Mine are the haunted grottos, dark as jade
In whose mysterious shade
Mossed bones or coral-white sea-fays may hide
And never moves a tide …
Mr Lofting had agreed to open the next issue’s ‘Between Ourselves’ with one of Bernice Becker’s poems, ‘The Sea’. Joan couldn’t wait to tell her. Even after all these years, Bernie was always pleased when her poetry or one of her witty articles appeared in the Mirror. Joan sat back in her swivel chair and slowly worked her way through Mr Lofting’s edits.
When the phone rang at reception around ten o’clock that morning and someone asked to speak to ‘Miss Linderman, please’, the last person Joan expected to be calling was her father.
‘Dad, what a surprise! Is everything alright?’
‘Yes, fine, my dear. I just happened to be in town this morning for an appointment and wondered if you had time to join me for a quick bite for lunch.’
‘Maybe we could meet up at that Sargent’s near Rowe Street?’ The Sargent’s in question was her father’s favourite eatery in Sydney and one of the only places in the whole city to sell roast beef sandwiches. It also did excellent meat pies, of course, and delicious rock cakes, apple charlottes and their popular sponge-and-buttercream cakes called Othellos (chocolate icing with white squiggles) and Desdemonas (white icing and chocolate squiggles). Her father had a sweet tooth that he rarely got to indulge.
‘Of course. I can meet you there at midday.’
‘That’s perfect. I want to browse some of the sheet music at Albert’s before lunch.’
Joan was in a giddy mood since the news of yesterday and following her phone call earlier that morning to a very cocky and happy Bill Jenkins. ‘It took some persuading to get Sergeant Armfield on side about “rediscovering” the evidence you found in Gordon’s desk drawer, but she had to agree no one could easily fake evidence like a handwritten letter and a street photograph. And she was a lot happier when two more love letters in the same handwriting turned up during the search of the apartment.’ The net was tightening around Gordon and Olympia, which meant potential exoneration for Joan and Bernice and justice for Ellie and Jessie.
Joan’s mood was also greatly improved by the morning’s edition of the Daily Telegraph, which carried a story that mentioned Gordon and Olympia by name.
CREAM OF SYDNEY SOCIETY ACCUSED OF SORDID CRIMES: DOPE-PEDDLING, BRUTAL MURDER, SEX PERVERSION
Major Gordon Fielding-Jones, who served with distinction in France and is now a solicitor with the law firm Swanson and Hart on Castlereagh Street, and his wife, the glamorous socialite Mrs Olympia Fielding-Jones, are regular stars of Sydney high society’s fundraising cocktail parties and balls. It is rumoured that the Major is also a trusted senior commander in Lieutenant Colonel Eric Campbell’s New Guard.
No doubt the socialites of Sydney will be shocked to learn that the Major has been arrested and charged with allegedly trafficking large quantities of cocaine to veterans through a handful of criminal elements inside the Returned Sailors and Soldiers Imperial League of Australia. More arrests will soon follow. The Major has also been charged with the recent murder of his secret lover of some months, Miss Eleanor Dawson, a prostitute who worked for nightclub owner Phil Jeffs. Traces of human blood have been found in the boot of the Major’s Pierce Arrow. Police are working on the assumption the two crimes are linked.
As if these revelations were not enough to scandalise Eastern Suburbs matrons, members of the official Bridge Ball committee will be surprised to learn that their honorary treasurer is not the model of female virtue she pretends to be. It is now known that Mrs Fielding-Jones is the founder and ‘high priestess’ of a debauched sex cult known as the Ladies’ Bacchus Club, which conducts lewd pagan rituals at her penthouse in Kings Cross. It has also been learned that one of the participants in this all-female perverts’ ‘club’ was the murdered prostitute Eleanor Dawson.
A note on Ladies’ Bacchus Club letterhead was found yesterday in the mouth of the decapitated gangster Frankie Goldman. Mrs Fielding-Jones has been charged with the murder of Goldman, which at this stage looks like a revenge killing for Miss Dawson’s murder.
At a brief hearing before Justice Williams this morning, bail was denied for the married couple and they will continue to be detained in custody until a date is set for an initial court hearing.
What a morality tale was this for Depression Sydney, and how it would be relished by all the battlers as they totted up their ha’pennies and threepences for a morsel to eat or a tram ride home, living in terror of the next bill or notice of eviction or of dismissal from their job, assuming they had one. It was not hard to detect the barely suppressed note of glee at the prospect of two goliaths of Sydney’s social elite being brought down for their decadence.
Joan assumed her father’s lunch invitation was issued partly because he was curious to learn if his daughter knew more about these newspaper stories. She did not think it would be fair to burden Horace with anything like the truth, but she would have to reassure him that none of this business involved Hugh, who was as astonished by these revelations as anyone else.
‘Hiya, Dad!’ Joan ran up and hugged her father, dressed smartly for the city in his best suit and tie. When he removed his hat inside the Sargent’s tearooms, Joan could see he had spruced himself up with a proper barbershop haircut and a splash of hair oil. ‘So what brings you into the city? Apart from wanting to see me of course.’ Horace deflected the question until they had collected their trays of sandwiches, cakes and cups of tea at the cash-and-carry and found a quiet table. Once settled, Horace answered Joan’s question.
‘Well, my dear, the honest answer is your mum needs help.’ He sighed. ‘You saw her at her best on Sunday. She was making a big effort to impress you and Hugh. Not a word about James, you might have noticed? She promised me she wouldn’t.’
‘She hasn’t given up on the idea he’s coming home then?’
‘No.’ Horace’s voice grew hoarse and he coughed with the effort of quashing his emotions. ‘Actually, it’s much worse than that, I’m afraid. She’s now convinced he’s back. Says she’s met him over at the park a couple of times. Says that they’ve had long chats and gone for walks. She says he’s horribly injured and doesn’t want anyone other than her to see him.’ Horace choked on a sob. ‘And when Richard and I refuse to believe her, she flies off the handle. Terrible rages. Not like her at all. Richard locks himself in his room or leaves the house. I’m at my wit’s end, Joanie. We can’t survive without Gloria.’
Joan was staggered. Things were so much worse than she could have imagined. She felt tears burning at the corners of her eyes. She leaned over and placed her hands over her father’s. ‘Who did you see this morning, Dad?’
‘An old colleague of mine recommended a Dr Cameron here on Macquarie Street. He’s very good apparently. I liked him. He wants to see Gloria and thinks there could be some medication to help.’
Joan thought of the remaining four hundred and ninety pounds hidden under a loose linoleum square in her new flat. ‘Listen, I have some money saved up.’ Joan had to talk over her father’s head-shaking and grumbles of protest. ‘Mum should start treatment as soon as she can. And you should hire a nurse. You can’t cope with Richard on your own.’
Her father looked stricken. ‘What? And use up your nest egg? I can’t allow that Joanie! I’m sorry. I should never have told you. I didn’t come here begging for money.’
‘Don’t be daft, Dad. I know that! I told you last Sunday that I’d been paid an advance on my novel and I wanted to give you and Mum some money. So that’s what I intend to do!’
Joan reminded her father how much he had encouraged her to think for herself and stand on her own two feet. He had been her most vocal supporter when it came to her literary ambitions, although he’d always insisted she secure a day job until she got married. ‘I’ll come and visit you on the weekend after next and fix up the money then. Go ahead and make an appointment. I’ll also come with you and Mum to see the doctor in case she gets difficult.’
Horace gave her a teary smile. ‘You’re a wonderful daughter. I hope you know that.’
They ate their lunch and drank their tea. Horace was, of course, intensely curious about the stories in the paper about Gordon and Olympia. ‘I knew they were bad people but I never suspected they were actual criminals. Gordon mixed up with gangsters and cocaine pushers? Who would have thought such a thing possible! I suppose Hugh is terribly shocked.’
‘Yes, he is. As you can imagine.’ Joan had to struggle to hide her smile.
‘And your aunt involved in a sex cult with prostitutes!’ Horace rolled his eyes. ‘I always thought she was strange. But murder? Chopping some fellow’s head off? Of course, I can’t have Gloria reading all this stuff about her sister. She may have a low opinion of Olympia and Gordon, but I’m sure she never imagined for a moment that they were insane. I swear, if that Mrs Parkinson comes anywhere near us with the newspapers, I’ll shoo her away like a bloody dog!’
‘Good idea! Hey, are you and Mum planning to come into town tomorrow for the bridge celebrations? It’ll be really something! They say most of Sydney is going to turn up.’
‘We’ll see how your mother’s doing, I suppose. And Richard, of course.’
Joan glanced at her watch. She was still on a deadline and, with all her absences this week, she dared not return late to the office. Apologising to her father, she rose to her feet. ‘Give my love to Mum and Richard, won’t you? And let me know when you’ve booked that appointment.’ Joan put on her gloves and hat then gave Horace a kiss. ‘Take care, Dad. Love you.’
‘I love you too, Joanie.’
As she headed towards the exit, she glanced to her left as a group of men were taking their seats at the nearest table, their trays of drinks and pastries still in their hands. One of them looked up. She instantly recognised his face. It was Janusz, her incidental lover from Elizabeth Bay House and later Theo’s Club in Chinatown. He smiled a little awkwardly and his eyes flicked away as if he did not want to acknowledge her.
It was then she noticed his lunchtime companions. They looked strangely familiar. And then the penny dropped. Oh, sweet Jesus, no! One was the undercover detective who had saved her at the Kings Cross Theatre while another was the gentleman who had politely doffed his fedora on the platform at Glenbrook. The full catastrophe struck with a flash. They were all coppers. Janusz was a copper. A shadow. Jesus wept! She’d had sex with a bloody CIB detective. This was taking police surveillance a step too far!
Joan gasped and then fled, her face burning hotly, desperate to get away before her father saw her expression of abject horror. Behind her, she heard the men talking and chuckling, no doubt having a good laugh at her expense. ‘She was up for it so what’s the bloody problem? One of the perks of the job, mate.’
This would be her secret, swore Joan as she hastened down George Street, hoping that the rush of blood to her face would subside before she reached her workplace. She would never, ever tell a living soul.