Peter Corris: The Marvellous Boy

‘I read about it. Why wait until now to do something about this? Have you been in touch with Brain again?’ I added, hoping.

‘No, he never troubled us again. He was too addled to follow a fixed purpose. I suppose he just took it into his diseased brain to batten on to us and gave up when the approach failed. I’ve had time to mull this over, Mr Hardy. My daughter is like a stranger to me. I’m sure I’m doing the right thing. I want that man found and restored to his rightful place in the world.’

‘What if Brain was right… what if he’s… unsuitable?’

‘I pray that it won’t be so. He may be a man of distinction in his own right. It will take delicate handling, Mr Hardy.’ The idea of her scheme succeeding took hold of her and shone in her eyes. ‘I’ll pay you anything you like, a hundred dollars a day. Just find my grandson.’

‘That won’t be necessary. A hundred a day would warp my style. Seventy-five is fine. It’s an intriguing case and I’ll take it but you have to be aware of the problems.’

She sat back, tired by her outburst and regretting the slip of control.

‘And they are?’

‘Basically three. One, Brain may have been lying and there is no grandson, never was. Two, there may have been a child and it could have died. Three, if there was a child it may be impossible to trace. Thirty years is a long time and the trail this end is cold by two years. Brain is the obvious starting point and if he was as far gone as you say, he could be dead by now.’

‘I accept those hurdles. I have faith that they can be overcome.’

She was used to getting her own way and I could only hope that her luck would hold. Her luck would be my luck. If the thing fizzled, two weeks on those rates would be a thousand plus change. Handy. Besides, I fancied working for the aristocracy, it’d give me something to put in my memoirs. That train of thought led me back to the judge and his daughter.

‘I’ll need a number of details, Lady Catherine. Your daughter’s name and address, information on everybody in this house.’

She was displeased. She grunted. Suddenly I wanted the case and the thousand, bad. I went on quickly. ‘I’ll need as many descriptions of Brain as I can gather, others may recall different details. By the way, does anyone other than you know about his claim to have had a son?’

‘No one.’

‘Not Miss Reid?’

‘Certainly not, I sent her away when I recognised Henry.’

‘Who else could have seen him then?’

‘I really couldn’t say. I have no staff now apart from Verna.’

She sounded like Bob Menzies lamenting the Empire.

‘Sir Clive had… expensive tastes and there is not a great deal of money left. But there are possibilities. The right man could revive our fortunes.’

It was sounding thinner, more fantastic. I felt less sure about my expenses but you have to give of your best.

‘Did you have any staff then — when Brain was here?’

She tilted her head back as if it took a physical effort to recall details of menials. ‘There may have been a chauffeur then. Yes, I think there was.’

‘Would you have some sort of record on him?’

‘Verna would. She should be back soon.’

She said it as if she hoped so; I wondered about their relationship. I also wondered about the Judge’s tastes. I asked for a description of Henry Brain.

He was a tall, thin man she said, but stooped over. His hair was grey and sparse and he was almost toothless. She said that the only sign that he had once been a gentleman was his hands — they were clean and well kept. His clothes sounded like cast-offs.

‘Did he tell you what he’d been doing in the past twenty-odd years?’

She paused. ‘I think he said he’d travelled. I don’t recall distinctly. It was easy to see what he’d been doing — drinking. My guess is that he’d been in and out of jail.’

‘That could be important. Any evidence?’

She shook her old head, no. But it hadn’t stopped her saying it. Her husband had sent enough men inside in his time, perhaps she had an instinct about it.

‘He didn’t tell you where he lived?’

She shook her head.

‘No. But I believe you should look for him on skid row.’

Her hands flew up to her mouth too late to stop the incongruous words. They were totally out of place for a woman so careful in her speech, so mindful to avoid the lurid. They suggested that she could be a closet television watcher and that raised another problem for me — this whole thing could be a bloody fantasy. The moment was awkward and then we were both startled by the sound of a voice screaming. ‘No!’ and the sound of a door crashing closed. Lady C brushed a scone crumb from her dress.

‘Verna,’ she said wearily. ‘Fraught as usual. Go and see her and get what you need, Mr Hardy. It will give me a respite.’

I got up, said something vague about reporting to her and went out.

The passage outside the room had a big window with a view of the drive up to the house. I took a look and saw a blue car shooting down the gravel; it skidded around a bend in the drive and took off through the gates as if someone was out there with a chequered flag.

I found Miss Reid two turns down the passageway. She was leaning against the wall breathing heavily. Her fists were clenched and a few wisps of hair had escaped from her bun. I told her what I wanted, got a short nod and she set off down the passageway which ended at a heavy oak door. I caught up with her and stood close while she unlocked the door. Years of training and field research paid off — her breath smelled of gin.

The room was small with a desk, a straight chair, an easy chair and a couple of filing cabinets. Without speaking she took a cheque book from a drawer in the desk and a pen from a set precisely lined up with the desk blotter. She wrote out a cheque and handed it to me.

‘Thanks. Do you sign all her cheques, Miss Reid?’

‘Yes,’ she snapped. ‘For the household and the estate.’

I folded the cheque and put it in my pocket, it restored my confidence; she didn’t look like the sort of woman who wrote rubber cheques.

‘Good bit of that is there? Estate I mean.’

She bit on the end of the pen and then pulled it away, almost spitting the words out. ‘I sized you up in one look. You’re going to trade on this poor old fool’s weakness and bleed her for whatever you can.’ She threw down the pen. ‘You make me sick.’

‘I didn’t see too much weakness.’

‘You wouldn’t, you’re too stupid. She’s batty.’ She got up, opened the biggest filing cabinet and riffled through until she came upon a single sheet of paper. ‘Get out your notebook, detective,’ she said.

I did and wrote what she read out to me — ‘Albert Logan, 31 View Street, Leichhardt.’ She put the paper back and slammed the drawer home. She stood with her back to the cabinet, tight and hostile, still breathing hard and wafting a little gin across to me. She was like no paid companion I’d ever seen; that sort of job dries people out. Being paid for their responses and emotions erodes their personalities, turns them into husks. She was well and truly living and breathing. Her clothes were severe on her lean frame but they suited her. She obviously knew things, had opinions, but there was no way to make her an ally.

I dropped into the easy chair and took out tobacco and papers. She started to protest but I gave her a hard look and she subsided. She sat down behind the desk, scornful again, and watched me get a cigarette going, flip the dead match into a waste paper basket and dirty the air.

‘It’d all be easier with your co-operation,’ I said.

She gave a short laugh. ‘Why should I make it easier for you to snoop on me?’