She opened the next drawer. More paperwork, pen nibs, a bottle of Quink, a blotter, a pair of reading glasses, a pack of playing cards. And then she saw a folded sheet of lavender-coloured paper. A handwritten note. Joan unfolded it and a photograph fell out. Snatching it up she saw it was one of those street photographer’s snaps: Gordon and Ellie, caught mid-stride, in a busy city crowd. Ellie’s expression was carefree, happy, smiling; Gordon looked more circumspect, hurrying, eyes averted. She read the note: Gordon my sweet, we have only been apart two days but already I miss you. No one makes me feel as happy and safe as you do. What have I done to deserve … Joan turned the note over and her eyes dropped to the last line: … to the day when we can be together forever, my darling. Your little puss cat, Ellie xxx.
Bingo! This was it. A photo and a love letter. There was still the faintest whiff of perfume on the paper. It would be easy to crosscheck the handwriting. What a sentimental fool was Gordon. Joan debated with herself whether to leave them as evidence in situ or take them with her. Unlike the Ladies’ Bacchus Club letterhead, this note and photo were damning in themselves. She didn’t want to risk Gordon destroying them. She hoped she was making the right decision and only wished her head was less fuzzy! She would persuade Ruby to tell the police what she knew. Hopefully that testimony and these two pieces of evidence would be enough to warrant a full search of the apartment. She looked at the framed photos on the desk of the perfect couple, Olympia and Gordon, smug and unassailable. Fucking hypocrites! She thought of the suffering of her own parents. How it would please her to wipe the smugness from those faces.
It was then she heard voices. Male voices. Getting closer. Her heart thudded against her chest. She pushed the drawer back in, closed the hidden panel and crossed to the study door. How close were the men? Hard to say. She eased the door open, looked out through the crack. The corridor was empty. She slipped through and closed the door behind her.
‘Are you looking for someone?’ a voice demanded directly behind her.
Joan turned and saw the ruddy-faced man from the Hotel Australia. He must have just entered the corridor from the room next door. He squinted at her curiously. ‘Have we met before?’
Joan began to cough nervously. ‘No … no, I don’t think so.’
‘I know your face from somewhere,’ the man insisted.
‘Now, now, Geoffrey, manners! This is one of Olympia’s party guests.’
Joan knew that voice. From behind the surly red-faced gent stepped Hugh. He was wearing the tortoiseshell glasses and flash suit. He smiled at her and winked.
‘Looks like you’ve got a bit lost,’ he said. ‘Happens all the time. Let me show you the way to the dining room, Miss … ?’
‘Linderman.’
‘Miss Linderman. Please follow me.’
Geoffrey gave her a nasty scowl. As she followed Hugh, she heard him checking the study door and grunting suspiciously before locking it. Hugh kept his back to her as they turned a corner, which was just as well as her face was burning. It had never occurred to her that Hugh would be here!
As they approached the dining room with its rich odours and bright babble of voices, Hugh whispered in Joan’s ear, ‘Take a deep breath,’ and ushered her into the room. ‘This one got a bit lost,’ he announced to the assembled women.
‘Thank you, my dear,’ said Olympia. ‘When are you picking Gordon up from his club?’
‘Around eleven, if that suits you.’
‘Perfect.’
Hugh then left the room with a small covert smile directed at Joan.
Bernice was in the middle of entertaining her fellow bacchantes with one of her anecdotes. Even so, she gave Joan an inquisitive glance to which Joan nodded in reply. Their work here was done. Hunger pangs, however, got the better of Joan’s instincts to leave as soon as possible and she piled her plate high with roast beef, smoked salmon, foie gras and caviar, and poured herself a flute of real French champagne. Crikey, this was the life of Riley!
Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding! Olympia, imperious in her deep aubergine velvet evening gown with its long batwing sleeves and a floor-sweeping fishtail hem, called the room to order by tapping on her champagne glass. ‘Ladies, ladies! Your attention please!’
The assembly broke off their conversations and gave Olympia the floor.
‘It is my pleasure to officially welcome our two newest bacchantes. I need hardly remind these two remarkable intelligent women—both gifted writers—that what we celebrate here is precious and important. Through the god Bacchus and his female aspect, his goddess lover Ariadne, we find our true selves, our instinctual natures, our fierce womanhood! One day we will spread the joyous news of the liberating force of female sex delight. But until that day comes we must keep our sacred rituals secret, hidden from the mocking eyes of men!’
A lusty cheer rose from the throats of the women present.
Olympia folded her hands in an attitude resembling prayer. ‘And now, sadly, I must share with you some tragic news. Only a week ago, a recent guest of our sacred circle—young Eleanor, who added the heat and loveliness of her own passion to our communal flame and became an honorary member of our club—was brutally murdered.’
The women groaned in shock and Joan saw Bernice bite her upper lip to stifle the cry of alarm that threatened to escape her mouth. She could hardly believe her ears. What was Olympia playing at? Was it possible she knew about Joan’s part in the blackmail scheme and was now trying to send her a message? Had she been one step ahead of her and Bernice the whole time and knew the real reason for the presence of her two newest bacchae? Or had Gordon managed to keep his affair with Ellie hidden from his wife?
‘We do not know by whose hand this poor young woman perished. But we can be almost certain that the murderer was a man! She was already a victim of the vicious criminal swindle that is prostitution, corrupting and polluting the bodies and souls of women and men alike, a scourge that must be eradicated at all costs. By joining our circle of light, Eleanor made her own bid for freedom, for self-discovery. Sadly, it is possible someone found out that she was a bacchante and she paid for the betrayal of that secret with her life.’
The woman moaned in pity, growled with anger. What? Was Olympia really claiming Ellie as the Goddess Club’s first martyr? This was absurd, obscene. She had been paid to take part in Olympia’s sex games, hired just like a prostitute for her body. Everyone, it seemed, including the ladies of the Goddess Club, had used Ellie for their own ends.
‘If we ever find out who killed our sister Eleanor, I promise he will come to understand the true nature of our madness. He will beg for mercy at the last, but we will show him only the same mercy he showed Eleanor. In the name of our god, we will have our justice!’
Was Olympia staring directly at Joan or was that just Joan’s paranoid imagination? Whatever the truth, there was no doubt left in Joan’s mind that the Ladies’ Goddess Club was far from some polite female social gathering indulging in naughty parlour games.
‘She may be a touch cracked, but your aunt’s club has got its heart in the right place.’ Bernie had found her initiation into the Dionysian cult of Kingsmere to be an exhilarating and enlightening one. ‘Much more exciting than the Feminist Club and their cucumber sandwiches.’
Joan could not pretend she was unmoved by the rituals or that she had not participated with enthusiasm. ‘It certainly was more engaging than I expected,’ she agreed.
The two women looked at each other and burst into gales of laughter.
‘Cripes, you could say that!’ shrieked Bernie, slapping her thigh. ‘Not every night you get a root from a Greek demi-god, right?’
‘Speak for yourself!’ hooted Joan, giving Bernie a playful slap on the shoulder.
Bernie halted for a moment to catch her breath from all the hilarity.
‘Speaking of which, wasn’t that bloke who brought you into the dining room Hugh?’
Joan sighed. ‘Yes, it was. I told you he’s doing some work for
my uncle.’
‘Right. So, he’d know why all the ladies were there tonight, wouldn’t he?’
‘Well, not all the gory details. But he’d have the general picture, I guess. He probably doesn’t know there was a bloke involved, though; I think he’d assume it was just women.’
‘And he’s still alright with that? He’s not going to pull a Danny Ligores on you, I hope?’
Joan rolled her eyes. ‘Jesus, Bernie, I don’t think so!’
The Ligores case had been big news in the Sydney papers a while back. Daniel Ligores had killed his wife, Gertrude, in Surry Hills. They’d been married through the Mission of Free Love, a religious sect that practised faith healing, speaking in tongues and sex with multiple partners. Daniel had failed to get Gertrude away from what he called ‘a den of prostitutes and profligates’ and, driven mad by sexual jealousy, he had beaten and then shot her. He was tried and sentenced to death but did not hang as the jury had asked for mercy.
‘Hugh is not that kind of man for a start. And anyway, we have an understanding.’ Joan blushed to lie so boldly to her friend; while Hugh felt ashamed about his lack of sexual desire for Joan, this was no invitation for her to sleep with whomever she chose.
‘Ha! I’ve heard that kind of plan before. It usually favours the man in the situation.’
‘What kind of understanding did you have with Laszlo, then, about Ellie?’
Bernie laughed. ‘I didn’t tell him. Perhaps that makes me a hypocrite, but I didn’t think I owed it to him.’
‘Exactly.’
They wandered down Macleay Street, past the Cairo Guesthouse, the Boulevard Café on the corner of Challis Avenue and the turreted and palatial mansion of Grantham, nicknamed Dangar’s Castle, which was looking particularly Gothic this evening in the moonlight. There were rumours that the grand old house was marked for sale and demolition, another victim of the passing antique glamour of Potts Point and the Cross.
It was near midnight by the time they reached Bomora. Bernie grabbed Joan by the elbow before they entered. ‘Tell me, did we find what we were looking for? I hardly dared to ask in case the answer was no.’
‘The answer is yes,’ said Joan. ‘We did. A letter and a photo in his desk drawer. There is no way Gordon can deny his involvement with Ellie now. It’s time to go to the police.’
‘Good,’ said Bernie. ‘I know it must feel very strange, Gordon being your uncle and all, but just imagine if we can bring a murderer to justice. It will have been worth it for Ellie’s sake.’ Bernie wiped away a tear. ‘You were brave tonight, Joanie. You should be proud.’
‘Thank you. You too. It must have been hard, knowing that Ellie had been there.’
They hurried through the lobby so as not to disturb Mrs Moxham. Most of the rooms were now empty and the building was wrapped in a tomb-like silence. It had the fatalistic air of a man awaiting execution. Velma and Iris had left on the weekend. Mrs Moxham was due to leave on Friday night. The electricity and water would be turned off and all the doors locked by Monday morning when the wreckers would arrive. The Noble Order of the Itchy’s ‘house-cooling’ party was planned for Saturday night. It would be a fitting farewell, thought Joan.
Bernie unlocked the flat door and switched on the light. Joan saw her body go rigid before she heard Bernie’s cry of horror. ‘Oh God! No!’
Joan pushed past her, terror exploding in her chest. The flat had been trashed. Furniture was overturned, drawers pulled open and their contents spewed on the floor, the beds stripped, her manuscript scattered.
And on her desk lay a small black body, stiff and unmoving; from its delicate muzzle trickled blood and its green eyes were milky and opaque. Propped up behind this corpse was a sheet of cardboard with a message written in black: THIS IS NOT A GAME. STOP NOW OR YOU WILL BE NEXT.
They wrapped Rimbaud’s broken body, still warm, in a towel and took it downstairs. A shovel stood among the other rusted, forgotten tools stowed in the laundry on the ground floor. Unbelievably, a small garden had survived at the back of the house where one of the tenants had even managed to grow a bed of grape hyacinths and daffodils to brighten the drab yard. The two women wept as they dug a narrow trough in among the flowers and gently laid the cat’s lifeless body in the soil and covered him up.
‘I used to call him T.S.,’ confessed Joan tearfully.
‘Did you?’ asked Bernie with a sad smile. ‘Because of Practical Cats?’
‘No, the fog in Prufrock,’ Joan whispered. ‘That wraps itself around the house and falls asleep. It seemed right for a city cat.’
Bernice said nothing but placed her arm about Joan’s shoulders and they climbed the stairs again, shivering with grief. The room that had once been a writers’ refuge had now become a torture chamber. Joan would be glad to see the back of it, even took some satisfaction in the thought that the whole building, the scene of such trauma and bitter memories this last week, would soon be rubble.
‘It looks like we’ve been found out,’ said Bernie as they tidied up the wreckage as best they could with their quivering hands and leaden limbs.
‘Yes, it does.’ Joan looked again at the message on the cardboard. ‘This is all my fault. I’m the one who has brought this on us.’
Bernie began to protest but Joan stopped her. ‘I have not been honest with you, Bernie. There are things I’ve done that’ve made this situation much worse.’
Joan explained how she and Hugh had conspired to use the Ladies’ Bacchus Club letterhead found at the crime scene to blackmail Gordon into handing over hundreds of pounds. Bernie looked shocked but not particularly outraged. She knew the history of Joan’s family too well to disapprove. Joan had the presence of mind then to check the loose kitchen tile. By a miracle her stash was still there. No doubt the intruder was furious at being unable to find it.
‘It has to be Gordon who arranged this, or Olympia and Gordon together,’ said Joan. ‘Who else knew for sure that we would be out this evening?’
Bernice looked again at the warning note. ‘What does “stop now” mean then?’
‘It’s warning us not to take anything to the police. I presume Gordon will now destroy any other evidence at the apartment, or hide it somewhere else.’
‘When do you think they suspected you?’
Joan wondered about that. If they had worked it out on the Friday, why had they done nothing until now? ‘Geoffrey, the bloke I met at the Hotel Australia, saw me tonight. It’s possible he recognised my face. Maybe he went to Olympia or Gordon and told them before we had left the apartment and headed home.’
‘Olympia was with us the whole time though, wasn’t she? And Hugh said he’d arranged to fetch Gordon from his club at eleven. It would be easy to check if he was indeed there.’ She tapped her chin with her finger. ‘Your aunt said Amelia couldn’t join us. Maybe she rang her and gave her a job to do? Or maybe Gordon rang Jeffs and got one of his thugs to come around and give us a good scare?’
Joan knew that Jeffs would not be happy if he thought his business dealings with the Fielding-Joneses were about to be exposed. This kind of violence definitely had all the hallmark nastiness and chaos of a brute like Frankie. Joan recalled Goldman’s threat. You stay out of it, you nosy bitch, or you’ll get yours!
‘God, what a terrible family!’ Bernie had revised her high opinion of Olympia.
‘I wouldn’t put anything past them.’
Joan reflected on the fact that, even when she was swapping the Ladies’ Bacchus Club letterhead for cash at the Hotel Australia, part of her had still resisted the reality of Gordon or Olympia’s guilt. Maybe it was a residual speck of faith in their decency. Or more likely a hard lump of denial that someone in her own family was capable of murder. Its plausibility floated in an indeterminate state like something told in a story one could choose to believe or not believe.
The two women sat in silence for some time. Joan was scared, there was no denying it. Even the usually fearless Bernice looked apprehensive. Joan spo
ke first. ‘How can I go to the police now? It would mean putting our lives in danger. I can’t do it. We’re not heroes, Bernie!’
Bernice laughed grimly. ‘Bad people rely on that.’
‘I don’t want to risk being killed, do you?’
Bernice was silent.
‘Hugh is right. The rich rely on violence to protect themselves. I didn’t really want to admit that my aunt and uncle were like that. I see it differently now.’ Joan dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, determined not to cry. ‘But, let’s be honest, the blackmail still muddies the waters. Even this threat does not prove them guilty of murder. They would still be mightily angry about me squeezing money out of them by blackmail and wouldn’t want the police poking around in their business. That much is clear!’
Around two o’clock the two women finished barricading themselves into their flat—which now felt only as safe and secure as a cardboard box—and collapsed into bed. But Joan hardly slept, kept awake by the deafening absence of Rimbaud and surreal visions of herself lying in a pool of blood like one of the corpses in Bill Jenkins’s crime scene photos.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Joan woke on Tuesday morning from one of those torturing dozes just before sunrise when the body tastes the sweet balm of sleep for a few minutes, having finally succumbed to exhaustion, only to have it snatched away. She was startled awake by the terrifying thought that Gordon or Olympia might know about her relationship with Hugh. Was that possible? Nobody in her family would have told them and she certainly hadn’t. Gordon was usually busy most days of the week in the city but Olympia might have spotted them together on Macleay Street or at one of the cafes they frequented. Hopefully, Hugh had been careful to keep their friendship hidden. If not, given what had happened to her and Bernice he too could be in grave danger. She needed to warn him as soon as possible.
She stopped in at the Cairo Guesthouse on her way to the tram stop on William Street. The night manager was at the front desk, presumably at the end of his shift, talking to a gentleman with his back to her. There was something vaguely familiar about the stance of this fellow, but she thought nothing of it as she stepped into the telephone kiosk and pulled the door closed behind her. She would try the Worker’s Weekly offices first to see if Hugh was in. She dialled and then, when the call connected, said, ‘Can I speak with Billy Watts, please? It’s urgent.’
Death in the Ladies' Goddess Club Page 19
