‘Something to drink?’ asks Benjamin. ‘Coffee? Tea? Something wet, something strong?’
‘Coffee, thanks,’ replies Martin, and the hovering maid departs.
Eileen cuts to the chase, speaking softly yet firmly. ‘Martin, we are concerned. We are unsettled.’ Her eyes are steady, grief replaced by determination.
‘Why?’
‘For starters, the paper. What is the Herald up to?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘The reporting of our spouses’ deaths.’
‘Eileen, you know I only work for the paper intermittently nowadays, more or less on commission. From home, not the office. I know that D’Arcy Defoe is writing a lengthy obituary.’
‘Well, I’m glad Max won’t be here to suffer it.’
Martin takes that on board. As far as he knows, Max always liked D’Arcy.
‘Have you seen the coverage?’ Eileen demands.
‘Just a short piece yesterday by Bethanie Glass, and a segment on Channel Ten last night.’
‘Precisely. That’s it. At least Ten appreciated that something is amiss. Unlike the Herald. “No suspicious circumstances” and “lifelong friends”—what a steaming pile of horseshit, if you’ll pardon the French.’
Martin smiles. So much for the fragility of the grief-stricken widow. ‘Eileen, I think the police are deliberately holding back information, trying to flush out the killers. You can’t blame Bethanie for that.’
‘Of course I blame Bethanie for that. Max and Elizabeth couldn’t stand each other, and I told her as much. It’s one thing to omit and obfuscate, it’s another to write deliberate untruths.’
‘It was changed in the subediting,’ Martin says in Bethanie’s defence. ‘She wrote a longer piece.’
‘She told you that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who ordered it cut?’
‘She doesn’t know.’
Eileen harrumphs as the maid returns, pushing an antique trolley bearing a silver service and small tower of petits fours. Like high tea at the Ritz. There is silence as the servant pours coffee and tea.
‘Macaron?’ inquires Benjamin.
‘No, thanks,’ says Martin.
The brother takes up where his sister has left off, albeit in a more measured tone. ‘Martin, to be honest, we don’t have a lot of confidence in the police. They don’t seem to be doing very much.’ ‘Well, it’s early days. They’re probably waiting for the forensic report.’
‘What? Before interviewing the neighbours, asking if they saw anything?’ interjects Eileen. ‘Balderdash. They’re only getting around to it today, and only because we insisted.’
‘You talked to Doug Thunkleton?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Right,’ says Martin. Eileen talking to another news outlet, not the Herald. He takes a macaron after all. It explodes in his mouth like a sugar bomb, overly sweet. He sips some coffee to dilute it, burning his tongue. ‘Eileen, what is it that you want to tell me?’
‘To pull your finger out. Max treated you like a son; you owe it to him. Stir the possum, shake the tree. We can hardly rely on Channel Ten to fight our battles for us. I’ve spoken to Wellington Smith; he’s more than happy to take your copy if the Herald doesn’t want it.’
Martin can feel his hackles rising; much as he likes Eileen, he resents her interference. Wellington has been an enthusiastic champion of his books, but he owes the Herald first option on any features. He considers another macaron, decides against it, instead pouring some milk into his coffee to cool it. ‘So what do you think really happened to your spouses?’
‘They were murdered.’
‘I know. So do the police.’
‘So why are they sitting on their hands? Why is Channel Ten the only one with the guts to question the official line?’
‘Okay. I want to help. Tell me: what were Max and the judge doing together? You say they couldn’t stand each other. How come?’ ‘That’s better, Martin. Much better,’ says Eileen, appearing to relax a little. ‘Now. Where to start? Max and Elizabeth never got on. They were too much alike in some regards, too different in others. Elizabeth thought the ultimate guarantor of democracy is an independent judiciary; Max believed a free and unfettered press is the bedrock. Elizabeth thought freedom was delivered from the top down; Max thought it grew from the bottom up. Elizabeth was a Tory; Max was a socialist. Elizabeth was a Mason; Max was Jewish. They were different in nearly every belief, or so they thought. Ben and I knew better: they were both obstinate buggers who wouldn’t concede an inch to the other. We gave up years ago trying to negotiate a détente. We’d just catch up with each other and leave them out of it.’
Martin looks at Benjamin, who nods his agreement.
‘Sorry. This is awkward, but I have to ask. The bodies. They presented as if they were, well, intimate.’
‘Screwing,’ says Eileen, distaste evident on her face.
‘You said they couldn’t stand each other?’
Eileen turns to her brother. ‘Tell him.’
Benjamin shrugs. ‘Elizabeth wasn’t interested in men. Ours was a marriage of convenience. For both of us.’
Martin blinks. ‘In this day and age?’
Benjamin smiles. ‘Probably unnecessary even thirty-five years ago. But we became very fond of each other. Attached. Platonic. I could always trust Lizzie and she could always trust me.’
Martin nods. ‘You’ve told this to the police?’
‘Of course. As you say, they know the murder scene was a set-up—which makes their lack of progress even more mysterious.’
‘So why were Max and Elizabeth together when they died?’
‘That’s the thing,’ says Benjamin. ‘They were thick as thieves for the three weeks before their deaths. Lizzie and I got back from a mid-winter break in Noosa about a month ago. She was fine, relaxed after the holiday. Shortly after, she came home from court very upset. Something had happened. Her being peeved and disagreeable wasn’t out of character, but this was different. She was troubled more than angry. Morose. But she wouldn’t confide in me.’
‘Why not? Was that unusual?’
‘No, unfortunately not,’ he says, looking a little embarrassed. ‘She was quite open about her private life, about all sorts of things, but never about her work. She was quite aloof when it came to the law. I’m an accountant, not a lawyer. She never discussed what occurred in court with me. Not like Max and Eileen. Max told my sister everything about the
