Good Murder

by Robert Gott

  I didn’t have time to reply. The crowd on the other side of the canvas had fallen silent. We could hear Charlotte’s voice welcoming them and outlining the day’s events. It was brave of her to face those gossipy matrons. She had more class than the lot of them combined. If she could stand unashamed before them, I would have no difficulty doing the same. Whatever their reasons for coming, I would give them a performance that would make them forget their tawdry voyeurism. They might begin by looking at William Power, but they would end by listening to Coriolanus. I took a deep breath and listened for Charlotte’s cue.

  ‘I would now like to welcome the Power Players.’

  As soon as these words were spoken I thrust aside a flap of canvas and leapt nimbly onto the dais. I saw Charlotte leave the tent, but I didn’t have time to wonder why she wasn’t staying. Many in the audience were fanning themselves, and several were whispering behind their hands. I ran my eye over them, gathering the contempt I needed for the opening lines of my Coriolanus tirade. I raised my hand and described an arc over them, before curling my lips in readiness. I got no further than ‘All the contagion of the south …’ when a woman entered from the front of the tent, shouting hysterically and pointing behind her. She then did the most extraordinary thing. She stood stock still, rigid, with both hands clenched at her sides, and simply screamed and screamed. The effect was most disconcerting and seemed to be contagious. Almost immediately, another woman began screaming in sympathy. Fortunately, before the whole room erupted, a soldier appeared, placed his hands on the woman’s shoulders, and span her round. The action subdued her, and her noisy sympathiser fell silent, too.

  ‘In the toilet,’ she stuttered, ‘in the toilet.’

  Her hysteria began to climb back to its initial pitch; but, instead of screaming now, she yelled, ‘In the toilet! In the toilet! In the toilet!’

  Many in the audience were shocked to hear the word ‘toilet’ used so publicly, and this delayed their understanding that she had seen a dreadful thing there.

  The rest of the troupe came into the tent, anxious to see what the disturbance was, and we found ourselves carried along with a crowd of people heading off to the toilets in question. Witherburn was fully sewered (Augie had told me that the decision to sewer the town had been taken over the heads of the populace, who had voted against it when it had first been mooted); but, as Charlotte had not wanted hordes of people traipsing through the house, the ancient, backyard privy had been recommissioned and, beside it, two temporary toilets erected. They were unoccupied, as their open doors attested. The door of the permanent structure was slightly ajar, and onlookers formed a semi-circle around it. The soldier who had subdued the hysterical woman said, ‘Stand back,’ and approached the toilet cautiously. I pushed my way to the front so that I had a clear view when the soldier gave the door a gentle shove.

  It opened to reveal Harry Witherburn, seated on the can, stark naked, pop-eyed, and very, very dead. His skin, and there was lots of it, was mottled and extravagantly befurred. His eyes were starting out of his head in an ugly parody of surprise. Perhaps the most extraordinary feature was his mouth, which was open and stuffed with paper rolled into balls and crammed between his teeth. Lying across one flabby flank was the open cover of a book. I recognised it immediately as my copy of Coriolanus. All of its pages were missing. I knew intuitively that at least some of them were in Harry Witherburn’s mouth.

  The sight of Harry, even more physically repellent — if that were possible — in death than in life, caused a few squeals and gasps, and one woman fell with a thud into a faint. My first thoughts were for Charlotte. I didn’t for a second believe that she was in any way implicated in this. Although she had, in desperation, wished him dead, a woman of her sensibility would not have been capable of this brutal, squalid murder. I left the gawkers and went in search of her. She was her in her bedroom, sitting in the dark, in an armchair, her head resting in the splayed fingers of one hand.

  ‘Charlotte,’ I said quietly.

  She looked up.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I have a dreadful headache. I get them sometimes.’

  Her voice was strained, but calm.

  ‘Why aren’t you performing?’ she asked. ‘What’s wrong?’

  I had been the first to reach her.

  ‘Something terrible has happened,’ I said.

  ‘What?’ she asked quietly, so quietly I could hardly hear her.

  ‘It’s Harry.’

  ‘What has he done?’ she cried, and leapt to her feet. ‘What has he done?’

  I put my free arm around her.

  ‘No. No, Charlotte. Listen to me. Harry hasn’t done anything. Harry is dead.’

  She pulled away, and now that my eyes had adjusted to the gloom I saw that one of the confusion of emotions that crossed her face was joy. It was fleeting, but she could not disguise it. She took my face in her hands and kissed me gently on the mouth.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

  It took me a moment to register her meaning, but before I could disabuse her of this extraordinary error the door to the bedroom flew open, and Detective Sergeant Conroy, with two constables, entered. My wrist was grabbed and brought roughly down behind my back, where it was pinched into a handcuff, the other cuff being clipped around the leather cincture at my waist.

  ‘William Power,’ said Conroy, his eyes aquiver, ‘I’m arresting you on suspicion of having murdered Harry Witherburn.’

  As if this wasn’t sufficiently surprising, he then slapped my face with his open hand, so sharply that my ears rang.

  ‘It’s all over, you prick,’ he said.

  Charlotte said nothing.

  I had not been aware, until I was sitting in it, that the police had a vehicle. I had only seen them on foot, or on bicycle. It was a sort of Black Maria, and the back smelled like a lavatory into which an indeterminate number of drunks had vomited. Fortunately, the trip to the police station was a short one. On the way there I bristled at the memory of Conroy parading me through the crowd in Charlotte’s garden. I didn’t get the opportunity to speak to the troupe, who I saw in the distance, open-mouthed. I felt ridiculous in my Roman tunic.

  At the station I was dealt with in a whirlwind of sudden efficiency. Very little was said, and I was dispatched to the cells with such speed that I thought several laws must have been broken in the process. I was in shock, I think, and I allowed myself to be carried along without protest, even though every fibre of my being was experiencing profound outrage. I was overwhelmed and helpless.

  ‘I want a lawyer,’ were the only words I squeezed out, and as soon as I’d said them I realised they sounded almost like a confession.

  ‘You’ll need more than a fucking lawyer,’ said Conroy. ‘You’ll need a fucking miracle.’

  When the door of the cell had been closed and locked, I discovered that I was shaking uncontrollably. I sat on the edge of one of the narrow beds — there were three in the small cell. Joe Drummond must have sat in this very spot just a few days previously. It felt like it might have been a lifetime ago. As soon as this misunderstanding was cleared up I would do something about the blow that Conroy had struck. He had been foolish enough to hit me before witnesses, and I would press charges the minute I was set free. I would not accept a pusillanimous apology. The full satisfaction that the law allowed would be mine to enjoy.

  In a remarkably short space of time I had calmed down. I was not in any danger, and it wasn’t as if I would be required to stay in the cell overnight. I couldn’t see myself using the malodorous can that was the cell’s toilet. It was three hours before impatience got the better of me, and I began shouting through the cell door. Eventually my shouts attracted the attention of the slow-moving, slow-witted dolt who had been my escort in what was looking increasingly like a former life. It was, in fact, only two weeks before that
I had been summoned from Wright’s Hall to an interview with Conroy. Then, I had considered him — the dolt, not Conroy — pleasant, undemanding, and enviably content. As he lumbered towards the cells, I thought him wilfully stupid, almost to the point of being seriously retarded. He peered through the peephole and asked, ‘What’s up?’

  ‘You can’t keep me locked up like this,’ I said. ‘I haven’t done anything. Where’s Conroy? Where’s Topaz?’

  ‘My understanding,’ he said slowly, ‘is that Detective Sergeant Conroy has a reasonable suspicion that you’ve been on a bit of a killing spree. Now, I don’t know what I think about that, and what I think doesn’t matter anyhow. But if I were you, I’d shut up just at the minute, because if you don’t, you’ll find out what the inside of that dunny can looks like.’

  He looked me up and down. ‘So, if that’s all, I’ll get back to the desk. Nice skirt, by the way.’ Here he inserted a dramatic little pause, before tipping his cap and saying, ‘Ma’am.’

  This brief, ugly exchange made me think that he was not as dull-witted as he appeared. Everyone around me was assuming a dangerous alter-ego. The world is a sorry place when you can no longer rely on the stupidity of others.

  I waited two more hours before I was taken from the cell and placed in the interview room. Conroy entered a few moments later, accompanied by Peter Topaz, who did not meet my eye. A thin, pallid man, so bland in appearance that he almost merged with the wall behind him, sat off to one side, a notebook at the ready. Conroy sat opposite me, emanating self-satisfaction.

  ‘Lovely outfit,’ he said, and quickly indicated to the amanuensis that he was not to begin writing yet.

  ‘I want a lawyer,’ I said.

  ‘You’ll get one. This interview is just to formally charge you with the murder of Harry Witherburn.’

  ‘On what evidence?’

  ‘Well, now, it seems poor Harry was strangled with a cord, and then pages from a book were stuffed into his mouth and pushed down his throat — way down into the oesophagus. It must have taken quite some effort.’

  I was suddenly aware that my bladder was very full, and I wished that I had used the can in the cell before the interview had begun. Conroy continued.

  ‘Now, Harry wasn’t a big reader, it turns out, and the book wasn’t one of his. It was a play. Shakespeare.’

  ‘I agree that narrows down the list of suspects in this town,’ I said.

  ‘Like I said, it was a play.’

  He snapped his fingers, trying to recall its title, and turned to Topaz.

  ‘Coriolanus,’ Topaz said, and this time he met my eye.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Conroy. ‘Coriolanus. Never heard of it. Worth reading, is it?’

  ‘Might be a bit ambitious for you,’ I said, and I felt quite pleased that my demeanour was not betraying my quaking insides.

  ‘Maybe I could borrow your copy. You do own a copy?’

  ‘Yes, of course I do.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘In my room, I suppose, or maybe the truck. I haven’t seen it for a while.’

  He let that sit a moment.

  ‘But it was a piece from Coriolanus that you were about to perform at the Witherburn’s, wasn’t it? Or have I got that wrong? Peter?’

  Topaz said flatly, ‘According to the other actors, it was a piece from Coriolanus, yes.’

  ‘So,’ said Conroy, ‘I presume you used your copy to bone up on the part.’

  ‘Naturally. So?’

  ‘So what is your copy of Coriolanus doing down Harry Witherburn’s throat and up his arse?’

  He took great pleasure in delivering this little coup de théâtre.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘A preliminary autopsy has revealed that many of the pages of the play were rammed up Harry’s rectum, probably with a broom handle. It’s difficult to say whether this was done before or after he was dead. Perhaps you could clear that up for us?’

  I then foolishly asked the question Conroy had been waiting for.

  ‘What makes you think that copy has anything to do with me?’

  He smiled.

  ‘Right at the top of the rectum, like it was the very first page to go in, is a page with somebody’s name in the right-hand corner. Guess whose?’

  With an enormous act of control, I said, ‘So somebody used my copy of the play to violate Harry Witherburn. So what? Is this your evidence? Why would I be so stupid as to use a page with my name on it, knowing full well that it would be discovered?’

  ‘There are a couple of possible explanations,’ he said. ‘One of them is that you are in fact that stupid. Another is that it gave you a bit of a thrill to leave your calling card. I think a jury might buy either explanation, don’t you?’

  ‘You don’t have enough evidence to hold me or charge me. I insist that you release me.’

  ‘There is one other small piece of evidence,’ Conroy said, and the smugness in his voice suggested that whatever it was, he knew it was going to shut me down.

  ‘Charlotte Witherburn has told us that you told her you were going to kill her husband, and that you were going to do it last night. She didn’t believe you, but when her husband didn’t come home, she began to worry. She would have called us then, but it was late and she thought it was possible that Harry had got drunk somewhere, and she didn’t want to make a scene. When the body was found, you went straight to her and said …’

  He stopped here and pulled a notebook from his pocket. He flipped a few pages and continued:

  ‘… and said, “It’s over, Charlotte. I’ve done it. We’re free. I’ve got rid of Harry.”’

  He looked from his notebook to me. I couldn’t grasp what was happening. Conroy said, ‘Mrs Witherburn admitted that she had been having an affair with you, and that she had tried to break it off, but that you had become obsessed with the idea that, if Harry was out of the way, the two of you would live happily ever after, spending his money.’

  Conroy’s voice began to recede, and I felt suddenly very cold, despite the fact that the room was hot and close. Was he making this up, attempting to trap me into a confession? Were the police allowed to do this? I found my voice, although I barely recognised it when it emerged.

  ‘I don’t believe you. Charlotte would not say those things.’

  ‘Oh, she said them, and lots more besides, and she signed a statement.’

  He signalled to Topaz, who produced a typed sheet — the contents of which, when I ran my eye over it, were more or less identical to the words Conroy had spoken. At the bottom, with a confident flourish, was the signature of Charlotte Witherburn.

  So far, Peter Topaz had been silent. Now he spoke. ‘You’ll need a lawyer. When you’re returned to your cell, you’ll find your clothes there.’

  That was all he said, and his voice was carefully neutral.

  ‘I didn’t do this,’ I said weakly.

  ‘You might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb,’ Conroy said. ‘Figuratively speaking, of course. Why don’t you save us all a lot of trouble and confess to the murders of Polly Drummond and her mother, and tell us what you’ve done with, and to, Joe Drummond’s body?’

  The matter-of-factness with which he said this drained the last vestiges of resistance from my body, and I began to sob. I sobbed like a broken and guilty man. I sobbed like a man betrayed.

  On the short walk back to the cell I regained some of my composure. One thing was clear. I could not now afford to collapse or lose my grip. I had to suppress the overwhelming sense of abandonment that threatened to cripple me. Where was Arthur? Where was Annie? Where was anybody?

  I had not until now allowed myself to ponder the implications of Charlotte’s statement, except to assure myself that it must have been extracted under duress and amid
the general trauma of Harry’s death — or that it was a fiction, designed by Conroy to frighten a confession out of me. If I could speak to Charlotte, the hideous error could be corrected. The sight of me being taken away, handcuffed and humiliated, must have wrenched her heart. I could not, though, quite silence that unsettling ‘Thank you’ she had uttered.

  When the door was closed behind me, I saw that a change of clothes had been put on one of the beds. A few minutes later I was taken from the cell by a constable I did not recognise, and told that I was to be driven to the courthouse, where I would appear before a magistrate named Murray. There was no one in the courtroom when the charge of murdering Harry Witherburn was read out, despite the fact that the George was only a short walk away. I could not believe that Topaz hadn’t told them anything. They must all have decided that staying well away from me was the best policy. The police opposed bail, and the magistrate determined that I had a case to answer. All this was accomplished with expedition. I don’t think I have ever felt so completely alone as when I walked from the courthouse to the police van and looked up at the upper verandah of the George Hotel. My despair was mirrored in the sky. Great banks of roiling clouds had gathered, and the light had assumed the blue-grey depth it acquires before a storm. There was a strong smell of rain on the still air, and the trees outside the courthouse seemed to have curled in upon themselves in an instinctive, protective gesture against impending violence. That is how it seemed to me, although my vision of the world had been warped by the collapse of all my certainties.

  When we returned to the police station I was put into the interview room, rather than being taken directly to the cell. I was alone for a few minutes until Topaz entered. I had been standing, and he signalled that I should sit.

  ‘Conroy’s gone home,’ he said. ‘His wife’s sick.’

  ‘He has a wife?’ Even through the haze of my desperation, the idea that that repellent, quivering-eyed robot was married struck me as extraordinary.

  ‘Yes,’ Topaz said. ‘She’s frail. Always ill.’

  ‘I don’t have the energy to talk to you,’ I said.