The gate was missing and a makeshift plywood panel in the front door was flapping loose. The entrance hall stank of cooking and neglect. Brain started up the stairs then stopped and turned. He leaned over me like a gallows.
‘Don’t let the bottles clink,’ he whispered, ‘or we’ll have every denizen of this low house knocking on the door.’
I took a tighter grip on the bag and followed him. We went up two flights and down a passage to the back of the house. He dug into the coat and produced a key with a safety pin attached. He moved to put it in the lock, then drew back.
‘Open,’ he said. ‘Odd, I could swear I locked it.’ He said something in Latin. ‘Ovid,’ he informed me.
‘Open the door,’ I said.
He flicked on the light. ‘My God!’
The room was a mess; it couldn’t have been much to start with but now it was uninhabitable. The mattress on the old iron bed had been ripped apart; bits of stuffing were all over the room and tufts still floated in the air like grey snowflakes showing that the damage was recent. A few hundred books were part of the ruin. They were ripped and torn and strewn over the floor, bed, wash basin and chest of drawers. The drawers were gaping open; a couple had been smashed to matchwood. A wooden box about a foot square and six inches deep was lying upside down on the floor. Brain bent painfully and picked it up; the lock had been broken and the top hung crazily from a fragile hinge. Brain swore and poked around in the mess. He came up with a roll of moth-eaten paper.
‘My degree,’ he said.
I took a quick look at it. Henry Winston Brain had graduated with honours in Law in 1934 from the University of Sydney. Brain put the document carefully on the bed and began picking up books. He shook his head.
‘Ruined,’ he muttered, ‘ruined…’
I looked at some at random. There were legal works but also novels, poetry, drama. A nice old dictionary with a thumb index had been savagely dismembered. The search hadn’t been expert but looked ruthless and furious enough to have turned up anything hidden in the obvious places.
‘What were they after?’
Brain placed a long, thin finger beside his nose. ‘As you said, Mr Hardy, we have talking to do.’ He groped among the rubbish by the wash basin. ‘The glasses!’ He held up two streaked and stained glasses and examined them against the dim light. ‘One is cracked,’ he observed. ‘I shall drink from that, it’s only fitting that I should.’
I hauled up one of the bottles, opened it and poured.
‘Aren’t you going to clean up a bit?’
He accepted the whisky. ‘Many thanks. No, I shall move.’
That might have meant the searchers had what they came for or it might not. Perhaps what they wanted was in his head and he could see that they wouldn’t ask gently. I picked up the nearest book while I thought about it — an omnibus edition of Conan Doyle bought in the Charing Cross Road. Brain’s initials and surname were written inside in flowing purple ink — better days.
Brain raised his glass. ‘You bring me ill-luck Mr Hardy, only this compensates.’
‘Does anything else matter to you?’
‘Not much, not any more.’
‘Well it does to me. Your story about the child matters. Is it connected with this, do you think?’ I gestured at the mess.
‘Bound to be, dear boy. Nothing like this has happened to me for a quarter of a century. I’ve drunk in peace.’
‘You’ve done a good job of it. Why?’
He finished his drink and held out the glass. ‘I lost my calling, my vocation. I lost everything when I married that slip of a girl.’
‘She’s no slip now.’
A sound came from him that could have been a laugh. ‘Nor was she then. Such strength, such will.’ He drank. ‘You’ve seen her recently?’
‘Today.’
‘How was the dear girl?’
‘Drunk.’
He smiled. ‘As drunk as me?’
‘Not quite, different style, but headed the same way.’
‘God help the child.’
The remark struck the same confirming note as before. I leaned forward.
‘You’re sure there was a child Mr Brain?’
‘I’m sure. I have proof.’
I picked up my glass and drank. He watched me hawkishly. Expressions were hard to interpret on that desiccated face but this looked like triumph. There was some cunning in it too, maybe.
‘Are you sure you still have it?’
‘I’m sure Mr Hardy.’
‘What is it, the proof?’
He placed the finger along the nose again. ‘Ah no, dear boy. Less haste, we have arrangements to make.’
Maybe it was the whisky or just plain slow thinking. It suddenly struck me that I didn’t have a clear run in the game any more. Dully, I considered the angles. For me, interference from other parties unknown was a tough break. For Brain it could represent something much more serious.
‘Do you know who did this, Mr Brain?’
‘Don’t change tack,’ he said querulously. ‘I’m an old man and I have trouble concentrating. We must talk terms.’
‘There might not be any terms. Someone else wants to know what you know. He might not buy you liquor.’
He finished his whisky and I poured some more to underline the point.
‘Drink up while you can,’ I said.
‘Your attempts at intimidation are crude, Mr Hardy. I have little to live for. I’m not afraid to die.’
‘It’s the manner of dying,’ I said quietly.
He gulped some whisky. ‘True, true, you have a point. You think I’m in danger?’
‘I’m bloody sure of it. If I was you I’d go to Melbourne. Get a train. It’s summer, can’t be too bad down there.’
He mimed a shiver inside the coat. ‘Foul hole, Melbourne, a wasteland. No, I shall rely on you and Lady Catherine for protection.’
‘That might be a bit hard to arrange.’
‘I confess I can’t see why — supply and demand.’
‘Not that easy. I need some indication that you’re speaking the truth when you talk about proof. Protection is expensive.’
‘I know. My need is great. It would cost a fortune to rehabilitate me.’
I wondered what he meant — a drying out farm, hormones? It suggested a will to live, vulnerability, but I couldn’t see Lady C. footing the bill without something solid in return.
‘The proof will have to be good.’
‘It is, I assure you.’ He came close, too close; the stink was like standing in the middle of a street with a tannery on one side and a brewery on the other. I pulled back a bit but he grabbed my shoulder.
‘Look at this,’ he croaked. He pulled a small photograph from the depth of his overcoat pocket. I peered at it, trying to make out the detail. The picture showed two women against an indeterminate background. The photograph was poor quality and it was creased and grubby; the women’s features were indistinct. Brain pointed with his trim, clean fingernail.
‘That’s Bettina. See, she’s pregnant.’
It was hard to tell — maybe.
‘Who’s the other woman?’
