Good Murder (29 page)

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.’

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?’