‘Somewhere along the line, one of the chaps had the idea of forming a secret society, of formalising it. He’d heard that American universities had these clandestine clubs, so that’s what we called ourselves. But we only had one secret: that we existed. There were no rituals, no inductions and no clubhouses. None of that palaver. We simply existed to have dinner once a month and occasionally give a helping hand to poor fellows less fortunate than ourselves.’
‘Very noble,’ says Martin. ‘So the Mess became a dining club, a secret one. But a lot of it was helping yourselves, wasn’t it? Isn’t that what secret societies do?’
‘Oh, yes. No getting away from that.’
‘So why were Max Fuller and your daughter working on an exposé? What was there to expose? And why were they killed? I don’t follow.’
‘I’m not sure I can shed that much light on Elizabeth and Max Fuller, but let me continue. The Mess outlived university, prospered. The dinners were held on the first Tuesday of the month. We dressed formally. The membership became restricted to just thirty members. Every now and then someone would leave, usually because they moved interstate or overseas, sometimes because they got sick of us, and we’d replace them.’
‘Women?’
‘No. Not initially. That didn’t change until the seventies.’
‘I see.’
‘Our first explicit rule, that the Mess be kept secret, was joined by a second implicit rule: no member could refuse any reasonable request for assistance from another, provided it was legal and provided it didn’t harm anyone.’
‘An influence exchange?’
‘That’s one way of putting it. And as the decades passed, the membership changed. As Joe and Barry and I progressed in our careers, so did the remaining original members. Within ten years, by the late fifties, new members were always up-and-comers, movers and shakers. It seemed natural: we were all on the same trajectories, all riding the wave of the new Australian prosperity.’
‘Barry Diamond? Wasn’t he some sort of politician?’
‘State attorney-general. Appointed me to the Supreme Court.’
Martin blinks. ‘I see.’
The judge smiles grimly. ‘I think you might.’
‘So who else was a member? Can you reveal names?’
‘All in good time, Mr Scarsden. In the mid-seventies I was appointed to the High Court, and I resigned from the Mess. I thought membership of a secret society was incompatible with such a high office.’
‘But wasn’t it just a dining club?’
‘For many of us it was. Primarily. But it was evolving. I feared that sometime in the future my membership could come back to bite me. I want to be absolutely clear here: I had never done anything illegal, I had never done anything to be ashamed of as a member. Quite the contrary, we had done much that was good.’
‘So you’re saying that you haven’t had anything to do with the Mess for almost fifty years? How do you know it’s even still in existence?’
‘Because in the eighties I called in one last favour from Joe and Barry. Membership, first for Titus and then for Elizabeth.’
Martin pauses, trying to catch up with his own cascading thoughts. Max researching Changi, Elizabeth disturbed by information from the courts, Elizabeth a member of the Mess, the two of them collaborating on a big exposé.
‘Did Elizabeth talk about it much?’
‘No. Titus didn’t stay a member for long. It became a sore point within the family, so we never discussed it—until recently, when she confided in me. She said it had gone too far. It needed to be cleared out. “Lanced” was the word she used.’
‘What did she mean? Did she elaborate?’
‘No. She said she wanted to keep me out of it. But we did spend an afternoon talking about its origins. In this room. I sat here, she sat where you are. I told her a story very similar to that I’ve just told you. The origins of the Mess.’
‘When was this?’
‘Just a couple of weeks ago.’
‘So you think that was what she was collaborating on with Max Fuller? Something to do with the Mess?’
‘Yes. That’s what I suspect.’
‘Why do you think your daughter was killed?’
The old man swallows and Martin catches a glimpse of the distress her death has visited upon him. But there is little emotion as he speaks, the forensic mind in control. ‘I think she upset powerful people connected to the Mess. But I have no idea who, and I have no idea how, and I have no evidence. That’s why I’m talking to you. Titus and Benjamin aren’t satisfied with the police investigation. Nor is Max Fuller’s widow, Eileen, as you may be aware.’ And the old man smiles in a self-deprecating way, looking out the window as he speaks, his voice growing more wistful. ‘All those years, all that accumulated influence: it melts away, you know. There was a time I could call up ministers, prime ministers, police commissioners. But it’s more than four decades since I joined the High Court and left the Mess behind, more than twenty-five years since I retired. I wouldn’t even know who to call, now that Lizzie is dead. It’s gone, all the connections, all the influence. Remember that, Martin: when all the sound and fury is over, when they’ve given you the gold watch and pensioned you off, all that is left is family.’
Martin looks at the old man, wonders why he doesn’t feel more sympathetic. ‘What you’ve told me is intriguing, but I’m not sure why you’re telling me this instead of the police. I’m not sure what I can do.’
Sir Talbot’s eyes narrow, a squint somehow signifying insight. ‘I don’t have too much faith in the police. The Mess has influence, and if it’s turned rotten, then who knows how far its tentacles might reach.’
‘Understood. So can
