I skipped breakfast in the hotel’s lounge-dining room in favour of a quick research job in the Barr Smith library at the University of Adelaide. Cavendish got a mention in Lean’s Official History of Australia in World War II. He’d been in on Wavell’s North African offensive in 1941, with the Ninth Division at El Alamein and he was there at the capture of Wewak in May 1945. There was one obvious question — why didn’t he go on to Borneo? But there was plenty to ask him about the New Guinea campaign and his assessment of MacArthur whose reputation is a bit on the decline at present I gather. The morning drizzle had cleared when I left the library and the traffic was moving quickly along the roads which were drying out by the minute. It took me three quarters of an hour to get to Blackwood.
He either had a private income, or Brigadiers’ pensions can’t be too bad, or he’d done all right out of flogging off army jeeps for scrap metal, because Sir Leonard St James Cavendish wasn’t feeling the pinch. He lived in one of the better houses in a neighbourhood which comprised mostly hundred foot frontages and tennis courts in the back yard. Adelaide doesn’t have the same amount of old, gilt-edged money as Melbourne or the new, flashy stuff of Sydney, but there are plenty of people in the city of churches who’ve put it together at some time and are watching it grow. Cavendish’s house stood on a corner block with frontages on three streets so the high, white painted brick wall was enclosing a tidy parcel of prime residential land. The house was a mock Tudor job with lots of stained wood strips, sitting well back from the road in a leafy setting. The whole effect made me wonder why the Brig had taken on the directorship of an orphanage — a multinational oil exploration corporation seemed more the style.
I parked the car on the street outside the house. That still left room for two buses to drive side by side down the middle of the road and not scrape the Jaguars cruising along on either side of them. A high iron gate was hinged to brick pillars with plaster crests on them. Bands and blobs of colour were bright against the faded white background and there was a Latin inscription under the crest. I saluted it all with the manila folder full of blank paper I was carrying. A stroll from the house down to collect the milk and papers at the gate would set you up nicely for breakfast. The house had a long, low verandah in front of it with some sort of thatch on top. I pushed the bell beside the heavy oak door and it opened almost immediately. A small wisp of a woman held the door open. She couldn’t have been more than five feet tall and she seemed to be having some trouble keeping control of the door in the draught. Her hair was white and her face was wrinkled and beautiful like an old parchment. Her voice was the one I’d heard on the phone.
“Dr Hardy?”
“Yes.”
“Please come in, my husband is on the back terrace reading the newspaper. He’s looking forward to your visit. Would you like some tea?”
I thought it might be in character to accept even though I detest the stuff. She showed me down a long passage hung about with paintings which looked pretty good and some interesting Melanesian weapons. We went through a big sun porch lined with books and she opened a wire door out to a flagstoned terrace. A man was sitting on a garden chair positioned so he could get some sun through the tips of the trees. He had the Advertiser spread out on the table in front of him and he folded it up and got to his feet as I approached.
“Good morning, Sir Leonard, it’s good of you to see me.”
We shook hands.
“How do you do, Mr Hardy. Please sit down.”
He pointed to a chair on the other side of the table and I took it. He was a bit blimpish, clipped moustache and plenty of colour in his face. His voice was quiet and soothing to judge from the few words he’d spoken, not the snarl a lot of army officers acquire or affect. He had on a white shirt, open at the neck, grey trousers and an old corduroy jacket. He wore slippers but had none of the appurtenances of old age — hearing aid, glasses, walking stick; he looked about sixty although he was actually seventy-one.
“Well sir,” he said, “so you’re a military historian?”
“No, I’m a private investigator.”
“I see.”
“You don’t sound surprised.”
He smiled. “I’m not, except at your coming clean so quickly.”
“I had an idea I couldn’t fool you.”
He smiled again and nodded. “I’m flattered, you were quite right, you didn’t fool me. There is no Dr Hardy in History at the ANU. My son’s a Fellow there you see, and I have the current calendar in there among my books.”
He pointed to the sun room. As he did his wife came out carrying a tray with tea things on it. She put it down on the table, poured milk into three heavy enamel jugs and swilled the stuff about in the pot.
“I’m sorry Dr Hardy, I should have asked, do you take milk?”
I nodded and forced a smile while fighting down nausea.
“And sugar?”
I shook my head.
“You’ve lost your tongue,” she said, “I hope you two haven’t fallen out.”
The Brig reached across for his tea and cupped his hands around the mug. “No, no. Thank you my dear. No, we haven’t fallen out. Mr Hardy isn’t a military historian as I told you. It turns out he’s a private investigator. Now he’s going to drink his tea and tell me all about it.”
“How interesting. Drink your tea, Mr Hardy.” She pulled a pencil from her apron pocket and reached for the paper. “I think I’ll do the crossword while you sort it out. Don’t mind me.”
She’d known me for a fake before she’d opened the door and she’d played it as cool as Greta Garbo. I sipped the tea. It all tastes the same to me whether you make it in muslin tea bags or boil it up in a five gallon drum. I swallowed a minute amount and kept my hands around the mug as if I might possibly go back for more.
“I’m sorry about the deception,” I began. “It was very important that I see you and I wanted to make sure you’d give me a hearing. I thought the military history device would get me in.”
“I don’t mind about the deception young man, lived with it all my life, in the army and after. I’m mildly interested in military history, not a fanatic though. War’s uncivilised. Trouble is, a lot of people enjoy it. I like that remark by the man who would be a colleague of yours if you were an historian. ‘War is hell, and army life is purgatory to a civilised man’. Good, that. Where did you get the idea I’d take the military history bait?”
“From Mr Jenkins out at the orphanage.”
“Talked to Albie did you? Well you got the wrong end of the stick. I yarn to him about the war for his sake, not mine.”
“I can see it now. You would have seen me anyway?”
“Probably. See anyone who wants to see me, might be interesting. Which brings us to your business.”
He’d handled it pretty well as I guessed he’d handle most situations in his life. The woman worked away at the crossword, the cryptic, making good progress. They looked like a comfortable couple with affection flowing strongly between them. The incongruity between the house and the job he’d held for twenty-five years still puzzled me though.
“Yes, I hope you can help me,” I began. “I’m investigating a family matter in Sydney. It’s very confidential and complicated. There’s at least one murder involved, possibly more. A lot of money too and the happiness of several people who’ve done nothing wrong. I believe that a young man who grew up in the orphanage here is at the centre of it. I’ve come over to get more information about him, to help me get on with the case in the best way.”
“What sort of information?” There was still no military bark to the voice, but some of the gentleness had gone out of it. He was looking intently at me. I had his attention, his co-operation was still to be won.
“I’m not sure, almost anything, your impressions of his character for one thing. What I really want to understand is how he came to do the things he did.”
“You will have a choice about how you proceed in the matter? Your subject didn’t actually commit murder?”
“I believe I will have a choice. No, I’m pretty sure he didn’t kill anyone and isn’t directly responsible for a death.”
“Very well, so far so good. You’ll understand that I’m reluctant to talk loosely about the St Christopher boys. It’s hard for anyone who hasn’t spent a lot of time in such a place to understand what a handicap most orphans start out with. First, who are we talking about?”
“I’m sure you’re right, Sir Leonard,” I said. “The man I’m referring to is named Ross Haines. He’s twenty-three and he spent his first fifteen or so years in the orphanage. He found out who his mother was and he’s been operating at close quarters to her and her family for the past few years. His grandfather, his uncle and a friend of his uncle are all dead and Haines’ activities are some sort of key to their deaths, the causes. His grandfather’s widow and his own mother have been harassed and assaulted, attempts have been made on their lives. Haines’ motive appears to be revenge on the family that disowned him at birth, or before birth even. The family money may be a consideration, there’s a lot of it, but that’s a cloudy part of the affair. I’m retained by a Miss Sleeman, Haines’ grandfather’s widow, a second wife. I have the backing of Haines’ mother, but she doesn’t know about her son’s involvement. It’s very delicate as I said. A lot of people have been hurt and some more will be, that’s inevitable. My client is in hospital, she was assaulted and tortured. I can show you a letter which establishes my standing with my client. Apart from that and my professional documents, you’ll have to take me on faith.”
I handed the letter and my licence across to him and he studied them closely for a minute or so. His wife had finished the crossword and was listening intently. Cavendish looked up.
“Don’t you like tea?” he said.
“No, I hate it.”
He smiled and handed back the papers. “You should have said so. But never mind, you’re direct enough and your eyes don’t slide around all over the place. Been in the army ever?”
“Malaya.”
His nod might have been approving, but remembering the quote he’d spouted before I couldn’t be certain.
“I’ll help you as far as I can,” he said. “Have you any more to add at this point?”
“No. I’ll be grateful for all you can tell me about Ross Haines. If you remember him at all.”
He leaned back in his chair and let the sun strike his face. The veins were intact and the high colour was healthy. I decided that it probably came from gardening and walking rather than the bottle. He crinkled his eyes a little with the effort of memory. “I do, very well indeed,” he said. “And there’s a good deal to tell. Haines was in the orphanage for fifteen years or so as you say. He’d been adopted after birth but the parents parted within a year of taking him and he came to us. He also had a slight deformity of the shoulder. It was corrected by an operation when he was three or four, but parents want perfect children so he stayed in the orphanage. He was fostered once but the people returned him after a couple of months. He was uncontrollable. This was when he was about six or seven. He wouldn’t go to school and played merry hell when he was dragged there — wild tantrums, totally negative and destructive attitudes. The couple who took him on were pretty rough, they knocked him about a bit, but I expect he gave as good as he got. After he got back to us he was changed, quiet, cooperative, worked well at school. He was very bright. A bit unnerving really, he was glad to be back at the institution.”
“Did he ever give you trouble after that?”
“Yes, he did. In two ways. He was very mild and amiable, some of the others would tease him, run him ragged for days. He’d let this go on longer than you’d think flesh and blood could stand then he’d turn on them and thrash hell out of them. He was big for his age and strong. Then he’d go back into his shell.”
“How often did this happen?”
“Oh, I suppose half a dozen times. He put one boy in hospital but he’d been unmercifully teased, persecuted really and had shown great restraint. It was impossible to discipline him for it. He was in the right.”
“What was the other way he gave trouble?”
“It was strange. Haines was very able in his studies and he excelled in a variety of sports — beautiful cricketer, natural talent. The sporting ability is very important with these lads, get them into teams, have them travel, meet people. Builds up their confidence.”
“But Haines wouldn’t be in it?”
“That’s so, he wouldn’t play in teams outside the orphanage grounds. In home matches of football and cricket he’d score goals and runs all over the place, but he wouldn’t play the away matches. Dropped him from the teams as discipline, all that, made no difference. He hated stepping outside the place, excursions were a nightmare to him, eventually we stopped taking him. He’d stay behind and read or train for some sport or other. Probably haven’t made it clear: he was a great reader, read everything and he retained it. They wanted him for a television children’s panel game, brains trust sort of thing, you know?”
“Yes, I think they’re ghastly.”
“Just so, but some children thrive on them in a way. Haines went white when it was put to him, he refused to consider it. He was violent.”
“How did the suggestion come up in the first place?”
“Haines had been entering competitions in newspapers, puzzles and general knowledge things. He was an omnivorous newspaper and magazine reader, devoured the things. Won prizes all the time.”
“What sort of prizes?”
“Book vouchers mostly, money too, small sums. It was banked for him. The newspaper people must have talked to the television people, same crowd I expect, and they approached us about him. Well, he reacted as I told you, he threw things, went into one of those rages that he used to display in fights. And he stopped entering competitions, never touched them again. He seemed to ease back on everything, he’d pass his subjects at school and do respectable things with the bat, but all the brilliance was gone. Sometimes it would flash out, so would the ungovernable temper, it was all still there but he kept it completely under control. He could probably have got a scholarship to go on studying but he had a horror of competing. He opted to go to work at fifteen or so, gardening I think it was?”
“That’s right.”
“He left us when he was sixteen, he was earning a wage, boarding with a respectable family, time to go.”
“Did you ever see him after he left, or hear from him?”
“Never.”
“What was your relationship with him like?”
“Quite good, as far as he’d let it be. I used to nag him a bit about not trying his best, but I gave that up. He was his own man from a very early age.”
“At some time he discovered who his mother was, or became convinced he knew. Could you pin-point a time when that might have happened?”
Cavendish looked across at his wife. “You remember Haines dear,” he said, “can you help with this?”
She took off her gold rimmed spectacles and polished them on the sleeve of her cardigan. “Yes,” she said quietly, “I believe I can.” She replaced the glasses precisely. “Haines was involved in the office incident, wasn’t he? About the same time as the television idea came up. He was in a state over that and his part in the affair was never clear.”
I sat up, this sounded like it. “Could you please explain, office breaking…?”
“There was what I believe is called a sit-in at the orphanage,” said Cavendish. “Some of the boys were protesting about being denied access to their personal records. They aren’t permitted to see them, that’s the law. Right or wrong, that’s the law. Some of the older boys broke into the office, barricaded themselves in there and ransacked the filing cabinets.”
“Haines was one of them?”
“No, his part in it was curious. He volunteered to act as negotiator. The boys were on hunger strike in the office. Haines went in and talked to them and they came out. He was in there for about an hour. It wasn’t a popular act.”
“Why not?”
“There was some talk that Haines had put the others up to it. He denied it and it was never confirmed, the accusation was put down to spite. But there were whispers. Some of the boys were eager for a fight, and the intermediary was seen as something of a spoilsport.”
“Haines could have seen a file on him when he was in the office?”
“Yes.”
“What information would that carry?”
“Date and place of birth, parents’ name or names if available, medical details.”
“Haines’ file, did that have his mother’s name on it?”
“I don’t know but almost certainly it would. Such records are very precise and very private.”
“And a marked change in Haines’ behaviour dates from this time?”
Cavendish spread his hands out on the table, there were fine white hairs across the backs and the nails were broad and strong, no nicotine stains, no tremors.
“It does, Mr Hardy. We put it down to the idea of going on television. The impact of that on him seemed more dramatic than the other affair which only lasted a couple of hours. But it could have been due to the discovery of his mother’s name.” Cavendish paused, then he rapped his knuckles against the table. “No, no, how stupid of me. Those records were all computer coded in the late sixties. Haines couldn’t have got a name from his file, just a number. Still, that might have been enough to set him off, certainly the psychologists said he was obsessed with the parentage problem.”
I leaned forward grasping at it. “Just a minute sir, two things. How could a number set him off?”
“Some of the files would have had a multiple zero number — parents unknown.”
“I see. Now, Haines was examined by psychologists?”
“Yes, several times. A team from the University was working on a study of orphaned children, their psychological problems and so on. They were very interested in Haines and examined him at some length. I can’t remember the details, I recall one of the team telling me that Haines was positive that his people were wealthy, substantial citizens, but that’s a very common complex I gather.”
“Was this examination done before or after the office sit-in?”
He raised his eyes to the sky, then glanced at his wife.
“Dear?”
“After, I think,” she said, “soon after.”
“I really can’t remember, Mr Hardy. I’d trust my wife’s recollection though, steel trap mind she has.”
I smiled. “I can see that,” I said glancing at the blocked in crossword. “It’s interesting, and fills in a lot of gaps.”
“I don’t know whether it will help you much though. Haines was a very complicated boy, an unusual individual in every way. I’m sorry to hear he’s in trouble, but I can’t say I’m surprised.”
I was only half-listening now. “Oh, why’s that?”
“Colossal determination combined with a very passive, yielding streak. Very odd combination, unstable elements I’d say. No, I shouldn’t say that, that’s what the psychologist said.”
I nodded. “Were the results of this study ever published?”
“Yes,” he said, “in something called The Canadian Journal of Psychology. I understand it’s a periodical of repute. I’ve never read the paper, should have I suppose, but it was a full-time job running that place.”
“Will you have some coffee, Mr Hardy, or a drink, it’s after eleven?” Lady Cavendish obviously thought it was time to wind the show up.
“No thank you, I’ve taken up enough time and you’ve been very helpful.”
There must have been an inconclusive note in my voice because Cavendish leaned forward with a quiet smile on his face.
“But you haven’t finished?”
“No. You might think this impertinent, but I must ask you something else.”
“Let me guess,” he said. He got up and took a few springy steps across to where the lawn began, he bent down, picked up a pebble and juggled it up and down in his palm. “When we live in such style why did I spend twenty-five years running an orphanage?”
“Right,” I said.
“Easy,” he looked at his wife and they exchanged smiles, “we’ve only had this place for a couple of years and we’ll only have it a couple more the way the rates are going. I inherited it from an uncle, title too, the old boy lived to ninety-six, still thought of Australia as a colony. When I left the army, Mr Hardy, the deferred pay was negligible and I had a large, bright gaggle of a family to educate. The orphanage directorship was the best thing offering. I tried to do it in an intelligent fashion, it wasn’t always easy.”
“I’m sure you did,” I said. I got up and shook hands with them.
Cavendish flicked the pebble away, he looked sad. “You might drop me a line to let me know how it works out,” he said quietly.
I said I would. They walked with me down an overgrown path beside the house and we said our goodbyes near the front verandah. I went down the path to the gate and looked around before I opened it; they’d half-turned and he had his arm down across her thin, straight shoulders.