The Grocers' Son: A Clyde Smith Mystery

By Garrick Jones

“I swear to God it was Willoughby. My brother stood not two feet away from me, called me Lina to my face, and pulled Harley into his arms, saying he was sorry, sobbing, and calling him his boy.”

An apparition in Sydney’s fruit and vegetable market leaves the mother of one of Clyde’s best friends believing that her brother, hanged for murder twenty-four years beforehand, has somehow risen from the grave and confronted her.

She is adamant that the visitation was real and visits Clyde asking him to investigate the mass murder her brother was supposed to have committed. She believes he was either set up or was covering for someone else’s crime.

Could this vision have been a folie à deux, a delusional vision shared by both mother or son? As Clyde investigates, clues lead him to one of Australia’s most famous silent screen actors, a man who, together with his murdered father, becomes intrinsically linked to the mass murder, known as The Killing at Candal Creek.

Wheels within wheels, lies, extortion, and coverups lead Clyde to a bloody confrontation on a deserted beach in the tropics. This time, it’s not only his own life at risk but also that of one of his most valued and closest friends.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Sep 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9781922912015

Garrick Jones

Garrick JonesFrom the outback to the opera. After a thirty year career as a professional opera singer, performing in opera houses and in concert halls all over the world, Garrick Jones took up a position as lecturer in music at the Central Queensland Conservatorium of Music in Australia.Brought up between the bush and the beaches of the Eastern suburbs, he now lives in the tropics in peaceful retirement.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Clyde?

Yes, Doctor?

You didn’t answer my question.

Which question was that? I’m sorry, I was wool-gathering.

Wool-gathering?

"It means sognare ad occhi aperti."

Ah! It’s an expression new to me, my psychiatrist said.

Dr. De Natalis had been recommended to me by my best pal, Billy Tancred. It was she who’d sorted out his post-war traumas—at least to the point that he could deal with them. I’d been coming to see her since the twenty-first of January to be precise—and today, on Monday the third of June, it was my twentieth session with the Italian-born headshrinker. She hated that term, so I only used it in my mind these days.

Wool-gathering makes me think of my da, I explained.

Your father was a daydreamer?

No, I replied with a smile. When he and his brother, Gawain, were youngsters in Wales, they used to forage in the hedgerows and wander along dry-stone-walled country lanes, collecting wisps of wool. There were always bits of fleece caught on bushes at the edges of the fields, from sheep being herded down the lanes, either from one field to another or on their way to market. His grandmother had been an expert spinner and weaver, so the strands of collected wool were always woven into something useful. While he and Gawain wandered along miles of tiny lanes and public footways, he’d hum to himself, mindlessly staring into the skies or over the fields and tell his brother of his dream of living somewhere else where life wasn’t quite so harsh and where they always had food on the table at every mealtime.

It’s an evocative picture, Clyde, but back to my question.

I’ve forgotten what it was, sorry.

Clyde Smith, you know who you’re talking to. You never forget anything unless there’s a reason for it.

I dropped my head for a moment, trying to evade her calm regard, but then gave up. I picked up my cigarettes from the table next to my chair and lit up. As usual, Dr. De Natalis refused my offer of a smoke. You asked me what I’d be feeling when I was standing next to Harry at the altar next weekend, I said. The words felt awkward in my mouth.

Yes, I did. Well …?

I hadn’t thought much about it to be honest. We’ve all been so busy getting ready for— The doctor cleared her throat and peered at me over the top of her spectacles, something she only did when she knew I was being purposely evasive. It’s unfair! I said, puffing angrily at my cigarette. Why the hell can’t Harry and I have some sort of official recognition of what we feel for each other? Why is it always us queers who have to suffer? Every straight man in the world can fall in love with his girl and get married in front of his friends. What’s so bloody wrong about us … My voice tailed off as I saw her slight smile and the glint in her eyes.

Clyde, I’m on your side in this argument and I do understand your anger. Did you know the Catholic church used to give blessings of friendship between members of the same sex right up until the fourteenth century? Perhaps, like everything else in history, the wheel will turn again and one day men and women who feel the same about each other as you and Harry do will be able to stand up proudly and solemnise their connection publicly?

With all due respect, Doctor, as we used to say in the army, ‘wish in one hand and piss in the other and see which one gets filled first’.

She chuckled then glanced at her wristwatch. We’re nearly out of time, Clyde. But before we finish, how about I propose a special task for you to do as housework until your next visit?

Housework?

"I’m not sure I have the right word in English. Call it work-to-do-at-home, if you wish. I think it’s clearer in Italian: compiti a casa."

"Homework is the word you’re looking for, Doctor. Housework is lavori di casa."

"Ah! Ora capisco, she said, scribbling quickly in the notebook she always had resting in her lap. Your homework is to think of a vow that you might be saying to Harry, were it you and he standing together at the altar on your own wedding day."

It would be nothing I haven’t already said to him in my mind a thousand times already, Doctor.

Why couldn’t you say those things out loud, Clyde? Tell Harry what you’ve been keeping locked up inside.

Because men just don’t say that stuff to each other. It’s not in our nature.

Then may I suggest another idea?

I sighed loudly then crossed my legs. I may just as well have crossed my arms, ready for a rebuke from her noting my physical action was a signal that I was becoming defensive.

You’re a writer, Clyde. I read your articles in the newspaper. You’re eloquent and you write from the heart. Why don’t you write a short story, set some time in the future, about two men exchanging solemn vows and have one of them saying the words that Harry needs to hear from you.

Then what? Leave it around for him to read?

Ah, Clyde Smith, Mr. Detective, well deduced.

I squirmed in my chair, feeling my face get hot. She could read me like a book.

*****

My regular ritual after leaving one of my sessions with Dr. De Natalis was to take the back stairs from her third-floor office in York Street then sit halfway down, a few steps above the second-floor landing, take off my hat, light a smoke, and either berate myself or wipe tears from my eyes.

I’d seldom let strong emotions show during our hour-long sessions, no matter how tough the subject matter we’d been discussing. Maybe one day I’d be able to, but for now, I was still locked into the way I’d been brought up—men were supposed to suffer in silence in the company of women. Today, I was grumpy, mainly because she’d somehow worked out that I’d been putting together fragile sentences in my mind to recite to myself during the wedding ceremony this coming Saturday, when Harry, Vince, and I—as best man—would be standing up for Tom at the altar of St. Jude’s Church in Randwick.

His had been such a whirlwind romance—getting married seven months after I’d first become aware of the blossoming connection between my personal assistant and Sandra Evans who worked in the employment agency below our office in Coogee. Still, during the war, men and women got hitched after knowing each other for weeks. Who was I to judge? How long had it taken Harry and me to fall into each other’s arms after first meeting? Sixty, seventy days? Typical Smith, I thought, rushing into suppositions about other people’s behaviours when I was just as guilty myself.

My smoke finished, I found I’d let a long ash accumulate at the end of the filter. Instead of smoking, I’d been preoccupied, allowing my eyes to rove over the tiny glints of the sandpaper-like, mica-covered stair treads. I was like that. I could fixate on something visual while processing thoughts and become unaware of the world around me.

Jamming my hat onto the back of my head with one hand, I used the other to put on my swish sunglasses as I walked out into the laneway behind the building in which Dr. Natalis had her rooms. Harry had bought them for my birthday last December and, today, the sun was bright in the sky in only the way it could be in Sydney near mid-winter. I’d parked my car in Erskine Street, two car spaces along from the entrance to the laneway. So, after lighting another cigarette, I headed along the alley, reading the theatre and cinema posters pasted on the bare brick walls on either side of the narrow passageway.

I stopped a few yards away from the end, smiling at the poster for Margot Fonteyn’s premiere at the Empire theatre a few weeks ago on the twenty-fifth of May, which I’d gone to at the last moment, invited to accompany Harry’s mother, Mary. Harry had been away that Saturday and his father, feeling unwell, had bowed out at the last minute, so I’d dusted off my best tuxedo. We’d even had our photo snapped by one of the social pages’ photographers. It had been published in the Mirror and captioned: Mr. Clyde Smith and Mrs. Arnold Jones enjoying a drink on the stairs.

Clyde! I was vaguely aware that someone seemed to be calling my name. Clyde! Someone gripped my elbow.

Harley? I was surprised but delighted to see him. Harley Yaxley was one of the three blokes I’d been seeing before I met Harry.

Gidday, Clyde. Sorry to ambush you, but Harry told me you’d be here about a quarter past the hour.

Did he then?

Sorry to turn up like this, but we need your help.

We? What do you mean, we? Everything all right with you and Craig?

Craig was my oldest friend. We grew up together and he owned the men’s sea baths at the north end of Coogee beach, not far from where I lived. Harley had moved in with him late last year. Odd that two of the former men I’d slept with had got together because I’d closed the gates on them after Harry and I had become an item. Even so, I couldn’t have been more pleased. They were both terrific blokes and I still really cared for them.

No, Clyde. Craig’s fine. It’s … family stuff. Mum wants to know if you could come for Sunday lunch this week. I know it’s the day after Tom’s wedding, but …

The slight misting of his eyes and the way his voice trailed off made me aware that if he’d come into the city to ambush me something was really wrong—and urgent. My office was two blocks from the shop his parents owned and in which he worked. I glanced down the laneway, then sure no one was watching, hauled him into a door recess and hugged him. Are you all right, Harley?

He began to sniffle into my shoulder, but before I could say another word, he pulled himself away, wiping his nose on his jacket sleeve, his eyes red with unshed tears. Sunday, Clyde. Twelve o’clock, please. Just you. I’m sorry, no Harry. But it’s important. He turned on his heel and trotted off, quickly disappearing from view as he turned the corner into Erskine Street.

Sunday was almost a week away. Why give me so much notice and why come all the way into town? Why didn’t he or his parents simply pop into my office for a chat, or telephone me to ask me to come around for tea one night? It made no sense. In fact, it wouldn’t have bothered me very much at all had I not known Harley to be one of nature’s happiest blokes. A young man seldom without a smile on his face, whistling something current from the radio or singing a popular song as he went about his business.

I’d also known his parents all my life. Coogee was still like a country town, despite the beachgoers who arrived by tram every weekend in their droves. Everyone knew everyone else. What could possibly have disturbed the family so much they wanted to ask me for help and not come to my place of business but to talk about it in their home?

I got into my car and put the key in the ignition, still puzzled, but grateful in some ways it was a week away. I had a wedding to help organise in the meantime and we were as busy as could be at work. I decided to put the Yaxley family drama to the back of my mind. I’d deal with whatever it was after I’d heard the details over lunch next Sunday.

CHAPTER 1

I was unfashionably on time when I knocked at the Yaxley’s front door. The entrance to their flat, like so many along the shopping area at the beach end of Coogee Bay Road, was next door to their grocer shop. Like all the others, I guessed there’d be a staircase leading directly from the street to their living quarters on the floor above their business premises.

I had no idea what to bring. So, with a constant supply of ingredients, I’d baked an extra fruit cake on Monday evening after I’d finally got home from the office, still wondering why Harley had highjacked me in the city earlier that morning. The cake was wrapped in cellophane and I’d picked up a bottle of expensive Amontillado sherry rather than a bottle of red, which I’d have preferred, but which was anathema to most Aussie families in the 1950s.

To be honest, I was exhausted. By the time we’d cleared up after the reception, I hadn’t fallen into bed until nearly five. Getting as pissed as a maggot after delivering my best man’s speech hadn’t helped much either. The alarm had woken me at eleven and my head was still pounding, despite three cups of very strong black coffee and half an hour lying on my back in the bathtub under the shower, groaning softly and swearing to myself I’d never drink again.

I heard someone thumping down the stairs, guessing by the rapidity that it must be Harley. Both his parents, although lively, were in their fifties. Besides, it sounded like a young man’s precipitous footsteps.

Clyde! Harley said, after having opened the door.

Gidday, Harley—‍

He yanked me by the arm into the narrow vestibule at the foot of the stairs, quickly closing the door behind us, then pushed me against the wall and planted one on me.

Harley … I said, carefully extricating myself from his arms.

Can’t I even kiss you anymore, Clyde? You know I’m with Craig these days.

And I also know that you and he have an arrangement.

Despite his rather haggard appearance and red-rimmed eyes, he threw me one of his cheeky smiles, so I snorted and kissed him back.

Thanks, mate. I needed that, he said.

I’m pretty puzzled about why—‍

Before we get upstairs, Clyde. I need you to tell a porky for me if Mum or Dad say anything.

You want me to lie?

You know I wouldn’t ask, and eventually I’ll screw up enough courage, but if they do bring it up, I’ve been living in your spare room for the past six months while I find my feet.

Harley, for fuck’s sake …

Promise me. Please, Clyde.

They don’t know about you and Craig?

They think he’s been teaching me to swim.

Is this when I crack inappropriate jokes about backstroke and breaststroke? He broke into a crooked smile, so I simply acquiesced. All right, but you and I need to sit down with Craig sometime soon and sort this out. You’ve put me in a very difficult position.

I know, Clyde. But— We were interrupted by Harley’s mother, Eileen, calling out from upstairs, wondering what was taking us so long.

I slapped Harley’s hand away as he followed me up the stairs. He may have been upset about something, but it hadn’t stopped him from having a quick grope of my arse. Despite my fatigue, I almost laughed at his cheekiness.

*****

Tell me about the wedding, Clyde, Harley’s mother said while her husband was carving the roast.

I knew whatever they were eventually going to tell me, after the local chit-chat, was going to be doubly difficult. The dining table was laid out with their best perfectly starched table linen and silver cutlery, glasses that probably hadn’t seen the light of day since they were given to them as wedding presents decades ago. The food, although delicious, was fat-laden and abundant. I knew I’d be in trouble later that evening. I’d lost my gallbladder in a shooting-stabbing incident early last year and my system didn’t deal well with animal fats. However, it did have the bonus of soaking up the residual alcohol in my body.

It was up at St. Jude’s in Avoca Street—‍

We were there you know, outside.

You were?

Yes. Sandra’s family have always bought their groceries from us and we’ve known Tom ever since he moved in across the road—as you probably know, he’s taken that flat above the wireless repair shop. He’s a lovely fellow and a very good customer. Doesn’t put anything on account. Pays up every time.

Tom’s one of the best, Mrs. Yaxley.

Clyde, why don’t you call me Eileen?

My parents taught me it was impolite. That’s the only reason.

Your parents would have been proud of you, Clyde, Joseph, Harley’s father, said. It’s the way we’ve tried to bring up our own boy, isn’t it, son?

Dad … Harley said, looking anguished and reddening.

He’s no longer a boy, Mr. Yaxley. He’s a strong young man with a good head on his shoulders. You’ve every reason to be proud of him … and he’s absolutely no problem at home. Helpful when it’s needed and quiet when I need to do my writing. I barely notice he’s there. My forced smile made them both very happy, even though I loathed the deception and despite Harley’s quick and very grateful acknowledgment of it.

Anyway, back to the wedding, Eileen said, as she passed around the roast pork, expertly carved and laid in careful slices on a warmed oven dish, a mass of crisp crackling at one side. Sandra’s dress! It was a marvel. She looked like a film star. I know that since her mother died, she and her father have been struggling. Did she rent it, or borrow it, do you know?

Neither. The wedding dress and the bridesmaid’s dresses were made as a gift by Margaret Bishop as a thank you to Tom for helping return their kidnapped children earlier this year. My friend, Harry Jones’s mother, paid for the fabrics and the lace and helped her cut out the patterns.

"You had something to do with that kidnapping, didn’t you, Clyde? I read your wonderful story about it in the Sydney Morning Herald. We were so proud of you. A local boy with a front-page news story and, on top of that, an editorial. What a clever lad you are!"

I didn’t do praise very well, so merely nodded then asked Harley to pass me the gravy. Mothers always love men who love their food, and despite the enormous pile on my plate, I knew I’d get through every mouthful. Mrs. Yaxley couldn’t have looked happier as I tucked in.

There’s more Yorkshire pudding and loads more roast potatoes and pumpkin, she said, offering me a bowl of brussels sprouts, which I declined—I already had a tidy pile on my plate. Smothered in her rich, dark gravy, they were delicious.

That order of yours last Monday for the wedding reception ingredients will make my bank manager very happy, Joseph said to me with a bright smile.

I’m pleased to hear it. Harry’s mother, D.C. Paleotti’s parents, and I did all the cooking between us. Do you remember Detective Sergeant Telford who I used to work with? He’s now based in Double Bay, but he made all the pastries and decorated the wedding cake.

Clyde baked it, Harley said, suddenly finding the power of speech for the first time in more than ten minutes.

It’s the same recipe as the cake I brought for you, I explained. I just used bigger tins.

Well, all I can say is that Sandra is the luckiest bride in the world and so is Thomas to have such good friends.

They haven’t got a penny to rub together and we’re all fond of them both. Besides, it was a wonderful occasion.

I bet there were plenty of young women making goo-goo eyes at the three of you standing next to Tom at the altar, all dressed up in your beautiful morning suits, Eileen said, giving me her brightest smile. We peeked in the front door of the church while they were making their vows. You looked a little tearful, Clyde.

Did I? I was far too nervous to notice, I said, helping myself to a few more slices of her wonderful roast pork and adding a small pile of crackling to go with it.

I couldn’t admit to anyone that, while Tom and Sandra were swearing their love and commitment to each other, I was mirroring their vows with those of my own, declaring my love and devotion to the tall redhead standing beside me.

I’d written my short story, left it on my desk at home where Harry would see it, and had found it two days later with a large heart drawn in red ink at the bottom of the last page. We’d talk about what I’d written when the time was right for both of us.

*****

After dessert—an old-fashioned sherry trifle, with layers of smooth creamy custard, sherry-soaked sponge, whipped cream, and strawberry jelly—Mrs. Yaxley excused herself, beckoning Harley to help her with the washing up. I guessed it was to give her husband an opportunity to chat with me, to kick-start the reason I’d been invited.

She’s a good cook, my Eileen, he said, lighting his pipe after I’d asked whether I might smoke.

Indeed she is, Joseph—‍

Joe, please. Your mother and father called me Joe, and if it was good enough for them, then I suppose I can allow you the famil­iarity.

We sat in silence for a while. It was fairly clear that he was trying to summon up the courage to say something, so I took the initiative. Please, Joe. Say what’s on your mind. Don’t forget I was a detective for nine years and I’m used to people finding it hard to discuss things.

Well, it’s not really me, it’s Eileen. But it affects the entire family.

Care to give me a clue?

I’ll let my wife tell you, Clyde. But while she’s not here let me tell you that you’re a very good friend to my boy. I know he’s not been ‘flatting’, or whatever you call it these days, with you, but has been living with Craig Whitcombe. I’m no one’s fool, but my wife has history with those sorts of setups between men, and it’s a sensitive area for her.

I feel dreadfully embarrassed to have deceived you, Joe. But—‍

I smell Harley all over it, Clyde. Don’t worry. I know my son better than he thinks. As long as he’s happy, that’s all I care about.

I’ve known Craig all my life, Joe. He’s one of the truest friends I’ve ever had and there’s not a bad bone in his body. Harley’s in safe hands; there’s no need to worry.

Worry? That’s all she’s done since he left home. Then, after last Friday …

What happened last Friday?

I’ll leave that to my wife and my son to tell you, Clyde. Although I’m tied up in the situation, in many ways I’m merely a bystander. Joe and I chatted about the cricket and the weather for five or ten minutes until Eileen returned with Harley, the washing up done.

You must have wondered why I sent Harley into town to accost you, Clyde, Eileen said, after returning with Harley, the washing up done.

It went through my mind, but I’m used to people taking time to sort out difficult things.

I’ve been humming and hawing all week, to be honest. I felt that if I couldn’t bring myself to face the issue, then we’d have a nice lunch anyway, and I could explain that it was nothing and I’d been over-anxious.

However … I said.

However, Joseph and Harley, as difficult as this is for them both, convinced me that you were the only one we could turn to.

I’m a good listener, Eileen—take it at your own pace. Why don’t you start at the beginning with whatever brought this crisis about? There’s always something that kicks these things off.

Well, seeing Harley rents your spare room, you probably know that every Friday morning Joseph gets the shop girl in to help with customers, while my son and I take our delivery van into town to buy stock. We park at Paddy’s Market and visit several of the oriental distributers to purchase dry goods, like rice and sago, which are far cheaper than the retail warehouses. Well, not long after we arrived, I became aware of a man who seemed to be following us. Not overtly, but every time I glanced around the stalls, he seemed to be lurking, pretending to look at fruit or vegetables. It happened so frequently that I grabbed Harley’s hand and led him through the crowds and around the barrows until we were standing behind him.

And?

After a lengthy silence, while Eileen Yaxley alternately wrung her handkerchief in her hands and dabbed it to her eyes, Harley spoke. Mum and I stood there for ages, then the man seemed to realise we were right behind him. He swung around, then, before we could do anything, said to Mum, ‘Is this him, Lina? Is this my boy?’ He grabbed me so hard I thought my ribs would break, sobbing into my shoulder and saying that he was sorry over and over. I thought he was a crazy man or someone who’d mistaken me for someone else, so I pulled away. Then I heard Mum say ‘Will …?’ and she fainted. Went down like a ton of bricks.

What happened then?

I was frantic, Clyde. Mum was only out of it for a minute or less and people were gathered around, all trying to help, but when I looked up again, the man was gone, and Mum was a wreck. She’d gone as white as a sheet and wouldn’t stop crying, so I held her in my arms for a bit, then led her over to the tea van where they have a few chairs and a table or two. We had a cuppa and I asked her what the hell had just happened—‍

I told him we’d talk about it later. I was too upset, but he wasn’t to worry, Eileen said. Of course, he knew something was wrong, but I had to speak with Joseph first.

Harley said he called you Lina? Is that a nickname?

There’s only one person in the world ever called me by that name, Clyde. She turned to her husband. It’s time, Joseph. Would you mind?

No, sweetheart. As long as you’re sure.

I’m sure, Joe. What about you, Harley?

Yes, Mum. Don’t worry, Dad, I’ll get it.

I knew instinctively that it was going to be either a letter or a telegram. Maybe from a former lover of hers … or his. Nothing surprised me, except the rather tatty envelope that Harley handed to his mother and from which she carefully unfolded a letter. Read this, Clyde, then I’ll explain.

What made me sit up was the letterheading at the top right of the page. It read:

H.M. Prisons

State Penitentiary for Men

Long Bay Gaol

My name is Willoughby Purchase.

Today is the twenty-fifth of January 1933, and tomorrow, at quarter to six in the morning, gagged, my head covered in a black cotton bag and stupefied with an injected narcotic, I’ll be manhandled from my cell by two guards along the metal-floored second-level walkway to the transverse platform at the end of the prison block.

My feet will be placed on the trapdoor, the noose tightened around my neck then with no warning, no chance for a prayer or an opportunity to share my last words on God’s earth, I’ll plummet down eight feet, hoping the hangman’s weights and rope length calculations were accurate enough to deliver me a speedy death.

The drugging, the gag, and the head covering? Such preparations are only used when it’s believed a condemned man could possibly turn violent or has something to say other people couldn’t allow to be heard.

Last words could be inconvenient … especially if a not-yet-dead man was cogent enough to reveal a truth.

I’ll be sent to my death on a day of public celebration: Australia Day—a day when the newspapers will be filled with stories of public pride, planned picnics, and ferry races. No doubt they’ll pull out photographs of last year’s celebrations and plaster them across the front page, their corners emblazoned with miniature flags of this great nation.

An editor might insert a two-inch column on page three briefly mentioning that the man responsible for the killings at Candal Creek had met his end at six o’clock that morning in Sydney’s Long Bay Gaol.

However, as most tabloids are printed hours before I’m to go to meet my maker, I might not even get a mention until the day after Australia Day, when the punishment of a man responsible for the deaths of a local grazier, two jackaroos, and a railway worker might prove newsworthy. The presses will probably already be churning out copy after copy while I toss in my bed tonight, unable to sleep.

I’ll go out of this life as I came into it and as a result of how I lived it. A man who’d started off as an innocent, but who’d lived with the cards he’d been dealt and who’d made the most of the hands he’d played.

During my lifetime, I’ve been a murderer, a cheat, a liar, a thief, and a queer since I was old enough to know what those words meant. I regretted none of those choices, but God forgive me if I lied on the night before I went to my grave—tomorrow I’ll die, having reformed my life, but only still remaining only one of those things.

I read it a second time then placed it carefully on the table, staring at it for a moment or two, before looking up at Eileen.

As I said, Clyde. There was only one person in the world who called me Lina, and that was my brother. My maiden name was Eileen Purchase and Willoughby was not only my brother but also Harley’s father.

I sat in stunned silence as Eileen described the night in 1931 that her brother had unexpectedly arrived at their flat late on a Sunday night holding a six-week-old baby, telling her that he had to disappear for a while, begging her and Joe to look after his son, just as if he were their own. When they’d asked about the child’s mother, he’d sworn them to secrecy before revealing her name, then had shaken his head sadly, saying he couldn’t talk about her.

It was only the next day when they’d read in the newspaper of the gruesome murder of Milly Spaulding, a friend of her brother’s, and mistress of the well-known film producer, Elwood Pearson, that she’d realised that Harley’s mother was dead.

For nearly three years, postal notes for five pounds had arrived once a month, posted from all over the State. Never an accompanying note, but she’d known they’d been sent by her brother to help look after his son. They stopped a little before Christmas in 1932 when he’d been arrested for the murders of a local land owner, two farmhands, and a railway worker during a bungled attempted robbery.

I was only thirteen at the time, Eileen, I said after she’d sketched out a little of the background information, relieved to hear that my initial fear was unfounded—that perhaps Harley had been the result of an incestuous relationship—something not as uncommon back then as most people believed at the time. But wasn’t there something sensational to do with the detective who’d solved the case? He drove out of the gates of Long Bay Gaol after the execution then simply disappeared?

Solved the case, my arse! Joseph said, slamming his hand on the table. Willoughby, despite what people thought, was no murderer. He was supposed to have confessed to the crooked cop who brought him in. Henderson … Ian Henderson was his name. Will refused to speak in court; in and out in five minutes, leaving with a death sentence and not allowed visitors, not even his sister. We weren’t even able to view his corpse, Clyde. Can you imagine that? The only consolation my poor darling wife had was for us to visit the plot in which he’d been interred inside the prison walls, some four weeks after he’d been hanged, and given the luxury of no more than three minutes, all the time surrounded by guards breathing down our necks.

So, you think he was set up or coerced by this Ian Henderson?

Like Joe said, Will could never murder people in cold blood, Eileen said. And a botched hold-up? Why would he do something like that? My brother was never short of a few quid—he was never ava­ricious, never! He was either set up, as you called it, or threatened. Either that or he confessed to something he didn’t do to protect someone else.

I remembered now. The killing at Candal Creek. That’s how the press had named it. Memories had come flooding back as we’d been talking. I didn’t remember the details, but I do remember the newspapers splashed with photographs of protesters, even back then, waving placards outside the gaol. Fifteen years after the Great War, many men and women had still been raw over the senseless loss of life in the Middle East and on the Western Front.

But last Friday … here’s where I’m confused, I said. Eileen was about to protest, but I held up my hand. Just hear me out first. It’s my method of getting my head around situations that appear to be impossible.

Sorry, Clyde, she said.

I lit another cigarette before speaking. Last Friday, a man you say was your brother—a man who was hanged over twenty-four years ago—accosted you in Paddy’s Market, recognised Harley as being his son, then disappeared into thin air?

Joseph, Eileen said. Please get me the photo album from my vanity table, if you wouldn’t mind.

I glanced at Harley, then patted his knee. He was obviously deeply disturbed. I didn’t know, Clyde, he said. I thought I was Mum and Dad’s—‍

You are, Harley, Eileen said, coming around the table and taking him in her arms. We’ve loved you and cared for you just as if you were our own. Had your father turned up at any time we would have told you the truth. But seeing he was found guilty and hanged, we thought we’d spare you the grief of believing your true father was a bad man—no matter what we said.

Here you go, love, Joseph said, returning with the album.

Harley hasn’t seen any of these, Clyde. They’re old family photos. Our parents died in 1907, when I was three and Will was ten. I keep them for moments when my family is in my mind for some reason or another, but otherwise, they’re too painful to revisit over and over. She took one photo from the album and held it up to Harley. Do you recognise this man?

No, Mum. Who is he?

That’s my uncle, Stanley. How about this one?

No, not him either.

That’s my cousin, Simon. And this one?

That’s the man at the market. He looked older, but there’s no doubt it’s him.

Eileen turned the photo around. On the back was written To my dearest Lina, from your loving brother, Will. 1927.

Don’t look at me like that, Clyde, Eileen said, but I’d know my own brother at any age, just as you would have, had your father stepped out of the grave and had shaken your hand in the street.

It was one of the first times in my life that I’d been truly lost for words.

*****

I was still sound asleep when I felt Harry slip down into bed beside me.

Clyde, he whispered in my ear before kissing it.

I rolled back into his arms so that he was spooning me from behind. What time is it?

Six o’clock.

Morning or evening?

He laughed. How long have you been in bed? Don’t tell me you forgot lunch with Harley and his parents?

No. If it’s six in the evening, I’ve been back in bed for about two hours. Didn’t get home until a little before four.

That was a long lunch!

In more ways than one, Harry.

What was the problem?

Is it enough to tell you I’ve invited them to my office on Wednesday morning to sign a contract, then to interview each of the family one after the other?

Oh …

Oh, and yes, it’s a one guinea job, just to be able to register the contract. Pro bono is my middle name.

You and I know that’s not quite the truth, Clyde. I did peek at your birth certificate.

Don’t, Harry. You know I don’t use it because no one can pronounce it.

Brychan, Harry said, with excellent Welsh pronunciation.

You’ve been coached.

My dad’s Welsh too, Clyde, even though he sounds like a news broadcaster on the B.B.C.

I got britchin’, brickin’, broken, bry-chan, you name it, at school. So, that’s why there’s only the initial on my office door.

"Rwy’n caru chi, Mister," Harry whispered, his arm holding me tight.

… and I love you too, Harry Jones, I replied turning my head for a kiss.

So, tell me what happened, he said.

In a moment. I suppose it’s too late for coffee?

Well, it is if you want to get to sleep later tonight.

Are you staying over? I asked.

Sorry, Dad’s unwell and I promised Mum I’d cook dinner.

What time do you have to be home?

Around seven. But it’s all prepared. I told Mum what time to turn the oven on, then it’s only a matter of steaming the beans.

I can’t bear to think about food. You should have seen the feast the Yaxleys put on. I ate too much … as usual.

Nothing fatty, I hope.

Nothing but, Harry. I’ll pay for it. I can feel the burn and the pain already.

Let me get you some bi-carb in a glass of water. That will help.

No, don’t move yet. This is nice.

I’m confused, he said.

Confused about what?

He ran his hand down over my tummy. Confused about stopping my hand where it is, or hearing about what happened at the Yaxleys’. I’ve only got an hour.

I snuggled back against him. You could always come back after dinner.

His hand moved lower. For a repeat performance?

I chuckled and turned my head for a kiss.

Here or in the shower? he asked.

Do I smell?

You know if you smelled all blokey I wouldn’t be asking and you’d be on your back already.

I laughed into his mouth. Shower it is then, Jones.

CHAPTER 2

With Tom away on his honeymoon, the clockwork regularity of our office life ran like … well, an old-fashioned unoiled timepiece. Stops and starts at first, but we were up and running by mid-morning thanks to our temporary secretary.

Miss Finch, an acquaintance of Harry’s, had worked in the Druitt Street office of army intelligence during the war. She’d come in on Friday afternoon last and had spent an hour or two with Tom, who’d walked her through everything she needed to know. I’d been impressed by the pages of shorthand she’d taken, to which she’d constantly referred on her first morning.

A few years younger than Harry, Steve, and me, she was unmarried, lived alone in a Californian-style bungalow in Bronte, and drove a 1944 Buick Super with an expansive shiny chrome radiator grill that reminded me of the great white sharks they caught off the beach then displayed, their jaws propped open with a piece of timber, showing row after row of the predator’s razor-sharp teeth.

I took to her immediately she shook my hand. The grip of a prize-fighter; it made me smile. Her hair pulled back neatly in a bun, half-framed spectacles perched on the end of her nose and attached to a chain which ran around the back of her neck, a starched white blouse, and a milky-green cardigan somehow didn’t go hand in hand with the Buick and the no-nonsense approach to business.

Four pounds a week is barely enough, Mr. Smith. However, if I do any cat-finding jobs, I’ll expect the same amount that Mr. Ridley would expect, fifteen shillings a job. And, if I ladder my stockings climbing over any fences, I’ll submit an invoice for a new pair. Are we agreed? It was then that I’d felt her vice-like grip when we shook hands, me with a grin plastered across my face and she with a small wink.

*****

By Tuesday afternoon, after Harry had left, everything had begun to work just the way it had done before.

Miss Finch turned out to be a real bonus, especially when I borrowed the backup files of Willoughby Purchase’s criminal record and the trial proceedings from Central Records. It had cost me an extra big cardboard box of cakes and pastries for the almost-close-to-retirement cops who staffed the department. But after a bit of chin-wagging and catching up, I was loaned the material for forty-eight hours, strictly on the q.t. It wasn’t exactly legal, but most of those guys owed me in one way or another.

Who was to know that Miss Finch had also photographed documents for army intelligence during the war? Oh, didn’t I tell you that? was Harry’s off-hand remark when I mentioned it to him. Between us, using my spare camera, she and I had photographed every page of the files. I invited her to my house for lunch on Saturday in exchange for a few hours over