Good Murder

by Robert Gott

  ‘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.’

  The kitchen was busy. Tibald was barking out instructions and working himself up into an haute cuisine rage. There were shortages of butter and flour, but this was no impediment to Tibald’s genius. It was always a source of wonder to me how he could take the most unpromising of raw ingredients and turn them into sublime symphonies of taste.

  Walter Sunder, who, since his retirement from performing, had learned how to trim vegetables and meat to Tibald’s finicky standards, was removing the legs from a large number of fat, green, tree frogs. Tibald was not of the sentimental persuasion that credited animals with feelings, and he insisted that the legs be swiftly amputated from the live frog. The torso was then tossed into a bucket, where its life ebbed away among the quivering, shocked bodies of its fellows.

  Limited to three courses by the austerity measures now firmly in place, Tibald had decided to take the daring step of having only two courses and not offering dessert for this meal. Despite his many local suppliers, he had been unable to acquire a decent amount of sugar, so he had no choice in the matter really. His suppliers had, however, provided him with snails (they could not believe that anybody would pay them to collect and purge these disgusting molluscs), yabbies, rabbits, pigeons, fish, eels (which Tibald also ordered to be skinned alive), and shellfish. There was also kangaroo meat, which Tibald turned into tiny, densely flavoured sausages and which he sent out of the kitchen disguised as saucisses de campagne. It was one of his most popular dishes.

  Tonight, the patrons of the George could choose an entrée of bisque d’homard, with yabbies standing in for lobster (Tibald had begun work on this bisque early that morning); escargots Bourguignonne; or cuisses de grenouille. For mains, there were lapins au saupiquet (the rabbits had been marinating for almost two days in a rich stew of wine, vinegar, and herbs, with a pungent native berry replacing the juniper berries traditionally used); coquelets sur canapés — an elaborate and inspired version of roast pigeon, with a sauce that I would be prepared to consume as a beverage — and a simple filets de poisson bercy aux champignons, combined extraordinarily, but successfully, with the saucisses de campagne. All this at five shillings a head. Food like this had never been cooked in Maryborough before. Even a brute like Harry Witherburn would have to be impressed.

  I knew that Topaz had been right when he had suggested that I make myself scarce that night. This was why I was not at all happy when Annie announced that she wouldn’t be able to do table service, and that I would simply have to step in, one arm out of action or not.

  ‘I have to record some advertisements tonight at 4MB,’ she said. ‘There’s no other time it can be done. I can’t get out of it.’

  ‘I thought you said the radio work wouldn’t interfere here,’ I said.

  ‘One night, Will. I know it’s awkward, but look at the number of rehearsals you’ve missed. Don’t start lecturing me about supporting the company. I can’t help it if you’ve made things difficult by getting involved with that Witherburn woman. Just stay away from their table. Adrian or Bill can be responsible for them.’

  ‘It was your mate Topaz who advised me against being around tonight.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, Will, but these advertisements are for the War Office. I’m not being paid anything. Dealing with a jealous husband can be your little war effort.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Obviously we’re not going to defeat Japan without your help, so off you go, but I won’t be responsible if Harry Witherburn makes some kind of scene.’

  ‘Of course you’ll be responsible,’ she said, and manufactured a little laugh. ‘You’re fucking his wife.’

  The evening began quietly. I had decided to remain in the kitchen until the pressure on service made an appearance in the dining room unavoidable. The Witherburns arrived late. Most of the other diners were already onto their main course. Adrian reported that Charlotte was wearing a fascinator and perhaps a touch too much make-up. ‘The kind,’ he said, ‘you wear to cover rather than to highlight.’

  He had shown them to their table and had got close enough to Charlotte to identify her perfume.

  ‘It’s “Antelope” by Weil,’ he said. ‘They haven’t said a word to each other. He is one ugly man. I don’t care how rich he is, I still wouldn’t want to wake up next to that. He should be told to stay indoors.’

  When he returned from explaining the menu to them, he said that the mood in the dining room had changed. There was much whispering with heads cocked in the direction of the Witherburns. People seemed to be expecting something to happen. Harry Witherburn was not, they knew, above having a public row with his wife.

  Adrian took their orders. Harry had chosen the bisque, and had ordered the snails for Charlotte. I assumed that he did this because he believed she would find them revolting. If this was the case, he would be disappointed. Tibald’s snails would render the most squeamish of patrons unable to encounter the pest from that time on without the mouth watering. Harry ordered the rabbit for his main course, but had said that his wife’s appetite was slight and that she would not be eating a main course. Charlotte hadn’t said a word. It must have amused her husband to think that she would eat snails and nothing else. Doubtless, he intended to taunt her with this later. I was irrationally annoyed with Tibald for giving him this opportunity, despite the peerless flavour of his escargots.

  The entrées had been sent out to the Witherburns when I was obliged to deliver a filets de poisson to a diner.

  ‘Get it out now!’ barked Tibald. ‘It must arrive hot! Hot! Hot!’

  The plate sat on the palm of my hand, scalding it, but I hurried into the dining room and delivered it without looking to where the Witherburns were seated. Had I done so, I would have seen Harry Witherburn rise from his seat and come towards me. I would also have seen that he was carrying his bisque d’homard, and I would have made a move to avoid what happened next. Having placed the fish before the patron who had ordered it, I straightened up and turned to find my way blocked. Without a word, Witherburn upended the bowl over my head, where it sat, like a porcelain Tommy helmet, its contents dripping about my ears and shoulders. Witherburn headed back to his table, loudly reordering the bisque as he went.

  I was so stunned by his assault that I was rooted to the spot. It was not until the gasps around me had been replaced by sniggers, and the sniggers had swollen to laughter, that I reached up and took the bowl from my head. Let me assure you that it is not possible to stand in a room with bisque running down your face and with a bowl on your head and look dignified. I was, however, grateful for two things. First, that Tibald preferred to serve his bisque warm rather than piping hot, and second, that Annie was not there to witness my becoming an object of ridicule.

  In a misguided attempt to retrieve some dignity I said very loudly, ‘Harry Witherburn, you will regret this.’ I then went into the kitchen. Needless to say, the people who should have been outraged on my behalf were in fact grinning with ill-disguised mirth. Even Arthur could not suppress a smile — although, given my suspicions about him, I was not entirely surprised by this. The only person who was not amused was Augie. His face was an angry mask. It was typical of him that he would not appreciate my distress, but be concerned only about the reputation of his establishment. He said nothing to me when I entered the kitchen, but his whole body had become rigid with fury. Perhaps one good thing would come out of this. If he disapproved so strongly of his dining room being turned into a vaudeville sideshow, he might decide that I was no friend of his and cease his clumsy attempts at mateship.

  I went upstairs, having first complimented Tibald on the flavour of his bisque, and I ran a bath.

  I couldn’t hide from the troupe on Sunday. This was the day before Charlotte’s Red Cross fund-raiser, and final rehearsals w
ere essential. Wright’s Hall was unavailable, of course, so we met for the run-through in the dining room. I’m not sure which was worse, Kevin Skakel’s charitable query about my welfare or Bill Henty’s snide ‘I wouldn’t have missed that for the world. I can’t wait to see what he does to you tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m not in the least bit concerned about that,’ I said. ‘What I am concerned about is the dreary nature of your reading. Perhaps you’re holding fire until the performance, but I would like to see some indication that you actually understand the words you are saying. The last time I saw your piece you managed to convey the idea that Henry V was mildly retarded and a dullard. You seem to be using your own personality as the basis for your interpretation.’

  Although there was no love lost between Annie and Bill Henty, she leapt to his defence.

  ‘Don’t take your embarrassment out on us, Will. We’re all ready for tomorrow. How about you? No one has seen your piece yet.’

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Let’s stop arguing and run through our pieces like the professional actors we’re supposed to be. I’m happy to begin.’

  I took a deep breath, walked to the end of the dining room, turned and began:

  All the contagion of the south light on you,

  You shames of Rome! You herd of — boils and

  Plagues

  Plaster you o’er, that you may be abhorred

  Farther than seen, and one infect another

  Against the wind a mile! You souls of geese

  That bear the shapes of men, how have you run

  From slaves that apes would beat! Pluto and hell!

  All hurt behind, backs red, and faces pale

  With flight and agued fear! Mend and charge

  Home,

  Or by the fires of heaven, I’ll leave the foe

  And make my wars on you. Look to’t. Come on;

  If you’ll stand fast, we’ll beat them to their wives,

  As they us to our trenches. Follow’s

  I spat the insults venomously, but moved smoothly to the rallying cry at the end. It was Adrian who broke the silence.

  ‘You don’t think the bit about the wives is a little provocative?’

  ‘I didn’t choose it with that in mind. But, after last night, it will give me particular pleasure to say it.’

  Tibald did his Falstaff next. He had blended bits from various interchanges and ended, after a pause, with,

  For we have heard the chimes at midnight

  Master Shallow.

  It made no sense in this context, but Tibald liked the melancholy it provoked, and made his eyes dewy with the emotion of it. When Bill Henty’s turn came round, he took the floor with an authority which surprised me, and delivered his ‘Band of brothers’ speech with a fire and passion that earned a spontaneous round of applause. I have never been churlish about acknowledging another actor’s performance, and I added to the appreciative clapping.

  ‘That was splendid,’ I said, ‘but you won’t be performing it half-nude, will you. People will be eating their lunch.’

  ‘If last night’s anything to go by,’ he said, ‘you’ll be wearing yours.’

  We rehearsed for four hours, and were exhausted by mid-afternoon. It occurred to me, as I was resting in my room, that Annie had said nothing about Joe Drummond’s disappearance. Given her inappropriate solicitude when he was in prison, I could only surmise that Peter Topaz had not told her the bad news. If he had, she would not have been able to refrain from laying the blame at my door, and relations between us would have seriously deteriorated.

  I hardly slept at all on Sunday night. There was much that troubled my dreams. They were crowded with frightening images of both the living and the dead. I woke with a jolt when a piece of machinery, all flashing metal parts and leather belts, rose out of the huddle of images and tore Arthur’s arm from his shoulder and dragged him screaming into its whirring, clunking centre. It was 4.00 am, and I was so uncomfortably sticky with sweat that I got up, put on a pair of shorts, and went downstairs to get a drink. I didn’t want to use the bathroom because the noisy taps might wake someone. I was in the kitchen when I heard the scraping of a chair in the dining room. Someone had knocked against it in the darkness. Whoever it was, he was waiting to see if anybody had heard the noise, and only someone who shouldn’t be in the George at four in the morning would be worried about that. Had Flint stepped out of my dreams — for he was one of the phantasms who harried me — and into the dining room?

  Feeling slightly ridiculous — a condition I was becoming inured to — I crouched beneath the preparation table in the centre of the kitchen. The door opened and the figure, with carefully measured step, crossed to the sink. He moved with the certainty of someone who knew his way about. It wasn’t Flint or a stranger after all, but I wasn’t about to startle him by jumping out from where I had been hiding. He washed his hands as quietly as he could. He did not turn the taps on fully. He then bent and washed his face, at least that was what I assumed he was doing. From where I was crouching I could see only his lower body. As soon as he had left the kitchen, I followed him as he disappeared upstairs to the bedrooms. I couldn’t tell who it was. His stealth seemed odd to me, and where had he come from at that hour? It might have been Adrian returning from a night’s tomcatting, but he had never been too particular about disguising his nocturnal missions. I was used to him returning noisily at all hours. By the time I made it to the third floor, whoever it was had gone, and there were no lights showing under any door.

  I slept fitfully for two more hours, gave up the struggle at 6.30, and rose, shaved, and dressed. But if I’d known how this day was going to end, I would have stayed in bed with the covers pulled up over my head.

  Chapter Ten

  betrayal

  THE DAY OF CHARLOTTE’S FUND-RAISER was overcast. It was warm and oppressively humid. After our final rehearsal we drove to Witherburn an hour before the event was due to start. We wanted to mark out the space in which we would be performing. As Annie turned into the driveway, Adrian let out a whistle of admiration.

  ‘I’m beginning to see what you see in Charlotte Witherburn.’

  I was never offended by things that Adrian said, and I didn’t challenge the crassness of this remark. Bitchiness was as natural to him as breathing, and it didn’t rankle in the way that Henty’s surliness did.

  Our performance space was a large army tent which had been set up on the side lawn. There were several staff, none of whom I recognised, hurrying to and fro. Perhaps they had been hired for the occasion. There were also several stalls, behind which people were busily adding final touches. As Annie cut the engine, Charlotte appeared on the verandah of the house. She was wearing the uniform of the Red Cross, and even from a distance her nervousness was obvious. I hurried up the steps to reassure her that Saturday evening’s fiasco was of no consequence and that it would not affect our performance in any way. She smiled grimly at me and said, ‘It was ghastly, wasn’t it? I’m so sorry. I had no choice. Really, I had no choice. He said that if I didn’t go with him, he’d …’ Her voice broke, and a shaking hand flew to her mouth.

  ‘Of course you had no choice’, I said. ‘I don’t blame you.’

  I was aware that the troupe were watching us, and I took Charlotte’s arm and led her into the house.

  ‘Where is he?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s not here. I don’t think I could go through with this if he were here. He came in late last night. He tried my door, but I’d locked it. He was drunk, but not drunk enough to force himself in, not this time. He cursed at me and went to his room. This morning he was gone. He always said he wasn’t going to waste his time coming to this.’

  I kissed her. So agitated was she that her automatic response was to pull away. I did not press myself on her, but reached out and took her hand. She allowed this.

  ‘It will all be fine
,’ I said. ‘We’re ready to perform, the garden looks lovely, Tibald has brought a few treats, and you …’ I moved closer. ‘You’re very beautiful.’

  She smiled, but it was like the smile she had worn on the first day I had met her. There was nothing joyful in her eyes.

  ‘I should check that everything’s ready,’ she said, and withdrew her hand.

  A small, canvas cubicle had been set up at the back of the tent. This was to be our changing room. Inside the tent, chairs had been placed in serried rows. It was already hot and stuffy under the canvas, with a strong smell of calico and grass. At the front of the tent a small dais had been erected. I began to feel the flutter of nerves I always feel before taking the stage.

  We had decided to wear costumes for this performance. It took little extra effort and made a better impression than mufti. I was wearing a simple Roman tunic, gathered at the waist with a leather cincture, and Roman sandals, cross-laced around my calves. When we had all changed, we stayed in the dressing-room. We were to be the opening attraction at 11.00 am. After this, people were to circulate and purchase items from various stalls or have their fortune told by someone called Madam Anastasia.

  As curtain time approached, the murmurs from the gathering audience grew louder. The tent was filling up. Perhaps I had been wrong about the people of Maryborough. They were obviously starved of culture, and this augured well for our production of Titus Andronicus. Bill Henty, who was wearing a brocaded robe (which I had worn in a memorable production of King Lear) and a paste crown, could not resist the opportunity to make one last, grubby remark before the curtain went up, as it were.

  ‘They’re here,’ he said, ‘for the same reason they’d gawk at a train crash. Don’t kid yourself that they’ve suddenly developed a passion for Shakespeare. They want to get a good look at soup man.’