reservation.

Keeping to my room that afternoon, consumed by worry over what Harry Witherburn could possibly mean by bringing Charlotte to the George, and with suspicions running rampant through my mind about Arthur, I even began to wonder whether I was safe from Arthur’s murderous impulses. I had worked myself into a highly nervous state, which is why I jumped comically when there was a rap on my door.

‘Who is it?’

‘Peter Topaz.’ As he said this he opened the door, indifferent as always to the basic rules of etiquette. I must have looked wan about the gills, because the first thing he said was, ‘Alone, I see, and palely loitering.’

‘I am in a great deal of pain,’ I said, hoping that might explain my unnatural pallor.

‘If I had Mal Flint after me, I’d look like that, too.’

‘I’m not afraid of that ape. What did he say?’

‘I didn’t see him. When I got there yesterday he’d gone, but he hadn’t gone back to work. I checked. I imagine he’s off licking his wounds somewhere. Getting his strength back.’

‘What do you want?’

‘Well, more and more I want to lock you up and throw away the key. Frankly, the better I get to know you, the less I like you.’

‘The antipathy is mutual, I assure you.’

‘I haven’t come here to exchange pleasantries. You have no idea how anxious Conroy is to arrest you. When I told him about your little excursion out to Flint’s place, he was apoplectic. The only reason he didn’t turn up here with a warrant is that he thinks, if he holds out long enough, he’ll get to end my career as well as nail you.’

‘Why would he want to end your career?’

‘Because he doesn’t like me, Will. I’m sure you understand how he feels.’

‘Oh, yes indeed, and his reasons are probably similar to mine.’

‘I imagine they are. He doesn’t like me because he knows I’m smarter than he is.’

I’d walked right into that one. In my defence, I had a lot on my mind and was not in the mood for verbal sparring.

‘Why don’t you just tell me why you’re here?’ I said, attempting to sound impatient with his tiresome point-scoring.

‘You were seen driving towards Teddington with Mrs Charlotte Witherburn on Thursday morning.’

I said nothing.

‘It’s a small town, Will. Cars, especially expensive cars, are few and far between. You were bound to be seen.’

I still gave him nothing.

‘Do you deny it?’

‘No,’ I said finally. ‘So I was in a car with Ch … Mrs Witherburn. So what?’

‘So what were you doing?’

‘Not that it’s any of your business, but we were discussing the program for the Red Cross fund-raiser.’

‘And it was necessary that you do this while mobile.’

‘Is it illegal to discuss Shakespeare in an automobile in Maryborough? It wouldn’t surprise me.’

‘I would have thought you’d have had plenty of time to discuss him when you had lunch at Witherburn on, what day was it? Tuesday?’

‘You’re remarkably well informed about my social calendar. You must have quite a network of spies. Maybe you should consider using them to help solve these crimes instead of keeping track of my dining arrangements.’

‘I think you must be unfamiliar with the way small towns work. You can’t take a piss in this place without someone getting splashed. Your dining arrangements, as you call them, have attracted the attention of half the town, or did you think no one would notice? People are wondering if Charlotte Witherburn is thinking of running away and joining the circus.’

‘That’s just ill-informed, small-town gossip, and they can’t even get my occupation right.’

‘Your affair with Charlotte Witherburn is common knowledge because Charlotte Witherburn wants it to be common knowledge. The staff at Witherburn are discreet unless instructed otherwise.’

‘Why would Charlotte put it about that she’s committing adultery? She’s terrified of her husband. Why would she want to antagonise him?’

Topaz looked perplexed.

‘Can you really be so naïve?’ he asked. ‘I don’t expect you to take my advice, Will, but you don’t know what you’re dealing with here. I’d end your little affair before you end up out too far to rescue. Harry Witherburn is Mal Flint with money. I don’t think he cares particularly who his wife fucks on the side, but he doesn’t like the whole town knowing about it. He’s happy enough to flaunt his own affairs, but I think hypocrisy is the least of his unattractive qualities. There’s no point looking for any sort of morality here. The Witherburns don’t worry too much about things like that. They’re good Catholics, you see, and as long as there’s a priest at the deathbed, they’re all set. You can rely on two things about the Witherburns. They never miss Mass on Sunday, and if you cross Harry Witherburn, you’ll wish you hadn’t.’

The notion that Charlotte was as immoral as her husband was insupportable to me.

‘Are you suggesting that Charlotte is a strumpet?’

My choice of noun was unfortunate. As soon as I’d said it, I realised it sounded foolish.

‘Strumpet? This isn’t eighteenth-century London, Will. I’m suggesting that if you think your liaison with Charlotte is her first and only extra-marital affair, you’re a damn fool.’

‘Why don’t you tell me why you’re here and then fuck off?’

‘All right, Will. I presume Charlotte has passed on to you, either directly or coyly, her suspicions about her husband.’

‘I’m not going to betray her confidence by answering questions like that.’

‘Very gallant. However, she has made no secret of her suspicions to me.’

‘So why haven’t you arrested Harry Witherburn?’

‘Because the burden of evidence needs to be a bit heftier than the word of a jealous wife.’

‘Harry has a motive.’

‘Everyone has a motive. Charlotte’s motive for dispatching Polly is as strong as her husband’s.’

‘That’s ludicrous.’

‘Is it? If all a jury had to go on was motive, I don’t think they’d find the idea too ludicrous. But motive is the weakest proof in murder, Will. If it weren’t, the jails would be stuffed with people waiting to be sentenced, and hanged in most states.’

‘This is really too absurd. To suggest that Charlotte could murder anybody, let alone an entire family …’

‘I’m not suggesting anything, Will. I’m just trying to put all this together, and I can’t ignore possibilities because they are unpleasant or because they concern someone who, after the briefest of acquaintance, you consider above suspicion.’

‘I’m not some love-struck youth, Topaz.’

‘You’re right about the youth part, but it seems to me you’ve lost perspective. All you know about Charlotte Witherburn is that she let you sleep with her.’

I stood up and made a fist of my free hand.

‘Calm down, Sir Gawain. The last thing you need is to be charged with assaulting a police officer.’

‘You have a grubby little mind, Topaz.’

‘You’re having sex with another man’s wife. Grubby little mind sounds bloody hollow coming out of your mouth.’

He gave me a shove which caught me off guard and sent me sprawling on the bed.

‘I am now officially out of patience,’ he said. ‘I came here to advise you to stay well away from the dining room tonight. I know the Witherburns are coming here, and it’s a safe bet they’re not coming because they’ve heard the food is good. I don’t know what they’ve got planned, but I’m fairly sure it involves a public place, lots of witnesses, and you. Stay away.’

‘What do you mean “they”? This has got nothing to do with Charlotte. Witherburn is bringing her here against her will. No doubt he wants to humiliate her. Do you really think I have any intention of giving him a helping hand?’

‘Charlotte Witherburn will let you down, Will and, frankly, it couldn’t happen to a nicer bloke.’

With that, he left.

I couldn’t absent myself from the kitchen during the preparation for that night’s dinner. Tibald was in a state of high excitement. Cooking for Maryborough’s richest man might, after all, lead to better things. The rest of the troupe were strangely silent about the Witherburns. Maybe Arthur had had a word to them. Only Bill Henty broke ranks and said, in a voice too low for anybody else to hear, that he was looking forward to seeing the kind of woman who would choose me over money. I told him that serving Mrs Witherburn her food was about as close as he was ever likely to get to a woman with real class, and that I trusted that he intended to keep his shirt on and refrain from doing press-ups while people were eating.

‘Maybe,’ I said, ‘you could write a note to that effect on the back of your paw, just to remind yourself how civilised people behave.’