Babylon South. Jon Cleary
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and buffalo. Until he married me, that is.’
‘Is the collection still intact? there was nothing missing after he disappeared?’
Venetia hesitated only a split-second, but Malone picked it up. ‘There are one or two blank spaces. I don’t know when they went missing. I – I’m frightened of guns. I’ve often thought of selling the collection, but they were my husband’s …’
‘May we look?’
Venetia looked at her watch. ‘This has gone on longer than I expected, Inspector. I’m due in the city in half an hour.’
‘This’ll only take a few minutes. If needs be, we’ll give you an escort into town. Sergeant Clements likes to use the siren.’
‘Any time.’ Clements grinned at Alice Magee, who smiled back; but the smile seemed forced, she no longer looked cheerful and unafraid.
Venetia led the way out of the sun-room, back across a wide hallway and into the study; Alice, worried-looking, brought up the rear. Clements was watching her now, no expression on his big beefy face except for an occasional chew at his lower lip, an old habit.
The study had been stripped of its panelling; it was now a woman’s room, except for the incongruous collection of guns in the large glass-fronted cabinet standing against one wall. Incongruous only if the woman was not Annie Oakley or one of the more ruthless prime ministers of other lands.
Malone looked at Clements, the gun expert. ‘A good lot?’
Clements was examining the collection. ‘As good as I’ve seen. A Mannlicher, a Springfield, a Sako. Even a Purdy. And these hand-guns … Yeah, quite a collection.’
There were two blank spaces in the array of guns, both of them amongst the hand-pieces. ‘Two missing,’ said Malone. ‘How long have they been gone. Lady Springfellow?’
‘I couldn’t tell you. One of them – one of them has been missing for years.’
‘I can see that.’ the felt lining behind the guns showed the faint outlines. ‘What d’you reckon they were, Russ?’
‘The smaller one could have been a Walther or something like it.’
‘Was that the one that’s been missing for years?’ Malone looked at Venetia.
‘No. It was the other one.’
‘I’d guess,’ said Clements, looking directly at Malone, ‘it was a Colt .45 or something as big.’
‘What does that mean?’ said Venetia.
‘We think a Colt .45 or something like it was used to kill your husband.’
4
‘It would be an odd sort of justice if an ex-judge was killed with his own gun. Some crim would laugh his head off at that.’
‘That collection—’ Clements shook his head. ‘Somehow you don’t expect a judge to keep an armoury. The only thing he didn’t have in that case was a machine-gun and a howitzer.’
‘I’ beginning to wonder if we’ll ever know who the real Sir Walter was.’
They watched as Venetia went down the gravel driveway in the grey Bentley. She had declined Malone’s offer of an escort, though she had not been sure that he wasn’t joking. Her chauffeur would get her to the city on time; a whole forest had been chopped down to provide the paper for the tickets for speeding and illegal parking that he had accumulated. Venetia had her own traffic laws.
‘Hey!’ Malone and Clements, about to go down the driveway, turned. Alice Magee stood at the top of the steps. ‘The other Springfellows are at home across the road, if you want to see them.’
‘Why do you suggest that, Mrs Magee?’
She waved an airy hand: diamond lightning flashed again. ‘Just trying to help my daughter. And you too, of course.’
‘Thanks, Mrs Magee,’ said Malone, trying to sound truly grateful. ‘Tell me – did you know those guns were missing?’
She hesitated, suddenly not so keen to be helpful. ‘Well … Yes. I dunno I ever thought much about the one that’s been missing for years. But yes, I knew about the other one.’
‘When did you notice it was gone?’
‘A week ago.’
‘Did you report it to the local police?’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Stolen property?’
She laughed, but nervously. ‘I didn’t think it was stolen. I just thought someone had borrowed it or it’d been sent away to be cleaned or something.’
‘Did you ask the housekeeper about it?’
‘Ye-es. She didn’t know anything about it. Then I told Venetia – she didn’t know anything about it, either.’
‘And none of you were worried about a gun being stolen from your house?’
‘Of course we were!’ She sounded suddenly snappish; Malone imagined he heard her false teeth click. ‘But then we got the news about Walter …’
‘You said it went missing a week ago.’
‘Well, a week, three or four days ago – I dunno.’ All at once she was flustered, the guileless mind caught up in an attempt at deceit. ‘We’re all knocked off our feet by the news …’
Malone decided not to press it for the moment; let Alice Magee get her story straight and then knock it down in one blow, preferably in front of another witness, such as Venetia Springfellow. He had his own guile, born of experience.
‘Can we always find you here if we want you?’
‘Most of the time. I’m a bush girl at heart. I like to go down to my daughter’s property at Exeter. Keeps me outa mischief.’ She had regained her bounce, or some of it. Malone waited for her to wink, but she didn’t. ‘Good luck. I suppose you coppers need it.’
‘All the time,’ said Clements.
They went down the driveway, nodded to the surly security guard, waited for him to let them out of the big gates, then crossed the street to a slightly smaller house, also approached by a driveway. Sir Archibald’s son, the father of Walter, Edwin and Emma, had built this one in 1915, the year he had returned from Gallipoli minus half his right arm, and married the daughter of another prominent Mosman family. This house, too, had wide verandahs and narrow windows; its windows were still narrow, like the viewpoint of its present chatelaine, Ruth Springfellow, Edwin’s wife. Its garden was not as elaborate as the one the two detectives had just left, but it was just as ordered. Nothing grew wild in Mosman, not even weeds.
The door was opened by Emma Springfellow. Malone introduced himself and Clements and she looked at him as if puzzled they should be on the doorstep. ‘Yes?’
‘We’d like to talk to you and Mr and Mrs Springfellow, if they’re at home. It’s about your brother Walter.’
He had forgotten that he had ever met her. All he saw now was a dark-haired woman, with a single broad streak of grey along one temple, who might once have been on the way to being beautiful but had decided, of her own free will, against it. He did not see the inner woman. She was secretive, without even the phlebotomy of gossip. She had chosen loneliness and now couldn’t find her way out of it.
‘Who is it, Emma?’ Edwin Springfellow came into the hall behind his sister; behind him was his wife. The three of them stood stockstill, like statues waiting to be moved around in the museum that was their home. ‘Police? Do come in, please.’
The house was indeed a museum; everything in it seemed older than its occupants. It was all quality and in its day had probably been expensive; it had not been neglected and the timber of the tables and chairs shone with years of polishing. If