Angel (27 page)

“She paid everything in cash,” said Klaus, who looked winded.

The last thing we tackled-we had to go through the front room to get there-was the little cupboard outside on the balcony where she kept her Glass and her cards and her heavenly spheres. They were all it contained, not one thing more. We riffled through the ephemeris, examined every horoscope sheet, turned it over, held it up to the light-we even took the tarot deck apart card by card. No birth certificate, no will, nothing.

“All right, let’s put it all back.” I sighed.

But Pappy gasped, grabbed my arm urgently. “No, Harriet, no! Don’t do that! Take it all downstairs and hide it in your flat.”

I stared at her as if she’d gone mad. “I can’t do that!” I said. “These belonged to her, they’re part of her estate. The Glass is immensely valuableshe said if she sold it, she’d be able to buy the Hotel Australia.”

Toby saw what I didn’t. “Pappy’s right, take them.”

I said no, he growled in exasperation at my stupidity.

“Don’t be a fool, Harriet! Use your head! The first people likely to inspect these premises will be from the Child Welfare, and what do you think they’re going to say when they find this stuff? Especially with all those bank books.

If you want custody of Flo, then her lifeand her mother’s life!-must look as ordinary and humdrum as possible. We can’t stop them thinking the old girl was eccentric, but for God’s sake, Harriet, don’t hand them ammunition like this!”

We piled the occult paraphernalia into another carton and we fled down the stairs to my flat at a gallop, terrified that we’d hear the door bell ring.

But it didn’t ring until five o’clock, which seemed an odd hour for the Child Welfare to arrive. I left Klaus busy at my stove cooking us a meal and went to answer it-we’d locked the front door yesterday, and now we kept it locked.

Duncan Forsythe was standing on the verandah.

“I won’t come in,” he said. “My wife is waiting in the „

car.

He looked even worse than he had at Chris Hamilton’s wedding-thin and bent, defeated. His hair had hardly any red left in it, but he hadn’t salt-andpeppered. Broad streaks of white were mixed in with streaks of grey, very striking. His eyes were exhausted, but they gazed at me with such love that my heart twisted.

I peered over his shoulder and saw the Jaguar sitting within our cul-de-sac with its nose pointed at the kerb right where the Missus could watch everything that happened on 17c’s verandah. Taking no chances, the Missus.

“Your wife received a letter written in copperplate on very expensive paper,”

I said. “It told her that you were in the grasp of a whore-a vulgar, common trollop not fit to live in this world but not fit to enter the next. Its dates were inaccurate, and it implied that we were still seeing each other.”

“Yes, exactly,” he said without surprise. “It came in this morning’s post.”

“Further to go,” I said. “The one to my father got to Bronte on New Year’s Eve.”

That did hurt him, he drew a long breath. “Oh. Harriet, my dear! I’m so sorry!”

Oh, how much had happened! I seemed to look at him through a network of strands of pain and worry I hadn’t felt until I saw him there, yet none of the strands was

pain belonging to him, worry on his account. I had moved on to some other place, and, looking at him, I wondered if I could ever return to what had been our place. Before murder. Before they had taken my angel puss away to die.

So I answered him coolly. “Well, Duncan, if it’s any sort of consolation, there won’t be any more of these letters. Harold wrote them, and Harold’s dead. Now I only have to wonder if old Sister Agatha got one.”

“I am afraid she did. She phoned me this morning.”

I shrugged. “Too bad. What can she do? Sack me? Not in this day and age, she can’t. The worst she can do is take me off Cas and put me on routine chests, but I don’t think she’s that stupid. I’m too good at my job to waste on routine chests.”

He was staring at me as if I was as different from the old Harriet Purcell as I felt inside me. I put my hand on his arm and patted it, making sure that the Missus could see. “Duncan, you didn’t have to come and see me, truly. I am all right.”

“Cathy insisted,” he said, looking hunted. “I am to tell you that she’ll ignore our affair and will support both of us by denying the story to anybody who gets one of these letters.”

Crikey, what a cheek the woman had! My detachment evaporated as I felt the anger mounting. How dare she patronise him! How dare she patronise me!

As if her sayso has the power to render anything insignificant! “Big of her,” I said. “Mighty big of her.” Growl, roar, snarl, out with the claws!

“I’ve given her my word that I’ll never speak to you again.”

That was the last straw. I butted Duncan aside with the point of my shoulder and strode to the car, grabbed the passenger’s door handle and had the door open before the Missus could find the lock. I reached in, fastened my hand in a French couture shoulder pad, and yanked Mrs. Duncan Forsythe out of her seat, onto the pavement. Then I backed her against the railings of 17c and towered over her-why do tall men always marry women with duck’s disease? She was terrified! It just hadn’t occurred to her that in forcing Duncan to come here with her riding shotgun, she’d meet Jesse James.

“Listen, you,” I snarled, my face inches from hers, “stay out of my life!

How dare you patronise me! If you’d done your duty and given your husband a bit of nooky occasionally, he wouldn’t have strayed. You’re only in it for the meal ticket, but you don’t pay your debts. I do, and this is a debt I owe your husband for being a decent man and a wonderful lover! It isn’t his fault that you’ve cut his balls off, but you leave him alone, hear me?”

She was gobbling, her face scarlet, her eyes starting out of her head, and by now Madame Toccata was standing on 17b’s balcony, and Madame Fugue and Chastity on 17d’s balcony, cheering me on.

Duncan had moved onto the pavement, but not to rescue his wife. He leaned against the railings, crossed his ankles, folded his arms and grinned.

“Mind your own business, you silly bitch!” I yelled as I dragged her back to the car. “If you want to be Lady Forsythe one day, then shut your mouth and wear me along with Balenciaga, you skinny little clothes horse!” And I threw her in.

Duncan stood howling with laughter while the Missus huddled in the jag’s passenger seat and cried into her lace hanky.

“Knockout in the first round,” he said, wiping his eyes on his own hanky.

“God, I love you!”

“And I you,” I said, touching his face. “I don’t know why, but I do. There’s a lot of strength and courage in you, Duncan, there has to be to cope with life and death, maiming and disease. But when it comes to personal relationships, you’re a coward. Be everything you can be, and the hell with what other people think. Now take the Missus home.”

“May I see you again?” he asked, suddenly back the way he had been that night when we came in from Victoria Street, lit up from within, crackling with life.

“Not now, not for God knows how much time to come,” I said. “Harold murdered Mrs. Delvecchio Schwartz on New Year’s Day, then killed himself.

And I have to keep my nose clean because I’m going to apply for custody of Flo.”

Of course he was shocked, horrified, sympathetic, eager to help, but I could see that he didn’t understand why I wanted Flo.

Never mind. He still loves me, and that’s an enormous comfort.

Work today. Brave words to Duncan and all, I can’t afford to lose my job. If I can hire some kind soul to look after Flo while I work, between what’s left of my salary and the rents of The House, the pair of us ought to be able to liveterrible word!-respectably if not luxuriously. At five, she’s school age, but what school would take her? I’d have to enquire about special schools, but I’ve never heard of any in the State system, at any rate. And how would Flo survive in a special school, surrounded by retarded or spastic children? There is nothing wrong with her, but she’s like that plant which closes up when its leaves are touched. Yes, there’s the Spastic Centre at Mosman, it’s got a terrific reputation, but would Flo qualify? She’s not spastic, she’s just a mute.

All questions for the future, when I’d been granted custody of Flo. In the meantime, I had to keep my job and its male charge pay, save as much as I possibly could. If the Public Trustee isn’t cooperative-and what public institution ever is?-Flo and I might not even be able to live at 17c, let alone utilise its rents. No birth

certificate, no marriage certificate. She had Flo at home on the dunny floor, not in a hospital maternity ward. There’s no point speculating. All I can do is wait.

Sister Agatha carpeted me at nine o’clock this morning, sent a replacement technician to cover my absence. Serious, very serious.

“Do you realise the extent of the inconvenience you caused yesterday, Miss Purcell?” Sister Agatha demanded. “You telephone at ten minutes to six in the morning-ten minutes before you are due on duty!-to say you won’t be in. And do you tender a reason? No, you do not. You hang up in Miss Barker’s ear.”

I stared into the cold blue eyes with this odd vision of the dancing Sister Agatha imposed upon the icicle in the chair, but I couldn’t fuse them together no matter how I tried. And of course she was the recipient of a letter from Harold, which wasn’t going to help. But it did give me an idea. I knew perfectly well that to explain about Mrs. Delvecchio Schwartz, Harold and Flo would only turn her more against me-respectable women didn’t get themselves embroiled in murders and their consequences.

“I am very sorry, Sister Toppingham,” I said, “but I was too upset to think logically yesterday morning. This is an embarrassing subject, but I think you will have to know.” Embroider, Harriet, lie when you have to. Flo is worth a million lies. “My father received an anonymous letter which accused me of having an affair with Mr. Duncan Forsythe. It is, of course, nonsense. But you must see that

it completely destroyed my day. My father demanded my presence at home, and I had to go.”

“Hmmmf,” she said, and paused. “And did you clear this most disturbing business up, Miss Purcell?”

“With the help of Mrs. Duncan Forsythe, Sister, yes, I did.”

Cunning old bitch, she wasn’t about to tell me that she was already in the know. Mentioning the Missus did the trick, however. “Your apology is accepted, Miss Purcell. You may go.”

I lingered. “Sister, there is one unfortunate consequence of this frightful matter. Um, it appears that there will be legal enquiries, so I may have to leave work at something close to my official knocking off time on some afternoons over the next few weeks. I assure you that I will endeavour to make any appointments as late in the day as possible, but I will have to knock off in time to be where I’m supposed to be.”

She didn’t like that, but she understood it. No hospital department head ever enjoys being reminded that the staff work a lot of unpaid overtime. “You may keep such appointments, Miss Purcell, provided that you notify me on the relevant days.”

“Yes, Sister, thank you, Sister,” I said, and escaped. Not too bad, all considered. Oh, why isn’t Royal Queens one of those hospitals like Vinnie’s and R.P A. that never has a quiet weekend? If I were rostered for weekends, I’d have whole days during the working week to do what has to be done. Between Ryde and Queens, I hadn’t picked my places of work very well.

Thursday, January 5th, 1961 Joe the Q.C. has given me the name of a law firm specialising in children’s work. Partington, Pilkington, Purblind and Hush, in Bridge Street. Straight out of Charles Dickens, but she assures me that there are heaps of Dickensian-sounding law firms, it’s a part of legal tradition and most of the partners listed in a firm’s title have been dead for a thousand years if they ever existed at all. My pick is Mr. Purblind, but I’m to see Mr. Hush next Monday at four o’clock.

I still can’t get any sense out of the Child Welfare, who keep on refusing to tell me where Flo is. She’s well, she’s happy, she’s this and she’s that, but if she’s in Yasmar they won’t admit it. The inquest on Harold and Mrs. Delvecchio Schwartz has been set for Wednesday of next week, so I’ll have to think of a brilliant reason why I might need the whole day off. All of us in The House are obliged to attend and answer questions if we’re called, though Norm tells me that the Boys in Blue haven’t found hide nor hair of Chikker and Marge from the front ground floor flat. Fled interstate is the theory, which means that they might not have been on the game, but they were up to something. Trouble is that without fingerprints, no one knows exactly who they are. Possibly bank robbers. I think they are just seedy people who don’t trust The Law.

Something very strange happened last night at about ten past three. We were all in, and all asleep. I was woken by the sound of heavy footsteps thumping down the hall

from upstairs, for all the world like Mrs. Delvecchio Schwartz doing a small hours patrol. No one else walks like that! Even The House, a stout old Victorian terrace, used to shake when she walked. But Mrs. Delvecchio Schwartz is dead, I saw her dead, and I know that right now the poor creature is lying in a morgue drawer. Yet she was walking upstairs! Then came the rumble of her laugh, not the hur-hur-hur, the ha-ha-ha. My hair went straight for the first time in its life.

The next thing they were all clustered at my door. Klaus was beside himself, weeping and moaning, so was Bob. Jim was trying to brave it out, and Toby’s face was white. So was mine, not easy for people with dark-tan skin.

I brought them inside and tried to settle them in my chairs, but they twitched, jumped, shivered. So did I. Only Pappy wasn’t scared witless. “She’s here with us,” she said, eyes shining. “I knew she’d never desert The House.”

“Rubbish!” Toby snapped.

“No, whatever it is, it’s real,” I said. “We were all sound asleep, and it woke us up.”

I put the kettle on, made some tea, and put a stiff dollop of brandy in every mug. Vows never to touch the stuff again are not proof against Mrs. Delvecchio Schwartz.