by Robert Gott
‘Have there been any here, in Melbourne?’
Was the question too direct? Nepheg answered it without hesitation.
‘There was a man near here. He claimed he was immortal. He’s dead now.’
‘So, not the Messiah then.’
Nepheg then did something extraordinary. He laughed.
‘No,’ he said, ‘not the Messiah after all.’
‘Do you know much about him?’
‘His name was Fisher. He used to call himself a fisher of men.’
‘You met him?’
‘No. Never. Prudence and Justice knew him. He was their brother-in-law.’
Guy took a moment to sort out the implications of this. Fisher’s wife, so savagely murdered, was the sister of Prudence and Justice.
‘Did the Master know this Fisher bloke?’
‘Of course. And the Master knew him for what he was — a liar.’
‘How did he die?’
‘I don’t know. The master told us that he’d died, that’s all.’
This seemed incredible to Guy, but challenging it would be risky. It was possible, of course, that Nepheg hadn’t seen a newspaper or listened to a radio since the murders had been discovered. This was indeed probable if he hadn’t left Prescott’s property.
‘The Master said unbelievers would be silenced. Do you think the Master struck Fisher down?’ Guy tried to inject a note of awe into his voice.
‘If you mean physically, no, but there are other ways to gather sinners. All flesh is grass, and God’s scythe is sharp and quick.’
If a scythe wasn’t handy, maybe an axe would do, Guy thought.
‘Nepheg, when you say “God”, do you mean the Master?’
‘The Master is an incarnation of God. He is one of three persons.’
‘So God the father moves independently of his son?’
‘It is all one.’
‘Yes,’ Guy said emphatically, as if Nepheg’s explanation made perfect sense. ‘Thank you, Nepheg. One last question. Why did the Master call me Absalom? Who is Absalom?’
‘He was the third son of David.’
‘The Master calls himself David. He named me after one of his sons? I don’t deserve such an honour.’
‘The Master is wise.’
‘Where will I find Absalom in the Bible?’
‘The Book of Samuel.’
Guy felt relieved. If Prescott had named him after one of David’s sons, perhaps he wasn’t suspicious of him after all. He lay awake waiting for Nepheg to fall into a deep sleep. It was just after 2.00 am when he stood up and made his way towards the women’s hut.
It was a cool night, and a light drizzle and a brisk wind made Guy shiver uncomfortably. His tunic was no defence against the chill. As he began walking towards the hut, he regretted his decision to go barefoot. The sharpness of stones and twigs alternated with the crunch and squelch of snails and slugs underfoot.
The hut was in darkness, unsurprisingly, given the hour. Guy wasn’t sure how to proceed. He’d have to wake Prudence, and being woken at 2.30 in the morning would be unsettling. He’d have to take the risk that Prudence would be prepared to speak with him. He was on the point of knocking when voices from inside the hut made him draw back into the shadows. The door opened, and Prescott emerged, naked, his pale skin stark against the hut’s brown walls. He stood stock-still before tilting his head up to the night sky. The drizzle had turned into rain, and Prescott allowed his body to run with it before wiping it from his flesh, as if he was bathing. He seemed impervious to the cold. Guy was sure that he couldn’t be seen, but just for a moment Prescott seemed to look right at him. It was fleeting, and he gave no sign that he’d seen Guy, so after a moment of panic Guy relaxed. Prescott finished his ablutions, if that’s what they were, and calmly walked back towards the house, his naked form slowly vanishing as it retreated.
Guy waited a few moments and then knocked on the door. A faint light swelled, as if Prudence was turning up the flame of a kerosene lamp, and she opened the door. She was wearing a loose, lined tunic, and her hair fell freely over her shoulders. Her reaction to finding Guy at her door was muted, as if she’d been expecting him. She held the lamp up to illuminate Guy’s face.
‘Absalom.’
‘May I come in?’
‘It’s forbidden.’
‘But not to all men.’
‘When my husband comes to me, he comes naked as Adam, the first man. Nothing is forbidden to him.’
Adam, David, the Master — this, Guy thought, was a fluid and flexible theology.
‘The Master is your husband?’
Guy thought that when Prudence began to move the door she was closing it. In fact, she opened it and silently indicated that he should enter.
The interior of the hut was sparsely but not meanly furnished. The single bed looked comfortable, and there was an armchair and a prie-dieu that gave the room a strangely Catholic, monastic quality. He could smell Prescott’s recent presence. Prudence directed Guy to sit down, and then extinguished the hurricane lamp. When his eyes had adjusted to it, the darkness wasn’t absolute. He could make out Prudence’s form seated on the side of the bed. Guy saw no advantage in beating about the bush.
‘Why did you warn me to leave here?’
‘You’re not a believer.’
‘Justice said that all I needed was to witness a miracle.’
‘My sister’s faith is very strong.’
Guy wanted to ask if Prescott had married her as well, but thought the indelicacy might end their conversation.
‘Am I in danger?’
‘Your immortal soul is in danger.’
‘Well, it has to leave my body before that becomes an issue. Is my body in danger?’
‘The Master’s disciples are immortal.’
There was something rather rote about that response, and it annoyed Guy.
‘I don’t think you believe any of that stuff. There’s no conviction in your voice. There’s no conviction in your eyes.’
‘Don’t presume to know me, Guy.’
The use of his name showed her hand, and Guy understood that it hadn’t been a slip of the tongue.
‘Too many people are dead,’ she said.
Guy was startled.
‘And do you know who killed them?’
‘Yes. I know.’
‘Prescott.’
‘This is what you’ve come here to find out, isn’t it?’
‘I’m not a policeman or a detective.’
‘So who are you?’
The conversation had hurried so quickly to this point that Guy felt swept forward by it.
‘An innocent man has been arrested for the murders at Fisher’s farm, a man named Zachary Wilson.’
‘I know him.’
‘And you know that he’s innocent, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why are you protecting your husband? Are you afraid of him?’
‘My husband has killed no one, Guy. The man who murdered my sister is beyond the reach of the law.’
‘Nepheg told me that Mrs Fisher was your sister — your other sister.’
‘We were three sisters, yes.’
‘Why? Why would Peter Fisher suddenly kill his wife and child?’
‘She was going to leave him. She was coming here.’
‘But the baby …’
‘It wasn’t Fisher’s. It was my husband’s child. David had chosen Truth to join us.’
Guy was glad of the darkness. His face would have betrayed his astonishment. Prescott had collected the set — Truth, Justice, and Prudence.
‘Bigamy is against the law,’ he said.
‘Such an ugly word. Whose law? Not God’s law. And how would you prove it? Our marriage is sacred, not a profane entr
y in the registry of births, deaths, and marriages. I’m telling you this because you have to go away from here. I don’t know who sent you, but now you know the truth. There is nothing further you need to know.’
‘Zachary Wilson is in prison.’
‘God will protect him.’
‘You have to go to the police.’
‘No. We don’t want them here. Besides, they’ve already paid us a visit.’
‘But surely you know I’m going to tell them what you’ve told me.’
Prudence was silent. She stood up, and Guy watched her shadowy form move to the door. She opened it, and a rush of cold air entered the room.
‘You must do as your conscience demands,’ she said. As Guy passed her, she reached out and touched him. ‘Our husband is not guilty of these crimes. Please don’t destroy our lives.’
Guy stepped out into a thin, icy drizzle, and the door closed behind him. He’d almost reached his room when he realised that he hadn’t asked Prudence any questions about Emilio Barbero, and she hadn’t mentioned him either. When he began to analyse the encounter, he thought he’d been clumsy and inept in his questioning. He hadn’t extracted from Prudence any information that she didn’t want him to have. She’d known what she’d been doing, while he had bumbled along. Had she been telling him the truth? The intimate details of polygamy may well have been a smokescreen for far-greater crimes. Was he supposed to be seduced by this honesty into believing that this was the whole truth? It had certainly been a remarkable intimation, especially the claim that Mrs Fisher had given birth to Prescott’s child. Would this knowledge have made Fisher’s infanticide easier for him to perpetrate? This was Guy’s last thought before a blow to the back of his head rendered him unconscious.
10
WHEN CLARA DAWSON left the hospital at 7.30 on Tuesday morning, there was no sign of Kenneth Bussell. She’d decided that if he’d been waiting across the street, she’d go up to him and ask him just what the fuck he thought he was doing. If he’d wanted to kill me, she thought, he’d have done it by now. Gerald Matthews’ death had, after all, been his gift to her. She’d felt brave about her decision all through her shift. She didn’t leave the hospital without trepidation, however, and she was relieved when Bussell wasn’t there to test her mettle.
By 8.00 am she was at the Magistrates’ Court. To her surprise, Inspector Lambert was waiting for her — but as police headquarters was across the street, perhaps she ought not to have been surprised. Lambert was there to make sure that the bureaucracy of the watch house didn’t prevent Clara from gaining access to Zachary Wilson. He had told them that Dr Dawson was coming, but he wanted to make certain she was admitted quickly.
He went with her to Wilson’s cell, and said he’d wait to hear her assessment. The prison officer slid back the peephole.
‘We don’t want to interrupt him if he’s taking a shit,’ he said, and immediately apologised when he saw the look on Inspector Lambert’s face. The officer peered into the cell, and began fumbling with the key to open the door.
‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘Jesus,’ and his voice had panic in it. He opened the door, and all three of them entered the cell. Wilson was hanging, his toes barely touching the ground, from the bars of the cell window set high in the wall. It must have taken some effort to accomplish this. He’d torn his bedsheet in two, twisted it into a rope, looped it around the bars, tied one piece to the other, formed a noose, and launched himself from the edge of the toilet bowl. Titus rushed to him and held him so that the sheet was no longer taut. The stink that came off him told Titus that he was dead. His body had evacuated its waste.
When Wilson had been cut down, Clara confirmed that he was dead and that the cause of death was most likely to have been asphyxiation by hanging. When Clara looked at Titus’s face, she couldn’t read the range of emotions that were playing across it.
‘I arrested this man,’ he said. ‘I hope to God he’s guilty, Clara.’
‘This isn’t your fault. If he’s not guilty, he’s another victim.’
‘Well, the public can feel safe now, can’t they?’ He spat these words out. ‘The newspapers won’t be happy. Fear sells more papers than comfort. Still, they’ll get a good 24 hours out of it.’
Later, in Titus’s office, when all the initial paperwork had been done, Clara could see that he was struggling to contain anger, frustration, and guilt. She hadn’t associated any of these emotions with Inspector Lambert, and it worried her.
‘I’m not letting some local constable deliver this news to Mrs Wilson. I’m driving out to Nunawading.’
‘Would you like me to come with you?’
‘Yes, I would, but that isn’t possible, I’m afraid.’
As he said this, a uniformed constable appeared at the door of Lambert’s office.
‘The car is ready, sir.’
‘Thank you Alexander. Oh, I should introduce you. This is Constable Alexander Forbes. This is Dr Clara Dawson.’
Alexander Forbes stepped into the room.
‘Dr Dawson. I read your evidence at Peter Lillee’s inquest. I thought it was brilliant.’
Clara admired this young man’s confidence. He couldn’t have been more than 23 or 24, but there was nothing in his demeanour that suggested that the proximity of Inspector Titus Lambert was in any way intimidating. He wasn’t brash, exactly, but he exhibited none of Joe Sable’s reticence or uncertainty.
‘Thank you very much,’ she said. ‘Do you read many coroner’s reports?’
‘I’m new at this. I read whatever I can.’
‘Constable Forbes is coming with me to Nunawading,’ Titus said.
Clara looked at Forbes, expecting to find eagerness in his face. She was glad it wasn’t there, glad that this young constable wasn’t approaching this task with unseemly and expectant curiosity. She sensed his awareness that his imminent exposure to Mrs Wilson’s grief was both a responsibility and an awful privilege. Titus must have seen in him the qualities he saw in Helen Lord and, to a lesser extent, Joe Sable. Both of them would be interested to know about Constable Alexander Forbes.
MEREDITH WILSON KNEW as soon as she’d opened the door to the two men — one in a suit, the other in a uniform — that her husband was dead. After they’d identified themselves, she invited them in and offered to make them a cup of tea. They accepted. Constable Forbes held his helmet on his knee. Titus noted the nicety of not placing it on the table. It was a small thing, but it mattered. He also noted, when Meredith had gone to the kitchen, that Forbes’s eyes flicked around the room, picking up details that might help in building a picture of the Wilsons.
When Meredith returned, she thanked them for giving her time to compose herself, and said she knew that the news they’d come to report was bad.
‘Yes,’ Titus said. ‘I’m sorry to inform you that your husband died this morning.’
‘He took his own life, didn’t he?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry.’
Constable Forbes poured a cup of black tea and handed it to Meredith.
‘Thank you,’ she said. She took a sip and placed the teacup on the table. ‘My husband wasn’t a strong man. He was a good man, but he wasn’t strong. I think being in that cell did more than demoralise him. It terrified him, and shamed him in a way that’s difficult to understand. I saw when I visited him that he’d never recover. Even when his name was cleared — and it would have been. He didn’t commit those crimes. He was too broken to ever be healthy.’
She took a deep breath.
‘And God help me, Inspector, I felt contempt for him. Isn’t that dreadful? Driving home from the watch house, I decided that I was going to divorce him. I couldn’t bear looking at him.’
She looked up at Titus and then at Constable Forbes. Alexander looked back at her. She saw no judgement in his face, but she said, ‘You must think I’m a cold fish.’
‘
Honesty requires courage, Mrs Wilson, not an absence of emotion.’
Titus, who was struggling to keep his own emotions under control, was impressed by Forbes’s response. What was a young man of such intelligence doing in the police force? Joe Sable, whom Titus liked and admired, would have been incapable of such an accomplished, pitch-perfect reply to Meredith Wilson’s remark.
Meredith poured each of them a cup of tea, and Titus realised that Forbes had deliberately poured only one cup in order to allow Meredith Wilson the distraction of pouring the other two.
‘I’m the police officer who arrested your husband, Mrs Wilson.’
‘I don’t blame you, Inspector, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘I want you to understand that it wasn’t on a whim. With the information we had …’
‘Please, Inspector, please don’t justify yourself. It makes me think you actually knew he was innocent and arrested him anyway. I couldn’t bear that.’
Titus immediately regretted his clumsy attempt to expiate his guilt. If he wasn’t so exhausted he’d be thinking more clearly.
Throughout the conversation that followed, Meredith Wilson maintained her composure. She answered each of Titus’s questions without obfuscation. She told him everything she’d told Helen Lord. Titus didn’t reveal that Helen had briefed him.
‘Did Peter Fisher ever come here, to your house?’
‘No. Zac knew how I felt about him. I took food up to the house when the baby was born. I met him, and thought he was a pathetic, angry little man who spoke badly to his wife, and in front of me, which is poor form for a messiah, don’t you think? I really can’t explain how my husband could have been so foolish, and now he’s dead. Peter Fisher claimed that he could give him eternal life. All he managed to do was drive him to suicide. Peter Fisher is responsible for my husband’s death, Inspector, not you.’
Constable Forbes asked no questions. Once or twice he was tempted to request clarification on a point, but knew that his inexperience would make such an interruption look like impertinence.
‘What happens now, Inspector?’ Meredith asked.
‘There will be a coronial inquest, and I’m afraid suicide will be a foregone conclusion. Your husband’s body will then be released to you.’
