The Port Fairy Murders by Robert Gott Page B

No words would come. He nodded and followed Maude down the corridor to the living room. She was wearing a silk dressing gown, and a faint, discreet perfume drifted from her. He noted that the door to the front room was closed. That, he assumed, was Tom Mackenzie’s room.
    There were two standard lamps, each beside a comfortable armchair. Only one of the lamps was on, and a small book, smaller even than a deck of cards, and much thinner, lay open on a table next to the chair. Maude indicated that Joe should sit in the unilluminated chair.
    ‘Would you like a cup of tea? I can’t offer you any alcohol. We drank the last of the whisky at Christmas.’
    ‘A cup of tea would be fine.’ Joe was conscious that his voice sounded strangled.
    ‘You’ll have to take it black, I’m afraid. Neither Titus nor I drink milk. There is sugar, though. I’d hate you to think you’re among barbarians.’
    This small joke caused relief to flood through Joe’s body, and he felt himself on the verge of tears. Maude saw this and withdrew to the kitchen, where she called, ‘So, how many sugars?’
    Joe, who failed to appreciate Maude’s discretion, was thankful only that her fortuitous exit gave him time to collect himself.
    ‘No sugar, thank you. I like my tea black.’
    Maude returned to the living room and sat down.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ Joe said.
    Maude looked at his bruised face and his wounded shoulder.
    ‘You know, Sergeant, until just a few hours ago I really did hold you responsible for what happened to Tom. It was unjust — I knew that. I didn’t want to talk to you, or see you. I didn’t want to find reasons to forgive you. Of course, the idea that I would assume that there was anything that needed forgiving, or that I should be in the position to offer forgiveness from some lofty height, was in itself arrogant and unjust.’
    ‘Please, Mrs Lambert …’
    She shook her head.
    ‘No, Sergeant, let me finish. Titus tried to change my mind, but every time I looked at Tom I needed to blame someone, and I wasn’t willing to blame him. When Titus telephoned to say that you were in danger, I realised properly, absolutely, that blaming you was like blaming the person coming in out of the storm for the storm itself. That’s rather clumsily put, I’m afraid.’
    The kettle began to whistle, and Maude got up to make the tea.
    THE LAMBERTS’ BACKYARD was small and ordered. Vegetables grew in beds on one side, and shrubs struggled on the other. There were no blackouts on the kitchen window at the rear of the house. A dim light glowed in the room, almost too dim to be of much practical value. Starling watched as a woman came into the kitchen, and supposed she was making a cup of tea for her visitor. There was too little light to make out her features. Was she Sable’s girl? His mother? Starling moved cautiously up a side path. There was wood stacked against a fence, and a proliferation of saw-toothed ferns. There was a window halfway down. Its blackouts were up, but it was open at the top. He took the precaution of getting down on all fours, and he moved slowly. There were dried fern fronds, leaves, and bark from the wood stack, and a carelessly placed hand or knee would create a betraying fusillade of crunch and crackle. When he reached the window, he manoeuvred himself into a sitting position. He could hear two voices, although he couldn’t make out what was being said. He felt frustrated. It wasn’t a feeling he liked, and it wasn’t a feeling he could control well. It led to anger, and often to rage. As he strained to hear the conversation, the first churnings of anger began.
    JOE TOOK THE full teacup from Maude. To his dismay, it rattled slightly in its saucer.
    ‘You’re shaking, Sergeant.’
    ‘Yes, I’m sorry.’
    Maude waited.
    ‘It isn’t fear. It’s …’
    ‘I know that, Sergeant.’
    ‘I don’t know why I’m shaking.’
    ‘Titus and I don’t have any secrets. I think you know that. He told me what