Free The Marvellous Boy by Peter Corris Page A

until he was about ten feet away, then interest came into his eyes. He fished out a pair of spectacles from the dressing gown pocket and hooked them on.
    â€œYes young man?”
    â€œI have to talk to you, Doctor, about Gertrude Callaghan.”
    â€œYou’ll do me the favour of telling me who you are.”
    â€œI’m sorry—my name is Hardy. I’m a private investigator from Sydney. Does the name Chatterton mean anything to you?”
    â€œYou’ll not be referring to the poet?”
    â€œNo, not the poet, the Judge.” I rattled the gate a fraction. “Can I come in and ask you a few questions?”
    â€œPerhaps. You mentioned Gertrude. What of Gertrude?”
    â€œShe’s dead, Doctor. She died this morning. I came from Sydney to see her but I didn’t make it in time. That’s why I’m here.”
    Emotional control of the kind that is generations deep fell away from him in a split second. He clutched at the gate and the newspaper fell; I held his arm to steady him and we stood there like father and son mourning a wife and mother. I opened the gate with my free hand and helped him up the path towards the house. He was a portly man with a weatherbeaten face. His eye sockets were sunken and surrounded with dark, puckered skin as though a stain was seeping out of the eyes into the tissue. Flesh sagged on his cheeks but his chin and neck were firm; it was as if he’d aged selectively, in patches.
    The house was a big, plain weatherboard, painted white with a glassed-in verandah running along three sides. I eased him up three steps and across to a cane chair. He sat down stiffly, like an old horse sinking to its knees for the last time.
    â€œCan I get you something, Doctor?”
    He spoke slowly and remotely, as if from far away. “I was making coffee.”
    â€œI’ll get it.” I went into the house and through a couple of well-ordered rooms to a neat, bright kitchen. I collected mugs, milk and sugar and took the pot off the stove. When I got back to the verandah Osborn had straightened up a little in the chair, lifted his head and seemed to be looking through the window to a far distant point. I poured a black coffee for him and he nodded and took it. I made one for myself and sat down opposite him.
    â€œI’m sorry to hit you with it like that.”
    He seemed not to hear me. “Forty years,” he said. He moved his head and looked directly at me. “It was her, you’re sure?”
    â€œYancey Street,” I said. “A handsome old lady, white hair.”
    The coffee slopped and he set the mug down before covering his eyes with his hand. I drank some coffee and waited. After a minute or so he made an effort, palmed tears from his face and drank the coffee. He didn’t look at me but pulled himself up out of the chair.
    â€œExcuse me,” he said. He walked slowly through into the other room and I heard him lift the phone and dial. There was silence and then the sound of the phone being put down. I poured more coffee and sipped it while he resumed his chair.
    â€œNo answer,” he said. “I can’t just leave her there, all alone.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Doctor, I’ve got the living to consider.”
    â€œYes. You’re a detective you said? A policeman?”
    â€œNo, I’m a private detective. I’m sorry about Nurse Callaghan.”
    â€œNurse, Sister, Matron,” he said softly. “The most wonderful woman.” I drank some more coffee and he watched me critically.
    â€œYou should put milk and sugar in it,” he said. “I’d guess you were a drinker, a drinker with an empty stomach. Your metabolism needs something to fuel it.”
    â€œI’ve also been hit on the head,” I said defensively. I leaned forward to give him a look. He put down his cup and eased the hair gently aside. I brought my head up and he looked directly into my