The Cannelloni Conspiracy - part two

More from the pen of the High Court’s poet, playwright, novelist, and muse. Justice Callinan meets the radiant Janette Howard in a cellar. Plus the next slice from his forthcoming novel, The Cannelloni Conspiracy ... From Justinian's archive 

I think that as Australians, with all the wonderful things with which we are blessed as a peoples and a race, we are indeed most fortunate to have Janette Howard (BA, DipEd) as our Prime Minister’s wife, companion, consort and rock.

I make no bones about the fact that I have long been an admirer of this warm and fascinating woman. No doubt about it John Howard is a lucky man to have a lady like that at his side or two steps behind him.

Don’t be fooled by that attractive little face of hers, her coquettish, toothsome grin, and her gormless offspring – this is one razor-sharp female person.

I was delighted to be able to accept an invitation from her to Kirribilli House only last Thursday evening. The Prime Minister was running the country in Canberra (in conjunction with the reasons and orders of the High Court of Australia) so I had the privilege of having the head of government’s first lady to myself.

And didn’t we talk for hours. I can tell you this slip of person taught me a thing or two about tax law. In fact, I will apply some of her approaches to income derived from overseas registered trusts in reasons that I am preparing shortly on a not unrelated issue, which is not unadjacent by more than a few feet from the High Court itself as I write.

Her knowledge of fine wine also is formidable and she took me on a tour of the cellars under Kirribilli House. She has personally oversighted the modernisation and the extension of this underground cavern from the dark and stingy cave dating from convict times into a magnificent, thermostatically controlled warehouse stretching underground from Kirribilli itself all the way to Wollstonecraft, where I believe the Howards still maintain a magnificent A.V. Jennings style of home.

Over three million almost entirely full bottles of wine sit on electronically tilted shelves. Mrs Howard told me she prefers wine from predominantly Anglican countries. In view of this I thought it wise not to admit to my personal partiality to a drop or two of Piedmont Barbera.

Together we sampled quite a bit of an ambitious Welsh sherry to which the head of government’s consort is well disposed. I must confess to feeling a bit woozy and thought it best not to go back and breathe on Gleeson.

I bade Mrs John Howard adieu and, with a deep bow, pressed my puckered lips to her proffered, pale, if slightly podgy paw, while her teeth were occupied tearing the top off a bottle of Ben Ean moselle.

What a woman.

I’ve stapled hereto the next slice of the first draft of my work in progress,The Cannelloni Conspiracy. Thank you to all those kind enough to send messages of enjoyment and support after seeing the first tranche of the work. I feel utterly encouraged and awfully moved.

THE CANNELLONI CONSPIRACY – A Recipe for Murder

[Part Two]

Sam Splayd, culinary detective, reached for the top right hand drawer of his burgundy-veneer-mock-mahogany-faux-Florentine apothecary’s assistant’s patron’s desk and pulled it all the way out, careful to disguise the move with a fruity, yet deeply masculine response to the knock. “Just a mini … with you promptly.”

There was a muffled, feminine cough, followed by a long sighing retch and a sound very familiar to Splayd – four-inch stilettos on glass smeared with olive oil. Splayd took this opportunity to stuff the miniature musket into his capacious velveteen trouser pocket. “Come in,” he cooed authoritatively, secretly pleased with the virile profile the buried musket afforded him in the golden afternoon light. Perhaps there’ll be some afternoon de-light, the gargantuan Casanova mused.

Wiping a dribble of tiramisu from his fleshy lips, Splayd hauled himself to his full magnificent height of 5 feet 4 inches as the door slowly eased open. A black-gloved hand appeared first, followed by an enormous black hat and veil sitting atop a motorised wheelchair, which was heading towards him at an uncomfortable pace.

Grabbing his musket firmly and instinctively, Splayd staggered back in the face of the charging wheelchair. His mind was a maze of questions. Why the hat? Why black? And how had it got to the 13th floor of “Villa d’Este Mansions” without an elevator?

(2005) Hon. I.D.F. Callinan ©