The Gilded Madonna by Garrick Jones (ebook reader for comics TXT) 📕

than a little interest when I’d sounded him out on the prospect that if Harry and I got really busy we might need an extra man to help out, if he was prepared to work on commission, or perhaps for an agreed flat fee, depending on the job.

Before I’d left him, I’d asked him if he ever got an early mark. He’d told me he was owed a half day in lieu of overtime, so I’d suggested we meet up at Craig’s one afternoon next week for a swim, so he could meet Harry properly, and had casually mentioned at the end of our conversation that perhaps a one-legged veteran from the Malaysian campaign might just happen to be there at the same time.

Billy had rung at about a quarter to one with news that he’d had to fork out twenty quid to get a copy of Johnny’s records. If he hadn’t slipped the clerk two tenners in an envelope, he’d have had to apply for a court order. The rules regarding guardianship and institutionalised children had been changed recently. He’d been lucky, because many records had been burned to preserve the identities of not only the children sent for adoption but also their natural parents.

Johnny Edgar had indeed passed through Petersham Boys’ Home, but had only spent three months there in 1927 before being sent to a Dr. Bagshaw’s Home in Mudgee.

There were a dozen or so of them, charitable homes set up for orphans or children whose parents couldn’t keep them, all over the State. Dr. Bagshaw’s original intentions had been honourable at the end of the nineteenth century, when education through religious fervour had been all the rage, but after the Great War most of them had fallen into disrepute, with accusations of impropriety towards the wards and maltreatment of other kinds. Penny pinching had led to unsanitary conditions, near starvation of the children, ragged clothing, poor education, and hard physical labour, all generally overlooked by the State officials and board of governors because those who supervised the institutions were seen as doing the work of the Lord.

Billy had asked me whether I thought Howard Farrell had been there at the Petersham Boys’ Home at the same time as Johnny, and maybe could have remembered him—it had been something that had crossed his mind. He suggested I should perhaps check. Billy had also given me the names of the most recent supervisor and his assistant at the Dr. Bagshaw’s Home in Mudgee. I’d thanked him and had told him I’d give him the twenty quid he’d paid for the information next time I saw him. As per usual he’d given me the old “come to some agreement” line that was his trademark.

Tom and Harry still hadn’t returned from wherever they’d been after I’d got off the phone with Billy, so after checking for messages with Brenda Brighteyes and asking her to pick up calls, I’d crossed the street and had sat in a booth of the milk bar, eating an enormous hamburger and a serving of chips, all washed down with a caramel malted milkshake. I’d eaten so much, I’d barely been able to walk up the stairs to my office, but when I got there, I’d found Miss Evans from downstairs standing outside my door, glancing nervously at her watch with Baxter in his basket at her feet.

I’d just been about to ask her what was wrong when I’d heard Tom clomping hurriedly up the stairs behind me. “Sorry, Clyde,” he’d said as he’d brushed past me and had then kissed Miss Evans on the cheek. “Sorry, Sandra,” he’d said. “Mr. Jones had me picking up a few things for him and I got caught up. Have you been waiting long?”

She’d glanced shyly at me, blushing. I’d smiled back. “No, Thomas, but I do have to run. I’ll see you tomorrow after work for the Friday evening double feature at the Ritz?”

The rest of the day had mostly been spent on the telephone. I’d spoken with Howard, who’d told me he’d left a few years before Johnny had arrived, but had promised me he’d ring around other boys he’d known who might have been there at the same time. When he’d asked me why, I’d had to tell him the story of our friend Johnny Edgar. At the mention of the superintendent’s name of the Dr. Bagshaw’s Home at Mudgee, he’d stopped me.

“Let me enquire for you, Clyde. I know that man. He’s retired now, but he was my point of contact for years when he ran the place, long after your friend Johnny Edgar was an inmate. I still donate to them these days, but have had no personal contact with the new superintendent. I’ll give the man I know a call for you. I can get more information from him than you will. He owes me a lot.”

It seemed our friend Howard Farrell had contacts all over the State, especially those who’d worked in orphanages and for charities who looked after boys with no families. I was aware he and his family were major benefactors to the homeless, orphans, and to Legacy too. It was his way of trying to help those who’d been through what he had, but who hadn’t had the same opportunities as he’d enjoyed, having been adopted by a wealthy family.

Baxter had been incredibly annoyed with me, even avoiding my ear scrunches while I’d been talking with Howard on the phone. I’m sure it was punishment for my varied timetable at home and inability to stick to his required strict feeding times. When I’d picked up my hat and coat from the stand near the door, I’d leaned down and attempted to rub his head, telling him I wouldn’t be long, but he’d raised a clawed paw and hissed at me. Who’d have thought a cat could have forced Clyde Smith to promise to be a better man, when so many real men had failed in that endeavour? That wasn’t