Scrublands(34)
The door opens and Mrs Janice Grosvenor is revealed as a large woman wrapped in a floral print dress, presenting somewhat like a sofa with legs. Martin explains himself and the story he is writing. Mrs Grosvenor looks unwilling. Martin persists. Mrs Grosvenor reluctantly lets him in, apparently concerned that it would be impolite to refuse. And once he’s seated, she insists on making tea for her unwelcome guest. He waits in the living room, seated attentively on the edge of a sofa just as floral and only marginally less mobile than Mrs Grosvenor. It has antimacassars to safeguard its fabric from the oleaginous heads of friends and family. Along the mantelpiece are framed photographs. Children and grandchildren; a black-and-white wedding shot of a far younger and slimmer Mrs Grosvenor and her groom; a more recent colour shot of a ruddy-faced man, laughing at the camera: Horace Grosvenor. Through open double doors Martin can see the dining table: sturdy wood, boasting two huge vases of hydrangeas, one bunch blue, the other pink.
Mrs Grosvenor returns with a tray supporting a teapot dressed in a crocheted red-and-blue cosy, cups, saucers, cut-glass sugar bowl, milk jug. There is a plate of homemade slice: date and walnut. Martin leaps to his feet, separating a nest of tables, placing one before himself and another before Mrs Grosvenor. Mrs Grosvenor plays mother, pouring tea, offering slice; Martin plays child, accepting tea and slice with gratitude. Formalities complete, the two sit facing each other, sipping tea.
‘Mrs Grosvenor, I realise this is difficult, especially me dropping in so unexpectedly, but I would be grateful for any insights you could give me. It’s likely that this will constitute just a small part of the final story.’
Janice Grosvenor nods assent.
Martin asks permission to record the interview.
Another nod of assent.
And he begins, asking innocuous and inoffensive questions. What sort of man was Horace?
A wonderful father and good provider.
What has the community response been like?
Wonderful, most supportive.
After twenty or so minutes he has established an incontrovertible impression of Horace and Janice Grosvenor as decent, respectable and utterly boring. That Horace could come to such an exotic end, shot down in cold blood by a murderous priest, belies the monotony of his previous sixty-four years.
‘Mrs Grosvenor, do you have any idea why Reverend Swift might have wanted to harm your husband?’
‘Don’t think he did. Think he was having an episode. Poor Horrie was in the wrong place at the wrong time. All there is to it.’
‘Yes, so it seems. Do you know why your husband was there, as you say, in the wrong place at the wrong time? Did he go to Riversend to attend church?’
‘Doubt it. Be a first if he did.’
‘So why was he there?’
‘Couldn’t say. Sorry.’
‘Did he go to Riversend often?’
‘From time to time. But not to church.’
‘Did he know any of the other men who were killed?’
‘Yes. All of them.’
‘All of them?’
‘All of them.’
‘How was that? I thought three of them were from Riversend.’
‘Yes. But he certainly knew them.’
‘How?’
‘They were fishing mates. Fishing and hunting. Called themselves the Bellington Anglers Club. Here, I’ll show you.’ And with a great deal of effort, ham-hock forearms pushing down on the arms of the chair like pistons, accompanied by a bellows-like exhalation of breath, Mrs Grosvenor lifts herself out of the chair that has been so snugly encompassing her. Martin feels an absurd pang of guilt at having induced such an effort. But soon enough Mrs Grosvenor is on her feet and off into her home’s hinterland, returning some moments later with the impressively large head of a Murray cod, stuffed and mounted, mouth agape at the imposition. She hands it to Martin, who examines the fish with some disquiet. Deep down a small rebellion flares in his stomach, a last stand of the morning’s hangover.
‘A big one,’ he says, not knowing what else to say.
‘Plenty more in the garage. One of Horrie’s hobbies. Used to have some in the house, but I took them down after he passed. Hope he doesn’t mind.’
‘I’m sure he would understand.’
‘Hmmph. Maybe.’
‘Mrs Grosvenor, this club—what did you call it again?’
‘The Bellington Anglers Club.’
‘The Bellington Anglers Club. Was it a formal club, or just a group of men who went fishing together?’
‘And hunting. But yes. Just men who were friends. They’d go a couple of times a year. Long weekends down to Barmah forest, fishing and camping. Horrie loved it.’
‘And when they weren’t fishing and hunting? They still socialised?’
‘Not really. Horrie and Gerry Torlini would see each other at the bowls club, but not the fellows from Riversend so much. Horrie and I were better friends with the members at the club. Some of those men were part of the angling club too. But they weren’t at Riversend on the day of the shooting. If you want to know more, you can ask for Len Harding at the bowls club. He’s there most days, holding up the bar. But I’m not sure how any of this would help with your story.’
‘Quite right, Mrs Grosvenor, quite right. I should be more focused with my questions. My editor is always telling me that. But just a final question or two, if you would indulge me.’